May 26th, 2005

I Will Not Defame New Orleans.

Worth the Weight

Nothing could be more boring than listen to someone go on about their weight.

And nothing would please me more than to bore you in such a manner.

I've got a little routine, you see. A cycle. A four year cycle.

I'm 6'3". My optimal weight is in the 190s or thereabouts. That is, if I were a meaty sporty-type personage. But I don't play football because football is for fags, so my own personal optimal weight is more like 165-170. I am (in theory anyway) beguilingly slender and groin-grabbingly tall. That's what my wardrobe tells me I should be anyway, and I'm not one to argue with my 1960s Greg Brady Action Slacks because if I fessed up and admitted that I don't really need to be 165lbs at 6'3" — that that's freakishly skinny — then I'd just have to go buy new pants. And that's not gonna happen because I'm a total punk-ass cheapskate. Plus, I'll never find that particular shade of safety-orange again.

Right-o. So we have the optimum — 170ish. I'm happy; my wardrobe's happy; everyone's happy.

Problem being, I do like me some crispy critter food-type-stuffs, which aren't conducive to keeping two-dimensionally thin. So I'll spend four years nibbling away at very much deliciousness, slooowly sandbagging my body with a fluffy, squishy protective coat of sponge until I've ballooned up to 200, which is my Madness Fulcrum. I see that 200 and something clicks in my brain and I think, "God DAMMIT! No WONDER I can't fit into any of my old 60s-80s clothes! This shit has got to stop!" Then I'll eat salads and water for two months, violently shedding fat and muscle mass alike — I don't care, as long as I can get into my pants again. Because — why class? — If you can't get into your own pants, don't expect anyone else to try!

So this time around on my Starvation-for-the-Sake-of-Fashion pound-shedding routine, I overdid it a bit, compromised my immune system and got a nasty attack of a viral zoster outbreak on my face and in my eye. Which only goes to prove the point I've been trying to make for years, if you fools would just listen for a minute! — If it don't hurt, it ain't beauty!

Today I stepped on the bathroom scale and I'm back in the 170s. The end of my plight is almost in sight. My pants not so tight, and soon I can bite. Er, good food.

You may think this flippant vanity is flippant and full of flippancy. "What's a few pounds, here and there," you say, bravely attempting to liberate yourself from the facist credo puked forth by people who live in L.A. and such places shouting from mountaintops: You can never be too rich or too thin!

Overall, I agree with you. It's what's on the inside that counts.

But I think you'll be impressed with my before/after photo, and I think you'll understand why I'm much happier now that I'm "after."