« You’re fat » says the wife, as we’re sitting up in bed one night reading.
I call this an unprovoked attack, my Better Half calls it « speaking her mind »
« I’m not fat» I protest, nibbling on my fourth square of plain chocolaté.
« Ok, You’re not fat » she says, soothingly. « You’re just a little overweight. »
Yes, I have to admit that the wife is right (as usual)
Mopping up my gravy with thick hunks of French bread, and then hacking off huge slices of creamy French cheese to finish off the bread that I have left after soaking up my gravy. Dinner ain’t dinner without a désert and it’s all washed down with a couple of glasses of wine. And there are always sweet cravings before bedtime.
« I work it all off when I go to the gym » I argue
« Is that the gym you haven’t been to for nearly six months ? » (ouch that hurt)
« Anyway » carries on my wife and conscience, « you are doing the wrong kind of sport. You should be running, not sitting on a rowing machine, besides rowing is bad for your knees. »
I secretly push my bar of chocoalte under the bed in a well concealed but guilty gesture.
« So, I’m not obese. »
« No. »
« I’m just a little overweight. »
« You are developing a belly – a rather large spare tyre »
I knew things we’re bad last summer. We were on the beach. My daughter was indicating my presence to one of her new-found holidays friends, who refreed to me as « your dad, that fat bloke over there. » (AAAAAAGH)
I have always been quite happy with the skin I’m in, though I will now admit that there is more of me in the skin than before. I have never really thought of my body as a temple, of course, I have always hoped it would attract admiring glances from females who might like to use it as a place of worship.
In the adulation stakes I don’t think I’ve got much chance of any sacrificual rituals on my bodily altar. I’m less of a temple and more of a decaying Church at the moment. Mind you, much as I like those holiday brochure photos of ancient Greek temples on the shores of the Med at Sunset, I’ve always thought of myself more as an English country Church.
Meanwhile, back at the « spare tyre » reference, I am reminded of an old blues number penned by Willie Dixon « I’m built for comfort, not for speed »
Some folk built like this, some folk built like that
But the way I’m built, Don’t you call me fat
Because I’m built for comfort, I ain’t built for speed
But I got everything all that a good girl need.
I have to face it. I’ve got to lose a few pounds, and I’m going to have to make sacrifices. Just because I’m nearrer fifty than forty, there is no excuse for having a belly.
The other cruel thing about advancing years, (oh god, I’m talking like I’v got one foot in the grave) is the réalisation that you can’t dress like a teeanger any more. My body says I’m 47, but the rest of me is still stuck in my late teens and early twenties – like most blokes I daresay.
There are those men that are born old and stay old.
There are others who try to recapture their lost youth at the first sign of advancing years. Getting grey hair is a good excuse to get a motorbike or try and form a rock and roll band with some like-minded mates.
And there are blokes like me, who have never really grown up. To the sartorial chagrin of our spouses, we have always worn, hoodies, jeans and sneakers. I am a bad case, I still buy Rock and Roll T shirts, in the mistaken belief that they are cool.
And then the other day, I had a road to Damascus incident – I was pulling on a Ramones T shirt and I had the misfortune to glance at myself in the mirror. I’ll tell you something folks, I won’t be bearing my all on Rockaway Beach anytime soon.
Slim down and grow up. I guess that’s a good way to go, and I shall start tonight by only having one glass of wine instead of two.