Friday, December 26, 2008

All There

Wherever I go these days, I get to carry around with me my stomach.

It’s not a bad little belly; in fact, more and more, it’s not so little at all. A liberal application of Christmas cookies from my virtuoso cookie-maker sister, along with a steady diet of sitting around on my ass during the holiday season has expanded the horizon between my chin and hips to previously uncharted territory—or at least, that’s how it feels.

It all goes with the time of year: Santa Claus, teddy bears, pro football offensive linemen; and while mine, unlike St. Nick’s, doesn’t actually wiggle like a bowlful of jelly, I can make it shudder like the top of a crème caramel.

Consider it a sign of success, that’s it, a tangible illustration of a full larder, of a lifestyle marked by abundance, of freedom from want at all hours of the day and night, with a midnight snack thrown in for good measure.

Of course, like 99.9% of the population, I’m sure I have post New Year’s plans to shape up and melt off whatever more of me has emerged since Halloween, but I’m also sure that like 99.99% of all people, I’ll find some excuse not to keep at it past MLK Day.

The good news, I guess, is that should the apocalypse ensue and supermarkets disappear, I’ll have a couple extra days of stored energy to tide me over until mana starts raining down from heaven. Plus, I’ll be stimulating the economy as I purchase an entire new wardrobe of trousers to truck my Milwaukee tumor around in.

All in all, I’m not too worried; having a few extra inches around the midsection has never gotten in the way of success, why just look at Jack Black, or John Belushi, or even former President Bill Clinton.

Or how about William Howard Taft? Now there’s guy I could get behind—and maybe even hide the belly if I turned just right.


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