Fat Butt

For the past 20 years, I’ve been on, shall we say, the slightly heavy side. We can say that, but it’d be a lie.

All right, I got large. The medical term, I believe, is lardassicus flabbelly. It happened after my wife passed away in 2006. When dealing with depression, some survivors turn to gambling, others chase women, many indulge in alcohol or food in a self-destructive mode. I fell into a habit of Jim Beam bourbon and potato chips. It got bad enough when I went to the doctor’s office and weighed in, the nurse looked at the scale to see if two people were standing on it. Nope. Just me and my ass.

I quit the Jim Beam since meeting Holly in Illinois four years ago, but dropping the chips is much more difficult and something I’ve not accomplished. I also have become addicted to pretzel rods. I chomp on them like an old weathered Brooklyn sports reporter chomping cigars while rolling the games in my 1947 APBA baseball replay.

“Get me the copy boy,” I’d holler, flicking salt off the end of the rod like Red Smith would dump ashes. “Rewrite! Stanky just hit one out and the Bums won after all.”

Bless Holly. She’s not said anything about my weight issue. She’s not judgmental at all, hence, why she has stayed with me over these years.

 I’m not that bad in girth. I used to be worse. I once dated a girl who told me she was embarrassed to be seen with me because of my size. She ended up dumping me for an illiterate guy.  He may not be able to write well, but he didn’t have to run to the stockyard to weigh like I did.

A friend who worked in the same building as I did during my newspaper days asked me to walk with her on the weekends several years ago. She wanted to exercise, but was afraid to do it alone on a park path that led through remote wooded areas, so I went more as a bodyguard than a fitness buff.

But something happened. I began losing weight and felt better, both physically and about myself. I lost nearly 100 pounds in the year we walked.  I met Holly shortly after. Maybe it was a reward for my trying to get fit.

But now, as I’m getting older and, after getting laid off from my newspaper job, I’ve gotten a weekday job that’s a lot more sedimentary. The weight, alas (all ass?), is slowly coming back.

It was perfect timing a few weeks ago when Holly gave me a Fit Bit, the wrist-watch thing that records heart beat, breathing rate, sleep patterns and steps taken.  In my case the Fit Bit should be called the Fat Butt, but I digress. She did it not as a complaint of my weight, but a means to think about staying alive. She got one for herself, too, although she’s tiny.

I can track my mileage daily and it serves as a motivator in a sense. It also acts as a reminder when I slow down too much. A few minutes ago, while I stopped to think about writing transitions for this, the Fit Bit buzzed. “Only 224 more steps to go,” it harkened.  It could easily have said, “Get up, ya lard bucket. You ain’t moving any.” It served the same purpose. I got up, walked some and added to the daily total. I’m at 2.2 miles today. Last weekend was busy and I logged over 6 miles.

It’s a heartfelt gift and I take it that Holly wants me to stick around for a while. I keep it on often and I’m not one to wear watches usually. I catch myself checking my mileage and heart rate and act accordingly – either slowing down or walking around more when I can.

And if I’m rolling APBA games and become too stationary, watching the Philadelphia As lose another game and rolling yet another home run for Ted Williams, I know the Fit Bit will buzz me back into action.