When I was home a couple of weeks ago, I got dressed and met my parents in the kitchen as I was on my way out. I asked my parents how I looked, hoping for a little ego boost as I ventured out, alone, into the throws of the city. My mom promptly, without malice or remorse, said, “You’ve got a belly, eh?”
She had called me fat.
Every time that I go home, other than this one, I get the same comment from my parents: “Are you eating enough? You look like you’re losing weight.” This time was different. Obviously.
I was running late so I didn’t have time to defend my heft, nor did I have the energy. After I wiggled myself into the car, I felt, for the first time, my stomach fall out over my belt. I made sure to stretch the seatbelt out as far as my arm would reach, as I wrapped it securely, and snuggly, around my chest and waist.
During the 30 minute drive to my destination, I jiggled and jostled each time I went over even the slightest bump in the road. My stomach growled fiercely at me when I stopped to pick up some batteries but overlooked the chocolate bars. I had to brace myself against the door of the car as I pushed myself out of the car.
Cut to last week. I was walking by the gym that I registered with six months ago. It was open so I walked in. I booked myself a “Welcome Experience”, which was to get me familiar with the gym and give me some ideas on how I might be able to meet my fitness goals.
I walked out tonight after having paid for six personal training sessions. I start on Wednesday, and it runs twice a week for three weeks.
Here are pictures of my abdominal girth. I apologise if anyone finds these images unsightly.