Tag Archives: fat

Cellulite

Cellulite: (n) persistent subcutaneous fat causing dimpling of the skin

If it’s got your thoughts, it’s got your soul.

I just find this to be true.

What corrals my attention, stimulates my brain and makes me contemplate pretty much sets the agenda for my entire human experience.

With that in mind, I am very careful not to focus on anything that has to do with the flesh and pretend that it has any worthy emotional or spiritual implications.

Women have cellulite. Men have cellulite. You can feel free to attempt some simple exercise or treatment to get rid of it.

But if you find yourself going on a trip to the beach wearing sweat pants, talking to everyone on the journey about your cellulite, frightened to death to expose your legs, then you’re in the middle of what I would refer to as a “self damnation.” Simply defined, this is a curse each one of us places on ourselves to forbid us from heavenly conclusions because of our hellish fear or lack.

At no time whatsoever during a romantic encounter does it matter one little bit if a man or woman has cellulite. It only matters if you’re watching them from a distance, determining whether they would be worthy of such intimacy.

But you must understand that anyone who has worked hard enough to not have cellulite may just be as demanding of the partner they select.

 

 

 

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Celery

Celery: (n) a cultivated plant of the parsley family

An ounce of consecration yields a pound of cure.

As human beings we spend an awful lot of time complaining about how much effort it takes to get results. Nothing is further from the truth.

Every once in a while, I build up such consecration to lose weight. There are two actions that tell me I’m serious about the endeavor:

  • I start quoting the calories in the food set before me, and
  • I develop an almost mystical interest in celery

Yes, I literally hypnotize myself into believing it makes a great snack, and since it really has no calories, it is able to trick my body into thinking that we are dining without actually plumping.

I think my record is four days.

Yes–four glorious days when I consumed celery, acting as if it were potato chips. Then came Day 5.

It was a very simple fall from grace. It began with a statement: “You know what would be good with this celery?”

At first I showed great restraint. I merely dipped my green stalk into some low-calorie ranch dressing. But that was a little too watery and didn’t cling well. So I switched to regular ranch dressing, trying to be careful about how much I used.

After about two days, I grew tired of the taste of ranch and discovered that cheese whip was delicious on the celery. Now, I was cautious not to put too much of the goo into the provided groove. (After all, if the celery did not want me to have a condiment with it, why did it make that slot?)

By Day 10, I discovered that the most excellent filler was peanut butter.

Peanut butter and celery.

My God, I felt righteous! I had the “no calories” of celery mingled with the protein of peanut butter, which would certainly counteract all the fat included.

Imagine how discouraged I was, after a week, to realize that I had gained weight on celery and peanut butter.

Celery is a trickster. It offers great promise, but has no ability to fulfill unless it brings along its blubbery friends.

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Celerity

Celerity: (n) swiftness of movement.

I will risk being considered ignorant or out of touch by telling you that I had absolutely no idea what this word meant when it popped up on my screen. But fortunately for me, the definition was very straight-forward: swift movement.

I admire those who are fleet of foot, due mostly to the ever-lightness of their being. I’ve always been a heavy-set chap (which is what I will
 write in this article to escape calling myself “fat,” making you think I have diminished self-esteem).

During my brief stint of playing football, the coach ordered us to do windsprints. For me, it was more “wind” than “sprint.” I was always gasping for air as my lighter brothers glided by me as if propelled by the wings of Mercury.

The advantage of being swift is being able to get a lot of things done, as they say, lickety-split.

So since I do not have celerity, it falls my duty to take my brain and teach it to be “celeritous.” (Perhaps not a word, but willing to adapt.)

I developed a swift mind.

I learned how to abandon bad ideas quickly so they wouldn’t clutter my path.

I tried to rid myself of forlorn, discouraged and upset feelings, which only slow down progress.

I developed a sense of good cheer–which is an understanding that expecting help is the doorway to making sure that nothing gets done.

I found out what I could do, how to do it, and to make it fun–and then did it with celerity.

I have never run fast in my life. I have never won a swimming race in a pool (except against my little three-year-old son, who was wearing water wings).

And now, as I am aging and my legs are seeking a condo for retirement, I realize that metering my movements with a great sense of timing and knowing when to rest, can fool the masses into thinking that I’m really, really swift.

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Celebrity

Celebrity: (n) a famous person.

I remember the first time it happened.

I was sharing at a book conference about my latest release, and the announcer, in an attempt to beef up my credentials, told the splatter of
humans attending that I was “a celebrity.”

His exact wording was, “We are so pleased to have our next guest, who has achieved celebrity status.”

The oddness of his phrasing was further punctuated by a pitiful smattering of applause.

The introduction bothered me.

Since we live in a social structure which insists on honoring a social structure, ranging from famous people all the way down to “nobodies,” it seems difficult to breathe in a sense of self-esteem unless we are constantly touting our self-worth.

After all, we don’t want fifteen minutes of fame because we desire to be famous. Rather, we want to make sure we don’t end up being the guy or gal who never got it.

So at the end of my little lecture that morning, I opened the floor to questions, and a young boy about nine years of age raised his hand. I have learned over the years that allowing such a lad to offer a question can open the door to, “Does anybody really like your book?” or “How’d you get so fat?”

But I took the risk, acknowledged the kid, let him take the microphone and offer his inquiry. He was a pretty nice little guy. The only thing he wanted to know was, “Are you really famous? Because if you are, I want your autograph.”

There was a giggle in the room. I don’t know if they were giggling because he was so cute, or wondering why in the hell somebody would want my autograph.

So I asked my young friend, “Have you ever heard of me before?”

He frowned and shook his head.

I laughed and said, “Well, then I guess I’m not famous. I guess, like everybody else, I’m just a celebrity in my own mind.”

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Buoyant

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Buoyant: (adj) able or apt to stay afloat

I was nearly sixteen years old before I worked up the courage to take my shirt off and slide into a swimming pool with other people my age.

I was fat.

When you’re a teenager and fat, you’re convinced that everything is much more dramatic and even bulbous than it actually may be.

For instance, I was frightened that my lips were too big. Matter of fact, I asked my mother if there were any blacks in our ancestry. There weren’t. For you see, my lips weren’t too big–they only appeared that way when they were placed an inch-and-a-half away from a mirror.

I also thought I might have accidentally inherited women’s breasts. I was sure if I took my shirt off, someone would notice this, or if there was a doctor in the house it could be diagnosed. Of course, nothing was further from the truth. My belly was so big it made my chest look flat. Nevertheless, the notion lived and breathed in my mind.

So when I finally did work up the courage to get into the pool on one summery afternoon, I waded into the deep end, and when I stopped waving my arms, I realized I could stand in the water without having to tread.

I was so damned impressed with myself.

I was buoyant.

The rest of my friends swimming around me were ferociously trying to keep afloat by moving their arms and legs. But not me.

I was so proud of the discovery that I shared it with everybody in the pool. Many people were equally as astounded.

For a brief moment I gained the status of “the man who could float on water.”

I was empowered.

And then one of the adults who was in the pool with us (for some reason feeling the need to be truthful) swam over and explained to me and all my followers that the reason I was able to float in the water without moving my arms was that fat floats–is buoyant–and was lifting me up in the pool and holding me in place.

One of the girls I was desperately trying to impress crinkled her face as if trying to gain greater wisdom.

“So what you’re saying,” she said, “is that he’s like a beach ball–because you can’t drown a beach ball. It keeps popping to the surface.”

The grown-up nodded, feeling he had successfully achieved explaining the premise.

I lost my entourage. No one was impressed anymore.

For after all, how attractive is a human beach ball?

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Buff

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Buff: (adj) being in good physical shape with fine muscle tone.

Although I agree that sexual purity is a noble state, sexual deprivation more resembles North Dakota.

What I mean is, as we try to avoid promiscuity, we need to consider the fact that all of us require some sensation Dictionary Bof being attractive.

I was kind of born fat.

I know that sounds like a cop-out, and it probably is–but since I was twelve-and-a-half pounds when I popped out of my mother, and three hundred pounds by the time I reached the 7th grade, it is safe to say there were not many intervals of “lean” in between.

So even though I worked on a good personality, a generous spirit and nourishing my talent, I have traveled the Earth with what appears to be a spare belly. I don’t know what it would ever be used for–it just seems to take up space, unexplained.

Recently, one of my dear friends, who happens to be female, told me that another friend saw me about twenty years back, when I was deeply absorbed, or perhaps even possessed, in the notion of exercise, and described me as “buff.”

I almost wet my pants.

The notion of me being buff, or considered buff, or even curiously perceived buff by a near-sighted man, gave me an uncontrollable tingle down my spine.

For a moment, I felt alluring, without feeling the need to allure.

I was appealing, without needing to pursue pleasant dialogue which might make me seem interesting.

There is an old saying that we are “fearfully and wonderfully made.” If by that the writer intended to express that we are crazy and bonkers, then I agree.

But if we don’t feel presentable, we don’t feel happy.

And if we don’t feel happy, we try to make other people’s lives miserable.

And once miserable, they will certainly find us even more unappealing.

 

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Big

Big: (adj) of considerable size, extent or intensity.

Dictionary B

“Big Jon.”

That’s what everybody used to call me.

It was their way of acknowledging that I was a large person without using terms like chubby, tubby, overweight, portly, plump or God forbid–fat.

But as I grew older and wiser, I realized that behind every use of the word “big” was a parenthetical inclusion of “fat.”

Even though politeness is very polite, it is often misleading, if not flat-out lying.

I was able to pull off “Big Jon” for a long time because I could lift couches, play sports, and pant and sweat my way to physical equality.

But age caught up with me, and the passing years have robbed me of the courtesy of being big, and just made me obese.

For the record, there is absolutely no charm in “Obese Jon.”

When is it good to be big?

I was told when I was younger that having big dreams, big plans and big goals was a sign of vision. Then I realized that this particular view of life could blind you with ambition, leaving you stumbling in the darkness of despair.

Somewhere in between small and big lies real.

It’s what we’re all looking for.

It’s that part of the mission of our life journey which is achievable instead of under-promoted or overwrought.

I have reached a time when I need to stop being so big.

My body, my emotions and my ego … all need to go on a diet.Donate Button

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Bermuda Shorts

Bermuda shorts: (n) casual knee-length short trousers.

Dictionary B

For the sake of lingering pieces of vanity, I would like to say that I am completely unfamiliar with Bermuda shorts, but unfortunately, I was around when they hit the shores from Bermuda, and shortly thereafter, basically disappeared.

Let me tell you something about fashion: fashion is the latest trend available to those who basically look good in anything.

If you have a bulge here and there, misshapen space or a cluttered cloister, you are very unlikely to ever be comfortable or attractive in the latest threads.

Such it was with Bermuda shorts.

They were knee-length, usually had some sort of odd print on them, and they left the rest of your leg exposed.

When I tried them on, it appeared that some sausage had seeped out of the bottom of its casing.

Not to mention the fact that no matter how tall you may be, when you are chubby you appear shorter. Bermuda shorts helped to accentuate this dwarfism.

I didn’t wear them a second time.

Matter of fact, I might have been one of the souls instrumental … in mocking them off the fashion runway.

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Belly

Belly: (n) the front part of the human trunk below the ribs, containing the stomach and bowels.

Dictionary B

I’ve always tried to stay optimistic because if I become downcast, I see my belly, which only adds to the depression.

I don’t know whether you’re supposed to see your belly when you look down. Some people might have a view of other anatomical parts.

But not me.

Since I was a lad of seven, my belly has preceded me into affairs. It pushes itself to the forefront, trying to establish dominance and certainly, advertise other potential character flaws.

I have tried to lose my belly–but apparently there is some sort of snitch in my brain which always informs this large protrusion of my intentions.

The belly protects itself.

If I try to starve it out, it prepares for the siege.

It actually seems to be proud of its acreage. I, on the other hand, keep trying to find pants to cover it up.

I am not alone in this situation. Occasionally, when I stop to look at other people, I see that they, too, have accumulated quite an impressive forerunner to their forthcoming.

In other words, they have big bellies.

I have read that in history, possessing such a large amount of flesh was once considered to be a symbol of prosperity. That was a time when starvation was common, and obesity was evidence that you could put food on your table.

As I write this today, I am not sure that my belly will ever leave.

It is a damn sentimental creature of habit.

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Barn

Barn: (n) a large farm building used for storing grain, hay, straw or for housing livestock.Dictionary B

I grew up in a small town of 1,500 people.

One of the nice things about living in a village is that if you own one thing that others don’t, you are cool–and if by some miracle you have two, then you are rich.

I was on the junior high school basketball team.

A friend of mine lived right outside town and had a barn adjacent to his house. His parents had built, in the hayloft, a basketball court, complete with two hoops and a lovely wood floor.

It was magnificent.

I’m sure if I saw it today, it would appear rustic and dank. But to us, born in a little burg, it was Madison Square Haygarden.

My friend had never invited me up to play basketball. Other members of the team had been numerous times, but I was never included.

It hurt my feelings.

So one day when I was at his house, I just popped off with the question. “Hey, why don’t we go out to the barn and play some basketball?”

My friend was nervous but agreed. So we climbed up the steps, onto the court, and were bouncing and shooting away, when suddenly the floor just beneath my feet broke through and I fell straight down through the hole, catching myself by my armpits.

There I was, legs dangling to the floor beneath, wedged into a small opening, unable to get myself out.

Finally my friend was able to gather three or four other guys, along with his dad, to pull me out of the crevice and set me back onto firm lumber.

My friend then explained that this was why he had never invited me to the basketball court–he knew I was too heavy and might break through, but kept praying the whole time that everything would be okay.

It wasn’t.

I learned two valuable lessons that day:

  1. If you’re going to be fat, sometimes you’ll be left out of the skinny games.
  2. Prayer doesn’t always keep you from falling through the cracks…and dangling by your pits.

 

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