What It's Really All About

Current weight: Not sure. But I feel fatter than normal. But then again, when don't I.

So we're just about two weeks away from the big day, and it can't get here soon enough. Any normal-brained, jolly ol' fat person wouldn't be as excited about surgery day as a 6-year-old waking up at the butt crack of dawn and running into the living room to see what another jolly ol' fat person had dropped off the night before.

But for me it's the middle of December, the tree is up, the lights have been strung and the spiked eggnog is flowing. Because come Oct. 21, I'll be saying hola to one jolly ol' fat man and adi-freakin'-os to another. And as the day draws nigh, I've started to ponder the reasons why I'm willing to put myself and my family through all of this financial, emotional and gastrointestinal rigmarole.

There are obvious reason. Health, family, the ability to buy clothes at any place other than Thornton Mellon's Tall and Fat. You know, the important stuff.

There are other reasons. Reasons that don't seem like much to Mr. and Mrs. I Never Have a Problem Finding My Size. But to Mr. and Mrs. Fat Around the Middle America, these reasons are what it's really all about.

It's about not feeling like your skin is stretched as tight as Roseanne Barr's leopard-print thong.

It's about not having a stain on EVERY nice shirt you own because the food that would normally drop onto the napkin in your lap instead splats onto the big belly that is parked directly between your mouth and said napkin in said lap.

It's about not having to ask for a table after you've first been seated in a booth and found out that you can't sit in the booth without causing internal bleeding.

It's about not having to see the fake-smile, pitiful look on the face of the pretty, still in high school hostess whom you've just asked to re-seat you at a table.

It's about not smiling and patting the sweet little girl on the head after she points at your belly and asks, "Is there a baby in there?"

It's about not sitting in a meeting unaware that the fifth button on your shirt has popped loose because it could no longer withstand the strain its been under.

It's about not standing up in front of a group unaware that your shirt tail has come untucked because there simply isn't enough material to cover your belly AND leave enough shirt tail to stay tucked in.

It's about not getting those icky looks from friends and co-workers when you raise your arms above your head for some reason and they see that the pits of your shirt are soaked through to the point that even a Sham-Wow would have a hard time sopping it all up.

It's about not getting sweaty and out of breath from any of the following: tying your shoes, taking a dump, getting the mail, getting the newspaper, reading the mail, reading the newspaper, sitting down on the ground, getting up off the ground, getting in bed, out of bed or changing the sheets on the bed.

It's about not having to explain to your friends who graciously asked you and your wife over for dinner and drinks that you just broke their toilet seat.

It's about no longer being the guy everyone at work brings the extra brownie, cookie or lunch leftovers to.

It's about not avoiding bending over for any reason whatsoever. Not even if means letting a $20 you dropped flutter away on the lightest of breezes.

It's about not deciding against chasing after the $20 that is fluttering away in the lightest of breezes because there is no way you could catch up to it, despite the fact that it's fluttering away on the lightest of breezes.

It's about not almost giving yourself a hernia because you would rather bust a gut - literally - than ask the flight attendant for the seat belt extender.

It's about not having to wonder if the rickety old wood chair you are sitting on is going to collapse under the weight, since it's happened to you twice before. On the same night.

It's about not having executive leadership take a thinner, better dressed, more put-together person more seriously than the fatter, sloppier, sweatier you.

It's about not walking into a bar and knowing that no chick would give you a second glance or even the time of day if you were to go up and say hello. Not that I would or want to, since the one woman that matters in this world gives me both a second glance and the time of day. But still.

It's about not experiencing the horrible, self loathing feelings the nano-second after realizing that the fifth button popped loose, or that the shirt tail is untucked, or that the pits are soaked through, or that you can't fit into the booth, or that the hot chick at the end of the bar whom you smiled and winked at is not only giggling at you but is now telling her friends next to her that the fat guy who just walked in the door just smiled and winked at her.

Don't take any of this the wrong way. I'm not bitter about all the above. Ok, maybe a little. But I'm the one who drew up the blueprints, built and tirelessly maintained my tool shed. I have no one to blame but myself.

But finally, for once in my fat life, enough is enough. Now I'm not naive. I realize that not all of this will change once I'm a lean, mean Lap Band machine. I mean, who am I kidding? I'm still going to sweat - I have very active glands (Thanks mom!). And I'm still going to get stains on my nice shirts - that's just clumsy ol' me.

But the next time you see a $20 fluttering by on the lightest of breezes, that'll be my skinny ass chasing after it.

Peace, love and leopard-print thongs!