Me and my Beer Belly

         Before you can groan and guess the typical modus operandi of an article with such intro, I would like to state that you are absolutely wrong.This is not about me whining “why can’t I have Marc Nelson’s bud” or an endless request to Dear-Macho Man-help-me-bring-out-the-LouFerigno-in-me”.Bo-ho. It is not even close to that.

         I have a special attachment to my beer belly. As a matter of fact, I strongly attest my beer belly is the charisma I have been missing to achieve a charmed life. You read me right. I fancy myself to be the local equivalent of Homer Simpson. And this is going to be my year because of THAT.

         I achieved this seemingly perfection after almost 5 years of glorious tirade with IQ scores and computer graphs in a full stomach. Contrary to the term, my belly was seldom washed with beer because of the lack of companions to share the bill. It was more of indulging to a gluttonous streak of homemade pasta, longganisa and cheese cupcakes from a carenderia just across the street (but calling it “food belly” or computer-hacked tummy” doesn’t sound quite right so there…). My belt began disrobing its fake leather skin right before my eyes. My 31” waist line accumulated an additional 3-inch. What was disturbing is not trying to fit on my remaining slacks and some of my favorite shirts without looking like a walking graduated cylinder (with opposite rims). I was alarmed. It became apparent that change requires a lot of discipline and a strong will for acceptance. So I opened up. And yes, Utopia.

           I quit my tummy tuck program after a day in the gym.

          My wife was furious and tried to pull me out of this pitfall. But I could care less. Though I can see where she’s coming at. My poor wife. She can not welcome the golden age of my self-proclaimed redemption without going against the superficial notions of the world. That a light bulb figure is the LOOK for yuppies with the attitude (that is why I’m sporting it). That being a primetime couch potato is ultra sexy (that is why I’m exhibiting it). I feel like Neon (with a mid-body furball) who unearthed a reality everyone choose not to believe.

          Muscularity as criteria for sexiness is stereotypical therefore passé. There are many that dared to undress before the public eye into a form most people considered unpleasant and yet, they still triumphed against these standards. They proved the whole populace wrong, letting them drool on their exploits. A probability can even be drawn that this kind of physique breeds royalty. We have the King of Comedy, Dolphy who was a ballooning Cassanova but a Cassanova nonetheless. Elvis was bloated before he died but no one questioned this Rock n Roll Majesty because he was simply on fire when shaking those oversized hips. And yes, the undisputed king of the masses Erap who once have it all: The presidency, mansions, swooning young women, cozy prison cell etc. and his famous beer belly (only by this point that the term is in context). And the late Pope was well, the Pope.

         Though I haven’t had my break, I can feel it coming soon. I have developed an optimism along the way that this was all for the better. My friends still calls me the human kangaroo. But who knows, I might be the next rock star in an inflated flab.

Footnote: According to his wife, this poor writer is undergoing the tedious stage, which we call “denial”.

Uncategorized |