It’s a widely known fact in my circles that I haven’t always been this trim-endously not-fat… Oh! Ahh! I kill myself…
Anywho, I think it all started back in the day when I stopped playing football. I’d played football for eight years, eating my way up and down the buffet line the entire time. Bread baskets on the restaurant tables around town learned to fear me; a bounty of hot rolls lasted nary a minute. But I rue the day I quit playing football. It was freshman year of high school, and in addition to the coach benching this starter for his own personal reasons, I couldn’t handle the work load of those blasted honors courses followed by hours of football practice everyday. Apparently I missed the memo about slowing down the food train when the physical activity slammed to a halt because it wasn’t too long after football ended that my love handles became a bit more than a handful. I didn’t even have the option of a shaved haircut for fear of instant cueballitis. Even in those sad days, I still tried to keep a smile on my face.
Errr…. Beating the ladies off with a stick? Not by a long shot. In fact, said stick would probably still have that new stick smell.
I decided somewhere early during senior year that this being a fat kid wasn’t so much fun anymore. I was getting sick of girls that liked me, liked me a whole lot… but not that way. Not to worry though, they’d always tell me I was cute… ha! Kittens are cute. Do I look like a kitten? Well, to shake that image, I had to run… a lot. More than a fat kid ever desired to run in his life. And the Wendy’s runs? They had to stop quicker than my physical activity when I’d stopped playing football.
By the time the next spring rolled around, I was shuffling around town from one thrift store to another to re-stock my t-shirt collection. The total dropped amounted to around 50 pounds, and I’m still sitting at that total over a year later. And that, kids, is the story about when this kid was fat.
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