The other day when I went to meet my in-laws for lunch at a Chinese restaurant, my pa-in-law took me by the paw and said out loud, “You’ve gotten fat.”
I’m used to this kind of masochistically refreshing bluntness from a lot of Korean people. Many of them prize honesty beyond diplomacy, tender feelings of those within their brazen blast waves be damned. For instance, one of my closest Korean female friends, one I’ve considered asking my wife if it would be okay for me to have an affair with, observed, “You’ve got a big belly.” At least she lessened the blow by saying that she had one too (while subsequently admitting it was not as big as mine, and that she’s taking pains to reduce it with a religious jogging regimen).
As a fat person, I resent people’s thinking it’s okay to make fun of me. Deep down inside, my skeleton bristles within its thick golden coat of gristle. I’m too much of a (fried) chicken to complain about it out loud and risk getting a fat lip from some bony or else muscle-bound weightlifting clone, but now that I’m on a roll, let me say that being fat is not an entirely conscious lifestyle choice, at least not in my (piano) case (-sized coffin).
It’s a vicious cycle of insomnia and depression that leads to overeating. When the face that glares back at you from the mirror seems to be demanding, “What are you staring at?” all you can do is sit down on the toilet and have another pizza topped with a rainbow of various ice cream flavors.
Although I may be the Lord of the Rings (which I can use to carry things), I’m still a human being. I know my species may be no great (milk) shakes, a motley lot of freaky flakes, but we’re all born to make mistakes; and Nature’s not? Explain earthquakes.