Who's the Big Winner?

Friends,

I haven't written about my weight in a while, and that's not because I've suddenly stopped caring. Every time I consume food or take a shower or look in a mirror or sit down I think about my weight, which is an awful lot if you think about it. It's just there's been nothing new to report. I mean, Monday, still fat. Tuesday, whaddya know, still fat. Gets a little repetitive after a while, so it doesn't warrant writing. But, anyway, today, I got some encouragement from the back of wardrobe.

You may not know it, but I am the proud owner of two bowling shirts. In fact one of them looks just like this (this is the site where I ordered them from, the other shirt, a blue one, I can't find on the site anymore...it sort of resembles this one, but the colored panels are narrower and a much darker blue, like crayon blue). I ordered both of these shirts to be XXXL, which is a huge size, but I knew that these vintage clothes run small, so I figured I should get the John Candy of shirt sizes because I was (am) a fat guy. Now, these shirts, of course, have never fit me (which was depressing), even when I bought them, they were tight, but wearable if I wanted to suck my gut in the whole time I had it on, and even then it wasn't exactly flattering (though, really, nothing on me is). And because I paid about 50 bucks per shirt for these things, I sure as hell wasn't ever giving them away or selling them, so they sat on a hanger or folded up in a plastic tub while I continued to get fatter and fatter, ensuring that I would never be able to wear these shirts. In fact, I have only one memory of wearing these shirts in public, and it was shortly after I bought them. That was in Las Vegas.

Yes, I bought them because of the movie Swingers, and because we were going to Vegas. It all seemed wonderfully kitschy and fun, so fuck it, I did it. Plus, my friend Clint (hiya Clint!) wore those shirts a lot, they looked like snazzy duds, so I figured, hey, what's good enough for Clint is good enough for me, even if he does weight about 200 pounds less than me. And, it's a button up shirt, so it's not too big of a stretch for my wardrobe, and I had the money at the time. So, no harm, no foul.

And that was, oh, four or five years ago, the summer before I went to Carbondale.

Right now, I'm wearing the blue one, and it fits just fine. Not gut sucking. No fat bulges when I sit down. Maybe a little tight when I cross my arms over my chest, but that's no big deal, because how often does a person really do that. I'm wearing this damn shirt. In fact, when I go work today to service some non-hearing types, I'm wearing this fucking shirt. Yeah, it's not exactly what you'd call normal clothes for this kind of job, but since I work with a man who wears a kilt, and a transvestive (or, you know, maybe just a really mannish old lady, I'm still not sure), no one should begrudge my faux-mid-90's-hipster-swing-revival shirt choice.

So, I'm feeling pretty good about this weight loss progress, because as I sit here, I am thinner than what I was when I was in Las Vegas (if this shirt is to be any barometer of success). It's taken me a long time to get here, and the frustrating part is that it's going to take me a long time to keep going on this. And, the fact that I didn't work out yesterday (life insurance appointment messed up the whole morning for me) and didn't work out today (DMV trip to get plates for the car I'm getting (thanks Mom & Dad!) messed up my whole morning) has got me bummed, not to mention that I'm always completely famished by the time I get home from work at 10:00 at night, so I seem to always find myself snacking on something late, which is terrible and does me no good if I'm ever going to get down to an acceptable weight.

But, right now, as I sit here in this computer chair, I'm wearing a shirt I haven't been able to wear for five years, and I feel fantastic. It's still an embarassment to me that the tag says XXXL on it, but goddammit, I can wear this XXXL shirt now, so fuck it. Good for me. Now, what's for lunch?

viva el mustache