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You know you're getting fat when . . .
I work in a bookstore ("the only respectable branch of retail", quoth somebody whose name I forget). I've done so for many years and I like it. But this line of work, for all its joys, does mean putting up with a certain amount of shit from the more demented members of the general public.
Not long ago, an elderlygentleman maneuvered his walker (tennis balls stuck on the ends of its legs) to the register where I was working. As I was tabulating his purchase, he commented loudly, while pointing a bony finger at me, "That young man had better do something about his obesity!" Taken aback, I feigned polite indifference, but no doubt my surprise showed. "I'm a doctor, so I know," he continued, "He's asking for diabetes, as obese as he is. I've seen people die of diabetes. I'm a doctor . . ." Purchase completed, his (long-suffering) wife showed him the door.
Besides the weird third-person form of address, I couldn't believe the effrontery that a complete stranger should find my corpulence a matter of public comment. Now I know what the "fat is a feminist issue" theorists mean when they point out that a fat person's body becomes, somehow, public property.
I could have mentioned Paul Campos and others' skillful meta-analysis of the clinical literature, which shows that weight, per se, is generally not a health risk independent of, say, diet and exercise. I could have pointed out that the BMI tables, treated as holy writ by the medical profession, are actually arbitrary standards virtually devoid of clinical import. I could have mentioned that, according to various standards (blood pressure, blood glucose, cholesterol, etc.) my doctor professes me healthier than most. I could have pointed out that you can't judge a book my its cover.
In the end, the truth is that I prefer my body with a little beef on it. I feel better, more attractive, and more myself, that way. It goes with the whole "bear" thing, I guess. I've tried dieting, but my body always seems to find a happy medium.
In the end, I'll go home and eat a (no doubt taboo) dinner. Maybe later I'll lift some weights. Meanwhile, my erstwhile interlocutor can scarcely propel himself put the door.
Not long ago, an elderly
Besides the weird third-person form of address, I couldn't believe the effrontery that a complete stranger should find my corpulence a matter of public comment. Now I know what the "fat is a feminist issue" theorists mean when they point out that a fat person's body becomes, somehow, public property.
I could have mentioned Paul Campos and others' skillful meta-analysis of the clinical literature, which shows that weight, per se, is generally not a health risk independent of, say, diet and exercise. I could have pointed out that the BMI tables, treated as holy writ by the medical profession, are actually arbitrary standards virtually devoid of clinical import. I could have mentioned that, according to various standards (blood pressure, blood glucose, cholesterol, etc.) my doctor professes me healthier than most. I could have pointed out that you can't judge a book my its cover.
In the end, the truth is that I prefer my body with a little beef on it. I feel better, more attractive, and more myself, that way. It goes with the whole "bear" thing, I guess. I've tried dieting, but my body always seems to find a happy medium.
In the end, I'll go home and eat a (no doubt taboo) dinner. Maybe later I'll lift some weights. Meanwhile, my erstwhile interlocutor can scarcely propel himself put the door.