A TALE OF TWO WAISTLINES

I might as well just come out and say it:

I'm fat.

Not irredeemably obese but not exactly the ideal guy to sit next to on a plane.

The word fat, so short and declamatory, renders an incandescent condition fixed in a gelatinous fact. It has the odor of earth and the constancy of an archive. We fatties are fallen angels, shunned for our moral lapses and ridiculed for our intemperance. Never mind that we make up this nation's flatulent majority, the way those snot noses in Hollywood would have it we're merely walk-ons in their svelte world of elegance and anorexia.  

On television we're depicted as buffoons, social outcasts, tottering invalids or at best, world-weary detectives nearing retirement. To public policy wonks we're an unnecessary drain on the health care system, a ballast on the economy and a statistic cited as an international embarrassment. (Athough I've personally put several cardiologist's kids through private school).

To me, I'm just a plus-size guy who likes to eat. 

People comfortable with moderation are usually suspicious of the senses. Not us gourmandizing jelly-bellies. We energetically pursue and unapologetically indulge in the infinite variables of gratification. If you've ever made love to a fat woman you'll know exactly what I mean.

 Who in their right mind would deny the bliss of a double bacon cheeseburger, find fault with a french fry or turn down a tiramisu or a hot fudge sunday?

Frozen yoghurt on the other hand?
That's for children and for amateurs.