I win. Often.
Spouting that it’s all I do would be irrational and highly unlikely to do anything but launch a largely forgettable rap career*. 
& would I lose YOU, sweet audience, to overstate my welcome? 

i’ve never been far from a solid score.
And not just the kind I was doubly implying just then. Also with magically intangible phenomena ranging from unlikely friendships to a well-executed moonwalk.

But a friend favorite, brilliantly astute friend observed (more than once) my perceived chub is disproportionately equal to a vat of self-loathing. And she’s right.

I don’t look like the awesome ball of hopes & dreams with unfortunate hair I wielded in childhood or the balloon animal of broken self-deflation I ripened to in adolescence. Tracking even a trace resemblance is hard. 


Not that I see fat as an issue beyond the obvious health deterioration.
Fat is functionally awesome. Lipids are often used to encase toxins and prevent the body from being backlogged by the poisonous excess piped into our pieholes far too often. Physiological gold.
I even like it on my celebrities. Shows a degree of nonconformity and, my favorite adjective choice skinnies sling: “bravery”. 

My own reasons for hypocritically not wanting it on ME?
Far less vain & highly personal: I just don’t like seeing it on me.
It’s not an ugly complex. I lucked into a face that could sell white people baked goods. Still, to little personal satisfaction. 

Being blubber-coated is like entering a relationship with a level 9 clinger.

At first it’s alright, comfy and protective, but eventually the lack of ability to even breathe becomes enough to make you mentally unwell. He’s really sweet behind closed doors, but in public he contributes little. A suffocating reminder that just morphs into a massive cockblock. You could be captivating but unless that dead weight gets ditched, those party invite get lost in the mail every time.
It’s weirdly symbolic of unruly compulsion and ugly living; times when being incased in a fleshy tent of poor dietary choices beat out reality. A sad soul that had to go soft for survival.

Food is unfailing. 
Food is rarely unavailable and even so, extra exceptional at our next reunion.
My friends are almost as in-love as I am. Food is never an unwanted addition to any occasion. Food has publicity that rivals, if not champions skinny propaganda. And it’d never deny you a piece. Me? Give up on food? Never ever ever.
Still, shifting to excluding many billboard worthy foods siphons the gust out of some sails in social settings. The interest of public health doesn’t appeal near as much as peanutbutter and bacon brownies. And it’s not that I feel any dif 

Afterall, it’s not that I don’t want to be or eat fat.
It’s that I want to feel free.
Free from obsessing over what that second bowlful of serotonin will look on me like tomorrow, how many cows were crucified to concoct my cheesy beef supreme or whether those pants will fit me today. Free of memories pilfering leftovers rather than pillowtalking to someone I love. That has willingly seen me naked.

But watch out. It may be a late round, but this kid’s got fight.

* http://youtu.be/GGXzlRoNtHU 

Make that 30 50 more pounds… (& I am in no way pregnant. So that’s still good news,)
How’s that on the ole’ ticker, you think?
I’m killing the time limit & dreaming better than points. Bigger than numbers.
What’s nicer than scoring the whiplash of hot bystanders? Winning my health back.

Time to show the folks at home how to do as a walk-through, rather than a handful of cheat codes. Let’s play a NEW way…

I wasn’t going to admit it.
But the truth is obvious…

I’m better than you.
At eating. Significantly.

And unlike the rest of the known world, I relish being super-sized. 

Who avoids that first mushroom in Mario Bros.?
Only the most misguided gamester would abandon the requisite for fireflowers or superleaves.
Missing the first mushroom is universally considered the worst strategic flaw in World 1-1 (2nd only to skipping the hidden 1-UP).

Experts agree: super is the leading prefix of excellence.
[i.e. see: superSTAR / superHERO /superNATURAL / superBOWL ] 

Being fun-sized is boring, 
there is nothing epic or lasting in “fun”. 

“Fun” is a cheap, chintzy modifier; an empty-fortune cookie novelty.  
A momentary lapse in reality.

Yet, in a failing economy, even the super secure loathe being economy-sized despite staggering numbers joining fat ranks. We live in a more-is-less kind of world. Lower cholesterol numbers and tiny jean sizes are lottery tickets; chances at longer life and better love.
I cannot turn the tides of change, so COWABUNGA! I’ll surf them.
All my Peter Pan convictions (and by that, I mean the peanutbutter) are flying out the window. I have gained 30 pounds in 3 months.
The time for indulging sugared childhood whims is way behind and the time to cowboy up and leave the (Hidden Valley) ranch has come. Tony Horton, here I come!

So, I will lose a significant portion of me, because, my nerdlings, fat can shrink but SUPER is a capacity that won’t atrophy.
So said Winston Churchill.. er, uh… something to that effect.