Pear Boy

The mustard-based BBQ sauce dripped through my fingers and onto a plate full of slaw-droppings and baked beans. I’m sure the sauce was collecting in the corner of my mouth. I might have had some on my forehead. Free BBQ is hard to come by unless you live in Neshoba County, MS during an election year. I thought I’d get my South Carolina BBQ while I had a chance.

My colleagues and I were preparing to listen to a political expert lecture on some upcoming South Carolina elections. Free BBQ and pol-talk lured us into the room. I was neck-deep in pulled pork when my boss popped in a video tape from the year 2000. It highlighted our political coverage of the election that year. I played a bit part in that coverage. I looked forward to seeing my contribution.

I screamed out loud. I threw my sauce-covered fingers over my eyes. There I was–on the screen–dressed in an unflattering sportcoat. I was 20 pounds heavier and looked like I had a pig hiding underneath my belt buckle. My buddy leaned over to me and whispered, “You were…um…bigger then.” I was Pear Boy.

I was bigger. I was obese. My neck fat rolled over my collar. I had a small colony of lemurs living in my belly button. They had mistaken it for Madagascar.

In the months before that video was shot, I had been on a eating binge. Long John Silver was my daddy. Ronald McDonald washed my car. The Burger King let me wear his crown. I drank more than 100 ounces of Coca Cola a day. I was a fat bastard.

It was just aobut that time that I realized that if I didn’t change my habits, I would soon have a pretty good amount of shade over my nether regions. My regions like the sun…or at the very least…a dim lamplight.

The first order of business was a Coca Cola ban. I grudgingly switched over to Diet Coke and Diet Mountain Dew.

I also began boycotting McDonalds. I have never gone back.

I lost a quick 20 pounds and was proud of myself. I looked good in my wedding pictures (in part becuase misplaced anxiety killed my appetite for the three weeks before I said “I do”).

Last night, I forgot about a second pork sandwich. I sipped a Diet Coke and listened to the political talk. I was set to lose another ten “let’s just be safe” pounds.

Then I went home and ate the fridge. Not just the contents. I need a new ice box.

I fear I’m a junkie. I don’t need food. I like it, but I don’t need it. Last night, I wasn’t even hungry and I ate my house. The dog looked scared and hid in the back yard. I need a new house now. So does the dog.

My brother is getting married this year. I have no anxiety about that. But, I do have to wear a tux again.

So, if you see a bunch of lemurs on a boat form Madagascar, tell them my belly ain’t for rent.

And do you recommend a Frigidaire or a Maytag?