Fat in Las Vegas

Somewhere along the line, I got fat.

Hard to say exactly what happened. Normally I can count on my sedentary lifestyle to not otherwise affect my shape. Ever since I gave up sugary sodas about seven years ago, I have been able to maintain a weight that I didn’t mind announcing.

Upon my arrival in Las Vegas, I stepped into my suite, such as it is, and got ready for bed. Note this: all things in Las Vegas are designed to make you think you are better than you really are. The mirrors are included in this ruse. Usually, I can look in a Las Vegas mirror and think, “I am quite a specimen.” Last night, however, the mirror failed. I spent five minutes looking at myself from different angles. The only one that didn’t disgust me was when I was turned away from the mirror, and thus, was unable to see myself. When a Vegas mirror doesn’t make me love myself, I know I have crossed the threshold from merely undesirable to lard ass.

I mentioned my weight gain to my ever-slimming wife a few days ago.

“Maybe you just reached that age,” she said, somewhat proudly. She’s been waiting for my weight to catch up with me for years. She doesn’t understand how I can eat the things I do and maintain a reasonable weight. “I hit mine when I was 25.”

Elvis got fat in Las Vegas, so it’s not entirely unreasonable to think my time in this foul city has finally caught up with me. Elvis, however, was all messed up on pharmies during his latter years. Apart from the occasional contact high of sitting in media row, I am able to avoid drugs, so I can’t blame it on that.

No, I am just fat for no particular reason. I eat relatively well and don’t drink a fraction of what I did in my slimmer days. It is, without question, a frightening prospect. What? Yes, the idea of exercise and planned eating scares the hell out of me.

This year, I’m staying at the Palms instead of the Rio. That means I either have to walk 15 minutes in 100 degree heat carrying 30 pounds of gear, or I can take a cab. This morning, I chose the walk. By the time I reached media row, I was a sweaty mess, but felt better about myself. So far, I’ve only eaten six California rolls and a power bar. We’ll see how long this lasts.

In the meantime, I’m going to ask if I can try out one of my buddies’ mirrors to see if my reflection looks any better there. Otherwise, I’m going to have to ask for a room change. My self-worth is already at dangerous levels, so a nightly reminder of what a fat ass I am is not what the doctor ordered.

Brad Willis

Brad Willis is a writer based in Greenville, South Carolina. Willis spent a decade as an award-winning broadcast journalist. He has worked as a freelance writer, columnist, and professional blogger since 2005. He has also served as a commentator and guest on a wide variety of television, radio, and internet shows.

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4 Responses

  1. Da Goddess says:

    Definitely try out another mirror.

    Had I been thinking about this and not wrapped up in my sick little blues calendar world, I’d have made sure you had some passes to see a special show that would have cheered you up considerably. Hmm…maybe I could still pull this off. How long you there for?

  2. KenP says:

    Don’t worry about it. It is only a problem for a few years. Then, your taste buds will join the failing crowd and pigging out won’t appeal as much.

    So don’t worry about it. Its long been obvious she didn’t pick you for the abs and pecs.

  3. StB says:

    Ahh…its the mirror that gives me the beer gut, not the beer.

  4. BuckeyeTimmy says:

    300 cans of soup, fatass.

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