It's a simple meal. Two eggs, four strips of bacon, wonderfully greasy hash browns, a biscuit, a side of gravy for said biscuit, five coffee refills, and as many pint-glass mimosas as the good and responsible barkeeps at Dixon's Downtown Grill will allow me to order. I could probably spend every Sunday for the rest of my life repeating this scene. Nothing beats a blurry Sunday afternoon bender. Nothing.
But walking down the back steps at the office the other day, I noticed something peculiar. I could feel parts of back that weren't there a scant twelve months ago. I stopped. A few more steps and I could feel my stomach doing the same dance. By the bottom step I realized my metabolism has finally caught up with me: I have manboobs. I started singing my own version of that 2 In A Room rap classic, “Jiggle it, just a little bit.” Then I smoked a cigarette.
It can't go on like this. Something has to give. I'm getting married in May and under no circumstances am I going to be the fat guy in my wedding photos. Right now I can pinch a good ten inches of solid fat on my spare tire, and I have resolved to get rid of it by the end of April. By any means necessary.
So, for the next fifteen weeks I'm going to human guinea pig every health craze I can find in this city and find out where the spare tire hits the road. I'm up for suggestions, challenges, recriminations of my (former) sloth. Bring it on Denver. -- FTBT