She’s pregnant and I’m getting fat
What the fuck! Why am I getting huge. My gut is piling on the pounds that you know are gunna take a bad few months to get off. What gives?
I know exactly what gives. I have no fucking will power and a wife who with a demand I prepare her roast baby seal would have me booking a flight to Greenland and carving a new club before you could say ‘greenpeace’. When she eats, I eat, when she wants something, I go get it, and when she eats, I eat more. The sugar is rolling over my jeans. There is a growing muffin top that makes me want to vomit. Plus I am a hairy fucker so it isn’t pretty.
I have to stop eating. I stopped drinking – as in drinking for fun – I have the occasional glass of wine – it’s no longer a sport for me. But the benefits of losing all those empty calories, and all those memories, has been eaten up by my eating.
It’s comfortable, it’s companionable to sit and pick at junk food, sugar etc with the other half, but it isn’t doing me much good. I now feel heavier, slower and in need of a shower. I have to get to the gym twice a week to start working this flab off. The idea of a ‘Dad Bod’ fills me with the revulsion I had previously reserved for people who use the word ‘like’ as punctuation.
As we get closer to the big day and I start to fill the freezer with food to sustain us through what most people are dubbing ‘Hell week’ I have to move away from the fats, the processed food and endless satisfying and comforting carbs towards salads, veggies and lean lean meat. Plus no ice cream. And in a very manchild way that makes me sad. I like ice cream, it reminds me of good things.
I’m gunna miss it.
Sorry time for lunch