| Happy
With What You Have |
| My 4-year-old grandson climbed on my lap, patted my stomach
and declared to the gathering crowd: "Bumpa, you've got
a fat tummy." |
| His mother, my youngest daughter, scolded him slightly,
but I patted my tummy and said something like, "Yep,
I've worked on this for years." |
| And I have. |
| In last weekend's Washington Post, a story glorified (OK,
it didn't actually glorify, but it sure made some cool excuses
for) the beer belly. |
| The big gut. |
| The pregnant hippopotamus. |
| The watermelon. |
| The lazy man's abs. |
| The depository of all things good and delicious. |
| The story gave me some hope of finding other men in this
world who would rather work on things enjoyable than exercising,
dieting, denying, and otherwise trying to keep a 20-year-old-looking
body. |
| I just can't do it any more. |
| Not that my doctor would agree with me. There's a danger
in knowing your doctor too long, as I have. My "prime
doc," as I like to call him, is always encouraging me
to get rid of those excess pounds. |
| I've tried. Honest, doc, I've really tried! |
| The major problem is, my prime doc is skinny, with a tan.
With good looking shoes. He actually likes to hike and do
things that would make you healthy. |
| But here I sit, with my hippopotamus, wishing I had the
secret to looking slim and 20. |
| But I've finally realized that I'm not 20 any more, although
it's taken me some 40 years to realize that. My dad, who had
a nice (I mean, really nice) beer belly, never let it bother
him. |
| The amazing thing is, my dad never drank beer, or anything
stronger than iced coffee with cream. He just got older. |
| It must be genetic: My father got older, and, by golly,
so am I. It's a family trait. Get older. Get a nice round
tummy, and let your grandson pat it and embarrass your daughter. |
| I've put much thought, much money, and much food and beer
into this part of my body that challenges most belts, pant
waists and the best talents of seamstresses. I'm slowly becoming
proud of it. |
| Oh, come on now! I know about the health risks and being
fashion-challenged and of having a shelf where corn and peas
and pasta can find a final resting place. I know my belts
have home-made holes and my braces (sorry, my suspenders)
have a natural home from which to do their duty. I know that
a nice, round tummy won't win me a prize at the "USA
National Flat Tummy Competition." |
| But I also know that you can't beat getting older. I think
I'm learning to slowly enjoy it. I could, as Bill Regardie
did, have a doctor suck out the excess fat from the old hippopotamus,
but I have a thing about someone sticking a vacuum cleaner
into me. Or for that matter, having someone inject me with
venomous biotoxic chemicals. |
| Take women, for instance (ah, I think I won't comment here
just yet). Women collect all those years of bagels and beer
and shrimp and pasta in their hips and their thighs (and other
places--like where they sit down). |
| Think about that for a moment: A belly from beer or hips
from pasta. |
| Pasta may be healthier, but beer is a whole lot more fun.
Believe me--I've had the experience. |
| And that's Our Town this week. |
