Tonnage

First of all, are there two "n"s in tonnage? I'd have thought so, but it looks weird on the screen. We'll go with two. You're sure to correct me.

Second, a friend - someone I think of as extremely attractive - really surprised me yesterday by telling me that he is committed to a 30-day Weight Watchers program. In my head he is proportioned just perfectly --- neither thin nor chubby, with highly apparent muscles in all the right places. He claims his calves are camouflaging his middle.

Then I recalled that last week, a young buddy - someone I do not think of as extremely attractive, but as extremely hot - hugged me then pulled back and sheepishly said, "I know, I should lose ten pounds. Maybe twenty". The child is nuts.

So, last night I slept pretty well, except that I kept dreaming I was in rehearsals for some show, and people kept coming up to me and saying "You've let yourself go. You should lose some weight". Mind you, there were several pots accusing the kettle. But, post arising, I took a long, fully unclothed look in the huge mirror in my bedroom (I demand a bedroom with a huge mirror) and noted what my clothes have been telling me for months. I've let myself go! My middle is getting soft. My tone has gone atonal (and not in that interesting if slightly annoying Phillip Glass way). A rear that was once the envy of the Upper Westside has drifted decidedly South. And I think...

I don't care much!

Two years ago I looked like a refugee from some third world country that specialized in emaciated gay blondes. A doctor actually diagnosed me with malnutrition, an absolute sin in the country that orchestrates the world's food flow. A year ago, after some work, I had gained a bit of mass and managed to get marvelous little cuts between my pecs and around my torso. Yes, I was hot. I'd have asked me on a date if I hadn't thought I'd turn me down. And wow, was I miserable.

In a shift that happened very slowly over about six months, I became happy. Not blissful. Not giddy with the prospects of my day. Just happy. Glad to wake up in the morning. Excited about things like music and origami and children... and food. I started cooking for friends then, a little by a little, cooking for me. I've been living for two years on yellow rice and red beans (which I love) but last night I added steak and yams and potatoes. And, at the end, I had one of my roomie's homebaked chocolate chunk cookies.

And it shows. And I am happy. Thank you god. And if the weight is the by-product, the AMA's "possible side effects" warning on my label, or my "Ah well, my days of ultimate cuteness have passed. More fudge, please" moment… I am okay with that.

More fudge, please.