THIS IS AN ARTICLE
ABOUT FAT PEOPLE AND HOW BAD THEY LOOK TO THOSE OF US WITH PERFECT
by Gene Royer
September 10, 2003
height is around 6 feet, 1 inch; and ever since I was a young
man, I have weighed 193 pounds, which is a *perfect* weight
for me--give or take a pound or two from time to time. At
present, I weigh 192 and 1/2 on my bathroom scales wearing
nothing but bi-focals and body fuzz. At age 67, I AM®
a muscle-and-sinewy monument to God's *perfect* creative genius.
As is *perfectly* normal with humans, I have always had a
tendency to gain fat easily. Early in life I became aware
that if I ate more food than my body needed for *perfect*
maintenance and operation, a portion of the excess would get
stored in various inactive places beneath my skin. Apparently
that is a well-kept secret in today's world, eh? Either that,
or some have failed to read the subcutaneous warning labels
on their fat guts and jiggling butts.
But I tangentize...
Getting back to my point: This morning I joined the newly
opened YMCA just a mile or so from my house because they have
a marvelous facility with state-of-the-art physical conditioning
equipment and a very comprehensive array of fixed-weight barbells
and dumbbells--not to mention an expansive basketball gym
and half-size Olympic pool to go with their large aerobic
room. I wanted an inexpensive and convenient place to work
out and maintain my *perfect* physique.
My granddaughter told me I would love the place.
Of course, when I got there I expected to see young, tanned,
men and women moving around the building, serving as walking
advertisements for health and fitness. I could not have been
more in error because with only one exception, everyone was
fat. Actually, calling some of the fat ones "fat"
is letting them off lightly--no pun intended. The majority
There were six women working at the enrollment desk, and
not one had an ass you could fit in an airplane seat. The
manager had to use the entrance turnstile sideways, and another
had to step over it.
Of the five young men who posed as conditioning instructors,
only one looked as though he had ever burned a calorie in
his life. The other four still had each and every one of them
visibly hanging around their waists and crammed into the seat
of their pants.
Here's the first rub as I see it: This is a physical conditioning
establishment; and every expensive piece of equipment adorning
the well-lighted and mirrored rooms has "no-pain-no-gain"
etched somewhere in the trunk of its mechanical family tree.
Yet this instructional corps walks among the machines and
racks of weights as if there is no vocational connection.
Somewhere above I mentioned one exception to the herd of
porkers being passed off as logical fixtures in the facility.
This was a very shapely young woman with long legs and blond
hair. She was the aerobics instructor. She was also my granddaughter.
I told her what a nice place it was. "Thanks Granddad,"
she said. "And, my, don't you look *perfect* today?"
I demurred at her rhetorical compliment. If people weren't
watching, I would have pinched her butt.
But here's the final rub: After I signed up, one of the really
fat women sat me down in a conference room and gave me parent-to-child
instructions about diet and exercise. She told me that even
though I appeared to have the *perfect* physique for a man
my age, according to the wall chart, for my height I needed
to lose 75 pounds.
I gave her the obligatory hang-dog look and pretended not
to notice her chubby hand and the flabby stuff hanging below
her elbow as she checked off the right foods for me to eat.
I even pretended not to notice that when she got up to leave,
her armchair got up with her.
©Gene Royer Houston TX 2003
2003 Tocqevillian Magazine