If I could go back in time to when I was 20 (in the ’90s) and show myself this middle-aged conversation about weight loss between myself and a friend- I’m sure I would have raised one extremely underweight leg up on the bumper of my 1980 Toyota Corolla hatchback, adjusted the flaps and folds of my enormous phat pants, tipped my candy-striped stocking hat forward, leaned in and said, “You mean to tell me that one day I’m going to be all fat like you? That’s not rad. That’s not rad at all. And I’ll be talking to my friends about my gut 24-7, 365?”
I’ll get in my car, slowly hand-crank the window down, lean my head out with a serious, disapproving expression and say, “Imma bounce. You better get the fuck out of Dodge by the time I get back, or I’ll bum-rush you. I’ll bum-rush you so hard.”
When I return back to my time I’ll stare silently out the window. Reflecting on how exciting my life used to be before I resigned myself to a routine of work/kids/sleep until I die. I’ll look at my apple watch- an amazing piece of technology that I only use to remind myself of meetings- wondering if I’m late for another huddle call, when I’ll see it.
Around my wrist, a tribal tattoo. But there’s something different about it. Closer inspection shows that each shape is actually an abstract letter, coming together to spell out the words, “Please don’t get fat.”