My Six Pack Belly, Resoluteness, And The Bond New Year...

Double O Seven...

Cool huh? The Bond New Year... Complete with hybrid sports cars and wild, Brazilian-waxed women. (What’s up with THAT anyway? You make a law saying it is illegal for a man to have sex with an under aged girl and then you spend a hundred bucks making yourself LOOK under aged?)

Hmmm.

Maybe I am just getting old and fat and therefore out of touch and a tad old-fashioned? Maybe middle age is what they say it is, a resting place between your youth and your infirmity? Maybe I have arrived at the juncture where new trends start to appear like silly aberrations that we’ll all get over soon like we got over dressing like Madonna and moon walking like Michael?

Maybe reaching the middle is an unintended consequence of counting years at every silly years end?

Well, OK, so I just made that last up without thinking that thought through.. (I am in the making up stuff about middle age mode, at the moment, and it is all so new and foreign to me you’ll have to forgive me as I grope around for things to think and feel about it.)

My birthday is a month and a week after the New Year starts. I turn 44 years old. That’s half of 88, which is where I expect to make my departure if all goes according to plan. That means I am half way to the end and it also means that I am half way into this thing, making it the mid-point which is one of those soft in the middle words, making me ripe for a bit of a “mid-life” crises.

I was thinking today of the coming year and my expectations for it, what I wanted out of the year, what my plans were... you know... end of the year/beginning of the new year stuff...

It all boiled down to one question. What was it that I was most unhappy about? What would I like to alter in my reality the most?

There she is. In all her bare hairy voluptuousness.
In all her gory pregnant nakedness. Like a blimp at a Super Bowl. A washed up Blue whale. A bloated beer belly...

Yeah. Just like that. A bloated beer belly. I have six-pack abs (where the cans have all been punctured and the beer has spilled into the plastic bag.)

Dunlop's disease. (Where the belly has Dun lopped over the belt...)

A gut A pouch. A BELLY. My very first one.

It took me awhile, but I grew it myself.

I remember about twelve years ago my brother (Married with two great kids) threw out his back and I went by to see him and he was laying on his floor in the TV room and his then six year old daughter was trying to get him to play. I laid down on the floor too and was just chatting as his daughter tried to jump atop his belly like she had always done before he hurt his back. His wife said--”Go over and jump on Scott’s belly. Your daddy has hurt his back.”

His daughter came over to me and looked down and got all concerned and confused. She turned to her Mom-- “But Scott doesn’t have a belly!”

And that is the way I always preferred it. No chubby tummy. No Toad back. No waist size bigger than my inseam on a pair of jeans.

So there you go.

My new Year’s Resolution. Drop 20 pounds by my birthday and get back to a 36 inch waist. And finish my novel.

Nothing earth shattering. Just that. And I figured if I made it a public declaration I would follow through like I did with Nanowrimo, which taught me I still had some tenacity within me if I put my mind on right.

Ergo the disgusting beer belly photo. The only way to live this down is to actually accomplish what I set out to do. Otherwise, I am the nutjobber who posted his big gut on the internet. (Reverse psychology played against my self, like reverse psychology in reverse...)

BTW--I designed those skivvies myself...