205. Remember that number.
Frankly, I have a difficult time thinking of new topics to blog about. I must admit, I came to this blogging business somewhat reluctantly, which is to say that’s it mostly my wife Regina’s idea. She thought I needed some kind of creative outlet in my life. Apparently, making abstract yellow patterns in freshly fallen snow isn’t creative enough.
My problem is that I’m not sure I’m a big fan of blogging in the first place. I guess it’s ok the way my wife and a lot of other people do it. She generally blogs about our lives with our horses and that gives her a regular stream of material. We go on a ride: she blogs about it. Something semi-interesting happens in the barn, so on and so forth. A chicken lays a big-assed egg, you get to see it.
Other people blog about specific topics like politics. The problem there is that it’s enough to make you move to North Korea where the only political discussion is about the guy with bad hair. These days, a talking head on CNN introduces a supposedly hot topic and two hacks from the Dems and GOP put their spin on it. It’s all banal and utterly predictable.
Other bloggers salivate over entertainers or anyone else with a thin body and good looks whose IQ is lower than their weight. There’s nothing wrong with that, but I honestly don’t know who most of these people are. If I pick up a People magazine, all I think is “Who is that person and do I really care if he or she incinerates in a flaming orange ball of fire?”
That leaves me to blog about my life and I have a problem with that. It’s like “Dear Diary” for the masses. In fact, most blogging seems like a lot of navel gazing by people seeking attention in an attention span shortened world. But I must blog on, or so my wife says. But, about what?
Well, it turns out that most of the people who have read my blog are horse riding women who also follow my wife’s blog. Maybe she pointed a figurative gun at them to make them do it. So, I have asked myself “What is the most important thing women think about?” More precisely, what number has the most significance in women’s lives? The birth dates of their children? Their wedding anniversary? How much money they earn per hour? P-l-e-a-s-e.
Face it, the most important number in a woman’s life is followed by the notation “lbs.” In other words, just how much dead weight does her horse have to carry? How many jeans has she actually wore out and just how deep has her navel grown? An inch? Two inches? More? Is that where that missing sock went?
That’s where the number 205 comes in. That my fellow fat Americans is how many units of cellulite my horse (who has a big ass herself) has to lug around these days. I used to be able to see my ribs clearly. Now I’m a symbol of what happens when you’ve eaten too many ribs. Considering that I’m a little over 5’11” and, at 54 years of age, not getting any taller, it’s a pathetic measurement. But, it’s good way to start a story line on a blog, especially if you a dull, uninspired boy like me who can’t think of anything else to write about.
It is a number that I hereby commit myself to reducing. There is absolutely no reason anyone other than my wife or maybe my horse should care if I lose weight or instead get big enough for someone from the USDA to put a stamp on my side, but I’ve got nothing to lose by going public, except maybe a few pounds. And some dignity.
Each week, I propose to post my new weight as taken Monday mornings. Anyone with a sick sense of humor, sense of self-righteousness or, better yet, a taste for sadism, can follow along. If you’re naturally thin and can eat whatever you want, go screw yourself. You have no idea how many people actually hate you. But, if you’re like the rest of us who like to share our misery with company, then maybe you’ll want to read my version of “America’s Biggest Loser.”
If you want to bet against me, fine. It won’t be strictly a blog on my diet, but at least I’ll have a starting point each week, publicly stating how big I am. Think of it as a cheap literary device. At least my horse and her chiropractor will be cheering me on, although just between you and me, I’ll think she’ll be covering her bets and laying odds the other way. Barn animals can be vicious that way. Except for pigs, of course.
1 year ago