First Person:
By Al Carlos Hernandez
There is one thing that we, as Americans, have in common: irrespective of race, gender or political affiliation, we all gain weight during the holidays.
Ever since mid-November my pants have started becoming a little too snug. The Sunday suits shrank and I could barely lace up the Stacy Adams so I went to the “Plan B” loafers. But that is not the point. There is no denying it, I got fatter during the holidays.
I have never had a weight problem, always thin, usually anxious, inattentive to the luxury of food, and just was not the “big boned” body type. (That being said, some obese people say they are “big boned” so this begs the question: biologically, why do you need such big bones back there?)
But I have grown this little pot belly thing, almost like a lard-filled-skin-covered fanny pack, just above the waistline. It’s almost like smuggling a pack of marshmallows under my biker t-shirt. What I have, according to I-don’t-know-what-you-call-them pork-zoologists, is considered ‘vanity pounds.’ VP is not only a useless political appendage. It is extra and unwanted weight that somehow detracts from ones visceral or atheistic cuteness. Given my apparent pot pansa, I have three options with which to allievate it:
1. Watch what I eat. During post tamale, chocolate candy and home-made cookie season, this is not going to happen.
2. Work out by doing brisk five mile walks in the cold – which makes me even hungrier when I come back.
3. Forget about it hoping it will go away sometime in February – or perhaps worrying fat away during a career crisis, my rote tradition.
Some Latinos believe that being overweight is a sign of good health. These people are called “gorditos.” Research shows that men suffer from this the most. During middle age often times you can’t see below your bony knees – this is why our shoes seldom match our outfit.
Different people handle the battle of the bulge differently. My wife’s gay friends used to stroll into her shop and announce, quite sincerely, to other males stylists, “Girl, they are having a sale at Pretty and Plump and the cashiers on commission were asking for you by name, honey.”
Women deal with weight gain differently than men. Before they eat something delightfully high in calories, women say things like, “I really shouldn’t!” then hate themselves when they get home. Guys like me, on the other hand, could care less and buy bigger clothes.
In all fairness there are men who work out, watch their diets and keep a very trim six pack waistline. These men are called “single.” Married men who pick up a single man’s body image and workout regime are often hoping to become “single.”
I have only two responses when asked by someone if I think he/she is gaining weight. If a woman asks, the answer is always, “No,” no matter what. If asked by a man, I am forced to call him a dork. Unless he is gay and then I say, “Yes.” Then they accuse me of being a breeder.
My brother-in-law’s revelation about his change in girth came as quite a surprise to him. It seems he was at a fancy resort hotel and had just jumped out of the shower in one of those huge marble glass and mirrored bathroom spas. As he was drying himself, he caught a glimpse of a huge white buffalo-like posterior and it scared him big time. He rolled up a towel and was ready to attack the beast with it – a time tested high school prank whip-snap technique. He stalked the bathroom like a crazed Indiana Jones – only to discover that the beast was a true reflection of his ample seating capacity.
Smile and turn red if this has ever happened to you.
My belt seems to be a chronological and linear yardstick – sometimes back two or three notches, sometimes one notch from the end. There seems to be a direct correlation between my emotional well being and belly weight. One holiday season I loaned my belt to one of my sons and lost my identity. I started all over with a new larger belt and felt good about myself again.
Looking back on my rail-thin, big-haired days, I realized that the reason I never put on extra weight was because I was a type A personality: an ambitious and anxious worrier who would burn off more calories than I took in, fretting about things that would never happen, and obsessing about “making it.” Stay lean and mean if you want to get the green.
In middle age I have discovered that making it isn’t anything, and not making it isn’t anything. It’s all about having a good ride along the way.
“There is not one blade of grass; there is no color in this world that is not intended to make us rejoice.” — John Calvin