[Story] Making Things Even
I absent-mindedly scratched my gut as I opened the freezer. Bowl of ice cream prepared, I plopped onto the couch and fumbled for the remote. Before I turned on the TV, however, I noticed the photo on the side table. There we were, me and my army buds, so fit and muscular. I was so thin back then. I looked down at my belly, which hung out into my lap. My pecs stuck out through my shirt. I mean, they kind of did that before when they were muscular, but now they were way bigger, and they jiggled. Manboobs, how could I let that happen? How could I let any of this happen? Distracted from TV, I walked into the bathroom and set my ice cream down on the counter. I stared in the mirror. Who was this guy? My face looked pumped full of jelly. When I grimaced at my analogy, my chin doubled, visible even under my close-cropped beard. Honestly, part of me still expects to see my old, thin face when I look in the mirror, but every time I'm met with that round, dimpled visage. I lifted up my shirt and watched my belly spilled out. I slapped it and let my hand sink into the soft fat that had accumulated on my body. There were abs down there, somewhere. I turned and looked at my ass, packed tightly into my jeans. Every bit of me was doughy. Was this really me? Had I become someone else?
I picked up my ice cream and watched myself eat. My belly was still visible from under my half-pulled-up shirt. As I moved my doughy arms to my mouth, my belly quivered. I wasn’t sure whether to be horrified, amused, or indifferent. I stared at my overhang as it jiggled and bounced each time I shoveled ice cream into my mouth. I should be disgusted with myself, fucking fat ass—but I couldn’t honestly say I was disgusted. Some people probably were, considering how they look at me, but that was the minority. My parents keep telling me I need to lose weight, usually by sending me diet tips via email. Going up and down stairs is getting to be a chore. I haven’t gone on a date since I got fat. I avoid the closest branch of my bank so I don’t risk seeing my ex, who might still be a teller there. My clothes never fit right, and I’m constantly buying bigger sizes, or so it seems. I used to be a medium, and now I can’t even squeeze into XXLs. Fuck, I used to weigh 180 pounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was over 250 pounds by now.
But one thought kept coming back to my mind: this ice cream was fucking delicious.
I finished my ice cream and thought, you know, I should buy a scale. The image of me standing on the scale, trying to see the readout beyond my bulging middle. I stared at the TV, trying to think of something to watch, but all I could see was me standing on a scale, the numbers going up and up.
I went into my bedroom and put on a short sleeve buttoned shirt. Once I got it buttoned, however, I knew it was too tight. The buttons strained against my soft bulk. I looked ridiculous, like a bound up sausage. I unbuttoned the shirt, and though my t-shirt only barely covered my belly, I was at least decent for public. I turned and looked at my profile in the mirror. My tight blue t-shirt looked like it had exploded out of my buttoned shirt, which was draped snugly around my love handles. I sucked in my belly for a moment and imagined what had once been. I let it out and it jiggled into place.
Once in the store, I approached an employee. He was a young, skinny guy with a patchy beard and a sharp nose.
“Hi, where can I find the scales?”
He glanced at my belly so quickly I almost missed it.
“Right this way, sir.”
As we walked, I again caught him sneak a glimpse of my bouncing gut. When we arrived in front of the scales, I asked, “Do you know anything about scales?”
“Haven’t ever really needed one,” he said frankly.
“Neither did I, but that was in the army.”
“Oh, how long ago were you in the army?”
“Two years next month.”
“Ah.” He was clearly incredulous.
“It’s been a good two years.” I rubbed my belly and laughed, hoping to put him at ease. “Give yourself a few years and you’ll know what I mean.”
He laughed along nervously. I imagined him in a few years, narrow cheeks plumped, flat ass inflated outwards, and hour glass waistline expanded into a soft gut that protruded through his uniform. In my mind he was wearing the same size, just with his newly acquired body bursting from every seam.
I returned my mind to reality, and picked up a scale that looked sturdy. “This should do, thank you for your help.”
“Have a good day, sir.”
Soon I was home and it was sitting there, waiting. I placed some of my weight on it to make sure it was working. It was. Now that I it was time, I felt an emptiness in my stomach (unexpected considering how much I had eaten today). Perhaps I should wait until I’ve dieted for a while. It’s something I’ve thought about many times. In fact, when I first started getting chubby, I did go on a diet. But after a few months, I had to admit I was cheating more often than not. And when I moved up a pants size, I said screw the diet. God, I went from 36s to 38s back then. Those sizes seem so small now.
It was convenient honestly telling someone I don’t know my weight, but just like dreams of dieting, ignorance of my weight won’t make me less of a tub of lard. If I was to be honest, those things actually made me fatter. Thinking I’ll diet tomorrow has been a frequent excuse for eating today. And why would I have worried about going past 200 pounds when I never weighed myself anyway?
But it was time to change that. I stepped on the scale. I looked down and saw...my gut. I leaned forward. A little further—I stepped off the scale entirely and there it was: 313 pounds.
Well, fuck. I gained over 140 pounds in two years. I know people who complained about gaining 10 pounds. What was wrong with me? Was I a food addict? Was that even a thing? Was a bad person for letting this happen to myself? Some army friends wanted to fly me out to Chicago, and I can only guess what they would think if they saw how fat I had grown. They probably wouldn’t even recognize me.
My stomach rumbled. Whatever was wrong with me, it wasn’t going away. I tossed some leftovers into the microwave. As the timer counted down, I looked down and gave my belly a shake. What was I gunna do, stop eating? If I had to pick between starved and thin, and satisfied and fat—even if I could instantly become thin, would I choose to change? I’d just try to eat less again, fail again, and get fat again. If I could reset to the moment I left the army, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t eat just as much.
I brought my plate to the table and began eating. Maybe this was inevitable. The more I thought about it, the more I knew thin and starving just wasn’t an option for me. Some people could do that—maybe they had better metabolisms and self control. But that wasn’t me—working out for hours on end in the army was hell. Should I lie to myself? Should I pretend to be someone else? My metabolism was slow, I got grumpy when I was hungry, and I couldn’t say no to a good meal.
Instinctively, I opened the freezer, and before I realized what I was doing, I had placed the tub of ice cream on the counter. At first, I moved back toward the fridge. But after a short pause, I grabbed a bowl and began scooping, my body wobbling with every motion. I had put on over 140 pounds. Might as well make it an even 150.
I picked up my ice cream and watched myself eat. My belly was still visible from under my half-pulled-up shirt. As I moved my doughy arms to my mouth, my belly quivered. I wasn’t sure whether to be horrified, amused, or indifferent. I stared at my overhang as it jiggled and bounced each time I shoveled ice cream into my mouth. I should be disgusted with myself, fucking fat ass—but I couldn’t honestly say I was disgusted. Some people probably were, considering how they look at me, but that was the minority. My parents keep telling me I need to lose weight, usually by sending me diet tips via email. Going up and down stairs is getting to be a chore. I haven’t gone on a date since I got fat. I avoid the closest branch of my bank so I don’t risk seeing my ex, who might still be a teller there. My clothes never fit right, and I’m constantly buying bigger sizes, or so it seems. I used to be a medium, and now I can’t even squeeze into XXLs. Fuck, I used to weigh 180 pounds. I wouldn’t be surprised if I was over 250 pounds by now.
But one thought kept coming back to my mind: this ice cream was fucking delicious.
I finished my ice cream and thought, you know, I should buy a scale. The image of me standing on the scale, trying to see the readout beyond my bulging middle. I stared at the TV, trying to think of something to watch, but all I could see was me standing on a scale, the numbers going up and up.
I went into my bedroom and put on a short sleeve buttoned shirt. Once I got it buttoned, however, I knew it was too tight. The buttons strained against my soft bulk. I looked ridiculous, like a bound up sausage. I unbuttoned the shirt, and though my t-shirt only barely covered my belly, I was at least decent for public. I turned and looked at my profile in the mirror. My tight blue t-shirt looked like it had exploded out of my buttoned shirt, which was draped snugly around my love handles. I sucked in my belly for a moment and imagined what had once been. I let it out and it jiggled into place.
Once in the store, I approached an employee. He was a young, skinny guy with a patchy beard and a sharp nose.
“Hi, where can I find the scales?”
He glanced at my belly so quickly I almost missed it.
“Right this way, sir.”
As we walked, I again caught him sneak a glimpse of my bouncing gut. When we arrived in front of the scales, I asked, “Do you know anything about scales?”
“Haven’t ever really needed one,” he said frankly.
“Neither did I, but that was in the army.”
“Oh, how long ago were you in the army?”
“Two years next month.”
“Ah.” He was clearly incredulous.
“It’s been a good two years.” I rubbed my belly and laughed, hoping to put him at ease. “Give yourself a few years and you’ll know what I mean.”
He laughed along nervously. I imagined him in a few years, narrow cheeks plumped, flat ass inflated outwards, and hour glass waistline expanded into a soft gut that protruded through his uniform. In my mind he was wearing the same size, just with his newly acquired body bursting from every seam.
I returned my mind to reality, and picked up a scale that looked sturdy. “This should do, thank you for your help.”
“Have a good day, sir.”
Soon I was home and it was sitting there, waiting. I placed some of my weight on it to make sure it was working. It was. Now that I it was time, I felt an emptiness in my stomach (unexpected considering how much I had eaten today). Perhaps I should wait until I’ve dieted for a while. It’s something I’ve thought about many times. In fact, when I first started getting chubby, I did go on a diet. But after a few months, I had to admit I was cheating more often than not. And when I moved up a pants size, I said screw the diet. God, I went from 36s to 38s back then. Those sizes seem so small now.
It was convenient honestly telling someone I don’t know my weight, but just like dreams of dieting, ignorance of my weight won’t make me less of a tub of lard. If I was to be honest, those things actually made me fatter. Thinking I’ll diet tomorrow has been a frequent excuse for eating today. And why would I have worried about going past 200 pounds when I never weighed myself anyway?
But it was time to change that. I stepped on the scale. I looked down and saw...my gut. I leaned forward. A little further—I stepped off the scale entirely and there it was: 313 pounds.
Well, fuck. I gained over 140 pounds in two years. I know people who complained about gaining 10 pounds. What was wrong with me? Was I a food addict? Was that even a thing? Was a bad person for letting this happen to myself? Some army friends wanted to fly me out to Chicago, and I can only guess what they would think if they saw how fat I had grown. They probably wouldn’t even recognize me.
My stomach rumbled. Whatever was wrong with me, it wasn’t going away. I tossed some leftovers into the microwave. As the timer counted down, I looked down and gave my belly a shake. What was I gunna do, stop eating? If I had to pick between starved and thin, and satisfied and fat—even if I could instantly become thin, would I choose to change? I’d just try to eat less again, fail again, and get fat again. If I could reset to the moment I left the army, I’d be lying if I said I wouldn’t eat just as much.
I brought my plate to the table and began eating. Maybe this was inevitable. The more I thought about it, the more I knew thin and starving just wasn’t an option for me. Some people could do that—maybe they had better metabolisms and self control. But that wasn’t me—working out for hours on end in the army was hell. Should I lie to myself? Should I pretend to be someone else? My metabolism was slow, I got grumpy when I was hungry, and I couldn’t say no to a good meal.
Instinctively, I opened the freezer, and before I realized what I was doing, I had placed the tub of ice cream on the counter. At first, I moved back toward the fridge. But after a short pause, I grabbed a bowl and began scooping, my body wobbling with every motion. I had put on over 140 pounds. Might as well make it an even 150.
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