How I Single-Handedly Saved a Girl from Future Fat

We were at Gerry’s house last week sometime (you remember Gerry? Johnny’s old sesiun friend and chicken wrangler?). Johnny had been painting there, and when I’d gone to pick him up, Gerry offered me a beer. Three hours later we were still sitting on his back porch, sweating and stinking in the heat and feeling not one whit shy about it either. Old friends are good that way, what?

It came on time to feed the children and Gerry started preparing turkey burgers, but his daughter, who is something like eight years old (she’ll be in fourth grade next year, however old that is) asked if she could please, please, please have angel hair, and Gerry, being a good daddy, gave right in to her smile. I thought about telling her to remember that trick eight years from now, when she wants to get away with funner things, but then remembered the oath I took to use my powers of persuasion for good and not for evil. Damn.

Gerry went inside to put the water on and Daughter sat down next to me. “I love pasta,” she said. “It’s practically all I eat. My mom says I should eat other things, but it’s just so good.”

“Yeah, you’re just like me,” I said. “I bet you like crackers, too, huh?”

“Mmnmm.”

“And bread.”

“Yum, bread...”

“And cereal?”

“Ooh, I love cereal!”

“Yep, that’s just like me. But your mom is right. You really need to learn to love your vegetables, or else you’re going to end up with thighs like mine.”

She gasped. Gasped!

God bless her, she immediately tried to take it back. “No,” she said, “I mean, they’re not that big...”

“It’s okay, sweetie.” I laughed to show her I was not offended – and I wasn’t. Hell, I know how thundery my thighs are, and if I were shy about it I would not have brought it up. “You’re trying to be nice," I said, "but I know. That’s why I said it. I wish somebody had done the same for me when I was your age!”

At that moment, her little brother stood and hiked the legs of his shorts up to his underpants. “I like my vegetables!” he announced, waggling his skinny, seven-year-old thighs.

“That’s great, boyo!” I told him. “I guess you’re not in any danger!”

And then their older brother – who was playing guitar with Johnny and who I didn’t even realize was listening to our conversation – raised his head and got this faraway look on his face. He’s ten years old, and he’s a thinker. Quiet, smart, and handsome! Hoo, between all of that and the guitar to boot, he is going to be a danger in a couple years. Especially if he perfects his sister’s “please, please please.”

Anyway, he brushed his soft, brown hair out of his eyes (I’m telling you, future ladies, keep your radar out for this one) and took a breath to speak.

“Do you have to learn to love your vegetables?” he asked. “Or do you just have to learn to eat them?”

I wanted to laugh but something told me if I did then I might spook him. “Nah,” I said. “Just eat them. Maybe later you can learn to love.”

“Oh,” he said. “Phew.” And went back to his guitar.

So maybe I single-handedly saved three children that day. Although, come to think of it, if you met their parents… I don’t know what size their mom wears (and if I did I wouldn’t tell you here) but she’s smaller than Gerry, and Gerry happened to mention the other day that he still wears the size he wore when he and Johnny used to sesiun: A 28” waist, he says he has. Which is, I’m sorry for the visual, exactly the circumference of one of my famous thighs. Seriously. I just measured. Yum.

So, yeah. I don’t know how much danger those kids were ever actually in.



We’re supposed to go to the beach with the family on Wednesday. I’ve decided to lose twenty pounds by then, or else go swimming in my Osh Kosh B’Gosh.

Wish me luck!