One of the least nifty things about quitting smoking is that you find you have this insatiable appetite for anything and everything just about all the time. It is as if your whole life is filled up suddenly with awkward silences. You're on a first date with the rest of your life and your just not sure what to say that isn't going to embarrass you later.
So you chew some gum.
You chew a lot of gum.
And a few weeks later you start to resume something a little like normalcy. You don't need seven meals a day and you're not watching 14 episodes of Buffy the Vampire Slayer back to back. I still catch myself standing up and moving to a different part of the room with little or no intention of going there, and I do have the habit of staring off into space and I have to be very cautious that my gaze doesn't land on a pair of boobs that don't belong to my wife, but other than that, alls good.
Until I put on a pair of my pants.
And then things get a little weird.
Cause they really don't fit.
And I'm not talking the kind of don't fit where you know they shrank just a little bit in the wash, I'm talking were you're glad to have a belt to cover the fact that you're not actually buttoning the top button.
Grateful for the fact that my career requires me to wear an apron.
Grateful that my wife likes me a little meaty.
Cause, boy am I.
Like 20 pounds of extra marbly bacon fat meaty.
Like wanting to wear a T-Shirt in the pool meaty.
Like faded sweat shirts in the summer kind of meaty.
Like instead of Eric Northman walking out of the shower, my reflection says I'm more Andy Sipowicz walking in. And that's a naked ass even the censors won't lose sleep over, for who in their right mind would want to look?
The worst part?
I sorta planned for this.
I knew quitting smoking was gonna suck (although, how little it sucked was kind of gratifying), and I knew that I was going to put on a couple of unwanted double cheese burgers on my frame (Although 36 double quarter pounders worth was a little surprising.) So I knew this day would come when I was going to say to my stout reflection "Mmm Kay. Nuff's enough. Time to clean out the carburetor and lean out the mixture."
Calvin starts soccer this fall and I don't want to be the guy in the stands finishing off everyone's hotdogs, I want to be the guy on the sidelines, 6'4" with arms crossed but with the hint of explosive speed and a dangerous intention to do harm. I want to intimidate the crowd a little bit, for I will have no idea what's going on and I don't want anyone to ask.
So all right then.
Time to man up.
For being Dad is being Hero.
Don't deny it. If you have a Dad you know he's your hero. His life is the life of myth and legend, be the tales heroic, funny, or inappropriate for young viewers.
Hero Dad gets pushed up against the wall and comes out fighting.
And even though losing a couple of vanity pounds isn't quite the same as rescuing Gotham from total annihilation, Hero Dad at least has to look like he can kick a little ass.
Cause he's all out of bubble gum.
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