It is a brand-new year and that means pretty much one thing and one thing only to me: I need a new Dilbert desk calendar. Other than that, the concept that it is a “new year” doesn’t really make a difference in my life. I know other people become very excited about New Year’s Eve. I get it, the Earth went one full revolution all the way around the sun. Yay! Let’s get drunk. But the idea that this is a new opportunity to change my life, get organized, lose weight, yada, yada, yada, doesn’t work for me. My garage was a mess and I was fat on Dec. 31, and my garage is still a mess and I’m still fat on Jan. 1. Long story short, I’m fat with a messy garage regardless of the calendar. There is no reason to drag the Earth and the sun into my fat, messy lifestyle.
The number 2019 doesn’t mean anything to me, other than the unfortunate coincidence that the Chinese animal for this year is the pig (which matches quite well with my fat, messy existence). The number that really bothers me isn’t 2019, it is 214. You see, I tipped the scales on Jan. 1, 2019, at a hefty 214 pounds. Don’t get excited ladies—I’m by no means taller than 6 feet, so 214 pounds is certainly not a good thing on me. I’m a short guy, and 214 pounds creates a body shape that is more in line with a tuna can wearing cargo shorts and flip-flops. All the moms I know are currently lining up outside theaters to see Jason Mamoa with his shirt off in Aquaman (who is 234 pounds and 6 feet 4 inches tall) while I am lining up outside of a Ben and Jerry’s at 214 pounds and 5 feet 8 inches short. Nobody wants to see me with my shirt off. I have what is referred to as “dad bod.” For the record, dad bod is not a compliment.
I don’t have an issue with dad bod. I’m a dad and I have a body, it seems to work for me. The issue I have is with the number 214. You see, at 210 pounds I can bend over and put on my shoes. At 214, I can’t. At 210 pounds my T-shirts cover my belly. At 214 they don’t. At 210 pounds I can live with myself. At 214 pounds I have to make a lifestyle change. I don’t really want to be a part of the big New Year’s exercise craze that everyone becomes associated with for about one whole week in January each year. However, my 214-pound body is telling me, “Dude, it is time for an intervention. You need to get out of the Ben and Jerry’s line and get to a gym. Pronto!”
The problem with diet and exercise is it sucks. The food sucks, the gym sucks. The whole process is sucky. On the other hand, Ben and Jerry’s ice cream and binging shows on Netflix is pretty great. What is a boy to do?
I finally found the answer to all of my problems; I actually grasped the inspiration I needed to finally make a change. I simply saw myself on television, and it wasn’t pretty. I didn’t even recognize myself. I certainly didn’t look anything like Aquaman, instead I looked more like Tuna Can Man. I had filmed an episode for a show called Horsepower Wars, where my job was to drive cars really fast and say witty things like, “This car is really fast.” When I finally saw the episode on a big-screen, high-definition television, I knew right then I would never eat again. I looked like the illegitimate love child of Drew Carey and Tom Arnold, if you fed that love child nothing but doughnuts and milkshakes for 40 years.
Well, screw you Ben and Jerry’s, I’m actually going to the gym.
Rob is currently on a treadmill walking at 2 miles per hour. At his current heart rate, he will burn 1 pound of fat by next New Year’s. To read more from Rob Krider or contact him, visit robkrider.com.
This article appears in Jan 10-17, 2019.