I’m feeling like a walking tub of lard lately. This is not what men are supposed to talk about, but I’m needing to vent a bit. Che Che says it’s got to be the beer because my food portions are equivalent to that of a premature baby.
So earlier, I was sitting innocently at the computer after running uphill on the tread mill for three miles. Shirtless, of course. This is a prerequisite when a post-workout heat is pressing in on all sides. Plus, I felt strong and powerful. Then, the moment Richelle came home she walked straight past me, poked into the flab of the spare tire hanging meekly over the sides of my pants.
“That makes me feel better," she said.
Nice.
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