Jake Is the Fat Man

In elementary school, I was good in my studies, and I enjoyed music and art class. I loved learning how to use those state of the art Apple IIE's and I even shared the blocks. I was good at school, and everybody knew it, and I liked it that way. I was a pretty well-behaved kid, but when I saw the same kids who picked on me during recess getting their assignments back replete with red ink, my inner smart ass couldn't help but comment. As I look back, I was just as much of a participant in the endless cycle of emotional scaring. My pompous ass-ness in response to their bullying only encouraged more bullying.

Things were no different in music and art. I was a knack on the glockenspiel and my macaroni art had a certain flair absent from most of my duller witted classmates. My large projects sparkled and always earned the maximum amount of gold stars and smiley face stickers. I can see you are jealous.

When it came time to make way to the Gymnasium, however, my usually wide-open crevasse of a mouth was uncharacteristically shut. This is where my more physically inclined classmates extracted their not-so-silent revenge. You see, though my academic prowess knew almost no bounds (hard to believe I "was" pompous, no?), when it came to physical education I was more awkward then Anakin and Padme's pillow talk.

You see, by the third grade I looked a lot like Drew Carey. I had his neato, butch hair cut, his dreamy glasses and, most notably, his recognizable physique. You don't have to be president of the Drew Carey Fan Club to realize that this resemblance was not the optimal circumstance when it was time to pick teams for pretty much any sport that involved a ball or when we had to climb those evil, evil ropes.

The Red Ink boys may have been dumb, but they weren't stupid. They knew that this was their house, and until high school came along (and I could enroll in Bowling) Gym class was my own personal House of Pain, without the thumping beats and catchy rhymes. A better man than me would have seen that although I was not as physically inclined as I could have been, with hard work and perseverance I would be able do the best I was able and, through personal fulfillment ignore the nay-sayers and be happy with myself, and life.

I don't need to remind you, however, that I am a pompous ass.

By playing the smart-ass card, I sabotaged one of the major chances in my life to start and maintain any sort of healthy, active lifestyle.

To this day my Drew-Carey belly is the monkey on my back.. er, front.

Over the years I have made a couple half-hearted attempts to regain (read: discover for the first time) a sex-ay physique and scrape together a healthy lifestyle. I never followed through, because I never really saw the merit in not being a glutton. I always fooled myself into thinking that I didn't need to be in shape because I was happy with my body. ALL of it. Besides, my thumbs were in excellent shape, and that was all I needed to accomplish amazing physical feats via the wonder of video games.

But now I am fed up with Drew... the Belly, not the guy. On the days that I slip back into my belly-love mood, I realize that I have the best reason ever to lose the Drew. Lisa is beautiful and deserves more than more of me.

Besides, Jedi don't have beer bellies.

Very few of the both of my readers care about my belly, or the lack there of, but when I was preparing for NaNoWriMo, I read that the best way to help you succeed at a goal is to tell as many people about it as possible so if you fail, you have a troop of people disappointed in you.

So, if any of you see me, and I am still rotund, slap me up-side the head.

Thanks!