I Blame My Boots!

I don't have a pre-holiday weigh-in, in early December with my birthday, Christmas and New Years binges all incoming, I ran in fear from the scale.

Last weigh-in on January 10: 187 lbs.

I solely blame this on the fact I was wearing my steel toed work boots, that should account for at LEAST 25lbs I swear.

I am rationalizing here but at this time last year was almost precisely when I was kissing the Clydesdale mark at a nearby 197. So maybe it's not so bad. The fact that my pants are tight and my shirts are loose gives me reason to believe that it may indeed be that bad.

I look in the mirror and I remember there being shoulders in there somewhere.

At work there is now a gym, I am going to go join it, use it and actually, maybe for once use my new sewing kit acquired during Christmas to put buttons back on pants that last year's me had popped off.

Congratulations! It's a beautiful baby...

It's the second week of January and while my vacations are officially over, I will carry the memories formed during the last weeks with me for months to come. Like many young families with far too much free time on their hands in the winter months, I have conceived a child. And also, like most pregnancies, my impending child was an accident. I am debating the names "Oops" or "Teresa" if a girl, and "Lumpy" or "Rambo" if a boy. Here I shall describe the circumstances leading up to his/her conception.



...

I left Toronto on the night of the lunar eclipse. It was an early flight, and I found myself on the street during the event itself, my steps struggling to retreat from the blood red stare of the pregnant moon. In retrospect, perhaps I should have recognized it as an omen of the events to come.

As is often the case, it was a cloudy day in Vancouver when I arrived. After an unexpected and graceful swan dive into the wooden docks of Granville Island and a number of beers to numb both the pain and the embarrassment, I found myself within the downtown core. An air of romance seemed to perfuse the city. In reality, it was likely the cold drawing blood from my brain.

I soon arrived outside of a restaurant. Her restaurant. Her eyes immediately found me at the door. It wasn't hard; the place was empty. Her eyes bore a squint of suspicion as I entered. She warmed up quickly, showing me to a seat with a broad smile and a squint of welcome in her eyes, before sauntering away. I struggled to assemble the puzzle of the menu and of its proprietor, who watched over my decision with an inquisitive squint in her eyes. I made two decisions in those moments: I would have the green curry chicken; and she was not squinting, she was Asian. I entered the restaurant in search of food, but something indescribable happened that day. At the conclusion of my meal, she arrived with the bill and a look of mystery on her face. The cost was a mere $12, but I tipped her my heart.

Within days of arriving at home, I noticed a change. I was suffering from strange cravings. Despite being surrounded by healthy, delicious, and at times gourmet fare, I felt a physiological need for banana bread. And not just banana bread, but cake, cupcakes, butter tarts, chocolate, candy apples, and potato chips. Along with a change in diet, I often felt ill in the mornings. My clothing became tighter. That was when I realized: I was having a baby! A food baby.

My feelings for my child are as fickle as the child itself. My diet has changed more than Jennifer Aniston's relationships. The most recent phase has revolved around the eating of gummy products. I spent three days unable to eat anything but for gummy worms and gummy bears.



People claim that having a child is magical, and yet aside from a strange fascination with the nests of animals in the wild, perhaps related to my own nesting response, I found my mind drifting to the macabre. I alternated between joy and a strong desire to kill this baby through reckless activity ranging from ice skating, dangerous hiking, and tobaggoning. I have also tried to abort it through alcohol and starvation. But all has been to no avail. Animal crackers have become a daily staple. My food baby kicks after a short time without a meal. And strangely, I couldn't be happier.

I have come to terms. I now accept my child, since it was born of hot and spicy Thai love; that and butter. My only concern is that my reckless behavior has damaged it. Since its conception, my dreams have become haunted by images of Michael Moore and depressed reindeer.

Am I ready to carry this potentially damaged child for months to come? Or will I abort it through an orgy of activity? Only time will tell.