My Pot Belly Named Jimmy
I have decided I want six-pack cobra abs for this new year. This is my resolution. I’ve always made fun of people, mostly men it seems, who work tirelessly on their midriff and try and create a perfect abdominal structure. Six-pack abs. Cobra abs. Those rippled muscle no-bellied men who sometimes look unnatural and forced. Some of these muscle guys look like rubber stretch action figures left in the microwave for too long.
I’ve always championed my little round belly. It’s not huge. It’s not a giant wrecking ball of fat. But it’s big enough that I might be able to claim it as a dependent on my taxes.
So I looked in the mirror this morning (I was shaving and I always take off my shirt to shave. I don’t want to get shaving cream all over my ripped up t-shirts) and saw my little friend, I’ll call him “Jimmy.” Jimmy, my little pot belly was there in full bloom. Just large enough for me to say, “Bruce, you owe it to yourself to work on this little ball of fat and whatever. You deserve six-pack abs. You deserve to have a Matthew McConaughey midriff. You deserve to look like a sculpted god fresh from the fitness center.
So I will start to work on this. I don’t know how. I imagine laying off the carbs will help. This will be hard. More than hard. It will be impossible. I can get about halfway through the day on salad and steak or chicken or tuna or nuts. Then I go apeshit and gorge on the carbs. I can’t help it. I love carbs. Do you love carbs? It seems everyone on the planet loves carbs. My little pot belly, Jimmy, loves carbs, too. He’s always requesting them when I run through menu ideas in my head.
I will try and do some sit-ups. I hate sit-ups. I hate sit-ups more than I hate trying to touch my toes. Why should I lay on the hard floor and pull my upper body up to touch my knees or toes or whatever? Shouldn’t I be laying down sideways on the couch flipping through a million Netflix channels? Or standing upright in front of an open fridge looking for the bread behind the broccoli?
Jimmy, my pot belly, loves sitting on the couch. He also loves corn chips, popcorn, cookies, cake, rice, pretzels, crackers, and all other various and sundry carb concoctions.
He cares not for salad or chicken. He endures my consumption of salad and protein. But he knows I’ll be back in the kitchen (or at the store) for more chips and pretzels.
So we’ll see how it goes. I don’t know where to start. Right now, it’s not even 7 am in the morning. So I damn well will not be laying on a hard floor attempting to sit up and touch my toes, my knees, or even my little pot belly named Jimmy.
Wish me luck…
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