Thursday, August 27, 2009

It’s 4:34 a.m. I woke up at 3:15 intending to take a jog, but I ended up being too tired. Trying to live healthier — eating right and exercising — has to be a very disciplined lifestyle, but unfortunately I’m the only person in my family who’d like to commit to that sort of thing. I guess maybe it’s like writing: there’s simply no time for it. I think about it all day and I hope and wish upon a star, but in the end I am just an automaton spinning in the wheels of the Great Machine, and there isn’t much time left over to be a person. Fuck.

I can say fuck because this is my own little space, and no one can hear me say it except God, and I don’t think He’s religious enough to care.

I’ve been listening to Galatians on my mp3 player in the mornings. Everything is by faith. Our birth, our life, our death. Faith.

I was throwing product up in a Dollar General store last Monday evening when who should walk in but Scott A hisself. I hadn’t seen him for quite a while. He was walking with a cane and weighed, conservative estimate, maybe 450-500 pounds. We talked a little bit. I asked about the old crowd, the people we used to hang out with before he decided to build a wall of impenetrable flab all around himself. The truth is that when a person is so morbidly obese that he cannot walk, or sit in a restaurant or a movie theater seat, or be invited over to your house because you know his elephantine ass will break your furniture, the truth is that’s the end of your relationship. You cease to have things in common because human fat pervades and permeates all. First it slows you, then it stops you, then it kills you. I told him about the Laurel house and the work that’s been transpiring and he offered to come over and help paint. There he was, leaning on his cane, his legs bowed inward from years of carrying such an immense load, and it struck me that he has no clue how handicapped and crippled he has become. Perhaps I’ll just have to tell him outright: the reason our friendship dwindled and died is because you wanted to do nothing but sit in front of the television, wasting your life and shoveling food in your mouth.

I can’t imagine what it’s like to be that vast. The little bit of gut I have makes me very uncomfortable. In bed, at work, everywhere. Looking at him, I couldn’t fathom how he manages to work, drive, even eat.

Jessica bought me some new underwear, Under Armor brand. They work. No chafing, and awesome sweat-wicking abilities. Nothing like the satisfaction of knowing that your ball sweat is being pulled away from your loins to the atmosphere, where it belongs. The sweat is all around you. Breathe deeply and happily.

I’m off to get ready for work. It’s looking to be a gorgeous day and I’ve got 21 stops in Bethany Beach, Delaware.

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Author: Steve Hobbs

I live and write near the beaches of Brunswick County, NC. I entered this fallen reality in 1975. My wife Sikki and I were married in 1997. We have five children. I am a follower of Jesus and a seeker of truth.

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