My doctor told me to stop having intimate dinners for four. Unless there are three other people. ~ Orson Welles

I'm a big dude. A hefty, chunky, XXX-large, big-boned, thick-bodied, chunky butt that the government calls obese. Heck, my weight hasn't seen the one-hundreds since before high school. But all in all, I feel okay. Save for my high blood pressure. And the back-aches. And the atrophied muscles that haven't seen a work out since I lugged a tuba around for the marching band.

Exercise? Fuhgeddaboudit. That's a foreign word made up by thin beings from the world of Thighmasters. To me, aerobics are flying cigarette lighters, not losing weight. Besides, I get enough exercise when I rise from this chair to go to work and back again. Even work lacks physical movement. I design. I design by computer. I might be a momentous mortal of mirthful mass, but I have a black belt in Google-fu.

And what do I do for fun? Guess. Yep! Computers again. They like me, what can I say? And I like them. They make me money.

I made a batch little brownies before I wrote this. A buddy came into the house, took a wiff, and smiled. He loves brownies as much as I do. Apparently, he thought I would leave him a few. Ha! Stupid person. I'm a pleasantly-plump, portly, pudgy porker of undeniable heft… I do not leave brownies unattended. Oh no. I attended to those brownies.

I did drink a glass of milk with the brownies. That's healthful, right?

Should I do something about it my extra weight? Sure. I most certainly should.

But do I? No. Apparently, I'm a weak-willed, waddling schmo with TOO much to do and none of it involves pacing around a winding path of concrete and gravel hoping that a few score fat cells shrivel up due to lack of Oreo Double-stuffs. I NEED to sit in my reclining office chair, Coke and brownies within reach, typing out my latest email or felling some hideous villain in a virtual game world in hope of a better sword. Fat cells NEED to be happy, don't they? How else can I be jolly without the bulky, bulbous business-end of a blissful, bouncing belly?

Okay… enough foolishness. Maybe losing weight could be a good thing. If fat cells were living creatures that needed placating, then what about the blood cells that course through my veins in a constant, churning Olympic race of life? And what about my back and neck? Both feel as if someone rolled over me in a truck? And those muscles that are only thick enough to leverage my carcass off a chair and into the reclining car seat and back again? So... need exercise? Desperately. Willing to give it go? Why not. I'll race you to the thin-jeans department. But lifting my old tuba? That sends shivers down my aching spine.