Belly Up

Friend Lark says she's getting a beer belly. Since she only comes up to my waist, I find it hard to notice. However, I can sympathize, since I am also developing a beer belly. And—I'm going to go out on a limb here—I'm going to blame it on the beer.

I work out. I run. I lift weights. Occasionally hop on my bike. I eat my veggies. But I find myself incapable of defeating my (ever so slight) beer belly. Again, I blame the beer. The beer is the thing here.

I could have ripped abs, but at what cost? I suppose I could spend two hours a day at the gym. I could watch what I eat. I could quit going out after my class ends at 10 p.m. but where does that leave me?

I like to run. I like to work out. I enjoy eating healthy foods. They all make me feel better. But that two hours a day at the gym would be two hours I'm not collecting scraps of pop culture garbage. The brats I eat (yes, I love my German sausage) are part of who I am. Holding court at The Tam is what I do (one to two nights per week, max...really, I'm a healthy person). The gut? It sits in front of me. I feel it jiggle when I run. I feel it fold when I sit forward. I can't outrun it, and so I carry it with me.