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All this talk of a so-called “obesity epidemic” is getting out of hand. Fat is not contagious. It’s not like 50 million Americans woke up one day to find rings
of lard had appeared overnight around their waists, thighs, buttocks, necks, heeaaaads, shoulders, knees and toes, knees and toes.

Alarm clock buzzing

Fat Guy: *Groggily sits up in bed, stretches, and yawns; looks down at gut* Hey, what the hell?

At work, conversing over a couple of salads after a midday jog

Friend: You look terrible, man. You must’ve gained fifty pounds since yesterday.

Fat Guy: Yeah, I think I got it from Phil. That prick. The bastard was sneezing all over the office yesterday.

Friend: Yeah, I hear fat’s going around this year.

America, I hate to break it to you, but being fat is a process that occurs very slowly over a long period of time, like continental drift or
persuading your girlfriend to try anal. It doesn’t happen overnight.

I spent the first few months of this year inhaling fast food and not exercising. Wouldn’t you know it? I started to gain weight. Unhappy with the
direction my physique was taking, I employed the following diet and regimen, which requires literally multiple hours a week and a level of discipline that resides somewhere
between “smidgen” and “iota.”

Step 1: Eat less crap.

Step 2: Exercise more.

Obviously, no one wants to hear this, because seemingly every commercial on TV nowadays is pitching the newest, greatest way to “LOSE WEIGHT
FAST and KEEP IT OFF and, oh yeah, maintainahealthydietandexerciseregimen.” They always
throw that disclaimer in there, because—guess what?—no pill or retarded ab contraption can work miracles. Staying healthy is like any other accomplishment in life,
it takes a bit of discipline and hard work. Except health also applies to the wealthy.

I’ll be honest, you’re not going to see an exercise video or diet craze with my name attached to it anytime soon—mostly because
my name has zero selling power, but also because I lack the discipline and drive to really get in shape. Instead of working out zero times a week, I now go two or three
times; and instead of fast food every night after work, I’ll only go once or twice. I’ll have to live with those lifestyle decisions when
it’s time to remove my shirt at the beach or at a stranger’s funeral, but I made my own bed, and I will sleep in it. And probably hump it a few times. Slowly.
It’s good for my core.

Does America have a rampant obesity problem? Certainly. I just think the term “epidemic” is misappropriated. As long as I control my
own situation, obesity will not affect my life. Therefore, it is not an epidemic.

This was my mindset until two weeks ago.

I had been invited to attend a friend’s wedding and my only white button-down shirt was riddled with stains because, well, fraternity formals
get out of hand. Having not noticed the stains until the day before the wedding, I ventured out to purchase a new shirt. Gotta keep my pimphand strong, nah mean?

I rolled up to the mall, strolled into Macy’s, and had my measurements taken: 16 ½ inch neck, 36 inch sleeve. Before I could begin to even think about
browsing the store, I was informed, “We don’t have anything that will fit you. Try JCPenney. They have a big and tall section.”

“Damn right, big and tall,” I thought. “I’m a man’s man.”

Apparently, in the eyes of JCPenney, “big and tall” is literally that. They had 16 ½ inch necks with 9 inch sleeves or 36 inch
sleeves with 9 foot necks. It was big and tall, not big or tall. Twice rejected, I decided I was just going to stop in every store that sold dress shirts until I
found one that fit me.

J. Crew: No luck.

Banana Republic: I’m going to a wedding, not a gay bullfight.

Ann Taylor: This blouse doesn’t hug my figure. Wait, what the hell am I doing in here?

Finally, I moseyed into the men’s dress store, which, in hindsight, would’ve been a good place to start. They had one shirt that fit me
in the whole damn store. And it had French cuffs. Even the dress store couldn’t fully accommodate me AND ALL THEY SELL ARE DRESS SHIRTS. However, they were more than glad
to offer me a custom shirt that could be delivered in five business days. I called the groom and asked him to delay the wedding a week, but he just laughed and started urinating
on the earpiece, so I settled for the French cuffs. I later found out that a homeless man had stolen his phone.

Like countless belts across the nation, my patience has reached its breaking point. The obesity epidemic has infringed upon my personal life, and
it’s high time I join the fight. However, in
lieu of actual work, I’m just going to bitch about it on the internet, an activity that resides on the efficacy scale somewhere between “utterly useless” and
“fat person.” But maybe—just maybe—I can help one person change. So, as you forge on through another day, take with you this: for every mile you jog and
every donut you don’t eat, a gay man somewhere considers designing a shirt for a lanky bastard like me.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go hump my bed.

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