A few days back I went shopping for a couple pairs of pants. Three stores and an indeterminate number of tears later, I decided to throw my figurative hands up in surrender. Dejected due to the dimensions of my profound rotundity, I immediately left the store vowing to finally commit myself to a proper dietary and fitness regimen. My days of sullenly weeping 'cause my tubby butt can't ooze their way into a decent fitting pair of pants will soon be behind me.

Barely ten minutes passed and my body squeezed into a booth at Panda Express with a plate of Peking Pork, Bejing Beef, and fried (of course it's fried) rice. For good measure, I even added some crab rangoon to my order.

To be fair, I berated myself throughout the entire meal, but I didn't stop eating. Bite by bite I consumed my unhealthily cooked meal, acknowledging with each mouthful, "this is why I'm fat."

Anyway, following that I experience, and inspired by an article from one of my fellow contributors, I decided to write up what I perceive as the five stages of (fat) grief, or the recognition that I am, and likely will be for a long time, a BMI challenged individual.

Denial

While I'm well aware that my figure is neither as trim nor as toned as I'd like (I wash my own body after all), I don't consider myself fat. Verbally presenting evidence to my non-fatness, I can see both my feet and...*cough*...male appendage without shifting my gut out of the way. I can even touch my toes or walk up stairs without exerting myself too strenuously.

Anger

The scale doesn't lie, so I'll not sugarcoat my responses to the scale's brutal honesty. I even rebel to the warning signs presented by the digital display. I almost wish it'd cross the line and call me names of a body-shaming nature. Then I'd feel justified as I spin that electronic piece of garbage out of my second-story bathroom window. In defiance of my that demonic lil' bastard, I stomp downstairs and proceed to devour no less than 300 calories in the form of chocolate milk. Got some deep-fried fat to go with that? I'ma eat that, too.

Depression

Since my anger typically leads me into the kitchen to counterproductively react to the notion that I'm not what society refers to as "thin," I'll often contemplate grabbing a potato peeler and whittle my way to a flat, albeit scarred, stomach. Once I even consider driving to a hardware store and utilizing a more capable wood planer to do the job. Of course, I stop short of this self-harming endeavor and just sob (sometimes literally) myself to sleep with smears of chocolate on my face.

Bargaining

Yeah, I workout in an attempt to reverse things. I buy all the latest and greatest fitness apparel. I download the most highly reviewed fitness apps. I say a prayer to the Richard Simmons, the patron saint of fitness transformation. Then, when all is ready, I execute my plan.

Of course, I can't feel my body for days afterward. I'm so sore, that I pray for God to help me shuffle loose the mortal coil and allow me freedom from my suffering. I cry in the shower as I wash my body, as I sit down on (and stand up from) the toilet, and as I realize that my one step forward has effectively crippled me.

Acceptance

Long after the flexerall is no longer effective and once the IcyHot is a mere aromatic memory, I finally decided the entire effort isn't worth it. Waking up ealier than you have to just to go for a run or throw weights around a gym sweatier than a teenage boy's armpit is just insane! Yeah, maybe I've got a bit more energy, but all that time spent exercising steals time from more enjoyable pursuits.

Seriously, I'm not a bad looking guy, chubby belly or not. I'm a rather handsome fellow possessed of a certain rakish charm, or so I've been told. I've got friends that don't judge. One of the most important female in my life loves me unconditionally, although I'm sure feeding her two times a day helps.

In all seriousness, I'm always endeavoring to improve myself, even though I fail. It all boils down to what I choose to value. The time will surely come when I value my health enough to wake up at 5:00 to get a workout in and consume leafy greens by the bushel. Yes, that time will come, but now is not that time.

Grand point? That I'm okay with the way I look. Buying pants would be easier were I thinner, as would playing a ball game with my nephews. But I'm not upset, at least not truly. My self-worth suffers from greater mental concerns than the circumference of my waist.

Despite its ridiculousness and potentially offensive demeanor, I hope you got a chuckle reading my five stages of being chubby. Chortle for days? At least a guffaw? Well, in any case, I got a laugh out of it. Maybe you even found some of it relatable.

Until next time, y'all!