In the battle of the bulge, I'm losing the war By Professor Locs

Editor's Note: Professor Locs, aka Charles Easley, is an educator who explores race, class, gender, sexuality, media and popular culture with humor and insight. His column is published here each Wednesday. Opinions expressed are solely his own. Click here to read his blog.

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I went to a deli for lunch and was pleasantly surprised to see one of my favorite cooks had returned. She is a friendly, older sister who always greets me with a big smile and a loud “Hey, Dreads.”

Since it had been a few months since we last saw one another, she came from behind the counter and gave me a big hug. After our joyful embrace she backed up and said, “You gained some weight.” (Insert extreme close up and film scream)

The last time I saw my grandmother she said I looked “stout.” That is rural slang for “guess who is getting overalls for Christmas.”

This was becoming a pattern.

When I was younger, I was a waif. I recklessly enjoyed the pleasure of eating whatever I wanted without regard for dieting or even working out. I know, I hate my younger self, even as I write this now…lol.

My freakish metabolism allowed me to grow up in the south and negotiate the culinary creations of all the Southern cooks in my family without turning into a Type-2 diabetic kid. Fried food was not only part of the basic food group, it topped the pyramid.

My first gym experience was awkward, to say the least.

When I was an undergraduate, I had to take two classes to complete my PE credits. I decided to take weightlifting and aerobics. Ok, remember it was the ’80s. I was skinny in my youth, so I was determined to use the weightlifting class and turn myself into a beefed-out, muscle-bound, behemoth.

I tried to copy the other guys in class. My eyes bulged as I panted, growled, sweat, spit and snarled, trying to bench press my pitiful 30 pounds. I looked like a spastic Chihuahua in spandex and sweatbands. My antics finally caught the attention of our PE instructor, and she asked me what do the men in my family look like. I said they were all tall and lean. She looked down at my pubescent, scrawny, heaving chest and in the saddest tone said, “You will never be big like the other guys due to your genetics.”

I was like, “Damn! Way to crush my young hopes and dreams.” I think she went on to become a motivational speaker…lol.

When I was younger I always wanted to be bigger. Be careful what you ask for because it might come true.

I guess that is why my Deli Diva’s statement totally wrecked my fragile ego.

I first noticed that my body was slowing turning on me when I was in my late 30’s.

You start going up a few pants sizes but just chalk it up to winter weight. This helps you for a few months until you realize that the winter weight is still with you on Independence Day.

You pick a fight with the dry cleaner, accusing him and his solution of shrinking your clothes. You are brought back to reality when he presents you with the pack of Burger King coupons found in your pants pocket.

I recently ran across a picture of my friends and me years ago at the lake one summer, and I was sporting a yellow Speedo. The only way I could wear that Speedo now would be as an eye patch.

You would think my doctor’s urging and family history of diabetes and stroke would motivate me toward better physical fitness. No, what finally motivated me to get to the gym at six the next morning was just plain, old-fashioned vanity.

I know I am not the only one to struggle with body image, so I offer Professor Locs’ Top Five signs you may need a fitness plan:

5. You panic one evening when you are home alone and hear strange scratching sounds. You are just about to call the police when you realize it s your thighs rubbing together.

4. You order and consume the 10-piece chicken meal just because it’s on sale.

3. You are a guy lounging shirtless at the neighborhood pool and become embarrassed when one of the young toddlers approaches you and attempts to nurse.

2. You slip the church usher a 10 spot to seat you immediately because you have become winded on the way to the front pews.

1. Your kids keep interrupting your football game because they cannot find their pet cat. Hours later you finally get up from the couch and hear yelling as you and the kids make a morbid discovery that Mr. Whiskers is plastered in a silent scream to your backside.

I know I am not the only one trying to beat the bulge, so I challenge you to submit your own signs…smile.