So a couple of days ago, while back home in New Rochelle,, N.Y., I ran into someone I hadn’t seen in a while. She tends to be blunt. Actually, weirdly blunt. And when she spotted me she gave me a hug and said, “What, you’ve stopped running? You’ve gained a lot of weight.” Then, like that, she continued jabbering on and on.
I heard none of the remaining words. I was wounded. Seriously, it felt like a knife to my gut. Especially since I actually haven’t gained a pound since our move last year. Am I as thin as I was at 18? Eh … no. But how many people are? Still, I work out regularly, try and focus on fitness, etc … etc. A few moments after the words, I cornered my wife and told her what was said. “Don’t listen to that,” she said. “It’s meaningless.”
Fast forward to earlier today. My nephew and I were on a long drive. We’re very close. I told him about the comments, and said, “What do you think?”
He sorta smiled, paused. “You’re not overweight or anything,” he said. “But you have a Dad Bod.”
This didn’t sound great, so I asked for an elaboration. He explained how there was this kid at summer camp who everyone mocked for his Dad Bod—namely, you’re kinda lumpy and filled in. Not obese, but … Dad Bodish. I was stung for a second, but then I realized, well, the kid’s right. I sorta do have a Dad Bod. Not fat. But in most photos it looks like I have a gut. The wife says it’s because I sorta hunch forward, but I’ve always believed she’s just being nice. Truth is, I do suck my belly in at times. And I’m 6-foot-2 and around 190 (OK … OK—195)—which isn’t terrible, but isn’t super skinny. I later Googled Dad Bod for confirmation—and confirmation was what I found. I have a Dad Bod.
And I wanna change.
I’m trying to make a commitment today. I’m back home in a few days, and I’m giving up some vices. Soda pretty much left my world four months ago, but next up is unhealthy late-night noshing and funky coffee blended sugar drinks. Maybe, just maybe, I can get rid of my Dad Bod.
And just have a Bod.