No, I’m not talking about the delicious crunchy topping on those familar breakfast treats, which also happened to be the subject of a semi-famous Seinfeld episode.
I’m talking about what the Urban Dictionary defines as that unsightly roll of flesh which bulges above a pair of too-tight jeans. You know what I’m talking about. It might even be worse than “plumber’s ass.” And, of the many items accquired on my travels through China, it appears to be the one that keeps on giving.
Up until now, it never occurred to me to address the issue of weight loss on here. Yet weight gain is often an inevitable part of eating lots of rich, delicious foods–or at least it is for some of us. Two years ago, I discovered that I can no longer eat whatever I want, whenever I want, in any amount that I want. After being away from a scale for nearly 5 months in China, I started screaming when I got home and found that I had gained 10 pounds and a wardrobe full of ill-fitting clothes. As someone who had never gained more than a couple pounds in any given time period, this was a pretty big deal–I’d gained 10% of my original body weight. It took me six more months and a few new pairs of pants to lose it all, plus a little more.
I am pretty sure it’s impossible not to gain weight while traveling in China. In a city where running a mile on an outdoor track is equivalent to smoking a pack of cigarettes, excercise seems to do more harm than good. Also, those eight or nine 12 course banquets I had to sit through probably didn’t help, not to mention the countless hotel buffets, abundance of cheap food, and the constant eating out.
Anyway, while I actually managed to fit back into most of my pants this time around, my waistline looks an awful lot like a dreadfully fattening blueberry muffin, hot from the oven (except for the part where my skin isn’t covered in purple spots). I tried to see if there was any quick way to fix this, before I have to start a new job with my stomach hanging out of those suits I bought 2 inches ago. Google rewarded my search with an article written by a transvestite who advocated 180 sit-ups (not crunches) for a week.
Well. I can barely do one sit-up, let alone 180, so that’s out. In the meantime, it’s back to denying myself delicious things (like that nutty, flaky aged gouda in the refridgerator–8 grams of fat per oz!) and forcing myself to use this terrifying eliptical running machine that’s been collecting dust in the dining room. I kind of hate running. But I hate the idea of buying a new wardrobe even more. Running is free, dress pants are expensive, and 2 inches from now, my new metabolism should allow me to eat the occasional ounce of aged gouda cheese.