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 Last weekend, over a lunch of so-called southern food at a very cool (but not southern) West Village bistro, an old friend decided a discussion of my looks, size and body mass was called for, (you know who you are). For future reference, never, ever, ever approach weighty issues with a guy sensitive of them while having greasy make-believe home cooking, especially if said guy is in the West Village or Chelsea. It makes the walk down 8th Avenue even more painful.
Friend: "You know, you looked incredible when you came up here. Look what the Northeast did to you."
Me: "I did it to myself, I own it."
Friend: "I'm just sayin. Maybe if you started that Spinning thing every day again...."
Me: "I've been through this. We've been through this. It'll come when it comes. How're your homefries?"
Friend: "No really, I know what stress and breakups can do, they just cause a focus on food as a replacement."
Me: "You gonna finish your cheese grits?"
I swore I wouldn't give-in to forty, and I'm still swearing, and having periodic swings of my old self, each one lasting a bit longer. But until Oprah pays the bills and does the worrying over everyday life issues, biceps and waist size can wait. They're both still there anyway, somewhere..I think. Excuse me while I make love to a breakfast burrito.
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