Since Labor Day of last year, my buddy J.B.K. has put me to task for wanting to slim down. Last fall I completed the P90X program and lost 20 bounds and bulked up a bit. He said to me, as he did when I started this little journey with Easy-E; “Dude, you’re married. You bought the farm, got the milk, and the property value is bound to drop a little.” Now I’m cool with him questioning my motive, he is single, loves to date cougars, and has been known to offend a majority of the female population. But when married guys start questioning my modus operandi, things start to get dicey. Not to mention my wife is having nightmares of me pulling a poor man’s version of Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal… Doze are one dolla billz weez mak'n it rain wit.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve rolled up to Wal-Mart in flip-flops, baggy b-ball shorts, and a shirt that should’ve made its debut in the shammy pile years ago. I’ve even been known to dabble in a little “You remember when we were fast…” nostalgia while pounding $1 McDoubles, backed by a cocktail of Raisinettes and Ho-Ho’s. But enough is enough! I gots to think about stretching this thing we call life out a few more years past the red zone. This is not about a mid-life, “pierce my ears with diamond studs, get photographed on the French Riviera with a so-so looking rebound, divorce the crazy mother of my eight children, and get bounced from TLC,” crisis. This is just me wanting to shed some L-Bs to live a more comfortable life.
I am Jarvis’s catharsis process.
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