It was Easter again and I had obtained my hard earned day off to go home in the loving shelter of the parental home down south in Cochin. I was all set for the feasting, sharing, feasting and feasting that was part of the annual ritual. And I had a particularly good feeling about this year, cos a lot of relatives were also in Cochin for the event. Surely, it would be a blast, I reasoned. I was pretty sure that there was a lot more to the season than just the feast, but I was alright with that. The important thing was that I’d be meeting a lot of cousins and aunts this time… it’d be nice to feast with them. They can indulge in all the other easter activities as much as they want to.
But as it turns out, the hottest topic this Easter was not the big J.C. or how he wiped our sin-filled slate clean about 20 centuries back. Nope. At least not among the relatives I visited, the relatives who visited me, or the distressed parents. No, siree. For them, the hottest topic in town was the case of my expanding girth.
Not that I would blame them. The Hammy tummy has been on an incessant, unauthorized and unwarranted expansion plan for quite some time now. It is rapidly reaching the point where I should be afraid to walk along the beaches. It’s frightful, you know… What if some kind of fanatic, nearsighted, environmental nutcase turns up, and in the name of, say, the ‘Save the whales‘ foundation, throws me ‘back’ into the ocean, doing the victory-dance version of ‘Doo-wah-diddy-diddy’?
I know what some of you are thinking right now.. You’re thinking,”Hoy, Hammy, old boy. You’re getting paranoid. Be realistic! Whatever nutcase you’re talking about up there… chances are that he probably can’t even lift you up, leave alone THROW you. I mean… look at yourself, for Christ’s sake…”
To those some-of-you, let me ask just ONE thing – “What about forklifts? Huh? What if they used forklift. Ever think about that, chump? Do you have any idea how much weight those things can carry around? A well built forklift can fling an elephant across a football field as easily as you would toss pankakes over a frying pan. Let that be a lesson to you. Always think things through before coming up with half baked objectio…”
Hold it. Wait a minute. I went overboard there. That was uncalled for. And very possibly has factual inaccuracies. Personally, I’ve never seen or heard of an elephant being tossed around by forklifts. In fact, unless I miss my bet, they haven’t even shown a movie like that yet. I guess we’ll just leave the whale-beach analogy to the experts (Greenpeace), and move on.
What I meant to say is that my relatives were not off the mark when they commented on the weight that I had put on. I accept the charges of voluntary gluttony. I accept that I have occupied far more territorial space than that alloted to each individual.
But my pleading guilty was not enough to stop the discussion.
“What the!! Hammy! Is that you? Am I seeing double?”
“Whoa, there’s no WAY that is you, Hammy. You’ve stuffed your shirt with feathers, haven’t you?”
“Oh, my God, Hammy. Just looking at you makes me want to poke your stomach with a really large needle in the desperate hope that maybe, just maybe, you simply have a fully inflated balloon stuffed in that horrendous T-shirt.”
The fact is… I’ve always been a major foodie, and often take keen interest in tasting morselfuls of varied delicacies across a wide variety of cuisines, putting ardent concentration in the task, pausing only for brief intervals in which to utter the words “I’d like to have another plate of this thingamajig right here.”
I’m not a medical man, but I have a fairly good idea that my tendency to dive head first into my plate whenever I see good food is not helping my weight problem. It may be time to put the courageous, death defying superhero, Captain Eatathon to rest on his laurels, except for the very real danger that he may feel the necessity to eat them… the laurels, I mean. But if Captain Eatathon is to retire, even for a while, this means… a d-d…
I mean a d-d-d… daft… No, dammit, I can say it… It’s time for a d-d-d-dialect. NO! A dayet. A driet. A dofet, a ditey, a do-it, a die-yet, a dryet…
Pant pant pant pant.. Phooo… You have to forgive me for a minute here. I need to catch my bvreath.
I am, finally, with the help of close friends and family who shouted into my ear like they expected a resounding echo from the Grand Canyon, facing the prospect of a… diet. There. I said it. I knew I could do it. Phew.
A diet? Whoa! A DIET??? What the?? What am I gonna do with a DIET?? Dang! I’d better chew on this for a while. Unless, of course, you think it might be fattening.