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One of my favorite lines in Pulp Fiction is by Fabienne: “Pot bellies are sexy.”

I find this line so intriguing. In America, we don’t want fat, we don’t want pot bellies. We want tiny, thin, slips of women. We want unreality. We want Paula Deen diets and 90-pound women. We want to eat the fried butter but we don’t want the look of fried butter.

I could go on & on about Tarantino and his take on pop culture, but I write about this line for another reason. When I was a kid, I had a pot belly. There’s even a photo of said belly somewhere.

I thought of that photo today, after visiting the gastroenterologist. He was commenting on my recent weight loss, asking the usual questions. Did I mean to lose weight? Was I eating? What’s the most I’ve ever weighed?

I thought of that photo: me, shaggy hair, huge thick glasses, cut-off shorts, and this huge, round belly. It’s grotesque. Not because I have a pot belly, but because the rest of me seems normal sized. And for the first time in my life I am really curious as to why.

Why do I feel that lately there are underlying health problems that should have been addressed years ago, possibly when I was a teenager (or perhaps before then)? This gets into another area, mainly the responsibility of caretakers, but that is beside the point at this juncture. I have to move forward.

Another funny anecdote from my glorious childhood: according to my mother, I was so fat at the age of two (2!) that I had to be put on a diet of cottage cheese and tomatoes. How fucked up is that? No idea if it’s true or not. Regardless, it’s beginning to feel like a fucked up metaphor for my life.

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