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In Praise of Chubbiness

I have been a member of a gym for about a year now, and see a personal trainer from time to time.  I run, swim, lift weights, and stretch, three to four times a week.  And, due to genes, a love of food, and some medicine I need to take, I am still about ten kilos over the suggested weight for a man my age (46).  Then again, having neither won nor lost Lee Child's lottery of life (I am exactly medium height, at 5-9, neither short nor tall), and being a middle-aged man, most of the excess baggage appears around my midriff.  This has got me so down it was beginning to look up to me, and then the other day - zap! - I had a thought.  Who hates me this way, other than me?  I am loved by wife, and friends.  More vitally, some of the best guys ever, guys I loved, were love-handled or even fat - Orson Welles, Dylan Thomas, and Babe Ruth spring to mind.  Wallace Stevens, Philip Seymour Hoffman, Diego Rivera - all had a bad BMI.  If being a chubby hubby was okay for them, why not me?  I feel reborn.  I will still exercise, I will still try to control my poor nutrition, but I will also try to enjoy looking like a southern hick cop chewing a toothpick, hoisting his belt, letting his manly flesh roll over, as it does, as it can and should.
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