Brian with an I

Pizza might be the one thing that smells better than baby

Today, Sonny is officially a month old, and while I wouldn’t say I’m an expert on fatherhood, although I am quickly becoming an Iron Chef of getting peed on, I have made several key observations from baby daddy land:

1. Fatherhood has always seemed to be very much a position of pride. Your child says or does something amazing, and dad sits back, arms crossed, beaming, as if to say, “Yeah, that one’s mine. What once started as a twinkle in my vas deferens is now graduating college.” (Or your child does something shitty, and you point at your spouse and say, “He gets that from your side of the family.”) Only one month in, Sonny hasn’t quite discovered the cure for cancer or recorded a hit record, yet I’ve had little trouble finding moments of pride: his first tummy time; the way he wakes up, balls his fists and stretches his neck and arms like he’s warming up for a cage match; and, perhaps best of all, hearing him rip rush-week-worthy farts that cause Jaime and me to say to each other, “That was you, right?”
2. I wish I had as much glee for nipples as babies do. Also, whenever I cried, I wish someone would stick a nipple in my face.
3. Newborns are basically puppies with thumbs.
4. You can not crate a newborn.
5. Whenever Sonny does anything, it immediately becomes the cutest thing in the world. (See 1.) His latest trick is slapboxing, which is how he woke me up this morning, repeatedly tapping my face with his soft, pudgy hand. Yesterday, it was sitting up on the couch and watching the season premiere of “Jersey Shore” while Jaime and I told him, “This is where STDs come from….” In these days of Mary Kay Letourneau, HPV vaccines and pregnancy pacts, it’s never too early for a little sex-ed.
6. Baby should be a kind of incense. When clean, there’s no better smell in the entire world. (Well, maybe pizza?)
7. Can someone please remix “Wheels on the Bus” with a little bit more bass? Maybe get Lil’ Wayne to drop a few, kid-friendly rhymes? That song is wearing on me.

To kick the coke all Paris needs is some nipple

Seeing the sunrise was one of my goals during my seven-week leave from work, though when I originally made that pledge I expected to be holding a Pacifico and a remote–not a pacifier over a crying baby while rocking him to sleep.

Three weeks into fatherhood I can officially confirm the cliche: my life has forever changed, and I notice it most in my perception of time. Morning, which used to begin with a shower, stretching and a cup of coffee around 6 a.m., now starts around 11, only instead of a warm stream of bath water slapping me awake, it’s a body temp blast of baby piss and the ear-stabbing cries of a boy who definitely does not want his junk exposed, or cleaned with a wipe–even if that wipe has been sitting in a warmer. (Yes, we own a baby wipe warmer purchased after I said to Jaime, “If someone held a cold cloth on my dick, I might cry like I was dying, too.”)

The baby-time conundrum was discovered within our first few days of parenthood when we were waiting on line at Starbucks for Jaime’s first and my second cup of the day at 4:30 p.m., just showered and ready to start our afternoon–errr… evening–of running errands and hoping to stop somewhere for lunch, if the baby cooperated.

R. Kelly: Not My Baby Daddy

Unfortunately, babies cooperate like celebutantes–only when there’s something in it for them. In Paris Hilton’s case, it’s expensive purses and cocaine. In my son’s, it’s something just as powerful, at least in his eyes: the nipple. Keep him fed, and he’s happy, yet feeding him is just a part of the guesswork that goes into interpreting what a baby wants, so he’ll stop crying and go the fuck to sleep (Now I understand why that book is so popular!), permitting Jaime and me to do adult things, like showering and eating lunch closer to noon than midnight. Is his diaper dirty? Does he need a burping? What about the pacifier? Maybe he’s cold–where’s his hat? The answers aren’t hard to find–it’s just figuring out which one without upsetting the baby further in the process.

And we still haven’t even strapped him into the car seat! Or changed into clothing not accessorized with spit-up!

After three weeks of infrequent showering, irregular meals and getting pissed on so often I’ve thought this isn’t my son it’s R. Kelly’s, the hardest part about parenthood is adjusting to a new schedule–usually one that begins and ends with a pile of poop–and shifting expectations of myself. Each day bleeds into the next, and priorities are tethered to whether or not a 10 lb. blob of cuteness is relaxed or irritated by sitting in a vibrating seat playing “Wheels on the Bus” for the billionth time. What took five minutes can now take five hours, or five days, (I knew there was a reason why my new bathroom mirror has been leaning against the bathroom wall–instead of  hanging from it–for almost a week now.) and for someone like myself who thrives on structure and results (Or “getting shit done,” as I like to call it), having a baby means I’m no longer in control, a feeling I’ve spent the last ten years of my life trying to shoo. Bloody nipples and Haagen Dazs can’t stop me, but a little baby runs my fucking life right now.

At the very least, I can rely on the sun to rise each day, although I hesitate to call it morning since it might actually be my lunchtime.

"So how's it feel to be a shitty parent?"

I have never liked babies. When I’d see them in grocery stores or at the mall, their heads in a lopsided twist with eyes vacantly staring into the distance, I’ve often wondered why would someone have one when all they do is cry and poop and eventually end up on Dr. Phil listing the ways their parents wronged them. Since Jaime became pregnant, my feelings never softened–in fact, the more I learned about pregnancy–and the frighteningly gross process of having a baby–the stronger I felt, grilling up these little vagina-ruiners like they’re wearing colors of a gang not welcomed in these parts.

I expressed these feelings to a few people, hoping that, of all the advice everyone was willing to offer about names, parenting styles and circumcision, someone would have a nugget of wisdom about my baby dislike, but, except for one mom who said, “It’ll all change when you see that baby,” no one had anything to offer, instead changing the subject to why we should never name our kid Justin (Sorry, all you Justin-named readers!) or how disposable diapers killed the spotted owl, the ozone layer and the rain forest.

Well, that one mom was right.

I may not like babies, but I sure do love this one.

On 3:58 p.m. last Saturday, after 24 hours of labor, Baby Sonny was welcomed into this world, and the moment I could get a good look at him, I fell instantly in love with this little boy who, as I used to tell Jaime’s stomach before he was born, started in my balls. From his big dark eyes, to his chubby cheeks to the widow’s peak at the forefront of his full head of hair, I was smitten, and despite being told by my wife around hour 22 that we’ll never have sex again and witnessing something in that delivery room far worse than the most awful videos on 4Chan, I have no regrets, though admittedly I did tell Jaime, after almost stepping in placenta, “Next time let’s adopt.” It’s the only thing I said in my awestruck stupor minutes after the delivery besides “Is he a Ginger?” (to the doctor) and “I love you.” (to Jaime).

That night while Jaime rested in the hospital, I held Sonny, a bundle of deep sleep in my arms, staring at that face and into those eyes when they briefly opened before he nodded out again, and didn’t see the vacancy I’d seen in all those other children–I saw myself, an 8 lb. 11 oz. Brian (All he needed was a beard and a Yankee hat.). My eyes welled up with tears as I wondered how my father could walk away from something so innocent, precious and beautiful, so in need of love and of snuggling from the two people who gave him life.

Leaving Sonny would be like leaving myself, and after spending the last decade tearing myself down and building myself back up through losing, gaining and then losing so much weight, I actually care about myself now, to the point where I want to live, want to grow old and want to be happy. Part of that happiness is living this life I never thought I’d live, a life, for a long time, I never thought I deserved–married with a career, a house, two dogs, a fat cat that won’t let me go an afternoon without feeding her, and a son, who’ll always have his father in his life.

I don’t know what the fuck my father was thinking when he left me and my mother and never came back, but when the door closes behind me, I can’t wait to return, to be back with Jaime, to look down at that baby and see a new me, Sonny, who’ll know he deserves everything he has.

Mary J. Blige ain't the only one who knows what the 411 is.

When I answered the phone, I knew why Jaime was calling before she even said a word. Her pain came in short gusts of breath through the receiver.

“Is it time?” I blurted, but she wasn’t sure. It felt like contractions, more intense than the Braxton-Hicks ones she had been experiencing.

We went through what we learned in the baby classes: Jaime’s water hadn’t broken, and the contractions weren’t 4-1-1, four minutes apart, lasting for a minute and for at least one hour or more.

“Maybe you just have to poop?” I suggested nervously, hoping she wouldn’t respond “I know the fucking difference between shooting a baby out of my vagina and taking a shit.” (Jaime’s never said this to me, but she would.)

Instead, she said, “I don’t think so,” forcing it out between the spears piercing her uterus. She didn’t want me to come home yet, but wanted me to know she wasn’t feeling well and maybe tonight was the night.

Sad elephant

After ending the call, I stared into my computer screen, the numbers in the monthly cash flow budget I was working on (Being program director at a writing center isn’t all fun and games–or cheap wine.) melting into a fuzzy glare of black and white. Then, I cried, not like a mourning elephant but like a slow-leaking faucet that annoys you awake at night. The tears, though few, were uncontrollable. I didn’t feel them coming on, that burn in the chest and nose proceeding the usual waterworks, and, at first, I didn’t notice the first couple strolling down my cheeks until one thought hit me: I am going to be a dad. I snapped back into reality, quickly wiped the tears away and took a deep breath.

“You are going to be a dad,” I said to myself like a coach telling a benchwarmer he was in, giving him a chance to prove himself, my inner Coach Flowers piping up. I closed my office door and pounded through my numbers for 2012, the calculator, whose buttons are too small for my gummy fingertips, shaking in my hand.

Becoming a dad shouldn’t be a surprise. (This isn’t Maury, people.) I’ve known about it since April and have been mentally–and physically–preparing myself for less sleep, more student loans (Do you know how much college will cost in 2029?) and a lifetime of joy and worry. But one thing I haven’t prepared for is “the call.” It could come at any moment, and it might not even be a call. We could be sleeping, and Jaime will wake me up and say, “I think it’s time.” Maybe I’ll be running and come home to find her working through a contraction and counting time on her iPhone. (Yeah, they make an app for that, too.) Neither of us have any control over when Baby Mac will arrive. He’ll come whenever he’s ready, and we’ll just have to accept it, but that doesn’t make it any easier for two perfectionist planners.

On the way home, I called Jaime, and after showering, having a snack and laying down, she felt better, and the contractions had subsided.

“No poop?” I asked.

“No, no poop.”

I just wanted to see if I was right.

When you're 30 and a parent, making it rain isn't what it used to be.

Lately, I’ve felt very lonely, but it’s not a loneliness of solitude. I have many people in my life–my wife, friends, so many colleagues (I hate that word, but “homies” doesn’t seem quite appropriate.)–and most days my only time alone is spent in the bathroom, moments I savor more than you may even know. We live in a world of connectivity. You may be reading this because you saw that I posted about feeling lonely on Facebook, and you care enough that you want to know why and want me to feel better. Having nobody around is a welcome rarity, usually spent writing or listening to rap music at a volume that would make moms upset.

Part of this feeling of loneliness is because next week I am turning thirty, and as much as I’ve said to myself–and so many others–that I’m excited about it, the combination of becoming a parent and officially becoming “an adult” (For everyone who says thirty is the new twenty, I think my days of snorting prescription pills until sunrise while writing a term paper and then getting drunk after turning it in are long over.) makes me feel old–no, not just “old,” mortal. Some day my kid won’t have me around to dole out sage wisdom (“Snitches get stitches” and “Mo’ money, mo’ problems” are two axioms I intend on introducing to Baby Mac early in his life.), offer him relationship advice or let him cry on my shoulder, and although that’s a long time from now, especially if I keep on running, my own mortality becomes realer when I realize I’m no longer living for myself. Soon there will be a crying bomb of love Baby Bjorned to my chest depending on me and his mama to keep his belly full and butt clean, and keeping him alive, happy and on a path that doesn’t end in a facial tattoo are goals I must keep in mind when making any life decisions.

I don't care what you say: His parents fucked up.

Preparing to have a child is kind of like preparing to go camping for the rest of your life: you go through a process to gather everything and inevitably you’ll forget something (and you’ll smell like smoke and have to shit in the woods), but it won’t matter, you’ll make do, and really if you don’t get eaten by a bear, it’ll all be okay. That’s basically what it’s like having a kid. Mistakes will happen. Jaime and I won’t have or know everything we should. But if that kid doesn’t die because of our negligence or have more mugshots than yearbook pictures–doesn’t get metaphorically, or literally, eaten by a bear–we’ve had a good camping trip. It’s my number goal as a parent. (Number two being raising my son to be ambidextrous. I am so serious.)

Officially becoming an adult, on the other hand, has been more challenging. I’ve spent most of my 20s surprising people when I show up at events, meetings or readings in my Yankee hat and Nike hoody looking like a high school student. At 30, I will no longer be the “whiz kid” as The Stranger called me a couple of years ago. I’m just another thirty-something trying to make it in the world–with a kid, a wife, two dogs and a mortgage to pay, things I like to call #grownfolksproblems. As my position at work and in the writing community changes, so do the expectations, whether they’re my own or others’. When you’re 24 and curating the best reading series in the city, people think you’re a “whiz,” but when you’re 30, you’re just doing what you’re supposed to do–being an adult making your way in the world. Adults don’t get their hands held or deserve trophies for working their asses off, grinding to put food on the table and turning a passion into a career. You just do it, sometimes alone and sometimes with the support of loved ones who threaten to punch fictional characters in the dick, and the only one you can blame for not doing what you want to do is yourself. I was telling all of this to a friend in his 30s who, if you live in Seattle, I’m sure you probably know of, and his advice was simple, yet hit me right where it needed to: “There’s no shame in doing what you’re supposed to be doing, and if you do it long enough and well enough, you build a meaningful career, which is way more impressive than a single achievement.” Whenever I think about the young bucks in the writing community who’ll go on to be the new twenty-something-Brians, I block out the thoughts of being old–and of being one of the old folks who told me I was too young to do whatever I was trying to do (Youngings, you won’t hear that from me!)–and remember this advice. If becoming a parent is like camping, becoming a successful adult is like childbirth, you just have to keep pushing until you get there, even if getting “there” is a little painful and covered in amniotic goo.

We haven't spoken in years, but she's still my mom.

But my strongest feelings of loneliness come up when I think about what little family my son will have once he’s born. My grandparents played a big role in my upbringing. My mother was a single-mother and relied heavily on them to take care of me when I was a kid. From Grandma, I learned to love, to always be on time, to dominate in board games, and from Grandpa, I learned old school virtues of manhood, like taking care of the women in my life, turning my shortcomings into my best weapons and always kicking ass. It makes me sad to think my son won’t have any grandfathers in his life and will only have one grandma unless my mother GPS’s her heart and decides to be part of my life again. Of course, people have raised children with far less, though when thinking about my own mortality, I’m a worst-case scenario kind of guy (Remember I’m training to fight a goat, people!) and worry who will be there for my son should I lose that goat battle royale and help him avenge my death, like Inigo Montoya in “The Princess Bride.”

Ultimately, this loneliness is really a fear of the unknown, of taking on the responsibilities of adulthood, transitioning from cheap-wine swilling poet boy to sportscoat-wearing program director to dad–and mere mortal–without a parent in my life to be there for me, to listen to my fears, to be proud of me. No matter how old you are everyone always wants their parents’ approval, and when you don’t have that, the world is more cavernous, a place where you feel less protected, like anything could happen and you won’t be ready and all you want is your mom or dad to say, “It’s all going to be okay.”

It’s something my son will hear whenever he needs us.

Now imagine this was fueled by boogers.

Snot rockets are inevitable when you run. The wind, whether it’s warm or chilly, hits the nasal cavity and combined with the increased blood flow causes the downpour of mucous, which can only come out in two ways, through the mouth or the nose.

Ever since I began running, I have prided myself on being a discreet snot rocketer. I wouldn’t be one of those runners defiantly snotting on street corners as if cool people don’t plank there. If I had too much snot, I would dispose of it privately with a quick wipe while batting the sweat from my brow or by firing a short burst of snot while running down a side street.

But Seattle’s fall weather, as beautiful as the natives think it is (I’m tired of all you Northwesterners telling me fall is your favorite season.), is not kind to runners. I don’t care what you tell me about how beautiful the leaves are (Just a slip-and-fall in the making) or how crisp the air is (Believe me–I know!). The change in seasons has turned my nose into a snot grotto (Snotto, anyone?), but I’m not hiding it anymore. After getting covered in forty five minutes’ worth of pouring rain and almost eating it nasty running downhill in the mud, a booger bazooka (I’m trying to expand the horizons of mucous puns.) in broad daylight on a busy street isn’t so bad.

But the extra snot isn’t the only drawback. The fall chill makes my face fucking burn! So bad some days I swear I’m Darkman. That’s why my beard has been more Zach Galifianakis than George Clooney recently. The fur is a face warmer. It isn’t just the weather though: the fall has meant more traffic on the streets, more ice on the concrete in the early morning and after work, and more school-aged kids in my way.

Just wait until winter, I keep telling myself. It’ll only be worse.

Come say that to my face, goat! What!

Goat attack, disarming a prisoner wielding a shank, preparing for Cormac McCarthy’s “The Road” to actually happen–when people ask me what motivated me to lose all the weight, I usually respond with one of these three reasons, all absolutely ridiculous but completely true.

I first began thinking about how to survive a goat attack about a year ago when I heard about a man who was gored to death by one in the Olympic National Forest while on a hike with his wife. “I’ll fuck a goat up,” I pledged to Jaime as she rolled her eyes and continued telling me what happened, how the goat unprovoked grew aggressive and attacked. Jaime had been wanting to get goats, so she could make cheese with the milk, showing me so many YouTube videos of goats doing cute shit, like this one here and here (Admittedly, pretty damn cute.), in order to convince me of their potential contributions to our home and our mental well-being.

By telling me the goat attack story though, Jaime had inadvertently given me another reason why I would not allow goats in my home, as if eating garbage, peeing in their own mouths and always having to be on top of everything wasn’t enough. Not only would goats be banished from our home, but figuring out how to beat the shit out of one if it happened to attack me became a slight obsession.

So naturally, I went back to YouTube in search of “goat attack” videos, a search term that earns a surprising number of results, about 2,000. Some of these are drunks play fighting with goats, all fun and games until someone gets gored and can’t stop the bleeding because of all that PBR, or dumbasses fucking with goats (These people deserve a horn in the ass.), and then there are the actual attacks, like my favorite video called Kid Owned by Petting Zoo Goat, which I’ve both “liked” and “disliked” and viewed several hundred times.

This video, like disarming a prisoner (Come on–you’ve watched at least one episode of “Oz,” right?) or readying for the end of the world, whether it’s how Cormac McCarthy or Harold Camping see it, comes to mind often when I’m exercising and more so since we found out Jaime has a tater-tot-loving baby beast developing in her uterus. When I’m at the end of my run or a vigorous bout of weightlifting, the “I Am a Champion” speech blaring through my headphones, I think about that goat and that little boy and think, “If a goat has beef with my kid, I’m going to beat its ass.” Same goes for shank-wielding prisoners and the end.

These feelings of aggression aren’t necessarily new to me. I have been in a few fights during my school years and a couple of almost fights at various sporting events as an adult (Something about being a Yankee fan inspires full-grown adults to spit on or throw things at me.) But the difference between this feeling and your run-of-the-mill bro-style aggression is that it’s not about defending my honor or trying to be a tough guy–it’s about protecting my kid and his mama, as instinctual as the wanderlust that forces goats to climb to the highest heights they can find.

Goats, beware.

Knowing I’m in the best possible shape when that goat comes goring gives me a sense of relief, and understanding exactly what I’d do in that situation–either hop on that goat’s back and deliver an MMA-style choke-out or drop a swift kick between its goaty eyes–makes me feel at ease. So when that chance encounter comes, I’ll be ready to drop that diaper bag and get all Bruce Leroy on that goat’s ass.

Now about the end of the world…

[Please note: No goats were harmed during the writing of this post.]

"You ate how many slices of pizza!?!?!?!?"

One hundred and fifteen miles–that’s about how much I have run since completing the Swedish 5K two months ago. That’s more than four full marathons, though admittedly I’ve run this distance at a 3.6-mile clip four days a week for the last eight weeks, far more manageable than taking on a 26-mile run in one shot. (Let’s be honest here: I would more than shit myself if I had to run a marathon right now.)

Since that morning at the end of July, not only have I run more than I have in my entire life, but my approach to exercise and eating has changed, too. I’m less worried about the number on the scale when I step on and look down, hoping–praying even, despite my complete lack of faith in a higher power–that it’s less than last time. My unhealthy obsession with that one number has made me get all Bobby Knight on my body, yelling and cursing at myself when I haven’t done as well as I could have–should have–even when I was trying as hard as I could. There were times when I’d stare at myself in the mirror and wish for another body, a little Ray Lewis in the shoulders, a little Tyson Beckford in the abs, a touch of Hulk Hogan in the biceps and triceps. But slowly, what looks back at me in the mirror has changed, and seeing this progress means I’ve been less hard on myself, becoming more Coach K than Bobby Knight, learning from my decisions rather than getting mad and throwing a chair at a referee.

Then about a month ago, I decided to stop weighing myself everyday entirely, pledging that I’d obsess less and work more–running, lifting weights, walking, continuing to prove to myself that I can do things physically I’ve never been able to do. I wouldn’t beat myself up; instead, I’d be encouraging, staring into the mirror and telling myself, “You are a champion” even when some days I wanted to say, “You are a fat fuck”  or “You really shouldn’t have eaten that.” Obsessing less has helped me understand that some days I’ll slip up and eat a little bit more than I should or throw down on a dessert, (When you live with a pregnant woman, dessert is considered an entree.) but I can’t hold these choices against myself–I just have to learn from it and move on, run harder or bench more next time and let the self-hate go.

Don't listen to this asshole. I'm fighting every day.

More than the weight loss and the muscle, running has empowered me to not hate myself, to not stand in front of that mirror and wish I had someone else’s body parts, or was someone else entirely. Running the 5k proved I could do something I never imagined, and continuing to run several days a week since has caused my confidence to soar to levels normally only achieved through hard liquor. For all too long, I lived a life of self-doubt and anger, regularly allowing fear of failure to prevent me from taking on a challenge and then being mad at myself for quitting or not even trying, but when I take my first step up the steep hill about a mile into my 3.6-mile jaunt, doubt drips away like the sweat from my forehead.

Don’t get me wrong though–this isn’t George Bush’s “Mission Accomplished” speech. Honestly, the war is far from over, though now I’d characterize my weight loss as less of a war and more of a stand-off where I’m armed with low-fat mayo instead of a gun. I’m still 18 lbs. from my goal and considered obese by BMI standards (I’d have to lose another 40 lbs. to be in the normal range for BMI.), but I can say something that I don’t think I’ve ever been able to say in my life: I am finally happy, and despite the excessive sweating, huffing and wheezing, the complete exhaustion and the bloody nipples, I’m happiest after running, when I come home red-faced and worn, my arm hair wind-blown and bursting out from my tank top, and look at my wife, her stomach full of love and our future (Ice cream and tater tots, too!) and think, “I don’t deserve any of this.”

And then I remember I actually do.

Who needs self-esteem when there are donuts?

I didn’t realize I gained back so much of the weight I lost until I was trying on dress shirts one morning before an important work meeting, and none of them fit. Some were too short, bunching just above the waist (If I sat down, everyone at the meeting would know I had an innie.). Others barely fit around my midriff, causing the button at the peak of my gut to bulge (So much, actually, that I worried if I sat down at the meeting someone might lose an eye.). And my favorite shirt–the first one I bought when I lost the 140 lbs. of which I had gained quite a bit back–wouldn’t even button. It looked more like a shrug on me.

Already running late, I pulled up my undershirt, put a hand on each side of my stomach and stared into the mirror. “What the fuck happened to me?” I knew I couldn’t show up to this meeting in my usual “Cheap Wine and Poetry” t-shirt and jeans, so I grabbed the shirt that bulged the least when I stood up straight and sucked in my stomach and hoped we’d be meeting around a table or something else that would obstruct the view of the button straining to stay on my shirt.

Fortunately, I showed up right on time and was whisked directly into the meeting room where–thanks to the fat gods!–there was a table and donuts, allowing me to both conceal my stomach and eat away my shame.

Two years and several new dress shirts a size higher than the last later, I finally weighed myself, and I was 278 lbs., gaining back almost 80 of what I had lost. I was so ashamed of myself. It was like an Internet sex tape scandal minus all the celebrity–and the sex. Paris Hilton and Kim Kardashian may be stupid, but at least they weren’t fat. Instead of completely wallowing in my Woolly Mammothness (Oh, there was some wallowing.), I donated all of the clothes I couldn’t fit into anymore that had slowly migrated to the back of my closet and decided to start fresh. Look forward, not backward, I told myself–even if backward was forward. But first (Here comes that wallowing…), I tried on each piece of clothing and looked at myself in the mirror, the fat oozing out my pants and shirts like cheese through a flap in a burrito, like grease off a floppy slice of pizza, like ice cream melting over the ends of a piece of apple pie. (Oh-so-many food metaphors for all the foods that got me here in the first place.) I wanted to hate myself for what I had done, and this was a punishment I deserved.

But I kept one item–my favorite shirt, the one I remember wearing when Carlos, my asshole-friend/former personal trainer, was in town for my birthday and gave me the only compliment he’s ever given me: “You look good, pussy.”

(You’ll learn a lot about Carlos if you come see “Fat Fuck.” I’ll be performing bits and pieces this fall…somewhere. Promise. (Email me if you’d like to have me!) But to hold you over, here’s a picture of him with an aforementioned celebrity sex tape star. This is totally SFW. She. Would. Never.)

I could hear the dress shirts cry when I reached into my closet.

I’ve tried on the shirt every so often, after an intense work-out or run, whenever I looked in the mirror and thought something good about myself and wanted to either feel even better or ruin it by reminding myself I wasn’t there yet. The shirt always fit better on some part of my body, but it never actually buttoned all the way, though each time the button around the gut came closer to the hole. When I began running, the shirt came out of the closet less and less until just before the summer started, and I stopped altogether because I was becoming a Bri-liever and didn’t want my past failures to mar my future successes.

Then last week, Jaime and I had a date night (I know some couples hate the term “date night,” but we’ve been together for ten years. Seeing each other in something dressier than sweatpants is a privilege.). Knowing she wanted me to see me in something other than a “Cheap Wine and Poetry” t-shirt (Dinner at a Tom Douglas restaurant and a show at a jazz club means buttons.), I tried on one of my newer dress shirts, one that only a few months earlier fit snugly, and it was too big. Surprised, I unbuttoned the shirt and wrapped the flaps around my body like a robe (and then buttoned only the collar, decided I looked like an extra in “Blood In, Blood Out” and took off the shirt.)

I tried on another–too big.

I had nothing to wear, and I was running late again, so I dug deep into my closet and pulled out my favorite shirt, which Jaime had recently insisted on taking to the dry cleaner even after I told her not to bother because I couldn’t fit into it anyway.

I put one arm through the sleeve and then the other, nervously hoping I could suck it in for the bus ride and then pull the table trick at dinner. And then I pulled the flaps over my torso, and they overlapped. THEY OVERLAPPED! I quickly buttoned the shirt and…

IT FUCKING FIT!

…and I wouldn’t have to nearly crack a rib from sucking in my gut all night.

Now I have to buy all new dress shirts…again.