Look at this Dad-Bod. Do you think I was just born with this flabby, misshapen torso? Do you think these love handles appeared overnight? Do you think the baby fat that’s still lingering on my cheeks and chin has remained there only by the grace of God? Are you out of your mind? I work my chubby tush off every day to maintain my totally average appearance, and you need to appreciate that.
Every day my struggle begins in Ferris, as I sit down for my breakfast of biscuits slathered in Nutella, as much bacon as I can get away with without becoming one of the kitchen staff’s stories, and a donut or seven. As I begin inhaling my balanced meal, I hear the girls at the table next to me talking about their attempts at calorie counting or flirtations with fad diet regimens. I look down at my food and sigh. For me, calorie counting isn’t just an off and on habit, it’s a religion. Those four thousand calories aren’t going to eat themselves.
In fact, for years, I have followed a strict routine of minimal dieting and even less exercise. And yet, despite all the sacrifices I’ve made, some girl’s new pressed juice cleanse is still held in higher esteem than my unwavering commitment to my current, flabby state. It’s a double standard that more in our society should recognize.
People just don’t realize that having a dad bod isn’t a one-time affair. It’s a commitment to Keystone Light and multiple sleeves of Double Stuffed. More so, it’s an unwavering devotion to feigning injuries and hiding under my bed when my friends ask me to join them at the gym. Fitness freaks won’t ever have the determination needed to sustain my BMI. They don’t know what it’s like to constantly wonder if you’ve eaten enough cheesecake this week.
Yet, though this work is both taxing and painful, I know that in the end, it will all be worth it. Because healthy-looking people don’t get that they’re running an unwinnable race. By age 30, they’ll look like me anyways.