Eleven years ago, at 189, my lowest adult weight, it hung in there. A subtle little bump, but undeniable. And when I hovered beefily around the 220 mark, as was the case for much of my 30s, the thing blossomed into a talking point for the women in my life: Something my mother or my sister or girlfriend or wife might pat or rub, usually around the navel.

Mindless affection never felt so embarrassing.

It's important to note here that (Nobody hates Santa or Buddha or old-school Mike Golic, right?) Rather, the thing tends to be forgotten just enough to make acknowledgment of it a mildly painful reminder. As a slim guy who ran cross-country, the younger version of myself missed out on cultivating a negative body image. The belly was just something that came with the brews. And I really liked the brews.

At the start of this weight-loss regimen, I was 203. As much the twin motivivations of lowering my blood pressure and playing adult-league baseball, there has finally come an internally-issued memo to do something about the gut. Does it really have to be? I see guys around the gym — shit, guys around the bar even — who don’t lug around this extra cargo. To live in those guys abdomens might be a revelation.

Unlike past flirtations with midsection eradication programs, this time I’ve adjusted my diet. Not just less fat, but fewer calories from fat have played a significant part in reshaping my physique. Upper-body work, swimming, basketball and walking do lots to improve facets of my body beyond my midsection. I’ll still do a bunch of crunches,
at the gym, but blending in a range of workout elements is an more important than just focusing on blasting abs. Lots of crunches and lots of food add up to a big, hard belly, which is fine if you want to play nose tackle in a 3-4 defense, but not so great if you want to be even remotely appetized while watching yourself having sex.

My approach seems to be working. In the days’ earliest hours, sidelong in the bathroom mirror’s silhouette, the bump is still there, interrupting that slope between my pecs and pubis. But there sure seems to be less of it. Less of me to love. Praise Jah.

So, if I’m going to reach my Christmas goal of 188 pounds, the weight will have to come from here. And, just about nightly, I squeeze the remaining softness — separating the good from the bad — and try to quantify the remainder of 2007’s journey. The goal feels attainable. My gut doesn’t lie.

Having said all that, I gained two pounds this week. Santa Claus, you bastard, your kind’s not welcome around here.

I am so not trying to see Christmas right now.