MOLI VIEW™

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 thirties, the thing blossomed into a talking point for the women in my life: something my mother or 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 I've never hated my belly. (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 mildly painful. 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. Along with the twin motivations 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 there? 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 other than my midsection. I'll still do a bunch of crunches, at the gym, but blending in a range of workout elements is 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.

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