Yep.
That is definitely your ass.
Swapping looks with your reflection, the very, very quite jilted look on your face is the last bastion of familiarity of the old you, or whatever you could recognize from the last time you’d really, really looked at yourself. What was it, a few weeks? A few months ago? Sometime long ago that should’ve been much sooner, but even if you had never been Mr. America in the health department, you felt proud enough for doing just ‘fine.’ Fruits, veggies and a daily walk or two and...okay, maybe the occasional snack, but never any toxic habits of binging and lounging.
But then your eyes flicker back down, mind lingering in the ‘denial’ stage as to how a weekly can of soda or bag of chips could cause...well, this. Despite how many health gurus, doctors, or just common city folk with the most minimal knowledge of keeping fit would say, it just can’t.
Then again, reality always had the last word with ‘can’t,’ and it was reality that was staring you back in the face, one you were barely lucid to as the lull of the night’s sleep exited your waking mind, blissfully unaware of fate’s next cruel hand till you’d put on a fresh new pair of shorts. A pair that just happened to be ten years too young for you when they came to your waist uncomfortably tight, you oh-so-adorably assumed.
Ah, well. Those ones went to the trash, try on a new pair, and...huh. These ones must’ve gotten mixed in the wrong door.
Mere minutes later, it was the entire drawer that was wrong, its contents emptied into the bin in a pile of legwear that’d gone several sizes to small, and the entire dresser and your closet were dumped on the floor, shorts, jeans, slacks, swim trunks, anything in some madness-driven quest for something, anything that could clothe you.
Which thus brought you here, backside to the mirror as you’re hastily clothed in the shorts you would swear fit you yesterday, but here and now, no matter how straight a posture you maintain, they exude tautness and definition that wouldn’t be matched if you bent down real low and really pulled them up by their hilts, all courtesy of a few extra inches of outward volume in gluteal adipose, the two enlarged orbs of fattened flesh puffing everything below the belt with soft, jiggling pounce away from your spine and at either side of your hip, supported by thighs that, too, have some how adopted quite an excess fo meat that makes the mouths of your short’s legs dimple into their shape, putting your asscrack in a hell of a chokehold.
It remains your ass no matter how many times you caress your hands over their horizons, measuring their newly enhanced dimensions. It’s still there, unchanging as you cup a hand underneath and give your left buttock a lift, the blobby half large enough to cover your entire hand as you heft it upwards, letting it drop and jiggle back to its new shape, and it certainly doesn’t deflate as you sneak your other hand into your pants through the belt and against your right cheek, crammed like shrink-rap against your sweaty, rounded flesh and the red cloth, all five of your fingers perfectly conformed by the cloth in some ghostly visage along your back pocket.
It’s not the mirror, you’re not half asleep, and unless it were possible for a human to hallucinate through their hands, this isn’t one.
“Allergies.” You counter to the loneliness of your bathroom, and are answered with silence that could’ve been filled by a sitcom’s laugh track. “I ate something, it’s making me swell up, and as soon as I see a doctor they’ll hit me up with something that’ll make me right as...rain?”
You free up your hand, intent to lay it on your stomach, so as to take a break from feeling the grossness that’s materialized on you...and that helps you realize there’s a bit of jiggle to your abdomen. And that helps you realize that there’s a little bit less bagginess to your shirt than normal, and THAT helps you see a crease in your shirt along the solar plexius, a small variant to the kind a woman’s breasts or a really fat man’s chest sucks it in under the chest.
You turn around to face the mirror properly, pulling up your shirt to inspect the damage, and get a sampling of much of the same from behind, albeit not as much. Not nearly as startling as the transformation of your ruckus, but still very visible is paunch that substitutes your stomach with a large, fleshy dollop, doming out enough that it can’t be disguised by the arch of your spine...which come to think of it is extending backwards with a little more flab of its own, and with your chest that in a time that seemed so long ago to be acceptable was the start of two chubby mounds...
Your feet both land on the scale, the numbers veering wildly as they go from weighing nothing to your own mass in less than a second. The leftmost number flickers between one, two and even three before settling on 278.
That’s eighty pounds since, what, when was your last weigh-in? Two weeks? Yes, it was. Nobody’s fault but your own, you’ve gotten fat.
“Okay...exercise.”
Thus the last piece of pants you hadn’t bothered to try on got its shining day in the limelight, a black pair of yoga pants you were too embarrassed to try on. You’re still embarrassed to try them on, because as baggy as they are, they still cling to your butt enough to distinguish the shelf extending from behind you, but if kept in motion, maybe it could be disguised as them flapping in the wind.
Great idea! Just a good, long jog before a calorie-starved breakfast. For how long then? Maybe a one, two...no, three day tour of the continent by foot Until this nightmare has been burned off? Nah, too long...no, maybe too short, but the numbers don’t matter, not so much as the first step you take out of your front door. That leads to a brisk pace, left, right, left, right in a peppy rhythm accented by your breathing.
A block goes by decent enough, the next starting off pretty well with only the dreaded anticipation of a stitch in your side forming before you give out, and it’s right then that you feel...well, something, not that cramp you’re fearing, but a rogue entity Building in side of you that you’re brain doesn’t immediately recognize as...
Choice 1: An increasing tightness in your pants...along with your clothes getting drenched in slime.
Choice 2: Agonizing hunger. Not for meat, fruit or veggies, but SWEETS.
Choice 3: The rain falling, with the water somehow disappears into your skin as its tone and texture shifts...
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