John Lakefield slapped the alarm clock with a groan, silencing the obnoxiously grating shriek and staring at the digital display with bleary eyes. 6:00 a.m., the cheerful blue lines mercilessly proclaimed, and he sighed heavily before he set about the morning routine.
First, he rolled over in bed to where his wife, Rosa, lay sleeping beside him. Rosa tended to sleep like the dead, so John was always the one to rise at the sound of the harsh beeping. But if nothing else, it allowed him to give his wife a more pleasant wake-up than he always got.
"Hey," he said in her ear, leaning close enough that the hair of his goatee would tickle the ear's outer shell. "Time to wake up, baby."
Rosa grumbled and shifted, but didn't move beyond that, eyes stubbornly squinched shut. "Come on, babe," he cajoled, planting a kiss on her bare shoulder and then another on her upper arm. "It's six in the morning, time to get up." He pulled her arm out from under the blanket, prompting a groan, and kissed her palm. "Wake up, baby. I can't start the day until my pretty, pretty lady smiles at me."
Rosa finally opened her eyes (a dark, warm brown that never failed to enchant him) and scowled. "You are so corny," she scoffed, though the faint smile tugging at her lips gave lie to her disdain.
"You know you love it," he said, giving her his best smile. This early in the morning it had a dopey, sleepy quality to it, and the sight finally caused Rosa's lips to spread in a fond grin.
"I don't know why I love you," she grumbled, even as she gave him a kiss. "You're horrible. You're so lame, and you cursed me with two kids."
The reminder of their children made John remember what day it was, and effectively killed any early-morning amorousness he may have been feeling, and John rolled over onto his back with a groan. "Ugh," he said. "Why did you have to mention the kids? Do you realize what today is? Parent teacher night." Rosa groaned at the reminder.
Parent teacher nights were not something to be looked forward to. Their 8-year-old son, Leonard, was an eager-to-please sweetheart who got along with all the other kids in his class and whose teachers had nothing but glowing praise for.
15-year-old JJ (John Junior), however...
With a sigh, John threw back the cover and heaved himself out of bed. "I'll get my shower," he told Rosa as he stood.
"I'll get started on breakfast," she replied as she also got up and started to make the bed.
"We could shower together," he suggested, waggling his eyebrows playfully. His wife snorted a laugh.
"Maybe this weekend, Romeo," she said, shaking her finger at him. "I've got to make breakfast for four and lunch for two, and then I've got to start the laundry. And you," she said, giving him a level look, "need to get in the shower and get ready for the day. Capice?"
"Ma'am, yes Ma'am!" He said, snapping a playful salute before lumbering off towards their in-suite bathroom.
==
Thirty minutes later (one of John's major vices was a love of long, hot showers) John was wiping the steam off the mirror and examining his scalp to see if his scalp stubble was thick enough to need shaving again. Upon determining that he was good for a few more days, he took a moment to examine his reflection.
He was looking pretty good for 42, he decided. He was of average height at 5'11, but his hot-chocolate-colored skin was smooth and unlined (save some laugh lines at the corner of his eyes), his goatee was still free of any grey, and while he didn't have the physique of a dedicated gym-goer you could tell he wasn't afraid of lifting heavy things when there was work to be done.
Then his eyes dropped towards his midsection, and he heaved a bit of a sigh. Here was one area where he did show his age: the steadily advancing middle-age-spread overtaking his waistline, helped along by the determined love for all things edible he'd inherited from his father: From classic southern cuisine like gumbo and jambalaya to ethnic foods like sushi and soba, from good old home cooking to hamburger helper from a box, John had never met a meal he didn't like and never seen a dish he wouldn't try. He never got up from the dinner table before having had seconds, and only rarely did so without having thirds. Sometimes, if he'd had to skimp on lunch, he even went for fourths.
And of course Rosa always had a fresh-baked dessert of some kind. And now matter how full John was from dinner, he'd always find enough space in his stomach for a bite (or two, or three) of whatever she'd prepared.
For most of his life he'd indulged his appetite consequence-free, eating like a horse and maintaining his trim physique with little effort. But then he'd turned 40.
'Enojy it while it lasts, son.' his father's voice echoed in his head. 'I was the same way when I was your age. Then I turned 40, and bam! My metabolism bottomed out faster than I would eat your Grandma Priscilla's fried chicken and I blew up like a balloon! You'll be the same way, I guarantee it!'
He'd brushed off his dad's warnings, confident that such a thing could never happen to him.
The growing paunch hanging over the towel cinched around his waist, which was lower than it used to be (not so long ago he tied his towels and buttoned his pants around his middle, but as his belly got bigger he'd found himself buttoning his pants lower) proved he'd been wrong in that belief.
He heaved a sigh and grabbed his middle with both hands, squeezing the pliable flesh with a frown. He supposed he should be grateful he didn't look like he was smuggling a basketball under his shirt, but he wasn't sure the thick love handles and doughy overhang of his spare tire was much better. He squeezed his stomach again before letting go with a sigh and turning towards the scale in the corner with trepidation. It'd been a few weeks since he'd dared step on the thing, but with how tight his pants were getting he knew he couldn't put it off any longer.
He had to lean forward a bit to see the result past the curve of his stomach, and the readout wobbled wildly for a moment (the scale was a classic-style one with a dial) before stabilizing at an even 250. John couldn't resist letting out a low whistle and rubbing his middle ruefully; that was a definite increase from his last reading of...
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