America runs on ...

Until fairly recently I thought the word gregarious meant fat. Actually, I think I associated it with being jolly, but still, the word seemed to have its underpinnings in being large, with a side of affability.

In truth, for those who are not A.J. Jacobs and are not familiar with the etymology of gregarious, the word comes, almost directly, from the latin word gregarius - to flock. I enjoy the following definition from The American Heritage College Dictionary:

gre * gar * i * ous : seeking and enjoying the company of others; sociable

Why, that doesn't mean fat at all!

I suppose my confusion stems from being called this word for a large portion of my life. And, for another large portion, I was simply called: large portion.

Consider this tale of childhood trauma.

It is the end of the summer 1989. A young man, aged 9, and his well intentioned mother enter the temple of fashion J.C. Penny, or Penny's for those in-the-know. This fine stump of a man is confident, and why shouldn't he be? He is now able to consume a Big Mac on his own. He no longer needs the help of his father to tackle the five-scoop sundae, with peanut butter sauce, at Friendly's. This young man has important things on his mind, for this will be the year of long division.

But wait!

Who is that spindly looking fellow lurking in the shadows? Oozing with teenage rage and contempt for all things good, kind and honest. Why, it is a Penny's Associate and he wants to know if he can help. Clever rouse! He merely wishes to rid the world of childhood innocence.

Mother, "Might you have these pants in his size?"

Associate, "In his size? I will have to see if we have any Husky sizes in the back."

Like Adam hiding his nakedness from God in the Garden of Eden, this boy tries to conceal his his love handles, as well as the smushed snickers he probably has in his pocket, and cries, "Nooooooooooooooo ... " Until that cry turns into a faint sob.

Fad to black.

End Scene.

To this day I will not pet any dogs that look like they come from Siberia and refuse to support the University of Connecticut in any way.

I spent a number of years being the family butterball, miserably eating my way to my preteens. I lost most of that weight by swimming in high school, but quit this nasty, naughty habit during my first year of college.

I would like to blame genetics for this childhood obesity. My father sports a belly, my uncle has had a some heart problems, and my paternal grandfather, whom I have never known, died on heart attack number four. I may be genetically prone for portliness, but I should not be genetically prone to ignorance. That I blame on the government.

If you want to feel sorry for that 9 year old porker at Penny's consider this; all of the below are true:

• I can eat a McDonald's Cheeseburger in one bite.


• I hold a record, amongst our friends, for the most ribs eaten at an all you can eat rib house known, affectionately, as the Ribery. (11 meager racks).
  


• I invented a meal at my college called The Coronary - Two Over Easy Eggs, Topped with Cheese on a bed of french fries.


• I have smoked two packs of cigarettes in one day.


• I made a fort out of beer cans in the basement of my house in college.


• I have enjoyed eating at old country buffet.


• Every Wednesday (and I mean every) for a summer I drank, at least, two 40's of Old English, and ate a chicken fried steak, two eggs over easy and a plate of fries. THAT is how you eat fourth meal, my friends.


• I once offered to buy my friends late night snacks at Dunkin' Donuts then proceeded to order one dozen strawberry glazed donuts. When told that my friends may not particularly care for this variety said in my most serious tone, "What do you guys want?"

In the user and abuser culture anyone of these events could be considered "rock bottom". Taken collectively they should be considered crimes against humanity.

I think it is appropriate, then, that last Sunday (October 28th 2007) I set a personal best in the Dunkin' Donuts Marathon. I was two minutes from toppling the house record, which is still held by my nemesis, the champion of sweat (and sweet, coincidentally). I am only running a tortoise like 10 minute mile and in the Clydesdale category. To be considered a Clydesdale you must weight in excess of 190 lbs. But, at least now I have I have to stop and think, "Do I qualify? It's close".

I am no longer the family butterball, but the family workout freak. This is fine by me because I could crush most of those wimps and run away, safely, from the rest. (Oh, except for my Uncle Rick. He's been doing hard farmer's work since he was like, three. There's no way I could beat him in a fair fight or quick sprint. I'd definitely have to cheat.)

But most importantly, strawberry glazed donuts taste so much better 26.2 miles later.

I think.

I couldn't really tell, I sucked them down pretty fast.