Tuesday, August 08, 2006

Leaving New York Makes You Fat

In case you needed another excuse never to leave Everyone's Favorite Island, let me provide reason number 372: Leaving New York Makes You Fat.

Leaving New York doesn't make you fat because of what you eat outside New York, though believe me, I inhaled plenty of mayonnaise, Cheesecake Factory platters-o-shite and various combinations of beef and bacon during my six-week stint in the Midwest. In one day, I even managed to hit up TWO of Nebraska's finest fast-food establishments, Runza and Amigo's, so I could indulge in BOTH a Runza ( Birkenstock-shaped dough wrapped around hamburger and cabbage) and a crisp meat burrito (a double fried monstrosity that should only be eaten by those under the age of 20, or while blind drunk after throwing up in their drive-through).

And yet, I managed to drop a few pounds while gone, thanks to strenuous 20-mile hikes most weekends and lots of running around in the sunshine.

Anyway, leaving New York makes you fat because when you get back, you feel a pressing need to gorge yourself with all the delicacies and excess you missed desperately while you were away, and feared that you might never eat again in the event that a flying bumper or errant white-tail deer did you in on an otherwise uneventful trip across I-80.

My first night back in the city found me at Floyd with a happy band of inebriated gays for my roommate's Last Monday party, quaffing cold pints of beer until my stomach was ready to burst. The next night, I fulfilled my land-locked longing for sea critters at Mermaid Inn with a half dozen oysters and a buttery lobster roll, along with a nice crisp bottle of Pinot. Wednesday I ordered no fewer than seven items at my favorite Szechuan place to share with my friend B., followed up by some big glasses of red while we caught up on all the events of the last weeks at a nice French place. Thursday I believe I was down for the count, which was good because Friday was my friend Eric's birthday, which meant hooking up a gin IV and then hitting up San Loco for too many tacos at 2 in the morning. Saturday I was begging for mercy but nope, my friend Jace was having a BBQ and proceeded to shove a glass of rose into one of my weary hands, and a steak knife into the other. Luckily we had his kiddie pool to cool off afterward, because I think I was getting feverish with all the fat-production my body was doing. It's time to stop the madness.

Good God, this is a great city for eating, and if you leave, New York will never let you forget it. This week I am going on a water, cottage cheese and soup fast and dragging my fat arse to the gym every day lest I develop a pannus. A pannus, for those of you not in the medical industry, is a huge spare tire of fat, a veritable second stomach of flesh if you will, that develops on the morbidly obese, causing things like weeping open sores from all the flesh-on-flesh rubbing and lack of ability to stick a washcloth in there. It's great having doctor pals so they can clue you in on nastiness such as this, but it's not such a good thing when they take one look at you, fork of foie gras poised and about to slide into your glistening mouth, and inquire after eating habits that may, at any moment, cause your arteries to sieze up.

Currently fat and happy to be back.

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