You're a big boy now

As my mother and I are talking about something or other, I begin to tug on my pants, pulling them up. I’m not wearing a belt, so they’re sagging and almost falling off.

“Look at you,” she says with a look of disgust, with a hand on her hip and her head cocked to the side. “The older you are, the worse you get.”

“What do you mean by that?” I ask, mimicking her every move.

“You should be getting bigger, not smaller. What are you a boy, or a man?”

“I’m neither. I’m me.” I respond, indignantly. I hate defending myself, feeling like a little kid even though I'm a big boy.

My mother comes from the school where you’re supposed to get bigger (a.k.a. fatter) the older you are, not the other way around. Being an anomaly to this way of thinking, I have gotten smaller with age. It's like that incredible Lily Tomlin movie about something shrinking that I can't remember the title of.

Is it my fault, or is it due to genetics? A little of both. Even though I eat a balanced diet, I try to stay away from unhealthy foods (try being the operative word). And, if you look at my grandfather, I have a similar body-type.

If I wanted to, I could pack on 20 pounds to make everyone happy, only I wouldn’t be happy. This is the way I look, and I like my body in an afterschool special sort of way. If they don’t like it, that’s too bad.

Sadly, I think after eating for two weeks straight during the holidays, my mother might get her wish. Fuck.