“Baker’s Belly”

Dear Friend,

A warm home provides no shelter from the week’s rain and chill. The cold, damp darkness found a way inside and I can’t open the blinds. Once benign symptoms manifest into something more serious and impossible to ignore. Simple tasks become chores – getting out of bed, putting on pants, going up and down the stairs. Shoulders hunch under the load and once-confident strides slow into shuffled steps. The burden will soon be unbearable.

The scale confirms what my mirror and mood suggest: I’m putting on the pounds.

The more motivated souls use quarantine as a forcing function of self-improvement. They fulfill aspirations long delayed by commutes, career ladders, and the distractions of life outside the home. The only thing I am filling is my face. Sure, I’m improving as a baker, but at a cost I was not prepared to pay, no matter the amount on the stimulus check. I’ve developed what can only be described as “baker’s belly.”

At first we all enjoyed the fresh breads, brownies, cookies, and breakfast pastries. But when stress eating, the satisfaction of every bite is as empty as the calories. The sweetness is overpowered by the bitterness of self-loathing as I consume another dozen cookies.

Mary adds an emotional weight I must carry along with what’s already around my waist. She compares me to her ripped Ken dolls as we play Barbie. I watch the glow fade from her eyes when she looks at me after ogling a shirtless Ken. It is the look of a child realizing the frailty of her father. The light inside me dims. The fire reduced to weak embers just warm enough to bake another batch of brownies.

Staring at the scale in disgust,

J.S. Alvin

P.S. Baked goods reduced Baby James to pure id. He demands sweets for every meal. When told he must finish his food before treats, he throws his plate on the floor, declares the meal complete, and demands a cookie.