I'm a weight Nazi!

Courtesy of Raktim Chatterjee at
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    'Wow, he's a big lad,' I said to Mrs Jones as we sat together on the settee watching our twice-weekly dollop of Judge Judy. 'Look at that gut; when was the last time he saw his knees, not to mention his bits and pieces!'

The victim of my verbal assault was a young man in his early 20s, standing before the solemn queen of arbitration in an attempt to sue his ex-girlfriend for the cost of an engagement ring. Clad in a grey suit and black tie, he clearly had made an effort to dress appropriately for Court. Articulate and respectful, he outlined the rationale for his claim. Thinking back, his demeanour suggested a pleasant, intelligent human being. But at the time I ignored those qualities, my attention focused only on the straining lower buttons of his white cotton shirt as they struggled to contain a wodge of overhanging flab demanding its freedom.      

I used to be a nice man. Size didn’t matter – except, of course, when creasing the sheets in the midst of lust – it was only behaviour and personality that counted when evaluating another human being. But that all changed in 2013 when a self-imposed exercise programme resulted in me shedding my beer-belly and 30 pounds.

Since my conversion from a chubby slob to thoroughbred athlete (don’t puncture my delusional bubble – it’s hard enough to maintain a positive self-image at 56), I’ve developed an obsession with people’s shapes and, like reformed smokers, I am now the harshest critic of those who are yet to change their ways. When meeting males for the first time, I zoom in on their contours and mass. Does he carry more than one chin? Are there any man-boobs lurking under his outer garments? Is that a poorly inflated rubber ring clinging to his waste or a swathe of whale blubber?

I know my reactions are distasteful, ignorant and sometimes repulsive. My rational self often immediately challenges my prejudicial thoughts:

‘Don’t be a fatist; you’re no better than a racist, sexist or any other “ist”’

‘If you must form opinions of others, look further than their physical appearance’

‘Never judge a book by its cover’

‘Some people are born to be bigger than others; it’s in their genes’

‘There are unfortunate folk with medical conditions that render weight loss difficult, even impossible’.

 

I’m familiar with all these retorts and believe them to be morally and factually sound. But there is an emotional, almost instinctive part of me that is impossible to restrain. Feel free to unfriend me now; I’ll understand.

Nor is my discriminatory gaze exclusive to males. When I’m introduced to a woman one of my first thoughts is, ‘How firm is her butt?’ A close second is, ‘What proportion of her breasts are pure mammary rather than excess poundage?’ And so my internal conflict is triggered again, my emotive prejudice challenged by my rational and moral values.

I often feel compelled to explain my turmoil to Mrs Jones. When she catches me staring at women’s arses and boobs I’m at pains to point out that I’m not yearning for soft, silky, tender, warm, succulent female flesh … …[* breath quickens*] … … but struggling to resolve my internal conflict. She is not yet convinced!

 

 

         

 

     

 

 

 

Measuring up

I recently stumbled upon an article in Medical News Today titled ‘What is the average penis size?’ My curiosity pricked – it’s my scientific mind, you know – I read on. Apparently, the average length of the male member is about 3.4 inches (8.5 cms) when flaccid, and 5.5 inches (14 cms) when fully erect.

Seconds later, I’m rummaging in Mrs Jones’ sowing tin for the tape measure, hands trembling with anticipation. After a fruitless search among the needles and threads, I shifted the pursuit to my toolbox – the puns just keep on coming; whoops, there’s another one – until I located the spring-loaded tape, and retired to the bathroom to determine how I measured up.

I’m sure most men will be familiar with the process of penis measurement, but I doubt whether many have carried out the procedure deploying a steel-bladed, automatic-locking device with push-button retraction; you’ll be familiar with the contraption, the one that closes like a mouse trap when you press the ‘recoil’ knob. Suffice it to say that, at the age of 56, I almost earned entry into the Guinness Book of Records for the oldest man to perform a do-it-yourself circumcision.

Smug with the realisation that I was comfortably within the average range (albeit after a fair bit of burrowing into the testicular region), I returned, reassured, to read the remainder of the article. One study had reported that women’s satisfaction with the sexual act depended more on penis girth than length. My eyes scoured the text for the relevant data: the average circumference of the trouser-snake is 3.7 inches (9.5 cms) at slumber and 4.7 inches (12 cms) when reporting for duty; cue round two of jousting with the steel tape measure.

After the discovery that my member was again firmly within the average range, not even the loss of 50 units of O-negative could erase my self-satisfied grin.

Apparently, there are cultural differences in average penis size. It seems that Indian men were dealt an inferior stack when the todger cards were distributed, their average length falling a crucial half-inch short of their American counterparts. So it’s New Delhi rather than New York as a destination for me this summer; brace yourselves Keshika, Sita and Shefali, big Bryan – or comfortably-in-the-average-range Bryan - is on his way.