Body types, shapes, and styles fascinate me. I don’t know why exactly, but they’re an endless source of visual stimulation. Especially the odd ones. Male and female shapes are usually different, but sometimes they’re so similar it’s almost unsettling. Sometimes I wonder how they can manage their routine tasks. This may stem from my being average in most cases; my height, weight, and hair color it’s a mid-brown to those who haven’t known me for a bit are all considered the norm.
There’s the obvious ones: the L.P.s, super talls, ultra-slims, or morbidly obese. The secondary common ones: chest as far out as gut with skinny legs, the skinny above the waste with thick thighs, or the tiny chest with cut that ends at—or just hangs over—the belt the pear. No one has much of a choice when it comes to shape because it’s all based on a predetermined base structure. It’s just the luck or not of the draw. They get me transfixed.
But then there are others that really stand out as unclassified. One such shape I see sometimes in the mornings and rarely on my way back to the rail keeps haunting my lids. The guy looks to be in his late thirties. He wears glasses, his hair is short and parted to the right, and he’s normally dressed in jeans and a polo. A very large polo. He typically walks in tennis shoes and wears a medium sized backpack.
Here’s where things get captivating and maybe graphic: I have no idea how his shape is held together. This is going to sound mean I mean no disrespect, but the fat that he’s gained—he weighs at least two hundred seventy-five pounds, but could be as much as three hundred fifty—doesn’t seem to be attached to any structure. It appears to be held in only by the small layer of skin and whatever clothes he happens to be wearing.
From the top of his head comes a large sack of fat that is cut off by his collar. It overruns it slightly, but at least creases at the button. Then his arms bulge at the shoulder and the fat of his forearms hangs heavy under his elbow. His watch cinches the fat at his wrist tightly before it consumes his hand. His chest would be considered a barrel shape, but forms two large man-breasts moobs inside the tight-fitting shirt. They are not larger, but much wider than those of Meatloaf in Fight Club. From there his belly spreads about all sides and there’s a failed attempt by his belt to hold it in before it slumps to within a few inches of his knees. A bit over it overhangs the belt, but not unlike an iceberg most of it’s mass is hidden within his slacks. His legs are thick, but almost completely cylindrical to his feet.
Why is this odd in the fattest country on the planet? Because most fat grows into pockets. Love handles, turkey neck, beer belly, and cankles are all terms to describe this. Because the body is instinctively active, certain relatively inactive areas become resting places for the fat deposits. This man’s triglyceride chill zones seem more determined by his style of dress than his posture or stride. To gain his squishy, amorphous form he must have dedicated himself to inactivity for almost his entire life or has the most unfortunate set of genes this side of Levi cutoffs get it??.
I don’t hold any ill will toward the man. He’s likely a very nice fellow. I’m sure he’s more active than he’s given credit and is probably just unlucky. But that doesn’t change the fact that he has one of the most exceptional shapes of anyone I’ve recently laid eyes. And for that sir, thank you.