Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.

I’ve decided that I’m allergic to my facial hair.

And that, in and of itself, is an odd thing to know about myself, because for years I couldn’t stand facial hair. Not a goatee, not a moustache, not the hint of a 5 o’clock shadow.

It seems that, without even realizing it, though, that I’ve changed my mind on the issue. Out of nowhere it seems I sprouted a full beard, and kept it.

Until it started itching, and I had no choice but to shave it.

When I did, I realized why I’d allegedly grown one in the first place: I was fat. 

Somehow, maybe even overnight, fat entered my body and built a food court. I quickly grew bloated and stayed that way (I just saw the camp pictures to prove it). I swelled around my neck, and jaw, and most predominantly around my stomach. And trust me, if I could grow a beard down there, I would.

Because that’s what beards are meant for: hiding fat.

Although, that secret is out…everyone knows the benefits of facial hair. If only there were a way to market it to women that made the idea of facial hair feminine and comely, there’d be not one hairless face in this country.

This is on my mind of course because today my beard started itching again, and I know the only course of action will be to shave it. I’m sitting here trying to think of creative manscaping techniques that would both relieve me of the constant irritation the hair causes my face and yet, still retain the illusion that I’m not as fat as I think I am.

Like you, I think I’m far heavier than I know I am. It’s easier to think the worst than to recognize the truth. Always has been.

But, thinking won’t change a thing, won’t lose a pound. That, I’ll have to do the hard way, the old-fashioned-elbow-grease-pretend-you’re-really-doing-it-for-your-blood-pressure-which-has-contributed-to-the-early-onset-of-diabetes way.

I hate this way. But, there you go. There you have it.

I’m not sure I can shave my face into what I did last week. Last week I tried a soul patch which I thought was rather sexy, but good grief, it elicited many unexpected, sexual responses from people who saw me and my _______. (Sorry, I just can’t repeat what one person called it).

I guess everything’s not ‘’a cigar,” huh.  If we built this city on rock and roll, then we constructed the suburbs out of Grade A, pre-Fab innuendo. 

And as good as I think I look in a beard, it comes with some regrets.

For instance, most people think I don’t look good in a beard. That’s hard. Worse, my nephews don’t like to hug me now because the beard is scratchy; it’s very difficult to hold a toddler in your arms, to hug him, when he’s pulling with all his three-year-old might away from your face and your “cheek needles.” Oh and then there’s this:  The other day I was eating lunch, a sandwich with mayonnaise, mustard, the works, and was very absorbed in both my work and food.  A woman whom I didn’t know approached me and told me something else I also didn’t know: I had a glob of mayonnaise hanging on for dear life in my beard, below my chin.  Like a marshmallow.

Yet another Good Samaritan.

I wiped it away, thanked her, and immediately became embarrassed. Had she not said anything, I would have walked right into my meeting, unaware that I’d be wearing a small part of my Blue Plate Special.

It’d be different if I could wear fat well, like my mother.

Or, if, as I overheard in a conversation today, I had “a tan.” The exact comment was “something, something, no, no, I disagree. You can’t be fat unless you’re tan. Otherwise, it just won’t work.”

I often wonder why I’m obsessed with fat and body image, my previous eating disorders aside. And I think I’ve made myself believe it wasn’t about control as much as stability. Being thin, like I was as a child, was akin to being put into protective custody. (Well, that, and the fact that I’m too cheap to buy new clothes, so the ones I do wear remain a size too small).

But what about now that I’m an adult? What about now that I’m more or less stable, and for that matter, in control?  Because leading up to this mountain-top experience of being a responsible adult, I did a complete 180, and gained all that weight back and more. Gaining weight made those around me happy, but I was still miserable.

And fat. And un-tanned. 

Still am.

Except…I’m not miserable. Because I had an epiphany awhile back, about fat.

So, no, I’m not miserable. Just a healthy eater. And cook. And tennis player. And director. And writer. Friend. Confidante. Explorer. Bon Vivant. Lover. Reader. Jokester. Curmudgeon. Son. Uncle. Nephew. Diplomat. Arbiter. Actor. 

Person.

Human.

Which, just from the size of that partial list above, is hard to be—remembering all the things we are, all the people that we become on a daily basis. I mean, it’s easy to forget who all you are sometimes and get stuck on those parts we feel unable to change or change quickly enough, like weight.

But it’s so important to be reminded of a vital, crucial truth—body image, weight, those are only parts of the whole.

So, I’m fat. Ok, or overweight, whatever. In truth, all I have to do is step back and look at the bigger picture to see that being “fat” is really just a small part of it.

And to know that I don’t have to sit there and stare at that particular corner of the picture, all day.

Please, how could I?  For crying out loud, I’m a Cook-Writer-Jokester-Lover-Tennis Player, I’ve got work to do.

Don’t you?

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