I Drew This

One of the downsides to being a once-growing lad, is the assumption by all and sundry that just because you are a man with a healthy appetite, you’ll eat anything.

I guess I’m not completely innocent as far as creating this assumption goes. I do remember sitting in the high school cafeteria one day at recess, inhaling my usual bag of chicken twisties, then looking up to see Simone Young looking at me in astonishment. Her mouth was open in shock. Mine was open because I was literally pouring a bag of cornstarch snacks down my gullet. I was frightfully embarrassed and have tried to tone it down ever since.

It can’t all be me.

Over the past year I’ve been having regular fitness tests. When I started, I was graded as being older than I really am. Once I got right into the regular exercise, I got right down to being a 20-year-old again. But I’ve kind of slipped back and am now in my mid-to-late 20s. My cholesterol is at the high end of normal. Still okay but nearly not. And for the last six months I’ve been 4 – 5 kilos heavier than I’ve ever been (except for the summer of ’96 but that’s another story).

Sometimes when the kids won’t eat, C says “Daddy will eat it”. Or if we’re out having pizza and there’s one slice left, someone will say “Here, Drew. Have another slice”. Or if we’re having elevenses at work and there’s a leftover cupcake, someone invariably says “Oh, you’ll eat another one, won’t you Drew?” And, sure, I will—because they’re just so tasty, but I don’t like the fact that it’s expected I will.

I used to produce a show at a local radio station every weekend. On Saturdays we had a half-hour break from 8 to 8.30 am. I would walk down the road and get a pie for breakfast, as the bakery would have just opened and they were fresh and fantastic (memories of that summer of ’96 flooding back but this was only one day a week). The presenter called me Fatty Finn despite the fact I was a good 10 kilos lighter than him.

So I don’t really want to be regarded as some kind of human waste disposal. Every time someone suggests I finish something which, to all intents and purposes has already been finished, I feel like George Costanza taking that éclair out of the bin and putting it down his throat as I once did with that bag of twisties.

I’ve just read all that back and I’m not exactly painting myself in the best light. Maybe I am just a repository for leftovers.

I think I’ll start wheeling myself out to the kerbside on Tuesday nights.