Growing old and fat

And happier

“Sad teats” (or “tetas tristes” in Portuguese).

That was my nickname for a while in middle school back in Terra Brasilis. Bullies have a way of finding something about you that makes you feel small, and their target of choice for that period was how my nipples showed through my shirt sticking out from my chubby chest. My solution was to lift my shirt and use my belly folds as a mouth to talk back at them. It got the laughs and took their power away. But in the process, I put myself in my place. The place of the jester that exists to be made fun of and contempt himself with whatever he can get. And that included girls, of which I didn’t have a lot of chances anyway.

I’ve always been chubby, and I can’t say I ever cared (which is a very man thing to say). I could hold my own on a field playing sports because I had the smarts and knew how to be of value and pull my weight without having to be athletic. I had my group of friends because I was funny and did most of the group assignments myself, and I was also cool because I was in a band (or did I play music to look cool?). I was there to take any scraps of affection I could because that’s what’s available for nerdy chubby boys.

The girls. Obsessing how to get any girl to pay attention to me was all-consuming, constant and exhausting. It was only made worse by seeing how easy the skinny, good-looking guys had it, hearing them complaining about how tough it was to decide between the many girls chasing them and if it was okay to date more than one at once. I remember a small drama with a crush and a teammate once, and a coach pulling me to the side and saying that “The girls you’re after have a lot of catching up to you to do. It’s hard now, but you wait until you’re older”. I remember my beautiful 13-year-old mind wondering what the fuck all of that meant. How much older? What does catching up even mean?

I understood it at some point. I stopped caring about my physical appearance (which is a very early 20s man thing to say). And girls somehow appeared. Some interesting, others interesting enough. Mostly, any girl showing any interest in me would immediately get my all. But finding girls stopped being a life obsession. Figuring out how to have a relationship with one became the central focus. I had the smarts, for sure, but not the emotional type. I strung a series of relationships that had their good moments but also settled for okay more often than I should. There are lots of books on how to deal with other people’s feelings, but unfortunately, people don’t tend to respond to things like books say they would. My skills in making people laugh in uncomfortable situations kept things going for a while.

At some point, I looked in the mirror, and although the sad tits and talking belly were the same as always, something else didn’t feel right. My sagged shoulders and weak limbs told me I wasn’t the best version of myself. My body felt incapable and underused. I noted I was less and less able to pull my weight in the team sports I took part in, only to compensate for it by being a dick to my teammates because they weren’t working hard to offset my lack of value.

Getting into proper exercise wasn’t easy. The memory of the fit, muscular guys making fun of me came rushing back in. The will to be funny to take away their power screamed. But this time, people were supportive. I found a crew. I also found strength, both physical and mental. I summoned the energy to get out of an energy-sucking relationship and trusted myself to set a bar higher than ever for who I wanted to be with. I was still chubby, but I realised I could want more.

I found someone who blew that bar to smithereens. I was much older, yet I had much catching up to do. She had the smarts, she found me interesting, I obsessed with her, and I could hold my own emotionally. We had kids, I saw her getting sick in the process and coming out of it wanting to be healthier. I embraced it with her. We had our own assignments but worked as a team.

Today, being chubby doesn’t matter (which is a very late 30s man thing to say). Girls don’t matter anymore, I married the best one already. The sad teats remain as a reminder of youthful days. I’m the strongest, healthier, and most athletic I’ve ever been. Attempts to lose any weight go nowhere, change of metabolism have a way of sneaking up on you. The cultural conditioning for wanting to lose weight is intense and annoying. 13-year-old me still feels a twinge of self-consciousness taking his shirt off at the beach. But I also don’t lose sleep or a good meal over it.

I’m older, and everything feels easier even though grown-up problems are more complex and meaningful. I don’t need to take the power away from anyone, even if they are a bully, because I have my power now. I can be chubby and want the best for me.

And regardless of what my sad teats might look like, I’m happy.

Don’t ask.

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A book I really enjoyed on the topic of growing up as a boy is Of Boys and Men by Richard Reeves.

What are some of the things that were hard for you as a teenager that you got better at?