My mother always told me that I wasn’t fat, but I was fluffy, but now I find myself asking, how fluffy is too fluffy? I gaze upon myself in the mirror, replaying my conversation with my doctor in my head.
“Mr. Iglesias, I’m sorry to tell you this but with your current eating and drinking habits there is a possibility you may only live another two years,” my doctor sighed. I was taken aback. The whole world went silent as a lump formed in my throat. I wanted to find the words to reply but instead I felt as though I just swallowed a large pill without water. After what felt like long, empty hours, I finally was able to force out a reply.
“O-oh, thank you for telling me. Um, what do you suggest I do?”
“Well, I would recommend cutting down on fast food and alcohol,” my doctor explained, “perhaps some regular exercise could help you reduce your weight as well.”
“Right, thank you,” and with that, I hung up the phone. That conversation keeps drilling further and further into my head. The thought of it feels as though the weight of my own body were compressed into my mind. What am I going to do? Being Fluffy is what built up my career, what will happen when Fluffy loses his “fluff”? Then again, what will happen when there is no Fluffy at all? There is a sudden ache in my legs, carrying the burden of my weight must have really taken a toll on them. My breathing feels heavy and my body just wants to collapse. At this moment, I just wish to exist as a blob on the floor, just a sleeping blob. “Come on Gabe, you can’t keep going on like this,” I sigh aloud, “ you know you can’t.” I haul myself to the couch and flop down into the cushions. Let this just be a problem for tomorrow Gabriel.
The next morning I rolled off the couch, feeling as heavy as yesterday, possibly even heavier. I rub my eyes and grasp onto the arm of my sofa to haul myself up. “ I swear that isn’t getting any easier,” I grumble to myself. I slouch over to the fridge, feeling the same aching pain behind my legs as before. I yank open the fridge door and let my eyes wander over the contents, scanning to see what I can have for breakfast. My eyes immediately land on the takeout box with leftover Chipotle from yesterday, and the conversation with my doctor immediately replays in my head. I sigh as I force my eyes to draw away from the takeout box, instead reaching for a cup of yoghurt. As I plop myself into a chair, I think over my health situation. My doctor does seem to have a point with my eating habits. I do often indulge in unhealthy meals, Chipotle and The Hat definitely being big factors. I have also been consuming a lot of alcohol lately, so much so that it sometimes feels like I need it to fall asleep, and I feel horrible every time.
I breathe in deeply as I take a bite of my yoghurt, savoring the light strawberry flavor before swallowing. It feels much lighter than what I am used to, it doesn’t weigh down my stomach with fatty meats and spices. Rather, it feels quite refreshing and leaves me wanting to eat more, or that could just be my growing hunger. This feeling is much better that what I’ve felt over the last few hours, maybe there’s a chance that I can make it through this. Two years, Fluffy only has two years as he is now, but he can change. I can do this, I can find ways to lose weight, and I can make sure Fluffy will be back on stage better than ever. I don’t have to give in, I can figure out ways to work through this! I stand up, wincing at the pain in my legs. I need to do this, I must work towards losing weight, not just for myself, but for everyone I care about. My friends, my family, my fans, myself, I will put in the work and I won’t give up. I will get through this, and the world will get to see another day of Gabriel “Buffy” Iglesias.