One for the big guys
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I come from good stock, which means I’m big-boned, which means I’m a big guy, which is why my nickname has been Moose for the past 20 years.
In my football days, I was a lineman, and in my rugby days, I was a packie. I was a heavyweight wrestler, a heavyweight fighter, and I’ve never been what you might call “light on my feet.” I’m a bit of klutz, and one of my childhood nicknames was “grace,” a tongue-in-cheek joke between my parents and I.
The reason for my broad shoulders, massive head, square jaw and Christmas-ham thighs isn’t hard to pin down. My ancestry dates back to England, Poland, Germany and Ireland. Somewhere in my European bloodline there’s a Polish lumberjack who makes Paul Bunyan look like a girl scout; a Germanic tribesmen wielding a 10-foot club against the invading Roman army; a giant summoned by dark magic courtesy of the Guinness brewery’s original owner to drive the English from Ireland.
I have no awesome mythical creature or ancient ancestor for my one-quarter English blood. I have good teeth and hate tea, so I think the other three lineages overpowered that one.
My point is that I come from a large people: the people of northern Europe. It’s a snowy, harsh, rainy place where being husky meant you kept warmer easier, fought harder and often lived longer.
And here lies the problem: size no longer dictates whether or not I will survive from today until tomorrow. We live in the time of microwave ovens, public transportation, automobiles, fast food and desk jobs. I’m 6-foot-3 inches tall and weigh upwards of 260 pounds. If I exercise and eat right, I actually gain weight, even though I’m losing fat. No kidding; it’s like my muscles are programmed to inflate like balloons or something.
When I was fitted for my high school prom tuxedo rental, the guy had to fly a suit in for me from St. Louis, Mo. The reason? I had a 30-inch waist and 32-inch thighs. I don’t need to be this big anymore. It helped while I was an athlete, but even then my high school didn’t have pads big enough to fit me properly.
It’s honestly more of a hassle than anything else. If that guy had to fly in a suit from 300 miles away so I could wear it for one night, how easy do you think it is for me to find jeans that fit? They don’t make movie theatre chairs big enough for guys like me. I have a queen bed and my feet hang over the edge. My grandmother tried to buy me a pair of Keno’s, a Cuban-made sandal. They didn’t have a press big enough for my feet, so they had to be custom-made.
I’ve been bigger than everyone else since I was a kid, so this isn’t anything new. It’s something I’ve lived with for years and something I don’t mind dealing with. It’s become second nature to duck under doorways and ceiling fans, and if you break enough toilet seats you learn how to sit down and stand up with more than a little care.
Until last week, I was perfectly content to live in a little people’s world. Until last week, I’d laughed off the jokes and impolite stares, but no more. A straw has broken the camel’s back, and the camel is angry.
Whitefish Mountain Resort has a zip line tour through their park. A couple of friends invited me, and I’d never done it before, so I thought it might be a cool experience. I texted my roommate to find out what time they would be up there. His response was simple, direct and to the point.
“I think there’s a weight limit, bud. Call the resort and ask.”
No way, I thought. There can’t be a weight limit for something like that.
I called up the resort and spoke to a very nice young woman at the desk.
“Is there a weight limit on the zip line?”
“Yes, sir. It’s 230 pounds.”
“Really? What if I pay extra?” — doing my best to sound like a rich businessman.
“I’m sorry sir, they’re very strict.”
“Really? What if it’s a really cute guy who’s maybe 260 pounds but it’s all muscle? Did I mention he’s quite modest?” — Doing my best to sound charming.
“I’m sorry sir, not 1 pound over.”
No matter what I said, she wouldn’t budge. Just another roadblock for the terminally large, the perpetually big-boned, the big guys.
I write this now as a rallying cry to all the other misshapen creatures out there who don’t fit in because they broke the mold on the way out. I can’t be the only one who’s sick of chairs breaking and shirts ripping, ice cracking and cars shrinking. I can’t be the last modern-day Viking forced to sit in tiny chairs and wear tiny pants and drink out of tiny cups. Sure, we could palm a basketball when we were 10, but now we can’t buy gloves without slaughtering a herd of cattle.
Enough is enough. This is a stern and direct message to all you normal people: we want bigger stuff. If we do not get it within one month, we will stop helping you reach that can of soup on the top shelf. We will not help you push your cars when they break down; we will no longer help you rearrange furniture; and we will absolutely stop helping you move.
If we do not get bigger stuff within two months, the offensive lines of every major college and professional football team will stop blocking for your cute, cuddly, normal-sized quarterbacks and wide receivers. We will feed them to the pit bulls and German shepherds disguised as humans and commonly referred to as linebackers. And we will laugh.
If our demands are not met within three months, we will break every single toilet seat, and we will leave them up. Believe me when I say you do not want this. A sliver from a broken wood toilet seat in that area of your body is no laughing matter.
That is all for now. We will expect a response within the week. Sincerely, the Barrel-chested Irate Guys Society. BIGS, for short.
