Still, I didn't bother
much. I thought I was lingering round about two hundred and
thirty-five--too much, of course; but I got away with it pretty well,
except in hot weather and when I went up in the high mountains, and I
was reasonably content. I was fat, all right. My waist was only two
inches smaller than my chest and that meant my waist was forty-four
inches in girth. As a matter of fact, being scant five feet ten and a
half, I was bigger than a house; but I deluded myself with that stuff
about my broad shoulders and my deep chest, and thought it didn't show.
It did show, of course. I was a fat man--a big fat man--carrying forty
pounds or more of excess weight.
I had dieted and quit; exercised and quit; gone on the waterwagon and
fallen off; had fussed round a good deal, spending a lot of money in
the attempt, and I was getting fatter all the time. I hated to admit
that fact. I tried to fool myself into the conviction that I wasn't
getting any larger--and all the time I knew I was. I even went so far
as to stop getting on the scales; and when anybody--as almost everybody
did--said, "Why, you're getting bigger, ain't you?" I always replied:
"No, I think not.
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