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“Hey, Wanky!” said the email, “Let’s check your chub!”

I said to myself, after checking the sender’s address and noting that it was from a respectable, upstanding person, “That can’t mean what I think it means.”

So I started over:

“Hey, Wanky! Let’s check your chub! I bought two tickets to the Body Spectrum fat scanner, one for you and one for me. It’s in Santa Monica–we could pedal over after the Friday coffee ride. What do you say?”

I said, “What in the world are you talking about?”

She said, “It’s this thing where they tell you your fat content, bone density, menstrual proportionality, and cranio-fibular viscosity.”

I said, “I already know my fat content: too much.”

She said, “But it will be FUN!”

I said, “Do they dunk you in a vat of kryptonite? Or is it the deal where they strip you naked and pluck your fat off the underlying tissue with those torture pincers?”

She said, “Neither. They just lay you on a table and scan you.”

I said, “With what? A bar code reader?”

She said, “No, silly, with x-rays.”

I said, “I don’t want to get irradiated like a piece of food being prepared for a bomb shelter just to be told I’m chubby.”

She said, “It’s free.”

I said, “Okay.”

As we pedaled over to Bulletproof Coffee, where I had a large cup of coffee made with a stick of butter, I said to her, “Look, I know my fat content. It’s between 13 and 15 percent, give or take a point. Guaranteed.”

She said, “How do you know?”

I said, “There are about 10,000 online fat calculators. Do ten of them, take the average, and that’s your fat. And no cancer-causing x-rays.”

She said, “But what about your bone density?”

I said, “My bones can’t be dense. I ride a bicycle and my resistance training consists of trying to resist having seconds. My bones are like peanut brittle, guaranteed.”

She said, “You’ll feel better knowing.”

I said, “I never feel better knowing. I always feel better imagining.”

We got to Body Spectrum and they very nicely made me take all the metal out of my pockets. I asked if I could leave in my fillings and the plate in my head. They said yes.

The nice lady scanned my body. Then a different nice lady sat down with me to review the results.

She said, “You are not fat.”

I said, “Did someone say I was?”

She said, “But you have some fat around your viscera.”

I said, “You mean I’m chubby inside?”

She said, “Yes, but not unhealthily so.”

I thought about Wednesday when we went to the coffee shop and the nice counter girl asked if were a cyclist. I was wearing floppy shorts and a t-shirt and all my friends were wearing stretch underwear. “No,” I said. “I’m just a person.”

“I didn’t think you were a cyclist. You look ill … ”

“I do?” I asked.

” … suited. I meant to say ill-suited to be a cyclist.”

I gave her no tip for service, but a $5 tip for being so unintentionally cruel.

Back with the chubby checker, things were better. “Your numbers look good,” she said. “16.3% body fat is fine. You might want to do some resistance training, something to build bone density.”

I started to tell her about all the second helpings I was resisting, and all the booze I’d resisted in Germany, but didn’t. I quit while I was ahead.

q

100% butter made with pure butter.

END

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