Ftrain, by Paul Ford

Much guessing at lunch. The web is usually forthcoming, but has no answers when it comes to tandoori chicken and cooked basmati rice; nor, I suppose, would the surly men behind the counter at the delicatessen be able to provide me with helpful calorie count (and a hug).

Nor do I know how much anything weighs-- my phone is six ounces, but my hand is so used to it that it's hard to register it as weight. Lunch, the eternal puzzle. There were samosas; there were oily sauces; there were delightful ethnic cookies in brightly-colored packages; but I had a kebab of bright orange chicken, rice, and no sauce. My assessment of this lunch is, I think, on the high side (or perhaps on the low side; who knows?), but I doubt it's off by more than 200 calories either way. At this point that is a paltry sum. And it will remain a mystery for the ages.

I am two weeks into my lifestyle change, or diet, or doomed experiment, or life-affirming change, and it's remarkable how many people find my ass an engaging topic. I started a list:

• The "legitimate" weight-loss industry
• The "utterly corrupt" weight-loss industry
• The fat acceptance community
• People who say shit on the street
• Weight loss research scientists
• People who hate fat people
• Most doctors
• People with advice
• Bariatric surgery advocates
• Mike Huckabee
• The pharmaceutical industry
• The fitness industries
• Makers of Rascal scooters
• Food distributors
• Casual Male Big & Tall
• Furniture makers
• Farmers and food conglomerates
• Hippies
• Belt manufacturers
• Gourmands
• Makers of delicious treats
• Mom
• Dad
• The New York Times
• Fertilizer firms
• (And thus) Oil companies
• The bagel industry

Behold! I am in point of fact not merely a terrible fatty. I am a cherished and important creature; much debate is occurring in the firmament as I grind my bones and plow the ground. It feels as if I am of as great an interest, and as oft-discussed, as the Negro of 1960, or the Suffragette of 1910. Of course I lack the native dignity of their oppression, for my condition is self-induced, not some genetic or cultural accident (or not... ).

Everyone wants to know: What is to be done? Staring up I see peering, judgmental adults with clipboards and protest signs, offering lap bands and cupcakes, poking me, smiling, frowning. They watch every move. I know exactly what I am. I am the new national baby.