Not Wanting So Much Skin In The Game
A friend of mine had planned to go to England in October to get away from the electoral clamor and clash. He had arranged to swap his apartment in that part of Brooklyn where all the celebrated writing couples in brownstones live, with their one or possibly two children, and send them to the local public schools, and the ghosts of potsie-players past still humanize the stoops of Park Slope -- for a house in a small village, all sermons, and marmite and Ribena and choccy biccies, and Dr. Syntax picturesqueness, and a hint of skimmington-rides on a summer night. I won't tell you the name of the village. But I don't think I'd be betraying his confidence if I let you know that it is located somewhere between the Somerset Levels and the Norfolk Broads.
But I just this morning received a call from him telling me that he's had to cancel the flat-swap,at the last possible minute, because he did his sums and figured out that right now he's got to start saving his pennies. Why? Oh, I forgot to mention that until a year ago my fried was quite plump. For a long time it didn't seem to bother him. Then he finally tired, at parties and concerts and vernissages, of sensing from the facial expressions of the monde's beau-brummels (the ones with tattoos snaking up both arms) that they were subrosily asking, just before being introduced and forced politeness kicked in, "Who's your fat friend?" He made up his mind. And he went at weight-loss with a vengeance. He took on two impersonal trainers, an energetic couple, Mr. Exercise Manual, and Mrs. Vegetarian Cookbook, and managed to lose, he told me, 70 pounds (anglice, five stone) within a year. But that has led to a different problem, which is why he felt he had to cancel his English stay. For how now to pay for a panniculectomy? He doesn't, you see, want to have quite so much skin in the game.
Posted on 07/19/2012 11:48 AM by Hugh Fitzgerald