hedonisticfeedee
The Office Hog
Published: July 19th 2019, 12:07:20 pm
I hate everything about summer. Well, maybe not everything, but I believe we can all agree that there’s plenty to hate about summer. Let me say it again for people in the back. SUMMER SUCKS...if you’re fat. My weight keeps skyrocketing and nothing I do works, but no one believes I’m trying hard enough. Summer just exacerbates the problem.
Everyone loves to complain about winter, but the damn moment when you say that summer is a living hell, people ask in disbelief, “How do you hate summer? What’s wrong with you?”
My definition of summer is three whole months of torture and bitterness. Let’s be honest here. At a whopping 682 pounds of lard, I’m not build for any of this. People keep asking me to do stuff with them on the weekend, but why go out when I can eat and lay around? Getting around is hard.
Working in the summer is even worse! Your coworkers will invite you to extravagant pool parties. Pool parties are out of the question for me because my coworkers make fun of my ballooning physique. Last year when I was 579 pounds I tried to go to Erik’s pool party.
“Look out! It’s Shamu!” shouted Sandy as I came out of Erik’s side door to the patio.
My massive, stretch mark-riddled sides pushed against the door frame. The wave of heat hit me and I was sweating and panting immediately. I should have known it wouldn’t be safe to waddle to the pool without a shirt.
My fat folds were pushing forward and out, at the mercy of gravity. If I wore a speedo instead of trunks I would’ve looked naked on top of afraid. My tits were massive and saggy, hanging past my diaphragm. My entire body was scarred with stretch marks due to soda chugging in the heat and a spring filled with Girl Scout cookies.I vowed then and there to never take off my shirt in front of my coworkers again.
You also have to pretend to be crazy for fresh fruit, something I haven’t touched in years, but my coworkers eat it all summer. It’s better when it’s cold out. Halloween candy goes on sale on November 1st. Thanksgiving comfort foods follow right into December with chocolate. I drink a lot in January and when February hits there’s even more chocolate. It is pure bliss and sugary orgasms from October to February. I guess it’s no surprise I’ve piled on the pounds during those months with an office job.
Fortunately, I work for a university that blesses us with air conditioning in the summer months. During this timeframe, my job is to advise students on classes at orientation. I typically enjoy the energy of the first time, first year students. However, my coworkers are being particularly brutal to me today. I have a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach.
As soon as the clock hits 8:30 a.m. I waddle into office suite 160, labeled Undergraduate Advising, with my bag of McDonald’s.
“Ermph. Good morning, Jay,” states Lynne coldly.
“Good morning,” I reply with as much enthusiasm to the desk clerk.
She rolls her eyes and snipes, “I see you wore suspenders again today. Third time this week, isn’t it? I like the belt better. That way you can hide that overhang. Suspenders makes it all hang out.”
I ignore her and adventure on with my bag full of treasure: 4 hash browns, 3 bacon, egg, and cheese bagels, and 2 McGriddles. My flabby thighs rub against each other like sandpaper through my custom-fitted khaki pants. Why is my desk so far away? I eventually make it to my beautiful desk, panting. The first thing I do is turn on my white desk fan to get some air circulating, before opening up my email. My hand fumbles in the bag, picking up morsel after morsel and shove the sustenance in my greasy mouth. A ping appears on my email.
“A work order has been put in for the Elevator due to operating concerns. ‘Out of Order’ signs have been placed on the elevator doors on each floor to dissuade use.
Craig Wright
Administrative Associate, Office of the Dean”
This will take no time to fix - it never does - so I delete Craig’s reminder. I go through my inbox email by email while inhaling my breakfast. My greasy fingers hit delete on all of the emails without serious inquiries. Summer also means mostly junk mail as students don’t have questions or issues. I go through meeting reminders, coupons for healthy restaurants, and even office prank emails sending me guides on bariatric surgery. After about an hour I decide it is time to make it to the Technology Lab for orientation.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake. Seriously?” I spit at the associate in the Dean’s office. Craig gives me an eye roll and continues taping a sign with red letters spelling O U T O F O R D E R on the shiny gray elevator doors. He turns around and we start a heated staring contest.
“Do you really expect someone of my size to make it to the technology lab on the second floor on the stairs?” I growl.
Craig replies without missing a beat “I don’t know what to tell you. I sent out the email earlier this morning.”
“I figured it would be up again by now. Why don’t we have an emergency elevator or a second elevator on the other side of the lobby?!” I pout like a child. The pain in my knees is already setting in from standing too long.
“Honestly, it would do you some good to get a little exercise. There are 300 faculty and staff members in this building. All of them can make it up the stairs without having a heart attack. Well, all but one apparently,” hisses Craig.
Jesus. What an asshole. My eyes turn to the lobby’s staircase as I cringe. I amble forward, knowing that I’ll have to make the journey by aching foot. Craig laughs and walks away while shouting, “You’ll be too big for the elevator soon anyways. It only holds 1500 pounds!”
One step at a time is all I need to worry about. I take my first step with my right leg. Then, I hoist my body up and place my left leg on the steps. I do it again, feeling nauseated, worried I’ll lose my balance. My hand drags along the hand rail as I repeat the movements. Fuck. My breathing is heavier and my legs are tingling, but still somehow growing numb. I keep going up. It dawns on me that my massive body is the entire width of the staircase. It’s only three more steps. My knees crackle and pop under my enormous weight. Two more stairs. If I fall there’s no way I will be able to pick myself back up. There, almost to the top! It feels like I’ve conquered Mount Everest despite moving at such a glacial pace.
I waddle to the computer lab and sit down. All my colleagues are already in their assigned computer blocks so they can advise their own students. I’m still catching my breath. I turn my computer on to get signed in to the registration software, but I feel more than the accusatory stares of my colleagues. I have my own Niagara Falls of sweat pouring from my body, dampening my clothes. The first impressions I make on these students are going to be my back stains and swamp-ass. I feel the stickiest I’ve felt in a long time.
The students file into the technology lab to discuss the step-by-step process of registering and discussing program requirements. I advise undecided students who have a general plan on what they would like to do after graduation, but they want to make sure the major is the right fit. The session this morning is small due to declining enrollment. My one student in this session walks over.
“My name is Tucker. You can call me Tuck for short. If you need to remember my name just think about a tummy tuck...” he trails off, suddenly realizing that what he said might be offensive to someone of my girth.
He takes a seat beside me and promptly logs in to the registration system on the Mac computer. I look at his admissions summary and discover he was admitted for track and field. How silly I look next to this 110 pound freshman who dedicated his high school and now college career to cross country running. He has abs, something I’ve never had and something I never will. I dwarf him at over six times his size. He gives me an odd look like he thinks my lungs will collapse and I’ll pass out.
I wheeze out “What do you want to major in, Tuck?”
“I think I’d like to major in Health and Human Performance. I just don’t know which track I would like to do. I’m thinking either Physical Education or Exercise Science,” replies Mr. Tummy Tuck.
“What is the end goal?” I huff back at him.
He grins “I want to either make the youth less obese by teaching gym or work as a physical therapist. Regardless, I know I’ll need a Master’s Degree eventually as well.”
“You’re right, let’s put you in courses that could go toward either track,” I compromise.
I show him how to use the system by copying the four digit course code into his enrollment shopping cart. I also hand him a mock schedule with a list of courses that I would absolutely hate to take. It comprises his general education courses, which aren’t too terrible: Academic Orientation, Introduction to College Writing, and Public Speaking. The rest of the list makes me cringe: First Aid and Safety, Healthy Lifestyles, Introduction to Athletics, and a Walking for Fitness course. He registers for all the mandatory courses first, before trying to fit in his health courses. Half an hour goes by quickly.
“What is Healthy Lifestyles?” He asks as he drags the course in his enrollment shopping cart.
“Well, uh...” I get flustered. “It is a course that covers sociological and psychological behaviors related to being healthy. It also specifically covers major health issues facing many Americans. You know, alcohol use, tobacco use, environmental stress...heart disease, diabetes, and... obesity,” I shy away from the topics knowing all of these things afflict my burning out body.
“Awesome. Do we become CPR certified in First Aid and Safety?” He asks.
I respond with a simple nod. However, Charlie, another Academic Counselor whispers “maybe he can perform CPR on Jay when his heart has finally had enough,” as if I couldn’t hear him.
I sigh and look at Tuck’s nearly finished schedule. I immediately notice an issue.
“Do you intend on eating lunch?” I ask.
“Yeah, why?” he looks over his schedule and realizes that his Tuesday and Thursday courses are stacked leaving him unable to eat until 3pm. I suggest moving his Healthy Lifestyles course to a Monday, Wednesday, and Friday section.
“I plan everything round lunch,” I gasp.
Charles once again makes a snide remark like “he plans his entire day around food. What a sad life.”
My blood is starting to boil, but I remain professional through the rest of the appointment. Finally, it is time for lunch. I was the last to get up stairs, but I was the first down them excited about getting to eat again. Fortunately, the elevator looks fixed and I take it down one floor. Maybe they are right. I might be just a little pathetic and unhealthy.
For the most part, the rest of my day goes smoothly. I order Jimmy Johns because that means I don’t have to go out in the oppressive heat. A driver delivers two sugary sodas, several sandwiches piled high with meets, and six chocolate chunk cookies. I devour them all during my lunch.
I mostly sit in my office the rest of the day until I get a ping on Skype for Business that my faculty brought leftover chocolate cupcakes from a recruitment event. I know I’m not supposed to have sugar, but I crave it. What’s another cupcake or what is it going to do at this point? I’m already diabetic. I waddle quickly to the break room hoping for stealth. My stomps, moans, and raspy breaths would give it away if Catherine wasn’t already in the break room splitting half a cupcake with Sandy.
They look at each other knowingly as I grab a plate from the oak table. There is a whole box of identical chocolate cupcakes with an assortment of sprinkles. They mischievously whisper as I load up a plate with 7 cupcakes and take a seat at the table.
“My kids watched Wall-E again last night. You know, the one about how fat people are totally helpless and basically destroy everything,” Catherine states with an obvious smile.
I unwrap the purple foil of the cupcake and eat it almost whole as Sandy responds with “My kids watched Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs again recently. That mayor gains a ton of weight because he doesn’t exercise and winds up stuck in a mobility scooter. That’s how it happens, you know. It starts with eating a few larger portions and skipping out on exercise. These people start using scooters. It’s a cycle and then they can’t even leave the bed they’ve made for themselves.”
As she finished her monologue, I finish all but one cupcake pretending to not listen. I feel their eyes on me as I start to shove the final cupcake on my plate into my mouth.”
Catherine starts again “that reminds me of My 600lb Life. It’s really sad. This one poor kid weighed almost half a ton and was only in his late twenties. I wonder if someone will take a hint and realize they need help, but they’d have to lose weight to qualify for the surgery. They don’t even savor their food. They just want more and more so they shove ungodly amounts of food in their mouths Hey Jay, aren’t you in your twenties?”
She is trying to trigger a spectacle and a spectacle I will give her. I take a cupcake and push it into my mouth top first getting the white icing on my mouth and chins. I pull the paper off of it before fitting the rest of it in my mouth. They look shocked as I reach for two more. The trance has me double fisting cupcakes as I sweat profusely. Some time passes before I realize I’ve finished the entire box and I finally make my way breathlessly out of the room hearing whispers from behind me.
“Those were supposed to be for everyone,” pouts Sandy.
*~*~*~*~*~*~*
That was probably my breaking point. I’m just sick of the torture both from coworkers and my body. I think maybe it’s time to realize I’m too big to work and function correctly.
“Sir, I didn’t ask for your life story. Besides, you’re going to be denied. Obesity is not a disability and you’re not going to be able to prove that any of your long list of conditions is enough to prevent you from working,” says the woman as she gives me an irritated look.
I just stand there giving her a blank stare. She continues with a condescending tone, “First, any applicant for disability must prove they are unable to perform work in a substantial way. Second, you must be unable to perform said work for 12 months. Third, you’re not disabled, you’re just fat. While I’m sure your weight has damaged your cardiovascular system and hindered your mobility, it’s just not enough for me to actually believe tax payers should foot the bill for someone so fat and lazy.”
I slam the pen and clipboard on the desk. I frustratedly huff and puff back to the waiting room area of the Social Security Office. There’s only one seat that looks big enough to hold me. I maneuver my lard ass into the tight chair. My hips are squeezed between two arm rests as my belly spills over the sides.
That’s when it all comes rushing to my mind. Fuck it. JUST FUCK IT. People always stare. The rude lady at this office thinks I’m obese. My co-workers think I’m a hog balloon. Why should I try to lose weight? Everyone knows I can’t. They want to see me blow up? Fine! I’ll show them just how big this enormous body can get before it gives out. Everyone expects it. Not unhealthy or immobile enough for disability? Did I not struggle to get up the stairs today? Just wait until I send someone to fetch the paperwork because I’m too big to leave my bed, lady. You want a disability, you’ll get a disability. I grunt getting up and waddle myself out of the office to make my way to feast at the nearest McDonald’s.