I'm Fat.

Hello.

That’s my scale, and my socks, on my feet, photographed last night from over my right shoulder, by Rachel Manteuffel, my partner. I hereby visit upon you the brain trauma that I am otherwise naked. I am five foot nine and a quarter inches tall. This results in a body mass index of 28.5, which is definitely overweight and about a week of obscene gobbling away from obese. My avoirdupois has never been this elevated.

I am not sure what to attribute this to, and am heroically resisting blaming Donald Trump. I don’t believe in scapegoating. Trump is fat. I am fat. I do not like to pair these two truths, but I admit they are unconnected. We are fat, me and Donald.

But. Butt ….

But I am going to make this about Trump because I, like you, am about to face the fight of my life — against this filthy slob who is savagely dismantling my country — and I want to be in fighting shape. Lean, supple. Angry. (Like you want to be, possibly.)

So how do I start?