A little background: A few years ago, I made a pact with a good friend of mine. We'd both quit smoking cold turkey and never have a cigarette again. To enforce this decision, we agreed on a penalty: If either of us breaks our pact, the guilty party has to streak for a full mile through the main street of our town during the coldest time of the year, at rush hour. And, worst of all, all of our friends would be notified beforehand. The bet is for life, and the penalty is per cigarette, by the way. If one of us caves in and smokes a pack to honor his 80th birthday, the whole city is in for a hell of an interesting February.
Yes, we were drunk when we drafted this thing. Why do you ask?
I'm sharing this story with you for two reasons: One, to specify my particular brand of lunacy, and two, because the second I stopped smoking, my ass started ballooning like Kanye's ego. As years crept by, I went from a reasonably fit 160-pounder to 220 pounds of man slab, never really noticing anything until doorways started getting narrower and people began avoiding standing directly in front of me for fear that my shirt buttons could go ballistic and take an eye out.