I’m not one of those people to blame the world for this: I know that I eat what I shouldn’t, and plenty of it. I also know that, when my alarm goes off at 5:00 or before every morning, I’m not running three miles for the sake of my health and my belt size but taking care of things inside the house (job-related and domestic) that I could have taken care of the night before had I more personal drive or hired help. In other words, it ain’t bad genes; it’s lack of effort. And news cameras would pick up on that in a hurry. The editorial cartoonists wouldn’t have to emphasize jutting ears or rosy cheeks; my sizable paunch would be their weapon of choice, and the days of Taft-sized presidents are long past, buried under the surge of health-consciousness and skinny-people advertising. People mistrust the rotund when they are bold enough to appear on television, and that, I fear, would be worse than most middle names.
I suppose I could go on a strict diet-and-exercise regimen if a campaign manager told me to, but then I’d have to spend less time with my family, less time reading good books, less time fiddling around with my blog, less time sleeping (I already sleep an average of six hours a night, and that leaves me tired most days). I don’t like that. And while I do plan on getting myself on an exercise schedule soon (don’t I always plan on that?), I don’t know that I could drop thirty pounds right now—I like the things I do too much, and I know that, given my disposition towards exercise (that is to say, I don’t usually enjoy it), a gradual build-up is about my only shot at better health. And gradual anything is no way to run a presidential campaign.