Happy New Year from All of Me.

"Dad, you're not fat, you're just overweight."
-Zoe, my seventeen-year-old daughter

January 1, 2013.

I slowly awakened, exhaling gratefully. My relief was palpable, and I mumbled a silent oath of gratitude that I hadn't actually attended a Styx concert in my back yard, naked on a blanket while spooning the stubbly scapulae of a bearded Taylor Swift.

Rolling onto my back and propping my head on a second pillow, my hands rested comfortably atop my belly. I looked across at my fifty-year-old fingers, interlaced at an equal altitude to my crusty eyeballs. Performing some rudimentary calculations, I quickly surmised that my hands lay approximately twelve inches above the surface of the mattress.

Everything in between was me and my DNA. Nothing but fella flesh. A heapin' helpin' of Tim loaf.

I woke this morning a year older, a year smarter and about six years fatter.

And honestly, my credibility is shot. A couple of years ago I proclaimed a new healthy tack after the doctor labeled me as obese while pointing accusingly, his latexed finger still moist with my shame. Last year, I again threw down the gauntlet and announced that enough is enough, it's time to whittle off some of this lard or forever live in Elastica, land of sweatpants and football jerseys.

I  realize that as we age, things become increasingly difficult—losing weight, covering up bald spots, making people under forty laugh at a joke about Richard Nixon or pet rocks. However, some tasks actually keep getting easier, such as eating an entire sixteen-inch sausage and Canadian Bacon pie. Twenty years ago, I might wimp out a slice and a half short, whereas now I can choke one down with the prowess of a human anaconda.

It's also become significantly easier to watch football for hours on end. In the past, I may have gone out to throw the ball with friends at halftime. Now, I rise only to stave off involuntary couch voiding or to fend off the dangers of sedentary bed sores and perilous clot migrations.

About three years ago, I lost twenty pounds simply by counting calories, but I seem to have lost that discipline. Repeated forms of motivation, like countless "biggest loser" competitions at work have rendered my efforts fruitless.

So now, it's time to dance with and old friend. I joined Weight Watchers this morning, the same organization I graced with my presence forty years ago, one hand grasping my mom's palm and the other a doctor's note.

I want this to work. I want to stop grunting when I get out of chairs. I want my knees and back and ankles and feet to stop fighting back and return to my squad. I want food that misses my mouth to fall to the floor, rather than a conveniently located chin crevice.

It's time to leave Limbaugh and go Gosling.

Obviously, obese is the new skinny.

Self-pity is an unattractive trait. Would you agree?

I suppose that, occasionally, I enjoy the attention garnered from someone feeling sorry for me. For instance:

When I’ve got a nasty fever and body aches, I appreciate the gift of non-Safeway, brand name raspberry sorbet.

When my child freakishly vomits into my mouth a bit, I'm grateful to be the beneficiary of sympathetic dry heaves from another understanding parent.

But I don’t expect your sympathy, your kind words or your understanding, when I require stitches for attempting to open a beer without a bottle opener or tear a hamstring because I was racing my daughter to the faster go cart.

And most certainly, I am petitioning no one to convey pity toward the following revelation, which I learned on Thursday:

I am, technically at least...obese.

Like most middle-aged men, I visualize myself far younger than I look. Upon hearing the sound of my voice, I feel no different than that mall-cruising, mesh-half-shirt-wearing, lean prince with backne (that's pimples you don't see when you're checking your shirtless self out), who inhabited my body thirty years ago.

Naturally, these days, the lumbar aches a little in the morning, a couple of new facial developments tend to get nicked by my Gillette Sensor, and the whole concept of the thirty-two-inch waist appears to have been reconfigured by the denim industry. That metric system must've finally caught on.

But, other than that and some bladder skirmishes, I feel absolutely fine-ish.

Last week, a couple of the medications on which I rely—excuse me, which I’ve chosen to maximize my health—were denied refills pending a physical exam. Always taking the half-full approach, I interpreted this pharmaceutical blackmail as an opportunity to touch base with my physician, much like an oil change and lube, where you can't really count on the oil, but you're certain about the lube.

Since I’m closer to fifty than forty, and I’m not naive, I had fully girded my loins for the traditional “straight to third base” physical, the kind where, after a thorough exploration from rain forest to desert savanna, the final chapter involves a spelunking excursion into the stalagmite caves.

The doctor's feedback of my topographical area went something like, "Okay, this, this, that, this and those are moles. They'll always be benign, so don't worry."

I wanted to say, "Yeah, but what about this one over here that's growing eyes and the beginnings of hooves?" I kept quiet.

And then, the elephant in the room made his presence known. It was time.

Earlier, as I entered the exam room, I had noticed two Costco-sized tubes of personal lubricant on the counter. One appeared to have never been used, and the other had squeeze marks all over it, like a four-old-had been handling it. I may have reprimanded my kid about wasting toothpaste this way, buy I decided I didn't give a rat's ass whether or not the doctor started from the bottom of the tube or not. I wouldn't be watching, anyway.

As I mentioned, I was as hygienically prepared as going to a dentist appointment, except this time, only flossing was obligatory, and a certain part of me was clean enough to play Yahtzee on.

Once Dr. Spelunker led with the cold, gooey advance party, Cavequest 2011 was underway. I tried to play it cool, thinking that women endure this type of exam far more frequently than my whining self, so I attempted to toughen up with thoughts of baseball. Unfortunately, it wasn't long before I was imagining being the new kid at prison.

Finally, the doctor was finished, and we agreed to still be friends and see each other in another year. After putting out so easily, it's really all I could have hoped for.

"And by they way," he added, peeling off his latex gloves, "your body mass index indicates that you are .5 over the "obese" cut-off mark. If you lose five pounds you'll be down to "overweight," so let's shoot for that. Take care, now."

Nothing quite like being told I'm just barely obese, and that with a little work, I'll be overweight.

As I slowly re-applied my clothes and my dignity, I resolved, I don't care what anyone says. By this summer, I'll make it even further and just be fat.