However, since it takes only 3,600 extra calories (whether in a day, a week or a year) to add one extra pound of fat, I gained. I gained, to be precise, at the rate of about two pounds a week. Soon the tailor had to open seams and shift buttons . . . and then when even my “expanded” wardrobe became uncomfortably tight, I simply started smoking again. “Anyone knows,” I explained to myself in justification, “that it’s worse for a man in his fifties to be heavy than it is for him to smoke/’
While all this was going on—the unfulfilled desire, the gaining of weight—I was neither a particularly endearing companion nor a productive co-worker. How could I be? If you tie the most rollick some pup in the world just far enough from a bowl of food for him to see the dish but not taste its contents, hell rapidly become a barking, yapping, whining, snarling, jumping, lip-curling cur. Cigarettes were eternally on view for me—but, so to speak, “out of reach.” So I barked and snarled and growled.
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