Super Skilled Me

(13)

          The Alberta road trip is over, and during the span of four games, we lost three, and only won one. And, it should be mentioned that the one team we beat, Dorothy Hall, was ranked the second-worst in the entire province last year, so that's nothing to brag about. Just as we expected, Coach Anton was livid with us. The bus trip back to BC consisted of him screaming and shaming our performance on the court. Even with my headphones plugged in, and the volume turned to max, I could still hear that crazy fucker shouting, his face redder than a ripe tomato. I hate Coach Anton, and I know he hates me, too, as he's continued to send me insulting text messages and remind me I'm failing the team.

          Anyway, if you're a local Canadian, or ever visited the country, you've surely heard of the name Tim Horton's. I'm inside the local store, buying donuts before my chiropractic appointment. Again, I'm giving in to my so-called "diet," and feel like utter shit about it. However, when my stomach calls for me, it's almost impossible to resist. The donuts here aren't even homemade and baked in an oven. They're artificial for the most part, but they're so...so good. And you obviously know by this point, the unhealthier a food, the more I tend to enjoy eating it.

          It's just after lunchtime, and considering I have an extra fifteen minutes before my appointment, I have to get a few. I look at the selection behind the counter, my mouth practically drooling as always. Yet there is so much guilt at the same time. My entire basketball career is on the line, so why the fuck can't I stop myself? God, please help me. But more importantly, I need to help myself.

          Regardless, I move up to the cash register after a lady orders, and begin selecting my favourite donuts. Right away, I tell the man working behind the counter that I'd like a Boston Cream. It's a chocolate-covered donut with vanilla stuffed inside, pretty much like a long John, except round. I also explain that I'd like the try the donut of the month—a jelly-coated star shape with sprinkles on top. Then, last but not least, I purchase an apple fritter covered in brown, wonderful sugar.

          "That will be $11.42, please," the man behind the counter says. "Cash or card?"

          "Card, please," I reply, sliding it through the machine.

          I take my donuts and sit by the window, watching the busy cars go by. Again, I already feel like complete crap for doing this, but I've somehow convinced myself that it will be okay. Right away, I take out my Boston Cream and taste the filling oozing inside my mouth, along with the chocolate-covered bun. I've been eating these since I was a young kid, and they'll always be my favourite. Usually, I would order an iced cappuccino as well, but it's rather cold out these days, so surprisingly I'm not feeling the vibe.

          Nonetheless, after finishing my Boston Cream, I move to the apple fritter and practically shiver with pleasure. The donut of the month is simply phenomenal, too. The jelly is so unique and nothing like I've had before. The sprinkles covered on top give a great kick, as I enjoy the last few mouthfuls, before I know a tsunami wave of regret and anxiety will flow over me.

          And, just like I predicted, here it comes. So unfulfilling and non-rewarding. Every time I eat more, I can practically hear Coach Anton, like the devil himself, whispering in my ear, "You're out of the starting lineup, Rashard." And it makes me tremble with utter disappointment as to what I'm throwing away.

          Trying not to let my anxiety overwhelm me, I scroll my phone and see my parents sent another email, asking how I'm doing. I'm still not speaking to them on Zoom anymore because of the excessive weight I've gained, but I can tell they're becoming very suspicious. Obviously, I'm barely playing in the home games when they livestream on the university's website, and they're constantly questioning the reasons behind the team's pathetic losing record this year. My parents are both very old, and as horrible as it sounds, it's easy to manipulate them and sway away from the truth. Not only am I addicted to food, but I'm also becoming a straight-up liar.

          Suppressing more anxiety and pushing it aside, I move on to the fact that, like Tony, I'm not hearing much from my girlfriend Dian these days. In fact, it seems like she has a different excuse every time I try to hang out. She's constantly telling me she's busy with school, which I understand. But she was never this busy in the past. No matter how much academics or basketball, we always made plans together at least once or twice a week, so I'm not totally sure what's going on. I text her instead.

          Hey, babe. Haven't heard from you much these days. Hope you're doing okay. Maybe we could go out sometime this week and catch a movie? Let me know.

          With that, I exit Tim Horton's, dispose of my garbage as usual, and make way over to my chiropractic appointment. When I arrive on the second floor, I'm met by the same girl who works reception. Back in the past, when I was in great shape, she would give me charming smiles. 

          But this time she looks shocked at the size of me, as it's been quite some time since my last appointment, and just mumbles a quick, "Hi."

          Assuming she's no longer intrigued by me due to my intense weight gain, I take a seat and wait for Doctor Suroosh. Again, I'm feeling embarrassed, as even girls now are hardly attracted to me, like in the past when I'd have so many options.

          After an approximate seven-minute wait, Doctor Suroosh appears around the corner, his bushy, black hair curling above his face. He, too, looks surprised, as if he doesn't even recognize me at first.

          "Oh...hello, Declan," he says, that same expression plastered across his face. "Would you like to come in? I have the room ready for you."

          "Sounds good," I reply, gathering myself and struggling out of the chair.

          "So, it's been a little while since we last saw each other," he says while closing the door. "It seems like you've gotten—" He pauses, looking for the right word.

          "Bigger?" I say, finishing his sentence for him with shame.

          "Uh...yes. I believe that's the term I was looking for. Anyway, let's start with you laying down on your stomach like always, shall we?"

          With that, I crawl onto the provided table with my heavy-set body. Considering it's a massage table, I place my face into the hole at the top, feeling my chubby cheeks squeezing amongst the leather. I feel Doctor Suroosh's hands move up and down my vertebrae, looking for tight spots along my spinal cord. Usually, I would enjoy getting adjusted, but I feel insecure, as I can already tell he's forced to apply extra force. There's now a great deal of flab between my skin and bones, opposed to in the past when it was practically straight muscle.

          After giving a quick assessment, he brings out the machine used to loosen my muscles before adjustments. It vibrates on my back, preparing my bones to release the built-up gas and inflammation.

          Once he's done, we get ready for the adjustment. He places his hands on my back, explaining to take a deep breath. I do as he requests, looking forward to the popping of my joints, which I have always oddly satisfied.

          But just as he's about to crack me, nothing happens. No bones inside me pop. Doctor Suroosh tries again, pushing harder and using all his force, but still nothing works.

          "Sorry, Declan," he says awkwardly. "You're a little bit...heavier now. So typically the bigger a patient is, the harder it is for me to adjust them. Can I have you lay down on your back instead? I'm going to try a different technique."

          Feeling embarrassed that I'm becoming too chubby to even be adjusted, I flip onto my back, a part of my flabby stomach hanging from below my hoodie, which I quickly close up and cover. This time, he has to straddle over me and use all body weight, just to get a few cracks and release in my back. After he's done, once again with great effort, he takes my neck and I get another couple pops, but nothing like when I was in shape and not overweight.

          At the end of our appointment, we awkwardly say goodbye, as I shamefully leave the room, making my way below to the car parked beside Tim Horton's. As I climb into the driver's seat, I have to adjust again so there's room for my legs to operate the gas pedal. I have to suck my belly in so I'm not crammed against the wheel.

          This is like a living nightmare.

          As I stated earlier, God please help me.