You look at me, a pleading quality in your eyes.
We established the rule a year ago. Every time you want to take the stairs, you need to ask me for permission. Ever since then, your stamina decreased significantly. I also managed to pack around 50 pounds onto your already chubby frame. You officially entered obesity 20 pounds ago. Your belly hangs gently over your waistband, your fatty thighs rub together, and your double chin quivers when you talk.
"Why do you need to go upstairs?" I ask sternly.
"I... We keep the larger clothes packed away in the attic, don't we? I think I need to go up a size..." You blush cutely. "I know you can get them for me, but I really wanted to..."
The unspoken hangs between us: you really wanted to check how unfit you've really gotten. You get out of breath pretty easily now while waddling, and the other day I caught you grunting, red in the face, as you tried to reach your phone that fell to the floor.
"Well, all right then," I concede, magnanimously. "Under one condition. We double your lunch after you come back."
You nod, chin plunging into the roll of fat.
I wave my hand. Elated, you waddle to the staircase. It's just ten steps, but in your head, they've gotten steeper over last year. You grip the handrail with your chubby hand.
I can see your astonishment as soon as you lift your leg. Your belly now presses into your thigh. Well, what did you think, fatty? Your belly pools in your lap when you sit, why wouldn't it fight for space when you walk upstairs?
You cringe as you step up. It's probably your knees, unused to straining under this much weight. But you plod on. Second step. I can see the knuckles on your hand whiten. You grip that handrail for dear life.
"Changed your mind?" I ask.
"N-no," you say, voice breathy. "It-it's just... s-steeper than I remember."
I chuckle. You struggle to the third step. Congratulations, 33% done! You open your mouth, panting. Fourth step. Your face flushes and I can see the sheen of sweat on your forehead. Fith step - your chubby legs tremble.
"Halfway through, darling," I call. "How are you feeling?"
"Huff... huff... I..." You are lost for words. I made you into a fatso who can't walk upstairs. You must be thinking now - how much longer before walking to the kitchen will leave you in such a state? Or getting out of bed?
You tentatively lift your leg. Your belly escapes the confines of your shirt. Step. You wheeze. You take a little break. Another step. Just two to go. I can see the determination in the way your fatty body tenses, preparing. This is your Mount Everest now.
At last, you've done it. You collapse against the wall, chest heaving, rolls quivering. When some time later, I see you tentatively thumping down the stairs in your new larger clothes that actually hang off you for once - I can notice the resolution on your fat face. You know that in a year from now, your body will fill in every inch of space in these clothes.
You also know one more thing.
"I-I think this was the last time I took the stairs."
I nod. I'm glad you came to this conclusion yourself. That way, I don't have to enforce things.
I prepare you your feast, and when you sit down to eat, I say:
"I now need you to ask for permission before standing up."
Your eyes widen, but you just nod over a bite of burger.
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