You didn’t set out to eat yourself to immobility. And even now, you’re not sure you’re technically immobile. But mobility is a relative thing, and compared to the average fatty, you’d probably qualify. Let’s just say you never tried very hard to preserve what mobility you started with.
Which wasn’t much, if we’re honest. Even when you were still able to do ordinary activities like walking, shopping, hiking, or fitting into a car, you still avoided going outside as much as possible. I used to watch you laboring under your oversized belly, trying to maintain a normal walk even as its pendulous wobble threw off your balance, and the bulk of your thick thighs rubbing together turned your gait into a graceless, plodding step.
If you had your choice, though, the couch was about as far as you wanted to venture on any given day; and even then, it would have been rare for you to do so unless you could find something entertaining on the tv and make sure a couple of snacks and a large soda were within reach. Once you were planted there, you didn’t want to move; and anything you might want was referred to me to bring, since you didn’t want to leave your comfy position for it. I, of course, was more than happy to oblige, bringing you all manner of fatty and sugary snacks to keep you satisfied while you relaxed, and letting you shovel plate after plate of food into your stationary gut. That kind of treatment left your dimple in the couch getting wider and deeper on a pretty consistent basis, a testament to your growing waistline and burgeoning behind.
The changes in your movement and stamina were painfully obvious on those rare occasions when you had to leave the house for something — some event, or friendly get-together that you couldn’t get out of. You’d be huffing and puffing almost as soon as you’d made it out the front door, your thickened thighs and ass and belly fighting to escape from whatever undersized outfit you’d crammed them into. You’d have to labor down the walk — weight sloshing from one side to the other, flabby arms swinging to try and stay balanced, cellulite jiggling with each heavy, barely-controlled step. By the time you got to the car, you’d have to sit and take a minute to catch your breath before you could even attempt to squeeze yourself all the way inside. That got to be a workout on its own, too.
To your credit, you tried to keep yourself moving. Those attempts never went as far as cutting back on all the junk you were guzzling down, of course. But you’d make a gesture toward fitness by attempting a walk up and down the street every so often, your workout clothes looking more cartoonishly stretched over your bloated, expanding form with each passage of the couple of weeks between outings. I always encouraged you to go for one of your pitifully short walks because I loved to watch them — loved to see the skinnier you inside that blubbery body having to try and push hundreds of pounds of fat out of the way just to move around. Arms and legs wrapped in layers of fat so heavy that just lifting them to move required considerable effort. Jiggling side rolls big enough to get in the way of your swinging arms, leaving you making an uncanny rotating movement to try and keep your balance. A belly and fatpad so full and low and heavy that your thighs had to push them up and out of the way before you could take a step forward. And two massive globes atop the backs of your thighs, alternately rising and falling with each step, each weighty enough to throw you off your stride, together making it impossible for your piggish body to keep up any kind of consistent pace. It’s no wonder you ended every walk completely exhausted and ready to rest up and gorge yourself for days afterward.
It stood to reason that this ridiculous pretense couldn’t last — the idea that you could keep packing on weight indefinitely as long as you could prove you were still able to “exercise” with a greater or lesser amount of success. Once you weren’t able to make it past the neighbor’s house without your face turning scarlet — without being so lightheaded you couldn’t see anything but stars, and so winded you could barely breathe — you had to acknowledge that you’d eaten yourself too fat to go out any longer. You wouldn’t be waddling any further than the end of the driveway from then on.
But even that realization wasn’t enough to get you to put the fork down once in a while. If anything, I think it took away what little pressure there was to avoid completely losing yourself in gluttony. With nowhere to go, there was no reason to try to still be able to go anywhere. And so, even your trips to the couch became irregular and increasingly infrequent. You could just as easily surround yourself with food and keep yourself entertained in bed, and less and less of your time was spent out of it.
The results were, needless to say, pretty striking. What little shape you’d managed to maintain over the years disappeared almost immediately, your overinflated but still recognizable arms and legs spreading and deforming into shapeless puddles of lard pooling around your body. It rapidly became a chore just to move them, even as your belly grew past your knees and well out of reach, and began to bury your body under a ballooning mound of flab. When you did muster the effort to swing your lard-covered legs around and haul that enormous belly into a sitting position, you still had your thick and growing ass spreading out behind you, anchoring you to the mattress. It was no wonder you resisted having to carry all that enormous weight, draped all over your body and jiggling with every lumbering step, anywhere else.
That was when the specter of immobility started to haunt you. You were gaining weight, sure; pounds of ponderous blubber every day. But the desire for ease left your muscles weakening at the same time. It just kept getting harder and harder to heave yourself up, and each time you found more of yourself to have to heave. Eventually, imperceptibly, you just stopped trying. There was never a day when you Became Immobile, no triumphant arrival at that adipose apex. The intervals between getting up just became gradually longer as your fat continued to swell and grow heavier. You adapted more and more of your tasks to a laying position in bed, satisfying yourself with the effort to roll over or reposition your impractical girth. At this point, I can’t remember the last time you got up, or even tried. Months? Months, at least.
And now, even the little movement you’ve come to rely on is getting harder to do. Your flabby arms, fat rolls threatening to overwhelm your wrists, quiver under the strain each time you have to reach for the tv remote or another calorie-saturated snack. Your legs burn like a normal person’s after an hour of CrossFit just from trying to throw their lumpy, inhuman bulk across the bed to roll over on your stomach. It takes active effort for you to breathe even when you’re sitting still, your lungs needing the extra muscle to push up against the crushing of all the lard collected in your tits and belly. It’s not surprising, then, that any attempts at movement leave you flushed, sweaty, winded, and looking like you might have a heart attack any second now. Far better for me to get you moving by grabbing a roll and pushing in the general direction you want to go.
So does that make you immobile? Sort of. But who knows — maybe if you had to, or really wanted to, you could still jiggle your way to the edge of the bed, heave yourself upright, and roll the corpulent pile of lard your body has become onto your two legs without them breaking under the strain. Maybe you could even manage a few steps without passing out. Still mobility of a kind, right?
But you’d never try it. You’re far too comfortable sitting on your beanbag-chair ass and seeing how much food you can put away before your next official meal. And if that’s the case — if you’re not going anywhere anyway, and are never going to change anything to stop your slide further into hyper-morbid obesity… does it really make a difference whether you’re technically mobile?
Just keep eating like you’re still trying to get there.
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