The beer belly and the hormones

That's when I think, Please, someone rescue me from this beer-drenched gong show.

All of this is because of one persistent problem, something that follows me everywhere like an unwanted companion.

It's not only the endless drinking parties, its something else, a thing that has turned me into a fibber. I lie to my wife about how many beers I drank. I lie casually now, the way people lie when they suck their gut in when looking into a mirror.

Two people holding glasses of beer. Illustration photo by Pexels/Pavel Danilyuk

One night, I decided I'd had enough and slipped away from the party and ducked into a narrow, empty alley, carefully stepping around puddles like someone trying to outrun his swollen outline. Behind me, the cheers faded, but they did not disappear, they sank into the concrete.

"Oi! Get back and get your drink on! Get that beer into ya' belly!" I heard.

I was under the impression that this alley was empty because there was nobody here as one assumes when nobody is around, but something was breathing with me.

"Who...who said that?" I asked, pitifully.

"Beer with banh chung is the best," a syrupy voice replied, warm and intimate, as if it were seeping up through my skin rather than through the air.

"WHO’S THERE?" I spun around, nearly choking on my own fear. "A ghost?"

No one. I knew it couldn’t be a ghost anyways, the karaoke had scared them all away.

"A few bottles with donuts isn’t bad either..." followed by evil, guttural laughter that bubbled up like gas trapped beneath fat.

"DONUTS? NO!" I whined. "That’s how you ruin your health!"

I tried to run away but something heavy dragged me down. My feet were drunk, swollen, uncooperative, as if they no longer fully belonged to me.

"Stop it! You’re making me queasy," a furious voice growled from below, close enough that I could feel it vibrate through my organs.

I looked down and finally saw it. Clinging tightly to my body was a soft but powerful mass of flesh, lumpy, stubborn, a true supervillain. It pressed outward, testing the limits of my skin, as if curious how much more it could take.

My beer belly.

Honestly, I did not see it coming, it seemed harmless, just a little charming pudge. I had told myself a few early morning jogs would take care of it. However, I greatly underestimated the belly fat and so a monster was created that learned my routines, my weaknesses, the exact hours when I was tired enough to surrender, and It had no intention of leaving.

Allow me to put on my thinking toque over my luxurious hair for a moment.

The beer belly is a hormonal supervillain. While you’re busy living your life, it quietly messes with your blood pressure and aggressively expands its territory, stretching the skin inch by inch, determined to merge your six-pack into one unified block. Your liver works overtime, swollen and resentful, your muscles beg for fuel. Then the beer belly steps in and says, "Relax. I’m in charge now," settling its full weight downward.

Insulin panics and fat burning shuts down. Your body thinks a cold Canadian winter is coming and that hoarding fat is the only way to survive, every calorie is stockpiled, every waistband becomes a suggestion rather than a boundary.

But book-learning stuff aside, the real reason I want this villain gone is simple, my appearance.

Recently, someone invited me, Jesse, to be a brand ambassador for a hair-growth shampoo. I was proud, so proud. Unfortunately, my wife is extremely allergic to the hair I am growing. She says I look like I’m secretly raising an illegal pet on my head, something resembling a rat that has just been run over, tire marks and all. She wants me bald.

Luckily, I have a negotiation strategy. If I can eliminate the beer belly and bring back a proper six-pack, who would have the right to ban my strange head-pet? It would be a perfect peace treaty. I present her with abs, tight and orderly, and she agrees to pretend my bizarre hairstyle Davy Crockett hat-head does not exist.

The problem is that refusing drinks in Vietnam is a heroic challenge. Peer pressure here is an invisible force that presses inward, compressing your will the way fat compresses organs. By year's end, beer is no longer just beer but a ritual. If you do not drink it, the old year will not leave, and the new year will not let you rest, it squats in your stomach, waiting, growing.

Still, I try to stay clear-headed. Do not wait until your body is falling apart before you quit, people say. Personally, I suffer less from stress hormones than from the shame of a belly that sticks out farther than my chest. Sitting next to a pregnant woman is especially humbling, at that point, it feels like we might both be wheeled into the delivery room together, one of us carrying life, the other carrying a sugar-symbiote.

I dream of standing medium-height again, six-pack restored, strange hair still on my head (the sides), a silent message to the world that I do not care what people think. But life is not a dream. Sometimes I witness drinking scenes that are genuinely horrifying; An entire table pins someone down, clamps his nose shut, pries his mouth open, and pours beer straight down his throat. His body swallows before his mind agrees. It looks like a poisoning scene from a Cthulhu novel, except everyone is smirking and wiping foam from their hands.

If that ever happens to me, all I can do is close my eyes and pray. Jesse, something terrible is about to happen. The beer belly supervillain is being summoned again, and it is very good at answering calls, it remembers me.

When I was a kid in Canada, we learned about the "Just Say No" campaign against peer pressure. Once, I bravely asked my dad’s friend not to smoke in the car. My dad shot me a look and said, "Telling adults what to do is worse for your health than secondhand smoke."

Vietnam is no different. Refuse a beer, and you risk losing your status as "a proper Vietnamese." Someone will shove a glass into your hand and ask the deadliest question of all, "What’s wrong with you, Jesse, are you a man, or a ma’am?"

And right on cue, the beer belly joins in, tightening slightly. "Exactly, what are you afraid of? Give’r."

People say year-end parties are about closing the books on the old year. To me, it feels like closing the books on yet another notch on my belt, stamped in red with beer foam and fingerprints. "Drink it all to finish the year," they chant, and the body eagerly obeys.

But this time, I’ve decided not to let that alien-dictator run things anymore. The doctor says the key is simple, stay firm! Do not allow six-pack abs to be "unified" into one great collective.

So here are my final words to the villain.

No matter what they say or do, I’m done drinking, and you’re not coming back.

"See you next year..." it leered, already very comfortable where it was.