Donut. Aka Realty Check.

I don't usually wear this shirt. I like it. I do. But it's snug.

It's a long-sleeved cotton T with a higher neck than that implies. A bit of stretch to it--Lycra, I think.

It's not too Mary Lou Retton. Or Blades of Glory. Not that stretch-y. And it's dark brown, so how leotard-ish can it be?

But I thought: well I've weighed less when I wore this. I probably bought it at 137 pounds when I lived in Santa Cruz and there was really only one great place to eat.

Now I'm 145 pounds. Not huge. But you know: in something stretchy, a little tummy can be--well, a little too much.

As I'm thinking this, I see a woman walking down the street towards me.

She is wearing a T-shirt that says BEBE--you know, like French for 'baby,' not like musical star Bebe Neuwirth.

And this woman has a tummy, a spare tire.

Not a little thin bicycle tire either.

But a really sizeable roll of fat.

I can see it perfectly, its contours delineated with effortless clarity by the stretchy fabric of the shirt.

It's like a donut around her waist--which I suppose in a sense it is.

It's actually flopping over the top of her jeans.

Yes, it's not just bulging but hanging.

Nothing wrong with weighing that much. But you know, maybe that is not the time to wear a skin-tight T.

Nevertheless, I think to myself: um, I think my shirt looks okay on me.

--E. R. O'Neill