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Forget the diet, I've decided to eat like a sumo wrestler
© by Mike Keenan 
When Miriam returned home after her brief one-night stay-over, shopping for fabric in Toronto with our eldest daughter, she took one look at me and shrieked: "Not my new tea-towels!" It seems that whenever Miriam leaves me alone to my own devices for a single night or two or sometimes three, well, my unique sense of creativity tends to run amuck, and I get involved in some bizarre practises that I would never engage in when supervised. Miriam has come to the conclusion after decades of marriage that I need close supervision.
I should explain. When she appeared, I was standing in the middle of our rec room, wearing my mawashi or Sumo wrestling uniform. It's amazing what you can do these days with Velcro strips. The uniform looks simple to the uninitiated. It appears as a skimpy stretch of loincloth, but, in fact, it actually consists of a lengthy piece of fabric, more than three metres (a lot of tea-towels) - folded, wrapped and rewrapped around my substantial girth. I had brought in a token amount of dirt and spread it evenly on the wood floor. Throwing the rice around the room was my own invention. I don't think Sumo wrestlers do that, but I think it adds a little extra to the ritual that is over 1,500 years' old. When Miriam arrived, dressed only in my loincloth, I was stamping my feet (one at a time) hard against the floor. I was also alternately slapping my hefty thighs (not as hard) as I've just begun this exercise and didn't want to look bruised. I got the idea from my frustration with dieting. My diets never seem to work. I've tried everything, and usually I lose a few pounds. But inevitably, they reappear like long-lost friends. I decided on the reverse, put on weight. I only need to gain about 80 pounds to become the same size as a bonafide 300-pound Sumo wrestler. Anybody can lose weight; I was determined to gain. Miriam noticed the empty carton container of Haagen-Dazs ice cream in the waste bin. "Did you polish this off in one night?" she rhetorically asked. "Yes," I replied. "This time, I'm serious about my diet." "I'm impressed," she said, but I knew she was not. When you live with someone for decades, you pick up little signs that secretly reveal that your spouse is annoyed. Little signs like screaming, pounding one's fist, threats...those subtle signs that newer loves might miss. Sumo wrestlers spend their time, exercising, eating and relaxing, completely focused on the rigours of sumo preparation. I wasn't sure about exercise, but I bought into the eating and relaxing components. I figure if I can get a few of my retired friends to join me, we can start a Sumo wrestling team. In Japan, Sumo wrestlers are national heroes. I think not the notoriety part but more likely the Haagen-Dazs component will win my friends over. "Miriam," I said. "Don't break the concentration of the sumo wrestler; it's important to pay respect at all times. No talking, smoking, drinking, eating or chewing gum. Sitting cross-legged is okay, but don't stretch your legs out. And take your shoes off at the doorway before stepping onto my woven tatami mats." The rec room is not a large room, especially for the considerable amount of flesh being flashed and centered in my dirt ring. I'm getting pretty good at the deep grunting; in fact, I've noticed that as I age, this skill seems to improve all the time. The feet stamping (to build strength and crush evil spirits), skin thwacking, heavy breathing and panting will all progress as I put more years into my art. To show off, I performed a dip into an extreme knee bend to impress Miriam, but I got stuck. "Do you mind giving me a lift?" I asked. "My job is not just to grow bigger," I explained to Miriam. "I need to train hard, even if the master is not looking and I must speak truth to everything. It's a big job, and it takes a big man to do it right." |
