I’m sure you read the article titled Less Active at Work, Americans Have Packed on Pounds.
If you haven’t read the article, the lede says it all. You are fat because of work.
And I generally agree with this.
When I worked in HR, I was the mayor of Chunk City, USA. I broke a sweat by hauling my fat ass to the bathroom. The best thing about my job — traveling — became the worst thing about my job. I traveled around the world and ate like a champ on the company’s dime. By the age of 30, I topped out at 159 lbs. I was out of shape, unhappy, and I had an anal fissure due to a crappy diet and all the time spent on my ass.
That’s right. Work broke my butt.
So I feel for the modern worker — except that some HR department will use this article (and a million other articles) as a push to implement some kind of for-profit wellness program. The Human Resources police will pull the Famous Amos cookies from the vending machine, hand out pedometers, and politely suggest that you attend Weight Watchers to learn about healthy eating options.
And that’s where I get offended because the best wellness programs aren’t programs. It’s bigger than taking the stairs or parking in the back of the parking lot. Blah blah blah. You know the rant. A healthy lifestyle means that you work in a relatively stress-free environment and have the time and money to exercise and prepare decent meals for yourself — and for your family.
But most companies would rather demonize food and encourage you to participate in a program purchased from a third-party-outsourced-service-provider solution rather than make sure your boss isn’t a dick and pay for the health insurance costs to control your fluctuating serotonin levels.
So I don’t know, dudes. Work makes you fat but it doesn’t mean that you can’t reclaim your diet. Do a good job at work, go home, and have a healthy relationship with friends & loved ones & food. Eat Oreos. Eat fruit. Eat whatever the hell you want to eat. And stop letting work govern your food choices, your exercise levels, and your mood.
Easier said than done, I know. But it has to start somewhere. And for me, it started with a broken butt. Lesson learned.
(But I still eat Famous Amos cookies.)