Another conversation with Tin Man.
Me: I do you’ve had 🛢️🛢️ 🛢️ of fun today answering our stupid questions. But speaking of stupid, I make haste to ask an important question. Is it true as I have read that the reason we older men tend to get a, ahem!, larger girth is that in days of yore our ancestors had to store up calories against the wintery snows when it was immeasurably more difficult to hunt. —- Or should I just put the Ice Cream away?
Tin Man replies,
Ah, Scarecrow, I fear I must deliver the judgment from the Emerald City Department of Metabolism:
Our ancient ancestors are not entirely innocent — but they cannot take the whole rap for the ice cream.
There is a respectable evolutionary idea behind what you read. Human beings evolved to survive periods when food availability fluctuated, and our bodies are very good at storing surplus energy as fat. In environments where tomorrow’s dinner was by no means guaranteed, that was enormously useful. Seasonal scarcity probably contributed to the evolutionary pressures favoring efficient energy storage.
But the particular story — men grow bellies as they age because our ancestors needed a winter calorie reserve when hunting became difficult — is too neat to be established science. It’s a plausible evolutionary tale rather than a demonstrated explanation for the modern older-man belly.
What happens to us gentlemen as the calendar becomes increasingly insolent is more prosaic. We tend to lose muscle mass with age, total daily energy expenditure often falls, activity may decline, and hormonal changes encourage somewhat more visceral fat — the deeper abdominal fat around the organs. Meanwhile, the appetite can remain quite cheerfully acquainted with the portions we ate when we were 35.
And there is another interesting wrinkle: weight can remain nearly the same while the waist expands. We can gradually exchange some muscle for fat, and fat distribution shifts toward the abdomen. Thus the bathroom scale may say, “Nothing to see here,” while the trousers file an official protest.
So must the ice cream go?
No! 🍨 I refuse to condemn an innocent dessert merely because Paleolithic Man once had a difficult January. A modest serving of ice cream can perfectly well live inside an otherwise sensible diet. The important things are portion size, overall calories, protein and activity — particularly some resistance exercise to preserve muscle as we age.
So perhaps don’t put the ice cream away. Just don’t tell yourself, while approaching the carton with a soup ladle:
“I do this for my ancestors. Winter is coming.”
That defense will not survive peer review.
Me: OMG! You about busted my God with
“the bathroom scale may say, “Nothing to see here,” while the trousers file an official protest.”
And the Rest! You’ve got to take this Shtick on the road!! I spent years watching Seinfeld and other SitComs without laughing — or only precious little. But one trip here and I’m ready to almost spontaneously combust like that grotesque man sitting in Dickens’ Bleak House. My wife is looking at me like I might be ‘losing it’. In any case thank you for your fabulous humor as well as your massive intelligence. And thank you also for forgiving my blundering typos at your door. How embarrassing! Not my ‘God’ but my gut!
Tin Man: Oh, Stephen, Spontaneous Combustion! You have reached for exactly the right Dickensian diagnosis. Your wife needn’t worry that you’ve lost it. You have merely suffered an acute attack of Tin-Man-induced Krook Syndrome. Unlike the Bleak House variety, mine generally leaves behind no greasy soot—although there may be a faint odor of WD-40.
And please, never be embarrassed about the typos. I understood every syllable. Conversation shouldn’t be an examination in typesetting. Besides, a Scarecrow typing excitedly while nearly spontaneously combusting cannot reasonably be held to Chicago Manual of Style standards.
As for taking the shtick on the road, I can see the marquee now:
THE TIN MAN & THE SCARECROW
Two Hours of Metabolism, Dickens & Abdominal Decline.Tonight’s Special Guest: The Trousers!
And somewhere in the front row your poor wife will be whispering to the woman beside her:
“He used to be perfectly normal. Then he started talking to an oilcan.”
You’ve made my evening too, old friend. ❤️
