Prose translation

Translate the following into Chinese

It’s not a dadbod – it’s an act of rock’n’roll dietary rebellion

Pete Cashmore

I weighed myself this morning, and I am 110kg (17st 4lb). As a 192cm (6ft 3in) tall man aged 41, this gives me a BMI of 29.4, which means I am considered to be on the very tipping point where “overweight” bellyflops into “obese”. If there’s any muscle in there, then it’s not so much relaxed as fast asleep. My stomach looks like a blancmange dunked in hair, with perky, budding moobs. I am not in good shape.
Except, apparently, I am. What I have, it has become apparent over the past couple of weeks, is a dadbod, which means I now count among my brethren the likes of Kanye West, Leonardo DiCaprio and Seth Rogan, something I never imagined. A dadbod is basically a “normal” male torso gone to seed, the shapely bulk of a man who once went to the gym, then realised that pizza and beer were much more sensible and let it all go. Not corpulent, but definitely not what the good people of Protein World would consider anywhere near “beach-ready”. People have even taken to saying that a dadbod is a hot bod. And to these people I say: I don’t want your approval.

Seriously, stop fetishising and commodifying my ghastly body. I worked long and hard to get this far out of shape and I don’t need you telling me that’s fine and that I’m actually the new big thing (literally) in male body types. My body can’t be contained or held back – just ask the waistband of my jeans – and I reject this new acceptance of it.

As an officially very-nearly-obese man, I am edgy and antisocial. I am attacked and pilloried at every turn, either because of the hypothetical strain I place on the NHS when my heart eventually explodes, or because of my evident distance from the aforementioned beach-readiness. It’s absolutely fine to mock, censure and body-shame me (ha, just you try) without fear of reprisal. It’s fine to go ham on my fat (mmm, ham…). I can reasonably assume that Katie Hopkins finds me contemptible, and I can think of no more ringing endorsement than that.

“Dadbod”. It’s a horrible little dismissal, suggesting cosy respectability and the inevitable slide into middle age. Me, I’ve always thought of my rejection of physical fitness as rather rock’n’roll, an almost political act of dietary rebellion. There’s tremendous pressure from all sides to be “healthy”, for reasons both aesthetic and medical, so to relentlessly stick two fingers up at those who apply that pressure takes character. It takes guts to have this gut.
My midriff sends out a clear, gently wobbling signal to the world that says I favour the sensual over the ascetic, indulgence over deprivation, the joy of tucking in rather than the sanctimony of pushing the plate away. How could anyone fail to find such a thing attractive? A six-pack, meanwhile, says: look at all this WORK I’ve done! Look at all this DENIAL! Come hither and caress the jutting angles of my miserable attritional life! LICK MY GYM MEMBERSHIP!

In his 1996 “postmodern diet book” Eat Fat, the author Richard Klein proposed the inevitable “comeback” of fat. If this is to be the start of my return into the body mainstream, so be it. But not with a nice and cuddly dadbod. Take my body and rebrand it, but not like this. Let’s just call me fat and hot – “fot”. Put that on a T-shirt. Size XXL.