Revelations of a personal nature can come at any time or anywhere. Mine typically come in the shower, the one place where I can't carry pen and paper to jot things down.

Sadly, my most recent revelation came while standing shirtless and shivering on the diving board just above my father-in-law's pool. Actually, that's not exactly right. This particular revelation came seconds after I ran toward the end of the aforementioned diving board, jumped with all my ever-decreasing might and began to bounce.

In the half-second between bounce and cannonball, I felt an odd feeling quiver through my body. I was jiggling. As I became a slave to the laws of gravity, parts of my body remained in the air, while others crashed to the water below, creating a splash of epic, CGI-generated proportions.

I am fat, at least by my own standards.

This doesn't come as a huge shock. There have been subtle signs along the way – shorts having grown snug, stretch marks, clinging T-shirts, losing car keys and a flashlight in my bellybutton – but standing upon that diving board with various family members looking on, I felt like the Elephant Man on display at the circus. All I needed was some nasty carnie poking me in the gut with a cane shouting, “See the Eighth Wonder of the World … Blob Boy!”

Part of it is simply the indelicate nature of aging. The older we get, the less our bodies belong to us; they start behaving like some science experiment gone horribly wrong. Hair falls out in some areas while growing wild in others. I actually need grooming on a fairly regular basis. It's a chore My Lovely Wife attacks with a playfully evil glee as she, and for that matter all women (save for hippies and European chicks) have been forced by societal standards to forever be well-kempt seems to relish this revenge.

That I can live with, but being fat is a tough cannoli to swallow.

Of course, the real irony is that I once joked about aspiring to a certain level of tubbiness. I wanted that kind a gut that looked like I'd swallowed a basketball and then over-inflated it (a “beer belly). I wanted to be able to lie in bed with a bowl of ice cream resting on my tummy at eye level. But this loosy-goosy body of mine has got to go and that means one of three things: Tummy tuck, diet or exercise.

Honestly, I'd rather have “elective” surgery than face a life of light beers and treadmills. I spend every Friday sweating like Boy George at a Merle Haggard concert working out in the yard, but then I make up for that by gorging on a Wendy's double cheeseburger and fries for lunch. I have taken the drastic step of cutting dipping sauce out of my meals and putting Splenda in my coffee, but that's not going to help transform me into the next Valerie Bertinelli.

So what's a fatty-in-training to do? I could always aim big and instead of trying to lose weight go the other route and start packing on the pounds in hopes of landing a spot on the next season of NBC's “The Biggest Loser.” I've always wanted to meet Sammi from “Days of Our Lives”. Or could simply concede defeat, cut out the Oreo Blizzards and chili cheese fries and go for a walk.

No matter what, I'm keeping my shirt on and staying off that diving board. I may be fat, but I'm no freak show.