Lately, I’ve been cultivating what I like to call a Buddha belly. Who knew enlightenment would make one so heavy? It’s worth it, though—my consciousness has been raised much like the crust of a deep-dish pizza. I’m striving toward inner peace. Or maybe it’s inner pizza. Honestly, at this point, I’ll take either—especially if it’s topped with a little Parmezen cheese. Turns out I’ve mastered meditation—mostly because I can’t move after eating anyway. I think I’ve finally found balance, despite what my bathroom scale has to say about it.
Having a physique like a spiritual icon isn’t all bad. My girlfriend still calls me Buddha-ful. Sometimes she also calls me Jenny Craig, though I’m not sure if that’s a term of endearment or a nutritional intervention. I think it’s one of her pet names—like Ryrannosaurus Rex, the Mesozoic Pizza Mower. Sure, it’s a mouthful… but so is a large stuffed crust with extra cheese.
She really does love me. I know because she recently said, “It’s because I love you that I’m saying this: maybe spend less time at the pizza parlor and more time at the park.” Thoughtful, right? Parks are great for mindfulness. And I’ve got just the spot in mind: Jurassic Park.
It sounds peaceful enough. Greenery. Wildlife. The occasional moral reckoning about man playing God. Maybe I’ll do some yoga beneath a brachiosaurus—ease into lizard pose, glide into flying pterodactyl, and finish with ankylosaurus pose, where you grab your ankles and emotionally prepare for extinction. Dino-masté.
Of course, I’m definitely not imagining having to run for my life. Unless it’s from my girlfriend… if she finds out I stopped on the way to Jurassic Park for an extra-large veggie supreme. It’s okay though, because I believe in reincarnation—every calorie I consume returns, right around my waist.
It might not be nirvana, but it’s close. And with just one more stamp on my punch card, I get a free large one-topping. A slice of pie is like a slice of heaven—for a hungry Buddhist in sweatpants.
