And, besides, I know that riding a horse doesn't reduce a fat man.
It merely reduces the horse.
So it goes--the fat man is always up against it. His figure is
half-masted in regretful memory of the proportions he had once,
and he is made to mourn. Most sports and many gainful pursuits are
closed against him. He cannot play lawn tennis, or, at least
according to my observation, he cannot play lawn tennis oftener
than once in two weeks. In between games he limps round, stiff as
a hat tree and sore as a mashed thumb. Time was when he might
mingle in the mystic mazes of the waltz, tripping the light
fantastic toe or stubbing it, as the case may be. But that was in
the days of the old-fashioned square dance, which was the fat man's
friend among dances, and also of the old-fashioned two-step, and
not in these times when dancing is a cross between a wrestling
match, a contortion act and a trip on a roller-coaster, and is
either named for an animal, like the Bunny Hug and the Tarantula
Glide, or for a town, like the Mobile Mop-Up, and the Far Rockaway
Rock and the South Bend Bend.
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