One morning during my Fat Dad years, when my daughter was about six, I came down the stairs wearing a ratty pair of shorts and no shirt. Flab hanging everywhere. Hair unkempt and outstretched heavenward. Jabba the Hut, if you need a mental image. Seeing her sitting on the couch, deep in some chapter book, I proclaimed myself ready for work and headed toward the door. She looked up, caught sight of me, and said, "Dad, you can’t go to work like that." I stopped in my tracks, feigned offense and ignorance, and asked her why not. She put her had on her hip, gave me that look, with her eyebrow raised and head cocked to the side, and calmly said, "You’ll gross people out and embarrass yourself."

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