Throughout his teenage years, your humble author’s younger brothers have teased me about my weight, earning one or two annoyingly persistent nicknames. While I don’t pay much attention to that, I have collected certain indirect evidence: that of chairs.

Chairs, chairs … are they all designed with insufficient strength, or do I just bring out their worst? You see, for the last fifteen years, I’ve damaged or broken at least one gluteus maximus resting surface per year. Crappy garden chairs sometimes last only minutes under me. Stylish wood furniture may tease me with creaks for years, then finally give out with a mighty crack under my … mighty crack.

I don’t think it’s simply because of my weight, since the loading effect is determined to some extent by the pressure: the weight divided by ass area. How does one divide two infinities? It’s probably that I don’t like to simply sit straight, Like with the airplanes, sometimes I land hard. Like a drunkard aiming for the puke bowl, I enjoy leaning over to one side. There is sometimes a folded shin or two underneath that, despite their magnificent padding, concentrate the weight. I have been even known to tilt chairs over so fewer than the entirety of legs support me.

I’m convinced I’m not that large. I just have a bad seattiude.