I go back to photos from when I was five or six. What do I see?
A fat kid.
I look at snapshots from when I was twelve or thirteen. What do I see?
A fat kid.
It wasn't until my senior year in high school that I did something about all of this. And, frankly, despite what former First Lady Michelle Obama will tell you, my weighty issues were not a result of a variety of external factors.
Nope, it wasn't economic. My folks didn't make a ton of money, but they still managed to put decent food on the table.
Nope, it wasn't because my parents weren't home a lot. Once I hit the age of eight, both of them worked at night. I ate dinner with my grandmother. She also didn't have a ton of money, but she managed to put decent food on the table. Okay, using Campbell's Condensed Tomato Soup as spaghetti sauce was a lousy choice. But, still, most of it was edible.
Yep, I was a fat kid because I was destined to be fat. I had a metabolism that worked slower than Uncle Joe at Petticoat Junction. And, living in the sometimes-frozen Northeast, there are several whole months in the winter where you can't go out and play. The only opportunity to burn calories is by unwrapping the Hostess Twinkies.
When I would ask my mother about the tonnage that was uniquely me, she provided an answer that totally removed the burden of responsibility from my ever-broadening shoulders.
"You're just big-boned."
Now what the hell does that mean?
My parents took a philosophical approach to their tubby child. Both told me that this would be something I would grow out of. And, of course, they always provided the other disclaimer designed to absolve me of all worries.
"Look around. You're not the only one."
Okay, I looked around and I was one of the only ones. True, there were some friends who had some pounds on them. Others at school or "up the block" had bodies where you could count the ribs like the keys on a xylophone. Actually, most of them were built like greyhounds. And had the athletic prowess that came with svelte bodies.
Ah, the annual dread of any fat kid. The twice-a-year physical education stunts we each at perform courtesy of the President's Council on Physical Fitness. Most of my friends looked forward to these exercises. I kept touching my forehead and praying for a fever that would take me out of school for a month or two.
The 50 Yard Dash. Run as fast as you can from one spot to another in the gym. And the slowest time in school history goes to....
Me.
The 600 Yard Dash. Six laps around the Grimes School Playground as if somebody actually did do such a precise measurement. How do we know 600 yards equals six laps? Maybe it's only five. Anyway, this was a complete endurance test and I still think I never finished the last one. Of course, the slowest time in school history goes to...
Me.
The Shuttle Run. Run down a lane. Pick up an eraser. Run back with the eraser. Put it down. Pick up another eraser. Run back. Put it down.
What the hell does this prove anyway?
As for me, I couldn't do it all in one fluid motion. It was more like...
Run down a lane. Stop. Bend over. Pick up an eraser. Run back with the eraser. Stop. Bend over. Pick up another eraser. Run back. Stop. Bend over. Put it down.
By the time I was finished with a Shuttle Run, the Council on Physical Fitness was now being supervised by a completely different President.
Still, my mom and dad remained stoic on it all.
"You will have your time."
Yes, but when?
Meanwhile, I was the slowest and most uncoordinated kid in the neighborhood and school. Last one always picked for a team. Oh, yeah, him.
You would think this torture would have moved me into adopting my own actions to combat this heavy burden?
Nah.
I suppose that, with all the healthy meals I was getting, the real culprit at large here was the famous in-between snacks. Yes, there were some. A lot.
For a while, my best neighborhood buddy Leo and I made it a point to take a stroll over to Charlie's Delicatessen. The walk was good exercise that was likely negated by our purchase of Yodels, Ring Dings, or those fruit pies that have about 2,000 calories each. While Leo also sported a few extra ounces as well, he never seemed to be deterred when it came to after-school sports. He could run and jump. Me? I could huff and puff.
Thinking back on it all, the at-home meals, while reasonably healthy, could have come with more stringent portion controls. PS, there were none. I'd often clean my plate and then get it piled up a second time.
"You want more?"
Of course.
So, there was always an extra slice of pork roast, another scoop of mashed potatoes, or another hunk of rhubarb pie. As I got into high school, this cute ittle habit got a bit more disdain from my usually accommodating parents, especially from Dad.
"What time does the balloon take off?"
Now my plus size wasn't endearing, it was downright ugly. And unhealthy.
The cow tipping point came in senior year of high school. On the very first gym class of the year, my right knee gave out and started a lifetime of hobbles for me. With me on the Autumn disabled list, the little activity and exercise I usually endured had dwindled down to zero. I would come home from school, plant myself in front of the television, and open the wrapper of something. And then something else. And then something else.
By December, I would scrape both the walls on both sides of any hallway.
I'm not sure what propelled me to venture onto a diet. At the time, there was this doctor Dr. Irwin Stillman schlepping from one talk show to another hawking his water diet. Of course, since he was on television a lot, I got to see him a lot.
Hmmmm? Drink eight glasses of water a day? I can do that.
Hmmmm? And watch your portions of food? Can I do that?
As soon as January 1 passed, I announced my plans to flush out my system. And pretty much have to hit the bathroom between every single class of my school day. I dictated to my parents what I would need to achieve my goal of losing fifty pounds. Low calorie this. Sugar free that. To their credit, they got behind me. And, frankly, if they were behind me at this point, you really couldn't see them.
Rim shot.
Along with the Stillman Diet, I started to exercise. Every night at 7PM for thirty minutes, I would close the door to my room and do as many calistenics as I could come up with. Sit-ups, push-ups, twists, turns. I had no clue what I was doing, but it sounded and felt right.
By April, I had lost it all.
After a lifetime struggle, I had conquered my weight. For now. I assumed athletic prowess came with this as part of the deal.
I took two empty soda cans down to the driveway and placed them at opposite ends. It had been years since I attempted that damn Shuttle Run. But now? I had to see. Can I finally do it right?
I ran down the driveway.
Stopped.
Bent over.
Picked up the can.
Ran back.
Stopped.
Bent over.
Put the can down.
Picked up the other can.
Ran back.
Stopped.
Bent over.
Put the other can down.
Okay, so it still took me the same amount of time. But I noticed one thing.
I was still breathing.
Yes, it's been a lifelong struggle. Watching what I eat. Going up. Going down. Always making sure there's some sort of daily exercise. Now I work with a trainer twice a week. Right now, I probably have the best muscle tone in my life. Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror after a shower, what is that I see? My God, I have an ab. I'm not exactly Channing Tatum, but there is one there.
But, still. It's a struggle. If I'm over your house for dinner and you ask me the fated question.
"You want some more?"
I probably won't refuse. Just to be polite.
Dinner last night: Sausage and olive pizza from Maria's.
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