I visited my doctor last week. My reasons for visiting him were that my ears were clogged. I had been taking ear drops, none too successfully. I decided it was time for the nuclear option, which is an ear wash. They spray water directly into your ear and de-waxify you. It’s unpleasant but effective.
While I was there they weighed me, as a doctor will do from time to time. I weigh 146 pounds. That is the most I have weighed in 50 years on planet earth. I have a gut, and am adding chins faster than midwestern towns add dollar stores. I asked for bigger pants for Christmas. It’s almost like the moment I turned 50 the warranty on my metabolism expired. That’s not true, of course. I’ve been putting on pounds gradually over the last two years. It started as “pandemic gut” but now it’s just “gut.”
Last night I went to a concert. Somebody recognized me, said hello, and added, “Say, you’ve really put on some weight!” Not quite as pleasant a greeting as “I enjoy hearing you on the radio!” but by God, I needed to hear it. It made my heart sink and filled me with shame.
Incidentally, I just checked a couple of different websites for the “correct weight for height” info. One of them made me feel okay, one of them made me feel slightly concerned and the third made me want to jump off the overpass. Nobody knows nothing.
But I am overweight. I do have a gut. And I’m short. Fat shows up sooner on short people than non-short people. And I know what has to be done. I have to stop eating bad food.
I, the man who has eaten like a 12-year-old since…well, I actually was 12, will have to give it all up. Because I can’t do it in moderation. If Pop-Tarts are in my apartment they will be eaten. Not one at a time over 8 days, but 2 at a time in about half a week. Same with every kind of snack cake, muffin, alllllllllllllllllll the junk food. I need to replace sweet tea with water. I need to replace my morning hot cocoa with an actual breakfast (like a piece of fruit) that might leave me less likely to graze on garbage later in the day.
If you’re a friend or loved one and laughing at this, I don’t blame you. I never thought this day would come. I have a strongly earned reputation for being a sugar fiend and a testament to horrible choices.
Let me be clear: I don’t want to do this. I like the crappy sugar-crusted life-shortening food I eat. But I hate seeing this damn gut. It torments me. I’ve gotten myself through a lot of self-image dissatisfaction by saying “Hey, I eat whatever I want and am rail thin!” Now, I have a sunken face from regular Botox treatments, which makes me look even more gruesome than I did before. And a damned gut. I can’t walk through life with both. And the Botox keeps my spazzy nerves under control so I can talk clearly which is, you know, my job.
So it’s into the trash with the bad food, and my next grocery store delivery will really shock the driver. Fruit. Sunflower seeds. Nothing beginning with “chocolatey”. (Still gonna enjoy a Coke once or twice a week. I refuse to eliminate that.)