I’m a fat guy.
Not just to say that I am an overweight male, rather I have embraced “loud and large” as core aspects of who I am. I love to eat and I hate to exercise. Running is what you do when there’s a bear behind you, or only one remaining slice of pie in front of you. Running in other situations is just silly. Wherever you’re going will still be there once you get there, and if not, you probably didn’t need whatever was there all that much anyway. Food isn’t just sustenance, it’s experience, entertainment, and sex all rolled into one. Being full isn’t a biological trigger to stop eating, it’s a state of mind to be cherished, explored, and in some cases, have its limits pushed. (I’m looking at you, Cluck-U-Chicken 911 wings)
Unfortunately, as I approach 35, this is starting to show its effects. I weigh over 320 pounds. If I suck it in and can tolerate a sore waistline, I can fit into pants with a 40 inch waistline. I’m a type 2 diabetic with a doctor threatening to put me on insulin. If I move wrong my back will hurt for days. Lots of random aches and pains, especially in the hips, knees, and ankles. When I ride my bike, after about three miles I either have to stop or I fall down. Walking leaves me with sore knees and ankles, and callouses that would stop a bullet. I wear through shoes in a few months.
In addition to the physical effects of my weight, there are social ones, too. I have three young nieces and nephews, and my friends and cousins are starting to have kids. In my quest to be the cool uncle, I’m planning on lots of wrestling and playing outside in the yard. And yet, with the aches, pains, and bulk that I’m carrying around, keeping up with them and sitting on the floor are a real challenge. But I want to be the cool uncle. I want to be able to chase the niblets around and throw them up in the air so that I worry their mothers.
There is a selfish element to this, too. I want to spend the next few decades doing fun stuff with my wife, like camping and hiking and biking and traveling. Don’t get me wrong, there will be an obscene amount of TV and movie watching, and beautiful days spent playing video games, but I want that to be because I want to, not because the idea of getting off my ass is exhausting.
Vanity isn’t a factor here. I don’t really care how I look. Not that I want to look like a hobo (despite what my wife thinks about my beard growing aspirations) but beyond appearing neat and clean, and not frightening small children, I don’t care about my appearance. I buy my clothes at Target and Kohls, with an occasional venture to Jos. A Banks every few years when they run a Buy 1 Get 4 Free sale, and I need to refresh my work suits. The only woman I’m trying to impress is the one I’m married to, and she doesn’t seem to mind that there’s more of me to love, or that there’s no brand logo taking up real estate on my shirt. Polo shirts and t-shirts along with cargo shorts or pants (weather depending) constitutes 90 percent of my wardrobe. I am not an appearance-based individual, nor do I want to be.
This is all to say that I need to lose weight. I’ll always be a fat guy at heart, but I need to be a little less fat so that I can enjoy the whole of my life. I’ve done it before, with Weight Watchers. I was very successful, losing over 100 pounds. But I am not a Nazi when it comes to what I eat, and I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be better friends with my food scale than I am with my grill and smoker.
So it was with this in mind, and a recent set of crappy blood work that I set out to to make not a lesser me, but a more concentrated one.