When you were fat…
We were running laps on the Popeye river rafting ride. It was sweltering hot in Florida and our fast passes allowed us to bypass the line and just keep hopping onto the only bone soaking ride in the park. We did this until our fingers were webbed and our only set of clothes was so thoroughly soaked that anything but returning to the hotel was impossible.
The trip to Florida was part two of our summer vacation that year. Part one was just Dianna and I in Hawaii. A quiet and relaxing stay on my favorite beach in the world — Kaanapali. The setting was idyllic and yet part one of the summer 2011 vacation was one of the most lackluster vacations I can remember.
I remember stripping off my shirt in Hawaii and asking Dianna if I was embarrassing myself. I felt fat.
Fit? Maybe not. Fat? Certainly not. But I’ve always felt fat. Moreover, I’ve always been conscious of being fat. Actual body composition be damned — my inner fatty holds the mic.
What has my body weight ever kept from me? I was pretty big when I met the love of my life. She was attracted to me (immediately she says) even though I was pushing 190# and I don’t remember her shuddering the first time we lay skin to skin. Or any time after that. My kids don’t seem to care — my son likes to make fun of me about my “fat pack” but weight certainly isn’t his only angle of attack. He likes to make fun of me for not having a job, for my musical taste, for my disconnect with anything hip or current, for my inability to dab. I’ve been gainfully employed for most of my life — in an industry that isn’t about my visage (I’m not a model) and I’ve never been turned down for a speaking engagement or an appearance in some kind of promotional this-or-that. Objectively, my mass hasn’t made a lick of difference.
Subjectively however, my body shape comes into play every day. When my son was born, I begrudgingly started Weight Watchers with my wife. I didn’t do the whole meetings and chips part of the program, just used the guide to understand how and what to eat. I lost 15 pounds in about 3 weeks and then decided to see how low I could go. Once on a program, I stick with the program. At my lowest point, I was about 158# and skinny enough for people who cared about me to stop me and ask if everything was alright. Yes — it was alright. I recognized myself as skinny but not obsessively so. I also recognized that the world is easier for people who aren’t fat.
Or at least I attributed a lot to my change in weight. Could be that my confidence was up, albeit erroneous. I started to notice more flattering attention from women. I started to feel more “put together” — partially because I had to completely redo my closet and I purged the flannel and cargo from the 90’s. Having always been exogenously motivated, I embraced this upward social momentum and attributed it to my change in weight. It was just the next chapter in the ongoing, ever present consciousness (self-consciousness?) about my weight.
My dietary habits and emotional swings weren’t any easier while I was thin. I was more hyperconscious of what I ate, more so than when I’m not super thin. I was regimented and I would feel guilty when I would stray from an esoteric plan that had taken most of the joy out of food. Even after I recovered from my own interpretation of the weight watchers diet, I have tried a multitude of dietary shams to manage my weight. Huel anyone? Tastes like powdered elementary school paste.
Beyond diet, my remedies have been narrow. I imagine that my wife would say I’ve always worked out and stayed active, although I go in fits and starts. I don’t think of myself as an athlete even though I’ve maintained a semi-regular routine at a gym for almost two decades now. It just doesn’t seem to do much in terms of shutting out the nagging of my inner fat kid. If anything, as I age, I find it frustrating that I can work out pretty regularly and see little real change for the positive. I’ve gained muscle mass over the past year and with it, pant and shit sizes. I had stopped fixating on pure weight as a measure of my fatness and substituted the fit of my clothes and the cut of my profile when stepping out of the shower. And by those measures… yuk. We’ve moved back from London this summer and I’ve been without a gym. I’ve fallen off my routine and it’s now about a month since my last visit to a gym. I believe I look and feel like Chet from Weird Science — after he’s turned into the pile of poo.
When I am fit, I can hike without soreness. I can ski without cramping up. I can lift heavy things when that is a thing to do. At no point in my life have I been able to walk round my house without my shirt on and feel comfortable — let alone outside. I wish it didn’t matter, that my inner fat kid didn’t have the mic, but it does and he does. For now.