A few years ago, I got tired of being fat. Yes, I know. Who’s not tired of being fat? My problem was…and still is…I may have been tired of being fat, but I wasn’t and still ain’t nowhere near tired of doing things that make me fat.
My “start” wasn’t anything spectacular. And it wasn’t an all-or-nothing start. There was no pity play to gain that beloved bounty of back-pats for my good intentions. Who has any sympathy for someone starting out on a “weight loss journey?” But the gurus of weight-loss told me that I needed to tell everyone about my plans…you know…for “accountability.” Chances were that, soon and during a subsequent workplace luncheon, they’d remembered my “big talk,” “Now look at that cockalorum loading up that paper trough with casseroles, cakes, and cookies!” On past attempts and then failures, I didn’t feel accountability; I usually felt judged. But then again, I only think I have the power to read other people’s minds; if I can…I am not very good at it. On those occasions (more than “on occasion”) when I have confronted others for what I think they are thinking, they usually respond with “what the hell are you talking about?”
I didn’t start on Monday; it wasn’t really a start at all. I just changed a few things and let the momentum build. I never survived those all-or-nothing Monday diet-starts anyway. I’d go to bed on Sunday with everything laid out for my Monday. My diet-or-die resolve was strong and strengthened by my “last meal” and a full gullet as I laid my head down to sleep. They call this delusional thinking…you know…the cooked-up belief that I will be a reformed fat person and have all the self-control I need to finally get the weight off just because Sunday turned into Monday.
I made it a point to ignore the gurus’ advice; I started slow, and I didn’t tell a soul what I was doing. My motivation would come from the scale, right? But, for anyone starting out on a “diet,” the scale likes to give plenty of early motivation. “Look at you! Three days into this deal and you’ve dropped 10 pounds. Nice going!” Seems the scale always shares that motivation early in the “diet.” She lies! My clothes tend to tell me the truth, “Hey! Quit pulling on that. Yeah! I know there’s a quarter on the ground. Leave it! Don’t even think about bending over while wearing us today big boy. Not today!”
I kept quiet about my mission. No one was going to know what I was up to unless they noticed it on their own. That was going to be my first goal: keep going until someone notices I was losing weight. I told myself that I am not officially losing weight until someone notices it without me telling anybody about what I’m doing.
A few weeks went by. My scale had long since given up on her daily motivations. “Yeah…no…you didn’t lose any weight today. Sorry. Check back tomorrow.”
My clothes and I were getting along better. They had been a bit quieter after those early days and didn’t fuss as much when I bent over to pick up loose change.
A few more weeks of sticking-with-it had passed and I was walking down the hall of my hospice care agency’s office and someone behind me called out, “Nurse Kevin losin’ some weight! He’s getting skin-NAY!” And there it was! That was a motivator for sure! Up to that point in my life no one has ever associated me with “skinny” and definitely not “skin-NAY!” I was flyin’ high that day. I was flying “like an eagle” and was “letting my spirit carry me”…did I just date myself?
Time kept on “slippin’, slippin’, slippin’…into the future” and my wife was really not wanting me to die from some mid-forties, insta-illness. She finally talked me into going to the doctor for a checkup. I hadn’t been to the doctor in years. Being a registered nurse and (at the time) well into my 40s, I knew just what’s what. My fear is likely shared by many men over that proverbial hill of life…lubricated, gloved index fingers pointing at me. I know what those doctors do to us unsuspecting middle-aged men behind that unlocked office door.
As a nurse, I don’t mind (too much) being on the delivery side of lubricated fingers wrapped in nitrile. As a man…yes…I mind a whole bunch at being on the receiving side.
“Good sir, you are the poster boy of what a 45-year-old man should look like. Good job!”
A poster-boy! ME?! A bona fide poster-boy! Truth be known, I had been a poster-boy for a lot of things in my life. Cream-filled snack cakes, double-burgers coated with 1000 island dressing, and gas station hot dogs…but never a poster-boy as a doctor’s standard of a middle-aged male specimen. A poster-boy! Look! At! ME!!
I mentioned I was a Registered Nurse, right? Many of my years were spent taking care of hospice patients. Most of my days were in the field and in the homes of my folks. From time to time, I’d be in the office to do this or that and usually around the reception desk near where the boss’ office was. I took the time to visit a bit with my coworkers. My boss would say, “Nurse Kevin, I am not paying you to talk.”
I’d scoff, “No ma’am. You’re right about that! I am not talking!”
Of course, I was. She’d holler out, “well smart ass; what would you call it then?”
“Yes ma’am, this is called ‘building workplace comradery’.”
“GO TO WORK!” she’d dismiss. She was a good boss (and I mean that as truth and not being facetious). Because she was a good boss, I did leave out all the adjectives and descriptive terminology she used prior to her three-word sentence suggesting I “go to work.”
I’d make it from the front of the office, far away from the boss’ personal office and toward the back where the “action” of our little hospice agency took place. The social workers were doing their social stuff, chaplains were doing their chaplain stuff, and the CNAs were gathering supplies to clean and caress folks’ nooks and crannies. And, also, the volunteer area where the fun stuff took place.
I passed the office of the volunteer coordinator, “Nurse Kevin!” she called in an almost musical note of genuine excitement as she walked over to me, almost tripping over her beautiful smile.
I got along with everybody at work. When I say “everybody”…I mean the few that showed up for work and actually did their own work. One of the hardest working employees at my old hospice agency was an adult daughter of our volunteer coordinator. She always had a smile on her face; it was beautiful and infectious. Like someone nearby yawning, when you saw her smile, you could not help but smile back. It was beautiful and infectious because it was genuine. She has autism and a developmental challenge. And she is a very productive member of society. There’s no “fake” with her. When she spoke, all you got was pure, un-pretended honesty. Her observations were shared openly and without ambiguity; though she did have a “social filter” for the most part and knew how to spare feelings.
“Nurse Kevin!” she ‘sang’ again as she grabbed my hands and pulled them out like she was shopping for a new shirt, “Look at you! You look like a Ken doll!”
A Ken doll? Lord have mercy on my soul and don’t let my head get as big as my butt was. There are few compliments that I’ve gotten in my life that I really and truly remember. Friends, it’s all downhill from a “Ken doll” complement. There ain’t no way and no how that’s ever going to be topped.
And I do…like I am sure you do as well…get a bit of motivation from others as they divvy out their cheers, reassurance, and applause. Yeah! There were days where my emotional energy was drained…none…game over! Hospice-ing and dieting at the same time…heck…living life in general and dieting at the same time…you know what I mean. After another human noticed me and let their sun shine on me, that gift of praise would reenergize life into my drained day.
Things were going well…until…I lost all my weight.
Losing weight is not like day or night; it’s more like a sunrise. You don’t just go to bed on Sunday night and wake up thin on Monday morning. I never lost a pound with my good intentions. I lost weight over time like the night turning into a day. Like a sunrise, it was gradual and methodical, and it was full of beautiful moments. A 260-pound man that now weighs 200 pounds is a beautiful thing…then comes the glory of reaching a goal of 175 pounds. How awesome is that!? Now think about this: how beautiful is that same man who made it to 175-pounds and now weighs 200 pounds? Hold on to that thought.
What happens when the weight is gone? What happens when you go from ‘doing it!’ to ‘done it!”? If I have really and truly “done it,” can I actually be done now? At 260 pounds, I would ask myself, “Self? What are you trying to do?”
“We’re trying to lose weight and get healthy so our clothes will stop giving us the what-for when we need to bend over and pick up a nickel.”
Later, at 175 pounds, “Self? What are you trying to do?”
I didn’t have an answer.
A golden and dawning day will keep your attention at the horizon as the sun is rising in the sky. But, once the sun is up and high in the sky, we all shift our attention to other things. My new appearance became commonplace to my family and my coworkers. They became accustomed to the way I looked. The emotional boosterisms were still there but now fewer and farther between. The gym door became emotionally heavier and heavier and eventually became the heaviest weight I’d lift each time I went to the gym.
I no longer “looked” different to my coworkers, the bar keep, or even my wife. Some of my best fans who rooted me on now missed my squishiness, “Ohh. You feel all bony now.” My wife, believe it or not, didn’t like my bones either. Bony? I wasn’t bony; I could lift with the best of them and even at my age. But yeah…my fat parts were gone.
The momentum and energy I had when I started out was fed by other’s unsolicited sounds of raves and rhapsodies. I was working just as hard to keep the weight off but those pick-me-ups compliments on tough days were gone. I was still “doing,” but really wanted to be “done.” I had been tired of being fat and now I was tired of doing things that kept me thin.
Transformation is like a story. Folks gotta know how this saga ends. Some may hope for failure; it’s not personal. They just don’t want to be left behind. Others hope for winning; it’s still not personal. They love rooting for the underdog. Soon, I noticed that my new self eventually became just “self.” The motivating complements slowed and eventually they stopped. Yeah. I still got one or two happy-faces every now and then when meeting with someone I hadn’t seen in a long while. But my day-to-day folks’ attention was on other things that were changing and telling a new story.
An opportunity found its way to me, and I left my hospice job and moved to a new time zone where no one knows my name…no…I didn’t move to Boston. Folks here only see me as I am; they never knew me as I was. And that’s okay. Folks from where I came would no longer see a 260-pound man who once weighed 175-pounds and now “keeps it” around 200 pounds (depending on the time of year and seasonal availability of spooky candy, thankful turkey, and merry egg nogg). Folks here? They just see me…me and my same ol’; same ol’ self. And, you want to know what? I like that…a lot.
I get up most days and ride my bicycle to and from work. My lunches are usually limited to what I can (and willing to) carry with me. It’s not like my workday is so hard and draining that I can’t make it without a fast-food “reward.” I even pack my own coffee. Self-contained, baby! I often carry more weight in gear, food, drink, and the change of clothes than my whole bike weighs. And phooey on the headwind. Bring it! I just may earn more beer-calories. Yeah! I enjoy a beer or two each evening with a personal policy of limiting my beer calories with what was burned during my bike rides (and stick with that policy “most” of the time).
I save the “good meal” to enjoy with my family; it’s the pinnacle of my evening. “What’s for dinner” may be cabbage and ground beef, or some stir fry broccoli cooked in my most awesome cast iron wok. Another night I may enjoy coffee-crusted pork roast enchiladas…maybe even pizza from that local place with the awesome crust. Gumbo is never off the possible menu choices no matter what month it is…and I don’t skimp on that rice. It’s often we ride our cruiser bikes down to one of the local breweries and after “two,” we decide on a burger before we pedal back home.
My 16-year-old doesn’t remember the way I was, all heavy and struggling. He doesn’t see someone who fights with dieting like a playground bully only to scream “uncle” before the first week has even gotten started. There’s no more Sunday’s steadfastness followed by Monday’s mercurialness. There’s just Sunday followed by the get-up-and-go-to-work Monday.
I still ask myself, “Self, what are you trying to do?”
My answer is different these days, “Balance.” I want to have balance in my life, my weight, and not be bound by what I think other people are thinking about me. What other people are thinking about is not about me; that’s for sure. If they are thinking about me, it’s likely that they are wondering what I am thinking about them. But then again, I am no good at reading other people’s minds. Whatever they think about me, good or bad, it’s not personal. I’m learning not to care what they are thinking.
I just want to be until I am not to be…oh…and not to require 8 pallbearers at my funeral. That too.