Teenage waistline. Right? That’s the dream. Like most teens, I didn’t much hardly care. Frenetic years busting the huge calorie meals and sloshing beers in the double-digits. We’re all wasted! And the old-timers laughed.
I first took notice of a burgeoning waistline while in San Francisco in 1980. I turned 30 and quit smoking; these were apparently signals to latent fat cells that it was okay to make their move. In my twenties I was the typical devil-may-care, where’s-the-party, care-free, hyphen-for-emphasis DC area dude who ate beefy, cheesy fare and swilled copious quantities of ice-cold beer – Miller Light, tasted great.
I did sort of ‘straighten up’ at the end of the 70s – got my haircut, got a government job, met a girl, became an ersatz dad, cut more hair, quit the government gig, worked a dozen jobs in one year, signed up for community college, lost the girl, blew the schooling, and clerked at 7-11. The girl told me I had potential, but “right now she was looking for a more complete man” – yeah, like that scientist you shagged behind my back on one of those conferences? That one? You know, the guy that took to his bed for a week when you spurned him because he was married. Me, after a blink or two (for the kid mostly), filled a couple of grocery sacks with my stuff, threw them in the worthless rig I drove, quit the clerking job and took off for California like they do in the movies. I was long and lean, but California is the land-o’-plenty.
My job had me trolling the peninsula for places to put the ‘take-one’ brochure boxes, doorsteps to the nascent world of computer dating. Send in $25 and ‘the computer’ would guarantee you three dates – maybe one a month, but three in total, woe betide them that was young females or elderly dudes for you could get up to eighteen connections a month for time immemorial, an early lesson in the metrics of romance (yeah, I dove in and got a changed phone number on my solitary run). Decided to quit smoking again, I hacked like a consumptive cowboy. Hours alone in a car hungrier’n hell and hitting fast food joints as part of my job, my pound a year ballooning commenced.
The first casualty was this corduroy sports jacket I bought in San Francisco. Before the web having an item bought in a hip town made you a little cool; at least, to yourself. I liked that coat and kept it with me for years with the intention of slimming down someday, hitting the gym, cutting back, etc.
Long about ’85 or so I’m at 185lbs or so, married, running a c-store thirty miles from our apartment. A 45-minute commute during which I sat in one position. Sitting this way does something to my lower back which I had wrenched pushing car from a parking spot back in Virginia during the great snowstorm of ’79. I’m in severe pain. Had to crawl to the bathroom in the morning and grab pipes and porcelain to get upright. On one of the drives home I couldn’t stand it anymore and hit the Emergency room off of Cty Rd 18. I was probably in St Louis Park. They tell me they’re too busy to see me and I whine. I insist on being seen. A young male doc comes in to the exam room. he is clearly annoyed and bristling. After a cursory look he informs me that I’m over weight and flips me a manual and exits saying he had patients to deal with real pain. Of course, I was offended – “How dare he!” and other fulminations ensued. But, you know, that cat was right and his words stayed with me even though It took a while to act on his brusque advice.
Minnesota is hotdish and Weber grill country – sprinkle a pea or two into the dish and ward off the health wardens. Oh, and add some kids. Dads are always slurping the untouched yogurts and munching the other halves of the PBJs; not to mention the ice cream and pizzas. By the end of the millennia I was bordering on a deuce.
Indolent and inactive? Not really. Well, indolent, okay, but I walked, worked, mowed, built, carted munchkins hither and yon. I strode the hills of Northeast with my extra poundage. Just maintenance was all it was.
I huffed into the teens of the new century. Took this new job. They fly me out to CA. Nice, nice people, but boy, they love to eat! I had a per diem with free breakfast and endless free lunches. By the time I cared to look I found I had stepped ahead of the years and now topped 220.
Last January I watched Super Size Me on Netflix. The premise is well known, thirty straight days of nothing but Mickey D’s puts the subject in a bad way. I damn near choked on my french fries laughing – the essence of comedy is seeing in it something of yourself. Later that week I had an annual with my doc, bloodwork and all the other stuff. I weighed in at a cool deuce and a quarter plus one. As I anticipated my test results mirrored those of the Super-Size guy, Morgan Spurlock. And guess what the doctor told me, guess what he told me – I was a pre-diabetic overweight hypertensive loser on the fast track to Reaperville. And I thought, “no way for the love of cheeseburgers and pie am I going to let these boys start hacking off parts of my body. I don’t want to be rascalling around a Wal-Mart looking for deals on Cheetos while snide high school dropouts fill my multiple pill bottles. Bad enough the other doc wants to run a robot up my ass.”
Fuck. That.
I go into the Atkin’s Diet, or my version of it –ain’t spending money on a plan, I know what I know. I know certain things – you can lose weight by eliminating carbs. All meat and veggies. I jumped in and lost ten pounds quickly. Where did I obtain this knowledge? From sports guys like Denny Green who recently rendezvoused with the Reaper, no word of his weight at TOD, but I have my suspicions. The sports guys slimmed downed and hawked the good doctor’s method. You see, I’m an average Joe; that’s why I know what I know. I followed this path religiously and maintained the ten-pound loss through the end of June.
Enter the vegan, the sometimes redheaded stepchild who stays with me. She moved in after my oldest daughter. She another multi-hued vegan. Well, vegan daughter the former emails me this video from Jeff Nelson of VegSource – I see you’re stalled on your weight loss quest, check this out. Jeff Nelson is a guy’s guy; no lily-livered, earth-crunchy, let’s save the squirrel pups about him. Dude piles his chow into one cooking bowl, microwaves it eats right from the dish. That’s a dog, bro.
Plant-based high-carb low-fat (HCLF) diet is the uppity name. But it works! Two to three pounds melt off each week. You’re eating food you always liked and you’re eating all you want (but not all you can). The diet is championed by practicing medical doctors; among them Dr McDougall, Dr Caldwell Esselstyn, Dr Neil Barnard, et al. Additionally there is an online community with luminaries such as Chef AJ, HighCarbHanna, PotatoStrong, VegSource and more. Youtube any of them for advice, support and terrific recipes.
For a confirmed lover of cheeseburgers, the no animal products part is a little hard to swallow, but the cravings pass even with the enticing aromas that waft over from that great burger joint out back. Energy is up, BP down, no body aches, exercise, mostly walking, is effortless. But the main benefit is the increased odds of being able to forestall the Reaper and not feel his foul, hot breath in the interim.
The scale has hit 176. I can claim a 50-pound weight loss! I was clothed at the doc’s when I tipped in at the 226, but 50 sound cooler than 45. Life offers no guarantees as we all know, but I can tell myself I have an edge in the dance with the Darksider. Thanks for reading and I hope I wasn’t too preachy.
danielewalsh 