A Double-Edged Sword

I’m worried about this entry. Why? Well, because it’s generally not a good idea for a writer to irritate or alienate a large portion of his or her audience. Yet, I’m fairly certain that this entry is going to do that. Read on, but please – hear me out.

This entry concerns success; more specifically, it concerns the massive, superlative success that I’ve had. (Are you irritated or alienated yet?) While I’m joking right now, I’m also being somewhat serious: I’m quite proud of how far I’ve come. But, as with anything, there are problems with success.

“Oh great,” I can hear you muttering. “This is where he gripes about how burdensome weight loss is, like some famous actor complaining about fame, or a professional athlete groaning about the pressure of playing sports for a living. What a crock.” No, I’m not going to go that far. I wouldn’t give up my weight loss for anything in the world, and it’s been an incredibly positive experience. However, it would be fair to say that it has caused me some problems that I never anticipated.

By far, the most grievous of these problems is an intense, nagging, gnawing, clawing, scraping and grating fear of failure. In fact, this fear is so great that I’m going to shove it down a little while longer, and talking about something else, instead. Lucky you!

Instead, I’m going to reveal the second-most prominent of the unexpected, negative consequences of weight loss: backhanded compliments and their cousin, “helpful advice.” What do I mean by backhanded compliments? These are compliments, offered to me regarding my weight loss, that are a bit more negative than they might at first appear. These comments always come from those who I have not seen in quite sometime, at which time he or she will inevitably comment upon my weight. While it’s hard for me to be upset about this – obviously, I’m happy to be noticed as healthier and more energetic – most of these compliments are phrased in such a way that they call into question my self-worth, as it was just as little as a year and a half ago. By far, the most popular of these, usually exclaimed by abrasive, somewhat tactless middle-aged women, is: “You’re a shadow of your former self!”

Now, I’m probably just being sensitive, but when I hear this, I feel the need to fill in the rest of this statement: “You’re a shadow of your former self – which was a bloated, unsightly, terrifying gastric atrocity!” Heh. Great.

Interestingly enough, these kinds of tactless remarks come mostly from older people. When my peers hear of my weight loss, they’re typically supportive and interested, but never thoughtless. That seems to come mostly from older folks. Take, for example, my wife’s grandfather. He’s a typical grandfather: a jovial, friendly man who has a bit of an anxiety problem and is more than little meddlesome. There is never a doubt in my mind that his heart is in the right place, and yet our relationship has always consisted of me wondering exactly what’s coming next, even from the very beginning. Like most older people – especially family members – Amy’s grandfather’s quirks regarding my weight loss manifest themselves as “helpful advice.” This helpful advice is typically anything but. Case in point: in March of 2005, we threw Amy’s grandparents an anniversary party. In retrospect, I can recognize this situation as the perfect breeding ground for backhanded compliments and “helpful advice”: there was plenty of food, lots of family, a bit of mingling, and a few too many beers.

As I felt free to do so – this being a party, after all – I began enjoying some of the very delicious food that people had prepared. Almost immediately, I heard an aged, helpful voice from over my shoulder: “Now, be careful with that, Andy.” As soon as he said it, he walked away.

What?

Amy was mortified, and I was simultaneously amused, flustered and irritated. But, I wasn’t ashamed (just yet), and so I didn’t pay it any mind. Unfortunately, throughout the afternoon as the beer flowed, the proximity between Amy’s grandfather and I widened even while the comments continued. By the time we were cutting the cake, I heard the words, “Now, Andy!” practically shouted from the other room. Disgusted, I walked into the kitchen and tossed the cake in the trash.

Reading this again, I hope that it doesn’t sound too harsh. I want to make it clear that I’m grateful for positive attention. Christ, look at me! I’m blogging about it; obviously, I’m interested in the attention. The vast majority of people I talk to about this are kind, thoughtful and supportive. Even the people I’ve mentioned have their hearts in the right place. But all of this doesn’t change the fact that people occasionally act like jackasses. That’s why I’m warning you: even if you achieve all your goals and you feel genuinely happier, nothing is ever perfect. Be ready to accept that. Weight loss and fitness can fix a lot of things, improve confidence, and even – heh, scratch that, I’d better not divulge that secret until later on.

The point is, weight loss is great, but it’s not a cure for everything. You still need to remember to be mindful, (somewhat) humble, and thankful for the positive people around you. Oh, and the most important lesson? Don’t let anybody badger you into throwing cake away. Because that shit is tasty. And life’s too short.

Strip Poker

In the autumn of 2004, I was 240 pounds. Not a very provocative way to begin, I know, but trust me – it gets better. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “5′10″? 240? Wow, he has a weight problem.” (Of course, you’d probably only be thinking that particular thought if you knew how tall I was, but I digress.) You would be correct in your reaction, however, but I didn’t have nearly as negative a response to my situation. Why? Because – at one point – I was 340 pounds.

(And I was a bit shorter then, too.)

So, as you might imagine, most of the time I was generally thrilled to be 240 pounds. Granted, I fluctuated between 235 and 250, but all I had to do was think about how far I had come, with just a bit of exercise.

Most of the time, that is. On this particular evening, however, this knowledge was insufficient. On this particular evening, we were playing strip poker.

(Incidentally – you’re going to learn a lot about me, as you read this blog. Probably much more than you’d ever really wanted to know about anyone. Trust me, this is just the tip of the iceberg, and it’s generally as painful for me to tell as it is for you to read. Oh, and sorry for the aside – you’ll probably grow to hate these, but that’s the price you pay for such a non-linear method of storytelling/journalism.)

The details of how we decided on such a pastime are unimportant – in fact, to the best of my admittedly hazy recollection, there was only one girl playing, so I’m not sure why we were engaging in the activity in the first place. (I’m not in any way suggesting that me playing a game of strip poker was anything seedier than jovial, stupid fun. I mean, if you think about it, what could be less sexy than sitting around on wooden chairs with a group comprised mostly of guys, sporting beer guts and cans of PBR, in various states of undress? Bah – you could be playing with the cast of Charlie’s Angels and it wouldn’t be enough to make that scenario titillating.)

I apologize again for the digression; there I sat, playing a 2 AM game of strip poker desperately not to lose, lest I be required to show to my friends my great detail of mass. Well, if you know anything about gambling, you’ll know that usually, the more desperate you are correlates inversely with how well you do. Tonight was no exception. It didn’t take long before I was faced with a choice: do I remove my shirt, or my pants?

It’s funny, too; for a heavy guy like myself to even consider strip poker, I would have had to be in some sort of heavily inebriated state. Yet, I could have had a thousand gin and tonics and still been yanked back to clarity when faced with such a decision. Perhaps I should spell out the ramifications of this choice: do I pull off my shirt, and expose my gut, which was more like an innertube than a spare tire? Or do I remove the pants, and chill in the briefs I wore because boxers were so goddamn uncomfortable and awkward?

I actually chose a third option. I slinked off, quitting the game and finding somewhere to lay my head – which actually turned out to be my bed, since this entire ludicrous adventure took place at our home. No one seemed to mind that I was quitting without honoring my final bet; perhaps they knew that I was ashamed or uncomfortable (although I imagine it’s probably more likely that I just wasn’t the object of everyone’s attention – which was fine by me.)

Next morning, most of the remnants of the previous night’s activities were expunged: floors were swept, cards put away, glasses (and, perhaps, vomit) were cleaned. But the game of strip poker weighed heavily on my mind, and by the end of the day I had come to a fundamental realization: although at that time I had probably lost around 100 pounds since my heaviest point in high school, it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t happy with myself. I exercised frequently, but had stalled on my progress. I needed to do something. I’m going to show you what I did.

In the coming weeks and months, if you’d like, you’ll learn what it’s like to weigh 340 pounds when you’re 16, 260 when you’re 20, 295 when you’re 23, 240 when you’re 25, and, as of December 27th, 2005, 177 when you’re 26. I’ve done it without drastically altering my diet, or getting stomach stapling surgery – although, if you have a fear of exercise you should probably stop reading right now. It isn’t easy, but it can be done. Let’s talk about how.