Eschewing the Fat

I'm overweight.

There. I said it. I'm not ashamed of it, nor am I particularly proud of it. It's just what I am. Always have been, as long as I can remember anyway. First of all, from birth, I was destined to be forever among those who claim "big boned" as a reason for needing bigger sizes. My birth weight was ten pounds, four ounces. Chubby? Yeah. But cute as hell. By the time I was in school, I was also in "husky" sized pants (which I guess isn't as bad as the heavier girls having to wear the un-PC "chubby" sizes, as they were called back then) Among my friends, I was always the funny, roly-poly guy. I was the likable, "teddy bear" type among the girls in high school. All the '80s teen movies had the guy like me. The funny fat guy who never got laid. The one who always wound up with the chunky girl with glasses. Because, according to those movies, if you're overweight and wear glasses, the only women who are attracted to you are nerdy, overweight and wear glasses. Unless you're Peter Griffin, and he's a cartoon. Or Fred Flintstone. Yeah, Wilma was pretty hot. Not Betty-hot, but hot for a guy like Fred. Again, though, a cartoon. Although, King of Queens isn't a cartoon, and his wife is hot. But it's not real, it's a sitcom. Thankfully, some women enjoy my sense of humor and think I'm kinda cute, despite my chubbiness.

Okay, enough about that.

Who's to blame for the blubber? Oh, I could blame myself, but that's too easy, isn't it? I think it was my upbringing. Yeah, that's it. Hey, I'm Italian, we like to eat. And my mother liked putting butter on everything. Everything. So I inherited that butter-loving gene. Butter on graham crackers. Butter on Melba Toast. Butter on biscotti, on bread, on Stella D'oro treats, on butter cookies, on margarine, on low-fat snacks, because those things taste like shit if they're not slathered in butter. (I just love the word 'slathered') Okay, I will blame myself too. I was on a regimen of walking. (See: http://livemusingsnightly.blogspot.com/2007/11/fat-squirrels-and-other-distractions.html). But once the weather got too cold, I gave up walking for sleeping in an extra hour, and somehow, it doesn't have the same calorie-burning effects. Too damn bad. So, the calories needed someplace to go, since they weren't being burned by my powerful thighs rubbing together while I walked. They decided to take up residence in the flesh under my neck, along with assorted places around my body. Like my gut, my ass, and my thighs.

Okay, I'm not horribly slovenly or sloppy fat, but I have extra poundage. Probably about 40 or so pounds extra. I have decided that I would like to live for a while longer. After all, I've been smoke-free for two years this month, satanic second-wife-free for two years this month, and butter-slathering-free for a couple days (It was Easter, and we had dessert at my mother's house, so sue me.). If I want to do all those things on my bucket list (see previous post), I need to drop some of the weight that could crush my already overworked heart.

Hell, I even visited my cardiologist. You know what he told me? That I'm overweight. Oh, ya think? Gee, thanks for that completely surprising insight, Mr. Cardiac Care, Degrees-on-the-wall, $60 a visit, top heart doc. He wants me to have a stress test. I told him I had one already, It was called a second marriage. He wasn't very sympathetic. He still wants me to have one. I've had them before, and they're not fun. A lot of grunting and sweating, heavy breathing and leg cramps. Kind of like sex, without the big payoff.

One thing I don't get, and I'm sure I'm not alone here, is why I always weigh more on the doctor's scale than the one I have at home. Okay, so their scale is a finely tuned, medically certified, $400 piece of equipment. Mine was four bucks at IKEA. But come on, it's a difference of ten pounds! TEN POUNDS! Christ, that's a lot of weight. Which one do I go by? Sure, I'd choose my scale, but is theirs more accurate? I weighed myself at home before going, just to compare. Did I mention it's a TEN POUND difference? That's a whole ass cheek right there.

Today, I'm kick-starting a diet and exercise program. Why today? Because besides seeing my cardiologist yesterday, I also went to my gastroenterologist. Yeah, I'm like an old hypochondriac lady with time on her hands. He suggested that I'm at the age for a colonoscopy. Having something shoved in my butt was not on my "to do" list for that day. I told him about my second marriage and how I got screwed everyday on that decision. He wasn't sympathetic either. I'm having a colonscopy tomorrow. So I have to fast all day today and do some, shall we say, "prep" cleansing tonight. The perfect way to start a weight loss program is after you've completely emptied your bowels of everything that's in there. I'm sure in the middle of the night, I'll finally get back that penny I swallowed in first grade, and the bowl of cheddar cheese I ate as a dare in freshman year of college. So far, it's going well. I haven't eaten anything since the Dunkin' Donuts bagel and coffee almost four hours ago, except for some Italian Lemon Ice. Tonight is really going to suck. I'm not Ghandi for crying out loud. I'm a healthy male who needs food, not some already malnutritioned do-gooder in a burlap smock.

So, I'm fasting today, pooping a lot tonight, and being probed tomorrow. I'm hoping that after all this colon probing, (which I'd really prefer to have done by an alien abductor; at least I'd have an amazing story to tell afterwards) I'll start my walking regimen and watching the diet. Then I go for the stress test, and hopefully, I won't need my chest cracked open and all sorts of plastic stents and balloons and such to keep my aorta from choking like Michael Hutchens in a self-inflicted asphyxiation game.

And I guess what's most important is that I get healthy. I can do without the extra helping of rigatoni or that chocolate cupcake if it means a few extra years with the kids, a few more years to complain about crappy music, another decade or so of nut-scratching life. I don't think I'll ever be trim and svelte, but it'll be nice to once again see what I'm scratching.

Wish me luck on my adventure.