“I beg to differ’ son, I’ve been round all my life.”
A knee-jerk response, to a simple statement of reply started the journey.
I was pretty well known at a local pizza shop for ordering frequently. The guys who ran the shop became friends and we continuously had a good time and lots of laughs during pick up.
I had not been in for a couple months. The wife tried to make me eat better. That effort was as futile as the marriage itself, but I digress.
I walked through the door with my usual bravado, “Where you been Chuck, I ain’t seen you in forever,” I smiled having gotten the jump.
“That’s because you ain’t been around.” Chuck grinned back.
Thus the laugh generating knee-jerk response.
At my top weight I was at 386 pounds. Nearly as round as I was tall. I had dealt with the weight through a lifetime of bad decisions. A man can live for awhile on snack cakes alone, but it is not recommended.
I was once told I have no willpower. I must disagree. I have an over abundance of willpower. It is in reserve having never been used.
As a man will do, to avoid tension in the house, I found great solace in outside work. The childhood aversion to the physical activity of cutting grass was whisked away by solitude.
My girth came in handy in some situations. My weight was a perfect counter balance to the steeper hills. When, not if, I fell, I tended to bounce well. The dogs loved the show too.
The steeper I got, the more I leaned. You see, an over 300 pound counter balance comes in handy. Thing is, when you lean too far, the dang seat disconnects the engine and I would be stuck leaning up hill with the mower precariously perched awaiting it’s destination at the bottom.
Over time I learned to keep my fat leg on the seat to prevent that. I was quite a sight to see.
Just imagine trying not to laugh as you drive by a 300 pound man laying sideways on a riding lawn more with one leg across the seat and shoulder near the ground. You would see white knuckle clutching of the steering wheel, and if you had your window down, you would have been serenaded with the seedier side of the English Language.
As if the current posture was not enough fat-boy gymnastics, I had to turn the front wheels down the hill and start the engine if my leg didn’t do the trick. At this point I have to pull myself up on the seat fast as the mower starts it’s downhill race.
It’s an old mower, been through the wringer so the say, the gears rarely held and the brakes were iffy. The steepness of the hill determined the pucker factor of the ride.
I loved that lawn mower. We had been through twelve years of trials and tribulations. We had injured each other on countless occasions. By this time it looked nothing like the shiny new toy it started out as.
It had adopted it’s own rugged identity and had become well acquainted with bungee cords. Duct Tape held together a long forgotten black eye, and wire coat hangers held most of the frame together. I had a milk crate strapped to a hood that I had to unstrap itself when I fed him. The crate carried incidentals, like my cigarettes, phone, rags, various on the fly tools and a drink.
All of my implements of destruction were bungee strapped to the hood or the back. I always had my machete at reach and the weed eater strapped to the front like a gun. Barring a helmet, sidearm and an actual mission, I was ready for battle.
The more time with a weed eater in my hand, or a mower under my butt, the less time I spent in confrontation.
My outdoor journey expanded as I ran out of grass to cut too soon in the week.
I was losing weight in spite of my general nature, and it didn’t quit there.
A little less grass, a little less me.
One of the good things to come out of the dreadful plague of 2020 was my first real adventure in the realm of cement.
This actually started a few years ago when I came home from work to find a huge pile of gravel at the top of my driveway. By way of the neighbor, and my wife, he delivered the gravel but did not have time to tailgate it down the driveway. No worries, just glad to have it.
As time went on with no chance of getting machinery in to spread the gravel, I started to become ambitious. I started small. I began by loading up the worn out wheelbarrow and transporting the gravel to the spots I wanted filled in for my amateur, at best, landscaping efforts.
I filled in the space beside the house that had grown over the last gravel application, over top of the in-ground fuel oil tank. As I stood back to look, I found it was good.
I filled in some spots in the driveway, and a couple other landscaped areas and found that they were good too.
I shoveled and hauled for a couple days. I found it was good, but I also found I was sore.
Having not done much shoveling and hauling before, I felt the burn in my arms and back. I kept pushing through the pain, and finally started getting used to it. I had projects and I was rolling.
“Who knew?” asked my wife. “Had I known this would spark this much interest, I would have gotten two ton of gravel years ago.”
I got so that I was putting gravel everywhere I thought would be a good landscaping space. I read about the process on the Internet. Heck, I watched three YouTube videos just to be sure I got it right.
Of course, in the end, I just did it my way. The wrong way, but my way.
I graveled around the pool. I graveled around plants. I was just a graveling fool.
I decided one day that we needed a walkway from the back porch to the pool. So I started thinking about digging the path to the scale that I desired, Lining it with a hard plastic to prevent weed growth, adding strategic flat stones to step on and generally how much gravel and how thick to lay it.
I thought a lot about those things, but in the end I figured I would do it by line of sight and just have a raised walkway with no digging. I did not even go to the trouble of putting down the heavy plastic. I figured the weight and thickness of the gravel would deter any growth.
Did I mention that I often think wrong?
With tent stakes and long boards, I lined the walkway to the pool and started hauling gravel. As the path went, I decided that I needed a space graveled in front of my building to park the lawn mower on. I decided to gravel behind the building for future use.
Again, I was just a graveling fool.
After shoveling and hauling well over a ton of gravel, I started to notice that I can move the next day. A month into the process I learned that I can haul multiple loads of gravel and still be able to function.
I used to say that I do not believe in exercise, but I do believe in a paycheck. Meaning if I am doing a physical job that gets me in better shape as well as making bank, I was all for it. I have modified the proclamation. I still do not believe in exercise, but I do believe in progress.
As I was graveling, it dawned on me that the purpose of the walkway was to get to the pool in bare feet. Trying to walk on the gravel has its drawbacks. I had been stockpiling flat stones that I have found on the property, primarily at the creek at the bottom of the hill.
Hauling large rocks I found is just about the same physically as hauling little ones. You just don’t get as much in one load.
I guess at some point I should get around to the hard stuff, cement. In due time.
One of the issues with placing the flat stones gathered from their natural habitat is that they are rarely flat on both sides.
Again, I started into figuring positions of the stones. Relatively trying to get the geometry correct on the best length of stride and big stone to little stone ratio. Sounds impressive if I do say so myself.
Actually, I just made all that up. I just went ahead with what brought me to the dance, winging it.
After much digging and adjusting, I had something that did not look terrible. Actually, it made the look and feel of a good walkway with a pleasing foot respite from the course gravel. It was good.
Pleased with myself, I had completed the walkway. It looked good and inspired good feedback from the neighbors. Although I think, half of that was watching me finally get rid of some of that gravel pile.
Alas, the inevitable happened and I found myself weed eating the walkway itself. Who knew grass was so resilient? Well, everybody but me.
Less gravel and more rocks.
Got two bags of cement to start with, I got 80-pound bags. It is amazing how one’s on mind inflates the capabilities of one’s own body. I soon discovered that I can do 50-pound bags much easier, First lesson learned.
After the two bags set on the porch through my intimidation stage for a couple of weeks, I got the courage to start pouring. Oh, but first I needed a place to pour it. As you have probably figured out by know, I had to start shoveling gravel again.
I grudgingly went about removing all of last year’s hard work. I began dumping the excess gravel behind the building for future use.
With ragged wheelbarrow in hand, I set up to mix my first batch. Did I mention the 80-pound bags were a wrong choice. I had watched a video on the subject so I considered myself about a third level expert.
I precisely measured the amount of water, the video stated I needed and added it to the mixture. With my hoe, I start the mixing process.
Removing all the gravel from the walkway did serve a good purpose, as I had the perfect little trough to pour the cement. I lined the part I was going to start on with bigger stones that were not flat, to give it the look of having an edge. I succeeded in create the perfect tripping area for anyone deciding to traipse across the yard, including myself. You live, but you’re going to land hard.
I was doing much more work with much less of me.
I was down around 280 when we got divorced. Having long since been diagnosed with Diabetes, the doctor finally got me on the needle. He started me on a GLP1 medication making my Fed Ex driver my drug dealer by extension.
Traveling down that rabbit hole was the start of my glorious journey to weight loss. All turned out awesome. I dropped a bunch of weight and lived happily ever after. The end.
I wish that was true, but then I would not have such a story to tell.
I noticed the change immediately. Food did not taste the same. Chocolate became bitter and horrible. Chocolate was just one of the extreme changes in my life, albeit the worst. That was one relationship I thought I had forever. My love affair with chocolate and soda predates my conscious memories. Heck, Mom didn’t even shake the fizz out of my baby bottle.
This is a good thing. I finally quit having the constant cravings that had sat like an ear worm all my life. Like a song you can’t get out of your head, mine was sugar coated commercials. I wanted to break off a piece. I wanted to teach the world to sing. I wanted to go coo coo.
I’m not going to lie, the first year was rough. It stopped causing the cravings, but it started my lack of desire to eat anything at all. I had to force myself to eat. Little bird portions for an elephant in training.
Much to my embarrassment, and to my daughter’s utter delight, I started ordering Happy Meals when she was getting a ‘number three’ and making it large. As jealous as I was, I just couldn’t stomach that much.
For the first few weeks, I was either throwing up or throwing down. With toilet paper at an expense level that requires a personal loan, I was glad I had extra funds. I really did not need food after all.
Over the next few months, the weight melted off. I had no energy or apatite so I remained sick. I thought it was a good trade off for losing the weight.
When I say it melted off, picture Frosty the Snowman in Spring. I looked great in clothes, but looked like a Shar-Pei dog without. My wrinkles were nowhere near as cute.
I developed chicken wings for arms. I found this quite deceiving, I knew my biceps were much bigger than that. My stomach started developing wrinkles and they layered down my body like a protective shield for parts unknown.
I could deal with that too. The only issue, I looked good clothed, but you could not tell because I was too broke to replace my wardrobe.
My shirts became dresses and my pants ballooned. Wherever I went, it was “Hammer Time.” Forgive the obscure 90s MC Hammer reference. But in truth, with my clothes so loose and baggy, you really “Can’t Touch This.”
All of my belts needed cut down with holes drilled. Three ruined belts and a nice forearm bruise from a buckle, I decided the drill was not the best tool for the job. At best, with the fold in the jeans and the aforementioned wideness, it looked like a tight strap around a big barrel.
I found that my shoes were too big and my socks had no chance of staying up. If I were a younger man with an interest in social media, I could have started a new fashion trend. Let’s face it, it would be better than Hobo Chic.
I was actually embarrassed to leave the house. I am fortunate enough to work from home. In gaining a mortgage, I became less mobile as I could not afford a vehicle.
I now spend less money on food and transportation. It came with an added bonus, lots of walking when I did get out.
I raised a beautiful daughter who is smart as a whip. She was born on March 31. Of course I teased every year that she was just one day off a fool.
The great toilet seat debate started in the household. I always put it down out of sub-conscious training, I guess. Anyway, I would always say that I hoped that I was raising a daughter that would be smart enough to look first.
I had made up a new diagnosis that explained my considerable girth. I called it “Deskenwiders Disease.” The longer I sat at that desk the wider I got.
Let’s put this conversation back in the toilet for a bit. As far as I know, she has always followed that advice. Of course she would not tell me that.
With time, and age comes realization of different perspectives. I changed mine on my first splash down.
I have steadied out around 200 pounds now. I improved my wardrobe to the tune of two shirts, two pairs of pants and $20 shoes that actually fit.
I am still working outside every nice day and I am growing stronger. I primarily use the shovel now. Just like everyone else, I am digging out of a mountain of debt.
I have been dealing with less all my life. I’m not inclined to say I would do better with more. How in the heck would I know?