I’m Twice the Man I Used to Be

I look at old photos of myself from twenty or thirty years back. Then I look in the mirror, and the man who stares back is nearly unrecognizable to me. I remember as a child wondering why my father had such a big belly, and “couldn’t he do something about it?” It was kind of embarrassing because my friends’ fathers were not like that at all. He was thin when he was young up to about the age of forty, which I should have paid attention to.

Our family on my mother’s side are all Kansas farm people who might have been thin when they were young, but gravity, genetics, and diet took over at some point, giving them that stereotypical “full” midwestern look. I always secretly hoped to avoid this. However, right around the age of forty (like my father), I started to “fill out.” Today, I’m about twice the man I used to be.

For about ten years previously, I was at a good weight and was pretty comfortable with it. I was more concerned with my mental state and whether I was going to die of some sort of rare illness my mind had cooked up. I’ve never been totally comfortable with my body. When I was young, I felt too skinny, so I felt self conscious taking my shirt off in the summertime like the other kids. My body never did see much of the sun as a teen or into my twenties because I would be out playing in the nightclubs half the night and then sleeping until three o’ clock the next day, so I’ve probably avoided skin cancer at this point.

As a formerly thin person, I can tell you that being overweight is not pleasant, especially when it’s hot, and clothes are tough to come by that don’t make you look ridiculous. Winter months are much more comfortable. Hoodies and jackets mask a lot of flab, so all in all, I look forward to the passing of summer. It’s not like I totally miss the days of being six foot two inches and weighing a hundred and ninety pounds. I got beat up pretty good back then for being such a scarecrow. These days at two hundred and sixty-five pounds, people are much less likely to want to talk trash to me. Occasionally it still happens, but much more subtly.

A few years back, I was playing a show in a local bar when a lady came up to me and said, “I used to watch you play in the ’80s at The Pelican Club.” Before I could formulate a response, she added, “Wow, what happened?” with an added giggle thrown in. I was embarrassed and didn’t know what to say.

Yet another time, I was at a funeral for a musician friend who had died of cancer. As I was sitting in the pew, another musician I recognized from years back slid in next to me and said, “Wow, you got big.” This is at a funeral. I must have made an irritated face because he added, “Oh sorry,” as if that was going to fix his rude comment.

Overweight people face a lot of this sort of nonsense all the time as if they are lazy, or uncaring about their appearance. So, “what happened?” Life happened—genetics happened—I happened. It’s not like I prefer being this way, but I have a million other things to think about every day, and time and my age are against me. By the way, I don’t think people look particularly healthy when they drop a ton of weight and look like skinny, melted plastic army soldiers either, so there’s that.

It’s a fact that I need to lose weight. I’m working on it, but I’m not planning on making it into something where I can’t enjoy life at the same time. I see people out pounding their kneecaps into dust running or getting up at the crack of dawn to roll a tractor tire around in their back yard. If it works for them, that’s great. I don’t want any of that nonsense. I’m aiming for less bulk without killing myself in the process.

I recently went to the doctor for something unrelated to my weight. While I was there, I asked him about some sort of sensible diet. This is what he said: “Look at me. I’m skinny as hell. When the food runs out, I won’t last two weeks. You are genetically built to survive. You should thank your ancestors for passing that along to you.” True story.

***