Both my parents had weight problems. My mother’s weight bounced up and down from 110 pounds to as high as 220, and she used every weight loss drug available. And my father believed the way to conquer the problem was to “dress the fat.”

 

I didn’t want to grow up to be them. Adding many extra pounds to my slim figure wasn’t going to end up being the . . .

 

 

Weight For Me

 

     It had been a long day. My third period high school science class was a bear. Then, after track practice lasted longer than expected, I was completely drained. Sweat poured from every part of my body, as I changed out of my uniform into my street clothes. I should’ve showered, but the hunger pangs in my stomach were overwhelming. I had to get home to scarf down anything and everything I could.

     A dinner of homemade meatballs and spaghetti was all I’d ever dreamed of. And when Mom placed a plate of it in front of me, I was overjoyed. I devoured every bit of it. However, I knew I shouldn’t ask for more. If I pigged out on it, I wouldn’t have the energy to study for my science exam tomorrow morning. And so . . .

     “Mom, dinner was great,” I said, joyfully.

     “Glad you liked it,” she replied.

     “Goodnight, I’ve got to go study.”

     “See you in the morning, Kevin. And don’t stay up too late.”

     “I won’t.”

     I walked upstairs to my bedroom, took off my shoes, threw my science book on my desk, and went to work. Five hours passed and my stomach began to growl. Midnight snack time, I thought.

     I left my bedroom and entered the pitch black hallway. I took the small flashlight my grandfather had given me out of my pocket and moved slowly down the stairs and toward the kitchen. As I entered, all the kitchen lights went on. Shocked beyond imagination, I screamed, “What the hell’s happening?”

     There, in her bathrobe, Mom stood staring at me, with daggers in her eyes. Shaking, I moaned, “What are you doing here?”

     “Protecting tomorrow’s dinner.”

     “Protecting what?” I asked.

     “Our supper—last night’s leftovers.”

     “But I’m starving.”

     “You’re always starving. You’re eating us out of house and home. What am I going to do with you? Maybe I’ll place a lock on the refrigerator.”

     “You can’t do that!”

     “Just try me. There’s half a tuna sandwich left over from my lunch. You can chow down on it, but don’t touch the spaghetti and meatballs.”

     Such was my life on Festival Way. I could never feed my skinny body enough to keep up with all the activities I was involved in. And since my mother believed in leftovers, so each meal she cooked would feed us for two nights, I didn’t know how I’d survive.

     Well, the following year, I graduated high school and left for college at the University of Southern Promise—not its real name, but close enough—in Southern, California. I continued my passion—running varsity track—and became involved in extracurricular sports, such as baseball, bowling, and volleyball.

     My life was amazing, but I was hungry all the time. I couldn’t afford all the food I needed to survive, so I got a part time job. Where, you might ask? At an Italian Restaurant, called “Pasta Heaven.” And my boss, Francesco, allowed me to take all the leftover pasta home.

     Now, through my many sports endeavors, I burnt more calories than an incinerator burnt garbage. I had to, for my typical dinner included an eight inch round bowl of pasta with tomato sauce, piled five inches high, with four meatballs sitting on top. I  paired this with a minimum of six pieces of fried chicken and a loaf of bread covered in butter. And I did this every day. Also, I never missed breakfast or lunch.

     My roommate, Carl, looked at me and stammered, “I’m over six feet tall and I can’t eat what you do. And I’m ten pounds overweight.”

     “But you sit on your butt all day. Go out and do something to get your heart going. Work out. That’s why I have this beautiful five-foot-nine inch athletic body.

     “Hey. I’m in graduate school. I don’t have time to screw around like you do.”

     Little did I know that his words would come back to haunt me. For two years later, I entered graduate school—at the same college, with the same roommate, and the same diet. What did change, however, was my lifestyle. I sat on my butt and studied from dawn to dusk—no time for sports activities of any kind.

     A little over a year passed. One morning I came into the kitchen. Carl was sitting at the table munching on some cheese and crackers. He looked at me with a weird expression on his face and said, “You been on a scale lately?”

     "Huh, no. Why?”

     “Cause you’ve got quite an overhang over your belt.”

     “Overhang? No  way.” I tried, with all my might, to suck in my gut, but to no avail.

     “It’s there, my friend,” Carl, said, with a smirk on his face.

     “Don’t worry. It’ll be gone after I have a good poop.”

     “I always knew you were full of sh . . .”

     “Oh, don’t say it.”

     All my life I’d avoided getting on a scale. I had no need to. But maybe it was time. I was having trouble seeing my feet.

     I made my way to the bathroom I shared with Carl. His scale sat in the corner, near the bathtub. I shuffled over to it, tapped on it with one foot, and zero came up on its indicator. With more than a slight hesitation, I stepped onto it. Looking at the indicator, I cringed. I felt like throwing up, but knew that wouldn’t change the number—212—much. I’d gained fifty-seven pounds, since graduate school began.

     This was a life changing moment. I knew I had to change my eating habits and get back into the saddle and exercise.

     It was clear to me, the diet I was on was unhealthy. So I stopped eating fried chicken, bread, and my all-time favorite, . . . meatballs and spaghetti. I replaced these “dietary staples” with healthier meals prescribed by a nutritionist on campus. But it didn’t stop there.

     The weight needed to be gone as quickly as possible. This meant—not years. And not even many, many months. But how could I make this happen?

     Then a light bulb went off in my head. Track, running. That was my passion. Start doing it again, I thought. But how, and where?

     The next morning I walked into the living room. Carl was lounging on the couch. He looked up at me and muttered, “You seem lost in thought. What’s up?”

     “I need to start running again.”

     “Why?”

     “To help get rid of my bulging belly.”

     “See, now you know I was right. You do have quite the overhang.”

     “Oh, stop! . . . Okay, you were right.”

     “But you do want to run?” he asked.

     “Yeah, but not on the track. Too many people still know me as a muscular, trim, college sprinter. It’d be embarrassing.”

     “So, it’s summer. Run around the pool. Everybody there is either taking in the sun or swimming. They won’t pay any attention to you,” Carl blurted.

     “Why did I think you were just my dumb roommate? I like your idea.”

     “Well, thank you.”

     “Oh, don’t get carried away. You got lucky.”

     That weekend I entered the college pool area, removed my shirt, and dressed in my blue bathing suit, I began to jog around the track. As I ran, what I heard made me think I’d made a miserable decision.

     “Hey look at that funny, fat guy,” an attractive blond yelled to the group of girls sunbathing. And look they did. But they did more. They pointed at me and laughed.

     One chanted, “He’s got a real bouncing belly.”

     I thought I was going to die. But for some reason, I didn’t stop running. And the more I did, the more the girls looked at me, but in a very different way.

     A month later, I heard a brunette say to a friend, “He’s cute.”

     Inspired by this and other nice comments, I ran my heart out. In three months, I dropped the fifty-seven pounds and liked what I saw staring back at me from the mirror. This was the “weight for me.”

 

 

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