One of those mornings it hits me *hard*.
Something like 7 years ago I was a dead man walking…well north of 427 pounds. Every blood marker there is, kidney, lipids, liver, “off the charts” bad. Blood sugar had gone over 500. A1C was beyond accurate measurement. 8 ‘scrips. TWO injectables. Near $16 grand/year worth. No less than 8 Advils a day. Sometimes much, much more. A dozen? Sixteen? Yeah. Bad. I know. But the alternative was “non-functional.”
Asleep at the wheel…not somewhere I went deliberately, but I had arrived there nonetheless.
The morning I realized this…that I was dead but just hadn’t bothered to lay down yet…woke me up NOT because of the seriousness of my condition…but what I realized at that moment was that I really didn’t *care*.
It was also an impossible task. I was 50! Too much. Too far. Too old.
Far, far too late.
But the old me…buried deep down…the one that climbed out of poverty, the one that’s fought himself out of countless life and death situations piped up and said, “WTF?”
So I set to work on it anyway. And I beat it. Diabetes gone. Blood pressure, blood makers, heart/lung function…all ideal. Off all those drugs. I haven’t taken a pain reliver in months.
I’m NOT yet where I want to be. I still have fat to lose, and I want to pile on even more muscle. Vanity? Meh…not really.
But the muscle really is the fountain of youth, and the fat loss is the longevity. I’ve SEEN it. I’ve proved it.
Or at least, some days I believe that.
See, that Fat Man in the Mirror still beckons. I still hear him…and worse, see him every time I look. I still fuck up the diet. I still go backwards. I still have bad days. I still fail.
Today I was feeling it. The Fat Man in the Mirror was laughing at me. “Lie down.” he seems to say. “You’ll never make it.”
But I’m still here. I’m still working it. Month by month. Day by day. Hour by hour. I succeed just slightly more than I fail…and THAT…is what progress is.
I usually wear a heavy-cotton, loose fitting t-shirt for my daily activities. Habit and utility. Usually a size too large or more just to have room to move and bend. Also a left over habit from when a 6XL was too small. Big clothes and heavy fabric hide the bumps and unwanted curves. Light fabric and tapered shirts just show how fat I am.
Today, as I’m putting on a XL heavy cotton shirt getting ready for breakfast, the wife hands me a light cut/tapered shirt, size L.
“Here. Put this on.”
“Because you look damn good in it.”
*looks in the mirror*
“Huh. Well I’ll be dammed.”
My life is MINE…I took it back.
The Fat Man in the Mirror doesn’t get a vote.
Maybe one day I’ll even be able to tell him that.
I’ll see you on the road.