The Weight We Carry

Not too many moons ago, during one of my madcap weight loss schemes, I was riding my road bike across the Golden Gate Bridge, huffing and puffing, in the zone, feeling exhausted, wishing it was all over, hating myself, yet relieved that I had finally gotten my widening ass off the couch.

Out of nowhere, a car appeared over my left shoulder, slowing to my grinding pace.

A loudmouth character leaned his ample gut out the passenger window.

“Hey fuck you!” he shouted at me. “I’m fat and I’m happy.”

He roared off before I could answer.

So, what’s up with that?

I wanted to tell him that I agreed with him wholeheartedly, that I too have been fat and happy, far more times when I’ve been skinny and happy. Though I’m much more smug when I’m skinny.

This is a contemplation about weight — not emotional, but physical, but emotions play a large role in the weight/happiness/wellness equation.

It’s the weight we all carry. On our bodies.

That weight.

Nearly two-thirds of American adults are overweight or obese, according to Centers for Disease Control and Prevention.

I’m one of those people. And unless you’re lucky enough to beat the odds, so are you. And if you're not technically overweight, you feel overweight.

That's right, I'm talkin' to you.

If you’re anything like me, the weight you carry can, in your darkest, most neurotic moments, rule your life.

We all have those numbers we carry around like our cell phone or social security digits, at the ready to be recited ad nauseam.

What we weigh, what we want to weigh, the number we’ll have to reach before we’ll even begin to do anything about it. 

In my life, my weight has risen and fallen like a ship tossed on stormy seas.

My numbers are different than yours, of course, but the deliriousness of the drop and the guilt of the gain, is probably just the same. 

I weighed 175 in high school, and topped off, to my best recollection, at 238.

That’s a dizzying 63-pound swing, about the same weight as a Barcalounger, a sheet of drywall, an electric fireplace or a full helium tank.

And yet, at 238, I was probably the happiest I've ever been. 

It was the 1990s and I was living with my late friend Seanboy in Florida for a few months on a work assignment. He would come home every evening and grill two juicy tenderloins on the backyard grill, the kind of steaks that hung over the sides of the dinner plate, joined by potatoes, so many golden buttery potatoes, washed down by countless beers.

We laughed and stayed up late, talked in redneck Southern drawls and cackled when our pants became snug. Then my wife came to visit and pulled me back to reality.

“My God, man,” she said. “Look at yourself!”

There was no other way to describe it.

I was a pig.

A few weeks later, back in San Francisco, I was at a party and told my wife I was going to saunter over and flirt with two women standing near the hors d’oeuvres table.

“Better lose 30 pounds first,” I heard her say as I waddled away.

That’s just it, in a society that prizes litheness, that prefers its Olive Oyles to its Blutos, our weights can be used against us. And it has less to do with being healthy, and more to do with pleasing the eye of the beholder.

So, go ahead and lose that weight, but not too much.

One year, I’d worked hard to shed some pounds. I watched my calories, worked out like a fool, deprived myself of all those delectables I knew deep down inside my cold little heart that I really wanted, and deserved.

I was pretty miserable, to be honest.

Then I saw my next-oldest sister. She didn't say I looked svelte.

Oh, no.

“Oh, I wouldn’t lose any more weight," she clucked. "You don’t want to look skeletal.”

Oh no, not that. God forbid.

I grew up in a household with seven kids, a brood that included five girls.

My father started my family’s weight obsession. Unconsciously, I’m sure, he would always remind us about our weight, usually when the numbers began ballooning.

Even after we left home, we weren’t safe from his cool assessment.

Once, when I was living with my brother in LA, we flew to Florida to visit our parents. My father was waiting outside his house as we bounded out of the rental car, two young tomcats happy to see their old man.

He shook hands with my brother.

“Frank, you look great,” he said.

Then he turned to me.

“John, you’ve gained weight.”

He couldn’t help himself. An hour later, as he shoveled another dinner helping onto my plate, my Mom scolded him, “You just told him he gained weight.”

It never occurred to him, I guess, that the two were somehow connected.

I used to wear a size 34-inch waist. Whenever my first wife caught me browsing around the 36-inch pants section, she’d scold me.

“No, honey child, no way,” she said in her southern accent, waggng her finger. “Once you slide into those 36's, there ain’t no coming back.”

When we separated, I slid into those 36’s and even into some 38’s.

Nice and easy, steady as she goes.

I rebounded, but then gained more weight, then lost it.

I’ve barnstormed into ferocious workout regimens, got injured, had to back off, hit the couch and gotten fat again. There’s just something about me and gyms. I loathe them. Whenever I’m in the groove, going every day, or close to it, I’ll see people who obviously aren’t exercising and say to myself, “Hey, Slobola, it’s just an hour a day.”

And then, when I’ve fallen hard off my regimen and avoid the gym like I would an ex-boss, I’ll see these healthy gym-goers, with their happy, self-satisfied smiles, and think, “You neurotic fools. Get a life. Read a book.”

I am my own worst enemy.  And neurotic about my number.

So, now I’m on another weight loss jag. My dietician says my weight goal should be 195. That would give me a few pounds to play with, as long as I stay under 200.

Each time I visit her office, I love to fondle the gooey, soft, blubbery, gelatinous blob she keeps to signify what five pounds looks and feels like.

It doesn’t inspire me as intended. Instead, I think of all those rich wonderful meals I’ve consumed with good friends, the laughter, the bonding, all over calories and booze. 

I think of Seanboy. 

A month ago, I actually hit 197 and then the holidays came and I forgot all about anything but my next feeding frenzy and that boozy, bleary-eyed bellying up to the bar.

Now the ugly soberness of January has hit, and I’m at it again.

Just this morning, before I weighed myself, (those of you with weak stomachs should probably stop reading now) I hit the head, shower, took off all my clothes, even my wristband Fitbit, to get the lowest number possible.

Then I stand there naked atop the scale, happy, or not, depending on that number.

For me, it’s emotional.

I still can hear my father over my shoulder.