There was a time when my weight goal was to fit into size 46/30 khakis from Walmart, and that time was last Thursday, when I bought them.
I weigh some 334 pounds. I am 42 years old, heading to 43. I am officially diabetic, per my doctor’s adjudication of some recent unfortunate blood tests.* The flu I now get the spring of each year (it didn’t used to happen) this year left me coughing and hoarse for, and I am not making this up** at least six weeks after the flu itself was gone. I have red and grey inhalers for widening my airways now.
I am fat fat fat. My BMI is above 50. My BMR is 2700, if I lie in bed all day, and north of 3200 if I sit at a desk. I can have nearly as many calories as an athlete in recovery mode. If I start moving, I close on 4,000 pretty quickly. I can eat for two, and have for years.
I get winded on one flight of stairs, and take the elevator to the second floor at work. I’m in that place where I don’t think I look that bad until I actually look.
As a late Atlantic Monthly editor once said of America at large, I am some kind of fat.
I Am The Fat Guy.
* Full disclosure: I actually have good blood pressure, and one of my cholesterols is OK. Blood sugar is just past the threshold, and, as I may have mentioned, I am extremely fat.
** As Dave Barry used to say, when it was still funny. He said it after it was funny, too—but by then it was his signature line, and if he didn’t make it up, I’m pretty sure he used it most, and to most effect. It’s good to be #1. Ask Apple or Coca-Cola.