A few months ago, after being told by my doctor that diabetes and a slew of other diseases that tend to racially profile unhealthy people with melanin had some serious plans to break down my proverbial door like a police battering ram - I decided that it was time for a lifestyle change. I had already stopped drinking, and that was quite the feat for someone who was a lunch pale alcoholic for the better part of two decades. But to really avoid the fate of so many members of my father’s side of my family, I’d have to lose a serious amount of weight. I mean, not just 20 pounds here or there, I’m talking about an entire person’s worth of weight - at least a supermodel with a serious cocaine problem. So I stopped drinking sodas, actively avoided fast food like I do family members who revealed that they were republicans, ate smaller portions, and constantly worked out as if my very life depended on it. Well, because it did. Now, 4 months later and more than 50 pounds lighter, I feel the best I’ve felt since the waning days of the Clinton administration. Even though I still have a ways to go before I’m using corny pictures of me lifting up my shirt to expose my abs as my twitter avatar, I couldn’t be happier with my progress: Blood pressure and liver functions back to normal, glucose levels back to normal as well, no more sleep apnea, and an overall change in temperament.(I’ll still fuck you up, so don’t sleep!)
That said, I wasn’t fully prepared for the way people would treat me at the precise moment I could give an accurate description of my penis to a police sketch artist. Sure, I knew that dropping three t-shirt sizes and 10 pant sizes would illicit some form of reaction from family, friends, and shrug-worthy acquaintances. But I never knew that I’d be on the business end of so much silliness because of it. For example:
I went out with some friends this past weekend, and on more than one occasion I ran into a woman from my drinking days who dared to utter some version of the following: “I’ll fuck you now that you lost so much weight!” What the fuck? Forget about the fact that I refused to come within a square mile of their lady-business with a hazmat suit back when I was lovably rotund. But it just made me feel sorry for my fatter self. Regardless of my size, I’m still the same guy who solves disputes with neck punches and thinks that Rakim is the greatest MC of all time. The only thing that has changed is my waistline. Here’s another example:
The front desk nurses who work at my doctor’s office couldn’t give two shits about me when I shopped at the Big and Tall store and broke out in a sweat every time I changed clothes. Matter of fact, I don’t even remember them dignifying me with a modicum of eye contact after they typed my information into their computers. Now things couldn’t be more different, but I don’t exactly feel good about that by the way. No lie, a couple of them had a minor argument over who was going to hand me a hat that I left there from a previous appointment. The mile wide smiles that I’m now privy to. The playful banter between the time I arrive at the front desk and when I hand them my co-pay. After a recent visit one of the nurses said something like, “I’m going to make sure that I’m the one who waits on you next time!!” Ugh. As a man with criminally low amounts of self esteem, I just knew that I’d absolutely eat up sentiments of that magnitude - but it hasn’t exactly worked out like that.
Look, I get it. People being vain, giving more attention to the external than the internal shouldn’t exactly be a news flash to me. And, I admit, this is what the kids say is a 1st world problem to have. I’m just feeling sorry for my fatter self, that’s all.