I remember the day I found out that I wasn’t skinny any more. I was walking down the street with my good friend and colleague Doug, complaining about my knees or breathlessness or something when he remarked, “Well, you’re a hefty guy, Steve.”
A hefty guy? Who’s a hefty guy? Me? No way pal. I’m skinny. I didn’t know whether to weep or punch him in the face (I think I just sulked).
I was the scrawny kid who grew up taking daily beatings on the rough streets of Liverpool. I was the guy picked last for the team because of my size and tendency to break. The suit I wore on my wedding day was purchased from the Sears boys wear department (I’m not kidding).
Until I quit at the turn of the century I was a heavy smoker with no interest in food. Hungry? just have a smoke. Then it happened. A convergence of middle age, ex-smoker’s weight gain and a liberated appetite created a perfect storm of runaway blubber. Oh, the power of yummy!
I’ve tried a number of diets (Atkins, raw food, South Beach, “I can’t Believe it’s not Lettuce”) without success. I lost a few pounds last year when, after having a couple of coronary arteries fixed, I resolved to exercise, losing 20 pounds followed by another 7 pounds during my travels in India. Not sure what happened but its all back now.
I live next to an 18-hole golf course with a hiking trail around its circumference. Its a great walk that my wife and I used to enjoy regularly with our dog (crazy-Bichon Molly, a.k.a. Her Mollyness, Mollykins, Muffin, Monkey, Molly Poppins and Mollybags). But we fell out of that routine somehow.
Today is the day. Its a beautiful late-spring weekend with lots of sunshine and its not too hot, so we’re hitting the trail again.
Pray for me. I’m likely to fall down and then need a bacon double cheeseburger for comfort.