Fat
c. 1955 Buick Eight, Denton TX.
This is my last experiment. I'm writing this to myself; I can't keep playing this game. It's going to kill me.
Over the last 20 years, I've put on 75 pounds. When I look at the math that way, it seems more human; that's just 3 or 4 pounds a year. And I'm a big enough guy that I can (somewhat) carry it. My knees and hips aren't crippled. I don't have diabetes. I'm just fat, and I'm so very tired of it.
My plan is to retire in 7 years. It'll be earlier if forced, but 67 is the goal. And I do not want to spend my last 10 strong years (and perhaps 10 weak years, after that) with low energy, back pain, and embarrassment.
I have a good plan. If I stuck to it, it would work. I know that. I'm giving myself two more weeks. If I can stick to it and drop 2 kilos as of September 4, then I'll keep going. If I fail again, I'm going to ask my doc for Ozempic.
I haaaaate the idea of that. I am so worried that as soon as I go off of it, I'll put the weight back on. Mostly, it's a pride thing. It'd be admitting a terrible lack of self-discipline. I have not been a fat person for most of my life. It's not how I see myself, in my mind. When I look in the mirror, I still think, "That's weird." I can pretend it's not a big deal.
It reminds me of a passage from The Screwtape Letters by C. S. Lewis. Wormwood, a minor demon, is being mentored by Screwtape, a senior demon, on how to lure people to Hell.
Murder is no better than cards if cards can do the trick. Indeed the safest road to Hell is the gradual one — the gentle slope, soft underfoot, without sudden turnings, without milestones, without signposts.
The surest path to hell isn't a dramatic one, because those are easier to avoid. Fine. I won't murder anyone or sleep with their spouse or lie about them in court. But just... being fat? That's a gentle slope. It's not a super-big deal. I haven't had a heart attack or a stroke. I can still turn this around.
And that's true, right up to the moment that it's not.