Last month Kelli and I got to travel to Alaska together to celebrate my nephew’s first birthday and baby dedication. What is usually a two day flight once layovers are factored in, was able to be done in only one day if we were willing to fly out by 7am. We’re both hourly and days off aren’t cheap, so we jumped at the chance despite what it meant for our sleep schedules.
My alarm went off at 2:45 and I began the hasty final packings and getting ready. Kelli had just arrived to pick me up as I was changing into my travel clothes. The clothes fit fine, but as I synched my belt around my waist I heard a snap and the buckle popped clean off. At that exact same time, the song from Andor Season 2, Niamos! shuffled on and I mentioned half-seriously, “what a song to have a crash out to.” Kelli looked at me, noting the sincerity in that bit of sarcasm and I just burst into tears. I felt big, and big was the absolute last thing I wanted to be.
Ballooning
Obesity has long been a concern for me. It runs in my family, but I was able to avoid it for most of my growing up. I was never a stick like kid, but I wasn’t ever big either. I found the gym for the first time my senior year of high school and trimmed down as my body learned what a workout felt like for the first time. Then at the tail end of my first year of college I was living outside of my parents’ house and my dinner consisted mostly of frozen chicken sandwiches. The duration of my last semester of freshman year and first semester of sophomore year saw a lot of stress, much of it my own doing; and as a result a lot of poor health decisions. I stopped working out, I ate out more, and even when I didn’t I did not eat well. In 2017 I gained somewhere between 20-25 pounds. I’d always hovered around 150-155 in my teen years, but as my twenties began I had ballooned up to 170-175. By the time I’d finished my junior year of college, I’d shot all the way up to 180-185. I had a stomach and I felt it. I saw it in my face in photos. I felt it in my energy levels. So I started to stop neglecting the gym.
Superhero Slim Down Remix
My first semester and a half as a senior, I managed to slim my way back down around 170-175. I still wasn’t eating the best, but I was in the gym enough that I managed to override the constant flow of Wendy’s into my esophagus. Then Covid hit. The gyms were closed, and the walks I took 3-4 times a week were not enough to counteract the sudden sedentariness to my routine. My Kryptonite has always been sodas and sweets, and the early days of Covid saw an abundance of time to consume them. I shot back up to 184 before I managed to get back into the Y. For the last three years, that 184 has sustained me. Not because I like how that weight makes me feel, but because I was just healthy enough not to see that number go up. Sure, it would occasionally get a pound or two higher, but it always came back down.
This Spring, I saw 184 for the last time. Then I saw 187. Then 189. I went up a pants size but told myself I would go back down to my regular weight. Then I saw 192. A few days before Kelli and I left for Alaska, I saw 197. It’s the largest number the bathroom scale has ever shown me. The big 200 was looming over me like a sniper eyeing its target. The belt buckle snapping was like a 51mm round out of an M4, knocking me off my feet and shattering me internally. I sobbed into Kelli’s arms because I felt like I’d just been told I’d been shot and there was nothing I could do to stop the bleeding.
Doctoring the Wound
There’s a reason why Doctor’s don’t operate on or diagnose themselves. When you’re dealing with an illness or an injury, it’s difficult to rationalize the situation that’s currently shell-shocking you. A competent doctor probably can suture their own arm; but that doesn’t mean they’re better equipped to do the job than the doctor standing next to them. Kelli and I like to joke that she pongs all of my pings. I don’t consider myself someone who spirals often, but when I do it feels like my thoughts ricochet with the same intensity of a pinball against its machine. I see a thousand different maybes, and in dark moments believe the worst ones. I looked in front of me and saw a pinball machine called Fatso, and it was my turn to play. All it took for Kelli to see my quarter enter the slot was a look. She was practically wrapping me up in a hug before the first tear even crossed my eyelashes.
She told me to take a deep breath. Then another. Then another. She told me that it would be okay, that it wasn’t a death sentence, and that there was nothing we could do about it in that moment. She snatched my quarter and unplugged the machine. We travelled to Alaska and back and to Kansas in June, and knew we’d be eating out a lot during that time. So we made a plan.
The Plan
Starting after we returned from Wichita, we gave up sugars and sweets. Kelli also gave up soda, but I knew I’d either have to get a nicotine patch or take the aspartame of sugar free if I stood any chance of quitting Dr. Pepper cold turkey. The first few days were rough. I was getting heavy sugar/caffeine headaches in the afternoon. I was jonesing for a Dr. P to the point I had to keep running to RaceTrac to stock up on sugar free stuff lest I be tempted to acquiesce and use my favorite McDonald’s deal of any size fries free with any size drink. The first three days, a week didn’t even seem possible. Then a week passed, and two weeks seemed like something I’d be capable of. At the same time, I started exercising with more intensity, and adding an extra day or two to my usual routine. As the sugar and fast food remained outside of my body, biking for an hour didn’t seem impossible. Running didn’t seem impossible. I usually run one mile a week after I mow, but suddenly even two miles seemed possible.
Then last week I went outside and ran three miles. The last time I ran three miles on a treadmill was at least three and a half years ago. The last time I ran three miles outdoors was probably ten to fifteen years ago at least. I weighed myself the next day and nearly cried again when I saw the scale was down to 192. At the time of this writing it has been 28 days since I last had a Dr. Pepper, ice cream, or McDonald’s Large Fry + Large Drink. Kelli and I won after hours tickets to EPCOT tomorrow night and we plan to rope drop the Lego store the day after. We’ve been working towards this day and a half for a month that has often felt like an eternity. During that time, we’re going to break that fast and drink so much Dr. Pepper and eat so much free Disney ice cream that I won’t dare step on the scale for three days afterwards.
But once Saturday (I’m posting this on a Wednesday), rolls around we’ll be right back at it. Kelli, in preparation for a marathon, and me in preparation for a healthier life.
The Numbers Are Scary
To a lot of people, these numbers won’t sound that crazy. If I were a few inches taller they’d be perfectly fine. I’m not writing this to compare numbers or make anyone’s scale seem more daunting. I’m writing this because at the end of what I felt would be an impossible month I feel two things above all, pride and thankfulness.
I’m proud because I haven’t gone this long without a sugary soda or a dessert since I left my mother’s womb in October of ’97. I’m proud because I got to see the scale go down for the first time in nearly five years. I’m proud because I feel better even if I’m still at the start. I’m proud because I proved to myself that I can still run and feel good about doing it. But all that pride would be non-existent if it wasn’t for Kelli.
More than anything I am thankful that I get to have Kelli not just in my life but by my side. She motivates me, and soothes me, and pongs all of my pings on a level that I have never experienced before. And I know that if a month without giving into my gluttonous impulses was possible with her to help me be accountable, a lifetime certainly is too. So yes, I am very much looking forward to the Dr. Pepper’s I will consume tomorrow night, but the journey through healthiness excites me even more.
For the first time in my life I don’t feel like I’m half-assing health. At the same time I’m not exercising and eating leaner just to lose weight, I’m doing it to be healthy, and I’m pursuing health because it means a longer and more fulfilled life with the girl of my dreams. I’m down five pounds at the time of writing this, about 1/5th of my overall goal, but even if that pursuit is slow and steady I feel ready to put in the work for the first time in a very long time.
Collin Willis 