Fit2Fat2Fit (5 page)

Everything I tried on shouted, “Yes, I'm gaining weight at an inordinate pace!” And to make matters worse, as far as I knew I didn't have more than a smattering of followers outside my core family and friends who knew that I was doing this on purpose.

When I was fit, any self-confidence issues I had consisted of thinking I could lose a little on my love handles, an obsession that would always earn a well-placed eye roll from my wife. Now, a little voice in my head craved to know what those around me were thinking. Even worse, I now believed that every person who knew me before the journey was thinking one of two things: 1) What has he done to himself? 2) Did he just now discover cookies?

The critical problem was that I cared how others perceived me. I desperately wanted to talk to strangers and acquaintances alike about my journey. In truth, any struggles with self-esteem when I was fit were internal. While I had the worst inner critic, there was still only one of me. Now, as I started to gain weight, my self-esteem issues became an obsession. I feared that everyone noticed every new pound—yes, even strangers.

To avoid that problem, I wished that I could stay home, but my weight gain was equally shocking to my wife. She would catch a view of me in a tight shirt or more scantily clad and teasingly poke fun at my “cottage cheese” butt or my quickly deteriorating posture. Instead of laughing and moving on, I took such comments personally. I'd check the mirror, watching for any cottage cheese resemblance. I'd wear the least-form-fitting clothes I had, because it was easier to hide what was happening than to embrace it.

Paradoxically, even as I was using clothes to hide my weight, I used words to expose it. I'd visit with friends (even ones who knew about the journey), and before they could ask me how I was, I would make comments like, “Can you believe how much I've changed?” I found it was easier to point out the obvious and get them to talk about their “judgment” of me, than to sit back and wonder what was going through their heads.

What disturbed me most, however, was that a key stereotype already seemed to be in question. If I was suddenly feeling the pressure of wondering what those around me were thinking, what did people who had struggled with this their entire lives feel? If I, the personal trainer, felt hesitant to leave the house, what were the Jameses of the world feeling? And how did those feelings impact their ability to stay focused on their goals?

As I grabbed the closest thing to a non-form-fitting shirt I could find and got ready for work at my med-tech job (I'd put most of my training clients on hold while I undertook Fit2Fat2Fit), I realized that this journey wasn't about gaining pounds and reporting back on my blog. There was an emotional and mental component that I hadn't anticipated. This was going to be much more difficult than I had imagined.

As I eased my growing midsection behind the steering wheel, started my car, and headed to work, one thought hit me. The games had indeed begun. And I wasn't anywhere close to winning.

W
e are all creatures of habit. Regardless of what goes on in our lives, it seems like we're constantly searching for organization and structure. When I was fit, my routine could best be described as militant. I ate certain foods at certain times, prepared certain ways. There was a streak of obsessive-compulsive disorder (OCD) in my daily routine—something Lynn would constantly poke fun at, trying to throw me off my game by moving food around in the cupboards and refrigerator and (allegedly!) scheduling family and friend activities that caused me to adjust my schedule.

To be fair to my wife, I can't imagine that it was enjoyable for her to wait, on our rare date nights, so that I could get my workout in first. Or to have me using the blender as an alarm clock as I made my morning spinach shake while the rest of our family was still in a deep slumber. Let's just say that when romantic partners across the country are waking their other half up while the children sleep, these significant others are hoping it's not for a green smoothie!

It's funny what they say about routines being all about habit. With more pounds added to my hips than I cared to admit, my old routine was nowhere to be found. But like many of us, I didn't take long to find another, less fun one.

This Tuesday morning was different, though. I rolled out of bed and fell right into my new routine. I stumbled my way into the shower. I reached for my razor, setting it back down once I realized that I'd put my “manscaping” (the tried-and-true tradition of removing that “manly” body hair in order to become more … manly) on hold. It wasn't hard to remember, given that Lynn had started asking for late-night escapades “with the lights off, please!”

I picked out some clothes that hid my bulging belly and ever-expanding bottom and tried to drown my disgust with my physical appearance in a bowl of one of my newly established addictions—Cinnamon Toast Crunch. After finishing off the box, I checked my e-mail, cleared out the spam that claimed it could help me “lose 10 pounds overnight,” and left the house to make the long drive from Utah to Idaho, a drive I made three times a week for my “day job.”

I did my best to mask my new routine by “mixing it up”—instead of McDonald's, I'd treat myself to Taco Bell or Burger King. I would eat the fast food of the day, realizing with every bite that the initial guilt of caloric intake had been replaced by an unnatural craving for anything fried in oil and grease.

Getting home after another long drive back, I would make two meals: a healthy option for my wife and kids, and the “typical American cuisine” (such as SpaghettiOs) for me. After I'd finished my gourmet dinner that particular Tuesday night, I logged in to clear out a new bunch of spam e-mail, convinced that the only people actively following my blog were my wife and my parents.

That's when I got Megan's e-mail. And my world changed.

Megan was in her early 40s, she wrote, living in Florida. Currently, she was of average height and weighed over 240 pounds. She wanted to tell me her story, she said, and I hung on every word. Megan hadn't been overweight her entire life. She'd been in reasonable shape for most of it, actually. But life got in the way: divorce, dating, difficult relationships, a second marriage, moving cross-country and back, and a stressful job added pounds along with gray hairs.

Before the additional stress, Megan had been a runner and had enjoyed yoga. She'd embraced her laps at the local pool and had even dabbled in weight lifting. In those days Megan had loved her body—every single curve. Yet with extra stress and extra weight, she noticed changes in her personality as well as her shape, and she didn't like either. Once an extrovert, she turned into an introvert who exercised less, ate more junk food, and spent larger parts of her time depressed.

Megan didn't give up, though. She'd start exercising, find some incremental success, and start to feel better—but the improvement never lasted during a big life upheaval. The longest she had stayed the course had been about three months, resulting in weight loss of over 24 pounds. Then her mother passed away, and soon every lost pound found its way back onto Megan's body.

What struck me most about Megan's story came next. She was tired of being overweight, tired of trying and failing. She put into words some of the desires her weight had stopped her from experiencing. Megan wanted nothing more than to be healthy and active. She wanted to find a routine and stick to it. She wanted to wear high heels again, and return to the social experiences she had robbed herself of as life got more and more complicated.

Everything she saw as wrong with her life came back to the weight. Megan's health, daily routine, and attitude were dominated by her lack of ability to reach her fitness goals. On a daily basis she was presented with various ways to lose weight, including familial pressure from her sister to join Weight Watchers. But she stayed away, wanting to avoid the pressure exerted by her family, and mostly afraid of failing in front of others.

After countless blog posts, food challenges, and weigh-in videos on my part, and spam e-mails on the part of the world, someone had reached out to me with heartfelt words I hadn't expected. In addition to sharing her story, Megan also thanked me. She had committed to being a follower of my journey, she told me, because she, too, wanted to achieve her goal. My journey had resonated with her. Maybe it was the forum (an anonymous blog was easier to follow in the comfort of her own living room, after all); maybe it was the approach. Whatever it was, she found in me a silent partner with whom to advance her own health goals.

I reread Megan's e-mail two or three times. With every word, I felt my own sense of apathy starting to splinter. A new emotion was creeping through: even if my routine didn't allow for much energy these days, I felt hopeful suddenly—and it was revitalizing.

When you find out you're going to be a father, everyone tells you that there are no roadmaps. I remember all the talk around me about the sense of discovery, the wonder of experiences you never thought you'd have, and the inescapable terror you feel each day because you're no longer sure that you're doing things right. My conclusion, as I heard these warnings, was that preparation for fatherhood would be a waste of time. It would be better to figure it out as I went along.

My wife, on the other hand, sent me to the local bookstore to buy scads of books about what to do before, during, after, and while you're bringing a tiny human being into the world. As the big day got closer, she became even more prepared. True to form, she read the books from cover to cover, and she proceeded to nest the entire house in anticipation.

Meanwhile, I stayed committed to my nonpreparation. I figured that parenthood would simply work itself out. I might need a few pointers on how to properly change a diaper or give fatherly advice farther down the line, but I was sure I'd know instinctively how to help during childbirth. I would be a natural parent. I'd care for my children and teach them the finer points of the Cover 2 scheme in football. And I just knew I'd deliver the perfect dating speech to my son or daughter when the teenage years struck.

Then our first child arrived, and I wished I'd been the one reading the books. As I held my precious baby in my arms, winging it didn't seem like the best strategy after all.

It shouldn't come as a shock, then, that I approached gaining what I thought would be 50 to 60 pounds in much the same way. I didn't spend an inordinate amount of time researching the medical, physical, emotional, and mental challenges that were before me.

My Top Five Anti-Workouts of Fit2Fat

Vegging out during football Saturdays and Sundays and Mondays, and sometimes Thursdays

Reaching into my pocket to pay the neighborhood kid $10 to mow my lawn because I am too tired

Watching a movie with my daughter Kale'a instead of playing with her