I can’t remember what prompted her to do so, but shortly after I met one of my classmates she asked, “Were you a fat kid?” I answered most honestly, “I’m a fat adult.” Being fat isn’t just a physical state, but a mental one as well. Though I’m in decent shape these days, I still consider myself a fat person – just one who happens to be exercising a lot lately.
My whole life I’ve had a big belly. When I was a child my parents once tried to put me on a diet, which lasted about as long as a snowflake in a frying pan. Only one glass of milk at dinner? Bloody hell no thank you.
They encouraged sports instead; I played basketball (poorly) and baseball (horribly) for the YMCA throughout elementary school, and occasionally went for a run around the neighborhood with my dad. I remember sitting with him at the kitchen table at the end of one of these runs, some cookies my mother had just baked cooling on a rack in front of me. Legs shaking, weak and exhausted but feeling better about myself, I ate one. My father told me, “You just ate up that whole run.” I was shocked and discouraged by the fact that something as small and quick as a cookie completely counterbalanced the effort I had just put out.
Middle and high school were better. My sophomore year I was training three hours a day between football, wrestling, and track. I was the shape of my life (which is much easier to do at age 15 than it is at 30), pushed by the coaching staff. Every time we hit our limit, the coaches yelled and fought for us to try harder, accomplish more, do better. They motivated us and they terrified us, but our capacity for achievement was unparalleled. The boundaries of our limitations were constantly being stretched and redefined. Every day we could run farther and faster. We could lift more. We were conditioned to extend ourselves to the brink of our endurance – and that’s when they really put on the pressure. They expected the most from us, and they got it.
I quit sports at the start of my junior year, and the tubby tummy came back within about a month. The eating habits of an athlete have quite a different effect on one who spent no less than three hours a day playing video games and watching TV. The lack of self-discipline couldn’t get me to change those eating habits any more than I could exercise without the coaches, or without the group of 30 or so others trying to accomplish something together.
Over the years I’ve tried time and time again to discover how to recover the state of mind that would grant me the state of physicality I once was capable of attaining. I could do it for a few weeks at a time. I would track my progress on a calendar, marking the days I was able to push myself into the gym. I would weigh and measure myself, and glow at every little bit of progress. But I always contented myself that I had done enough far, far before I had met the ultimate goal I had set, and months would pass before I would make the decision to pick up and start again.
Half a lifetime later I’ve finally figured out how to hit a limit and break through it, maintaining the pattern for months at a time instead of mere weeks. This past week I stepped up my routine yet again, running six days a week instead of a mere three. Mother Nature is testing my dedication and resolve on a daily basis. On Tuesday it was 28 degrees, and the wind was pushing the sleet at me sideways. My face stung as needles of ice stabbed my face. My eyes were nearly shut to protect them from the pelting, so I couldn’t clearly see the nearly frozen puddles well enough to avoid them. My shoes were constantly being filled to the brim with icy slush, freezing the joints of my toes. Both of the thick, thermal layers of my clothes were drenched to the skin and must have weighed an extra ten pounds. The wind blowing off the lake was strong enough to push me sideways each time both feet were off the ground. I had to run at a slight diagonal to stay on the path – but still I ran.
On Wednesday it was 18 degrees when I got home late from a Christmas party. After eight hours of working followed by three hours of drinking and an hour home on the train I was still a little drunk, and more than a little tired. And still I ran.
On Thursday it was 7 degrees. My sweat turned to icicles formed in my beard, my brow, my chest, my hair. And still I ran.
On Friday I was wiped out. I came home and did some dishes, and laid in bed for a few minutes. One knee was in pain. The tendons in my opposite heel were so tight I could hardly flex my foot. For some reason my back was throbbing. I felt myself start to drift to sleep . . . but I got up, swallowed some ibuprofen, changed clothes, and still I ran.
I can’t say for certain why this kick has lasted as long as it has, compared to all the other times over the years this level of progress was unreachable. Something about me has changed, and not just in my exercise routine, but in all things. I try harder. I do better. I achieve more. When I was growing up I used to fantasize about what kind of adult I would turn out to be, and by the time I was in college I was starting to get frustrated that I wasn’t anywhere close. A few years out of college I got more and more disappointed that I couldn’t live up to the standard I had set for myself when I was a friendless fat kid. But I’m proud to say that here, today, finally, I’ve become someone I can be proud of. I have a measure of self-respect that I’ve never before attained. I finally feel like I’m no longer behind.
And that thought brings a level of contentment, of inner peace, more than anything in my life ever has.
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