I stepped on the scales this morning.
I had dreaded doing it and had actually pushed the scales off to the side at an angle so I could not just step on them. I’d have to drag them out away from the wall and dresser to be able to weigh myself. That was enough extra effort to have to go through to keep me from doing it for the past few weeks.
But after struggling to get the button on my largest pair of jeans through the slot yesterday, pinching my finger in the process, I knew it was time.
I scooted the scales out in the open, prayed the glass held up and stepped up on them. I heard the sliding clanger hit the bell at the top of the carnival strength game.
Up 14 pounds in a little over two months. That includes Christmas but it’s not an excuse.
Now I’ve always been on the big side, earning my first overweight nickname in the fourth grade.The van for Bethel Christian Academy stopped in front of the house. It was a private school about 40 minutes away that my best friend and I went to for one year. Our parents didn’t like a teacher we were going to have at the regular school that year.
The van’s door swung open.
“Hop on up here, Chubby Checkers.”
I can still hear the van driver chuckling at his own joke as the rest of the kids roared away, pointing at my red and white checkered pants.
That was a tough year. We also were weighed in class in front of everyone. The teacher’s assistant would call out our weight so the teacher could write it on our forms. I hated that. So I spent a year at a Christian school basically learning to hate myself. Or at least that is what I ended up equating the experience with.
So as I spent the last few weeks starting to hate myself all over again, I slipped into a search for comfort in the foods I ate and drinks I drank. Warm, filling foods like goulash, pastas, cheeseburger pie, chicken pot pie, macaroni and cheese. Drinks like bourbon, beer and sweet tea … and bourbon.
I was, as the song goes, looking for love in all the wrong places …
It’s gotten worse since Christmas. I can see it. I can feel it. I’m not denying it. But I am struggling to stop it. It was easy if I felt things slipping and I was working. I could tell myself only on the weekends. But I don’t even know when the weekends are anymore. What is today? I have to look at my phone to figure it out.
I am killing myself with comfort and blaming my situation for it happening. I need to stop doing that. I could have just as easily been using this unexpected time to get my mind and body in better shape. Instead I’ve mostly used it as time to wallow around and form a rut I can crawl into each morning.
Enough is enough. I’ve got to stop speeding up my own demise. I know I don’t have to give up everything. But I have to make major changes in the way I am living my life.
I may never be Slim Whitman, but this Fat Albert wouldn’t mind getting back to being Chubby Checkers.