Let’s get one thing straight right from the start. This is not a story for children. I use salty language, I am self-effacing and to be totally honest—I’m brutally honest. I see things as they are and not as how I’d like them to be. My glasses are not always rosy. I’m not always jolly.
But, I am fat.
I’m not overweight, under-tall, or otherwise categorized as some type of politically correct anachronism.
One month ago I began a diet regimen that included a new healthy eating style. Eat anything I want, but cut it down to a quarter of what I was previously eating. Coupled with an incessant amount of walking, my journey of a thousand miles began at, of all places, Disney World.
I had no idea I was about to embark on the most difficult journey of my life. Not only did I need to figure out how to become healthy, again, but I needed to figure out why I was such a fat ass in the first place. I had to explore the reasons why I stuffed four to five thousand-plus calories a day down my gullet. I’m still learning the why. I will share some of those reasons with you in subsequent articles. For now, let’s just focus on the mitigating factor for my transformation from fat to fit.
As I stood in the happiest place on earth, I looked around me, smelling the foods wafting from fryers and cotton candy vendors, and I opened my eyes for the first time in 20 years. My God, these fucking people are all fat! What a bunch of giant, bloated people!
Then, I caught myself looking at a pane of glass. And, the pain hit me like a SEAL unit putting a bullet in Osama’s grape. Not only was I fat, not only was I among those people I held in such low esteem, I was bigger than 90 percent of them.