It was August 18, 2021. I remember the date because it was my wife’s birthday—a date she never forgets to put on my calendar, thank goodness.
My parents took us out to dinner to celebrate the occasion. As we walked into the restaurant, my dad looked me over and asked, “have you been going to the gym?”
“No,” I responded, knowing full well he knew the answer. It was staring him right in the face. Even Stevie Wonder could observe the only things I’d been working out were my liver and that last hole on my belt.
I momentarily compartmentalized the passive-aggressive rhetorical question. There was a menu full of calories to consume. These are the moments I lived for, and I wasn’t about to let the subtle dig ruin my opportunity to leverage my wife’s birth into free food.
But later that night as the indigestion set in, his inquiry reverberated in my mind.
You see, my dad isn’t the type to offer advice as a parent. He’s the Adam Smith of fathers. He prefers his parenting like his economics—laissez faire. He’s the ying to my mother’s yang in that regard. That seemingly insignificant question was as close as he was going to get to telling me what I should do.
And I was listening. Not as a humble pupil, but as a wounded child eager to earn my dad’s ever evasive approval.
Call it daddy issues. Call it what you will. But that simple query cut to the bone, after navigating a large slab of fat.
By the next morning I was still steaming. With my pride wounded I was ready to make him pay for asking a question he’d probably already forgot he asked.
I texted my dad, “I’ll bet you [x] dollars I lose 25 pounds in the next four months.”
I thought for sure he’d dismiss it out of hand. I was fine with that. I could make my point and turn the tables. I may be fat, but I ain’t no chicken.
I waited for his response. Nothing. As my anger subsided, so did my ambition. Maybe it would be better if he said “no” anyway. I started eating to ease my anxiety.
Then the response came, a simple “you’re on !!” (All my dad’s punctuation is used in pairs after an unnecessary space, for some reason).
“Oh shit,” I muttered, as I put down a half-eaten Snickers bar.
I felt like that guy who just challenged a bigger man to a fight thinking the surrounding crowd would break it up before it began.
But nobody broke it up. And I couldn’t back down now.
It was on. Time to start swinging.
They say you should never bet more than you can afford to lose. I say you shouldn’t let axiomatic generalities dictate your life, except that one. Truth is my penchant for packing on pounds is only overshadowed by my willingness to wager.
Part 2: The Gym
The good news is I didn’t have to bother to join a gym. My gym membership fees had been charged to my credit card for years. I wrote it off as a fat tax.
Upon entering the gym it occurred to me I was wearing more fabric than all the women combined—and that’s not even a self-deprecating fat joke. Some of these gals are flirting with a public health crisis.
The men weren’t any less intimidating. Most of them looked like they were about to audition for the cover of Men’s Health. I looked like I was eight months into my child’s gestation period ready to don the cover of “What to Expect When You’re Expecting.”
If feelings of inferiority burned calories I could have called it a day. But they don’t. It was time to get to work. I stepped on the treadmill and wondered which of us would be getting the bigger workout.
Before long my innards began churning after years of my body being in a stagnant state. I let out a sigh of relief there was no audible evidence of the intestinal chaos. It was approximately the exact same time that I noticed the dirty looks that I remembered I was wearing noise canceling headphones.
Finding a new gym wasn’t easy. Every gym was full of people that seemingly only left the gym to go to a tanning bed. I was going to be the token fat kid no matter where I went.
Breaking a sweat after walking from the parking lot to the gym is embarrassing enough. Having to wait for a 110 pound woman (including the silicone) to finish with the dumbbells you need only exacerbates the humiliation.
But for three long months I endured it all.
Part 3: Victory
If you thought I had the requisite humility to go public with this bet without winning you’d be mistaken. With a month to spare, I reached the 25 pound milestone. And I didn’t have to resort to my backup plan of severing a limb.
It wasn’t easy to shed the weight. The world conspires to get us fat. Order a soda at a restaurant and they’ll bring it out in a cup you could bathe in. Order a water and you get a sacrament cup (or a shot glass for you gentiles). You can get a fast food cheeseburger for 99 cents or an organic spinach salad for your entire paycheck.
Eating clean and working out six to seven days was only part of the sacrifice. I jeopardized friendships. I was unbearable to be around. Even vegans thought I brought up my diet too often; marathon runners thought I talked too much about my training regime. It became an obsession.
The best part was not improving my body’s aesthetic. It was the residual benefits. I’m happier, more productive and I no longer have to catch my breath after tying my shoe.
My physique still has a ways to go. My “after” picture looks like most people’s “before.” But life is best lived when your only competition is the man in the mirror.
And I kicked his fat ass.
