I’m not who I imagined I’d be when I grew up. In all honesty, I never really had a clear vision for my future, but I knew I wanted to do something creative. I have a fairly decent command of the language, so I figured maybe I’d be a writer. A writer of what? Books, short stories, screenplays, songs, I dunno (I’ve dabbled in all of them, with zero success). I also wanted to act, and did quite a bit of it in high school (I was voted “Best Actor” by my class, so I guess I wasn’t too terrible), but I pretty much lost interest after graduation. I wanted to make movies (I did make a few short films, and I still plan to make an independent feature film at some point).
I guess I’m a dabbler. I’ve never been able to commit to a singular goal and see it through. I imagine it’s a chronic fear of failure, coupled with a rampant inferiority complex. So I dabble. And I go nowhere. I achieve nothing. But that’s not what this blog entry is about. It’s about who I am physically, and it’s damned hard to write. I never imagined that I’d be fat and unhealthy.
Truth be told, I’ve never been skinny. Well, I was a pretty skinny kid (I started getting a bit pudgy in high school). I slowly gained weight over the fifteen-odd years following graduation, and then I’ve gained a lot more in the past five years. In all brutal honesty, I’ve never even tried to take care of myself. I eat whatever I want, however much I want, with little regard for the eventual consequence. It was different when I was young. I could abuse the hell out of my body and it didn’t seem to mind. These days, as I approach forty years old, it’s a very different story. I’m heavier now than I’ve ever been. I feel like crap much of the time. I don’t sleep well. I actually have trouble tying my shoes, or climbing lots of stairs. I am severely out of shape, and I look awful. My back hurts. My feet hurt.
I don’t want to be this person I’ve become. I don’t want to die young, but I fear I will. I fear that even admitting these things publicly won’t be enough to break me out of this cycle. I feel silly, like I’m auditioning for The Biggest Loser or something.
A cursory look over my last two years of blogging tells the tale. I almost always write about food. Food has somehow become central to my life. I think about it, I write about it. I sit passively, fork in hand, while it completely enslaves me and drags me to an early grave.
I have no illusions about what the solution entails. There is no special diet, no magic pill. I need to eat smarter (and less!), and become more active. It will suck. I will hate it. I will rage against my own cravings, and likely succumb to them at times.
I’ve already started (sort of). I gave up caffeine two weeks ago. I’m drinking lots more water. But this only a meager beginning. The task ahead is nothing short of a complete change of life for me. But I have to do it. If I want to live, I’ll need to. No doctor has advised me. I haven’t taken any BMI index tests, or whatever the hell they’re called. I just know that I’m fat, I feel lousy, and I have a family history that includes diabetes and heart disease. The writing is on the wall, and it’s (finally) beginning to scare the hell out of me.
There are places I want to go. There are things I want to achieve. I need time. Lots more time.
And I have kids who need me.
I have to change, before it’s too late.
I guess I’m a dabbler. I’ve never been able to commit to a singular goal and see it through. I imagine it’s a chronic fear of failure, coupled with a rampant inferiority complex. So I dabble. And I go nowhere. I achieve nothing. But that’s not what this blog entry is about. It’s about who I am physically, and it’s damned hard to write. I never imagined that I’d be fat and unhealthy.
Truth be told, I’ve never been skinny. Well, I was a pretty skinny kid (I started getting a bit pudgy in high school). I slowly gained weight over the fifteen-odd years following graduation, and then I’ve gained a lot more in the past five years. In all brutal honesty, I’ve never even tried to take care of myself. I eat whatever I want, however much I want, with little regard for the eventual consequence. It was different when I was young. I could abuse the hell out of my body and it didn’t seem to mind. These days, as I approach forty years old, it’s a very different story. I’m heavier now than I’ve ever been. I feel like crap much of the time. I don’t sleep well. I actually have trouble tying my shoes, or climbing lots of stairs. I am severely out of shape, and I look awful. My back hurts. My feet hurt.
I don’t want to be this person I’ve become. I don’t want to die young, but I fear I will. I fear that even admitting these things publicly won’t be enough to break me out of this cycle. I feel silly, like I’m auditioning for The Biggest Loser or something.
A cursory look over my last two years of blogging tells the tale. I almost always write about food. Food has somehow become central to my life. I think about it, I write about it. I sit passively, fork in hand, while it completely enslaves me and drags me to an early grave.
I have no illusions about what the solution entails. There is no special diet, no magic pill. I need to eat smarter (and less!), and become more active. It will suck. I will hate it. I will rage against my own cravings, and likely succumb to them at times.
I’ve already started (sort of). I gave up caffeine two weeks ago. I’m drinking lots more water. But this only a meager beginning. The task ahead is nothing short of a complete change of life for me. But I have to do it. If I want to live, I’ll need to. No doctor has advised me. I haven’t taken any BMI index tests, or whatever the hell they’re called. I just know that I’m fat, I feel lousy, and I have a family history that includes diabetes and heart disease. The writing is on the wall, and it’s (finally) beginning to scare the hell out of me.
There are places I want to go. There are things I want to achieve. I need time. Lots more time.
And I have kids who need me.
I have to change, before it’s too late.
