It might be worthwhile at this point to spend some time detailing how it feels to gain 50 pounds. It can be summarized as ‘it sucks!’ but beneath that lies a litany of things that ought to be detailed in case I forget.
My newfound shortness of breath. Wearing a 50-pound bodysuit every day makes me winded easily. My disdain for exercise doesn’t help here, but I’ve certainly noticed that climbing a flight of stairs can leave me winded to a point where I need a minute or two to catch my breath. Just the normal exertions in life – like rummaging through a low cabinet for some cooking gizmo – can do it.
A rekindled relationship with massive amounts of Tums. If you follow the stock market and see the stock of the company that makes Tums go up unexpectedly – that’s me. It seems nearly *any* carb-laden food that ‘normals’ regularly eat quickly turns into a fire-bomb in the pit of my stomach soon after. Only a handful of Tums can extinguish this.
The resurfacing of GERD symptoms. Waking at night choking. Coughing, sometimes for a good part of the day. It’s connected.
The lack of accessibility to body parts. My feet seem further away and putting on socks has become bit of a challenge. This ain’t cool. I don’t like to think of myself as handicapped nor incapacitated, but being close to not being able to get my own damn socks on is one of those things that is really pissing me off. I wrote a review of mobility scooters as snark – it’s beginning to seem my fate if the current trend keeps up.
The snoring. Apparently quite loud according to innocent bystanders. Might involve sleep apnea, which at the worst isn’t good for your health long-term – oxygen being somewhat important to we humans – but it also ensures a crappy sleep, which is going to contribute to…
The total lack of energy. While there are bursts of energy here and there, the default state is ‘tired’. I wasn’t exactly a ball of energy to begin with given my love of sloth, but I could rise to the occasion when needed. Now I am more or less exhausted by the time I *get* to work, revived by coffee, then go home completely spent. I’m pretty much worthless in the evenings – a pile of protoplasm in sweatpants with butt affixed firmly to couch until I drag said butt to bed.
Joint pain. Especially my knees. I’ve known a number of people who’ve had their joints sawed out and replace with spiffy titanium substitutes, but I’m the kind of guy who’d like to make due with the knee joints I was born with. This dovetails nicely with my plan to use this as an excuse to not exercise until I’ve done some serious debulking, but this is a topic for another post.
My diminishing wardrobe. My clothing choices are becoming less and less, and the few items that still fit are comically tight. The button of my khakis is about to come off so I need to get out the sewing kit – and I’ve become more fond of the riveting used in jeans as it can better hold back the boatload of blubber attempting to burst from its constriction within garments to small. I haven’t even gone into how uncomfortable I feel in my clothes.
My crappy blood work. Bad cholesterol high. Triglycerides high. Blood sugar elevated. A doctor warning of a 17% potential for a heart attack within 5 years and pushing statins. My blood work was always pretty good when I kept the carbs to a minimum and swam in fat.
People telling me I’m not fat. I’m not sensitive about my weight. I’ve gotten fat – and I’ll come right out and say it. When I hear people say: “Oh, you’re not fat.” despite the evidence in front of them as well as my forthright admission, I translate this to: “Oh. My. God. You’re. Fat. You’re so fat my prefrontal cortex has shut down and I’m sputtering lies because I don’t know how to deal with how fat you are.”
All of this I attribute to eating like a ‘normal’: don’t get all hung up on this ‘carb’ thing – just eat what you like in moderation and you’ll be fine.
Plenty of people pull this off. I can’t. I have to accept this.