Twice The Man I Used To Be

by Thomas M. Pender

I took my “skinny pictures” into work this week.  A co-worker had done the same a few weeks ago, so I thought I would share my former physique with my friends, as well, if only for laughs.

I’ve been a little under 6’3” since I was about 15.  My weight seems to have plateaued at an unhealthy yet statistically common 260 pounds.  This is just about double what it was in high school, where, at the same height, I weighed about 140.  At this stage, my dad would often call me “Stretch,” and on one occasion, “World’s Tallest Dart.”  It wasn’t that I had no access to or interest in food.  In fact, I was quite the eater!  I was a very economical child when my family would go out to eat, as I could finish my food and whatever everyone else didn’t eat, as well.  Not a bite went to waste.  I ate and ate and ate.  My mother, who had been using the warning “You’ll spoil your dinner” to all of us kids since I can remember, gave up cautioning me in my teens.  It became “You’ll spoil your . . . oh, never mind,” and eventually, nothing was said.  She knew very well that I’d be hungry again – or still! – at dinnertime.

At the time, I was very proud of my metabolism.  I loved being thin, loved that I could eat anything I wanted in just about any quantity, and I’d either maintain my weight or lose a few pounds while I did so.  Since grade school, I bragged on the playground that I could push my stomach in until I touched my backbone.  This wasn’t true, of course, but I never met a kid on the swings who didn’t believe me, based solely on my two-dimensional lack-of-girth.  I thought it made me special that my mother had such trouble finding me jeans that fit.  “Normal” jeans were either too short in the leg or too wide in the waist.  It was a small miracle when The Gap opened, and displayed their wide range of sizes.  I recall that in high school, I had a 29” waist and a 36” inseam, and that employees at any store outside of The Gap would scoff or drop a jaw when my mother asked for these dimensions.

I was adept at fitting into any space, as well.  My dad drove a Ford Escort when I was 15, and he laughed once when I was getting out of the back seat, saying, “It’s like watching someone unfold a lawn chair.”  I never met a back seat I couldn’t fit into, or a tight space I couldn’t snake through.  Once, a friend took me to her house, where I met her parents for the first time.  Sometime later, my friend confided in me that her mother had pulled her aside when I was out of earshot and whispered, “Feed that boy something!”

Rest assured, Mrs. Barker, I was eating more than my share.

The free ride on the buffet train caught up to me in college, where the dorms were feeding us God-knows-what, disguised as roast beef, French fries and deviled eggs.  I gained my “freshman 10,” then a sophomore 10, then I just kept gaining.  I suppose at some point, I was of average weight for my height, but I have no idea when that was.  I outgrew pants that were far from outworn, until I noticed one day that I was, in fact, overweight.  According to most medical average charts, I’m supposed to weigh about 190 at this height.  This seems a bit low to me, but in any case, I’m nowhere near that lovely number.  I’ve gone on crash diets before – mostly in an involuntary manner – and I do lose weight, but as the gods of humor would have it, I lose weight in the last two areas I need to: my face and neck.  During these periods, people see me in public and think I’m sick or I need public assistance to find food.  They’re nice enough to not notice I’m simultaneously pushing my belt to its limit.  I look at my “skinny pics” now, and I do see that I was abnormally light, and I can sympathize with Mrs. Barker’s concern.

My fiancée and I have made a deal that we’re going to oversee each other’s diet and exercise programs as soon as we’re settled somewhere together.  My goal is pretty simple: For the first time in my life, I’d like to be average . . . at least in the case of my weight.