I’ve recently been on a diet, and I’ve lost 30 pounds in as many days. It was time. It needed to happen. 30 days ago, I was the heaviest I have ever been. I’m ashamed to even tell you how much that was, but I’ll do it because it’s good for my humility, keeps me accountable, and it’s a testament to the goodness of God toward me in the past month. I was…ugh…three hundred and sixty-five pounds.
There. I said it.
No, I didn’t take before and after photos. I was too embarrassed to take the before photo – even if I was the only one who was ever going to see it. I’m that guy who didn’t take his shirt off at the pool. Still don’t. I didn’t like mirrors because secretly I knew that what I saw was a reflection of my physical laziness and food-idolatry. Now, I doubt anyone would have guessed that I weighed quite that much. I carried it quite well (if such a thing is possible). I’ve always been a big guy – and I don’t mean “big” in the euphemistic sense that obese people use it in order to excuse their obesity. I am 6′ 5″ and have a very large frame. Losing 50 pounds for me would certainly be significant, but probably not as noticable or significant as it would for those of you who are naturally smaller than I am. I’ve been overweight since I was a child, save for a few months after high-school when I lost a significant amount of weight – right before I gained it all back after my first indulgence in a post-diet bowl of fettucine alfredo. But I’m not a teenager anymore, and at 29 years old and 365 pounds, my body was certainly beginning to draw my attention to the ill-effects. I ached. I was out of breath. The skin on my legs was turning purple. My back spasmed. I had developed chronic gout. I felt weak. I was constantly battling to keep depression at bay. That was at my heaviest. It was simultaneously my high and my low.