Then as soon as I finished glutting, I would shove the
container away and recline on the couch. Rinse. Repeat. I
was growing fatter and fatter, and if I kept this up, I feared
that I would find myself on Tatooine being presented with
Han Solo frozen in carbonite by Boba Fett and holding a
chain with a bikini clad Princess Leia at its end. Jabba the
Hutt was not to be the new black for me. Also (to keep it
at 100), my father died of Type 1 diabetes. I watched him
whither away in front of my eyes, suffering through one
dialysis treatment to another. I don't have Type 1 diabetes
(thank the Lord, sincerely), but if I stayed the course of
Photo by Midori
my unhealthy habits, Type 2 might have been inevitable.
I decided to take matters in my own hands. I started
running - my first attempt ended after half a block and
resulted in full body pain, but I eventually ended up
participating in two marathons - which also ended in full
body pain (but the good kind). I also started cooking. Cut
to: a few years later. My waist measurement reduced four
pant sizes, my blood pressure lowered and my cholesterol
became stable, and my self-esteem emerged so as to make
me confident enough to start dating - and now, I am
married and expecting my first child. Getting slimmer
wasn't the only thing that made me proud of myself. Lord
knows that there are many people who have lost weight
and realized that the end of that rainbow didn't have the
pot of gold they were looking for. My personal pride
comes from knowing that I succeeded in becoming good
at that facet of my own fate. I continue to do so. I no
longer run long distances (I frankly got bored of that
activity and have since switched to lap swimming a
thousand yards several times a week). I still cook for
myself - and for my wife. And soon for our child. My wife
likes my cooking - well most of it. Not too much meat,
she requests. I try to comply - at least by making the
carnivore split 70-percent me/30-percent her.
Photo by Peter van der Sluijs
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THE CONE - ISSUE #9 - SPRING 2016