Yes. Everyone has heard about my massive weight loss a decade ago. Given that I never received any sort of medal or blue ribbon for simply not being a giant fatass, the best I can get is to remind people “Remember when my head looked like Shrek’s but with a douchey goatee and white as Michael Cera’s left assccheek?”
I like to think I’m a relatively put together cat but when your internal monologue is peppered with a constant assessment of calories taken in and calories burned (did you know that lifting an Apple pencil to chest height burns one calorie which means if I were autistic and just lifted my Apple pencil over and over while humming some Fallout Boy, I could compensate for that random brick of cheese I ate in twelve years?) you know that your battle with will is non-stop.
When I was working over at Navy Pier, it was easier. First, the food generally sucks (in the way that food sucks at Great America and any Love’s Truck Stop on Highway 80.) Second, it’s incredibly overpriced so it’s easier to avoid that head-sized cupcake because it costs as much as my electric bill. Priorities matter. Also, I had to walk places to find the food at the Pier making me a ‘hunter-gatherer’ of churros and quarter-pounders but without the loincloth and protruding brow.
The beauty of freelance, working-from-home life is that I can type this right now wearing a pink thong and lipstick on my nipples and no one is the wiser. The ugly is that there is a refrigerator with food I chose to stock a mere 15 steps from my desk.
I have an app on my phone that allows me to enter the food I eat and the exercise I do but here’s the thing about apps: if you decide to not input the info, it does not help you. Which is the most convincing argument against computers taking over the world and sending Austrian body-builders back in time to kill women in 1984.
The best part of being in my early fifties is that, if I can avoid willful ignorance, cognitive dissonance, implicit bias, archaic ideas of masculinity, and my emotions, I’m a lot smarter than any five 25-year olds put together in a genome splicer. The worst part is that those fucking punks have metabolisms that make mine look like a dime on the sidewalk being pushed forward by the wind.
And so, because she loves me and cares about me and also wants at least one of the M&M Ice Cream sandwiches I bought yesterday, my wife hides Ice Cream Sandwiches from me.