I grew up a baseball fan and I loved David Letterman when I was in high school. I’ll never forget watching Letterman, in 1985 I believe, when he called Atlanta Braves pitcher, Terry Forster, “a fat tub of goo.”
(Terry Forster baseball card circa 1985.)
I must admit, I feel for Mr. Forster about now. (Quick aside, Terry pitched for my beloved White Sox, so I feel a connection with him on a couple of levels.)
You see, I’m losing weight, but I feel like a fat tub of goo. The inactivity has caught up to my psyche in a big way. My mental fat is starting to win the battle, regardless of what the scale says. Mentally, I’m a fat tub of goo. Period.
Like many, I believed the number on the scale would help throw the demons in the abyss. That hasn’t happened. Yet.
Is it all the time spent recovering from emergency surgery? Maybe. It’s only been two weeks to the day. My expectations are out of whack. I know this, so why am I in such a bad place mentally?
I think it is because I’m a fat guy. As much as I don’t want that to be the way I see myself, it just is. The scale says I’ve lost nearly 35 pounds. (Seriously, 35 freaking pounds!) My clothes are hanging off me and, truth be told, I need to buy some that fit right soon.
And there’s the rub. I’m both the guy I want to be and the guy I despise at the same time. When I would read people complaining, just like this, that they were losing weight (when I wasn’t) but they still felt fat, I would scream at the computer screen. Sometimes I literally yell at the damn screen: “What the %$@# are you saying?!?! You are losing, enjoy it you idiot!”
Now, I’m the idiot. I’m think the happiness I felt was rooted in accomplishment and progress. Not just on the scale, but on the pavement as my running improved. I had energy and felt like my mind was clear and working so well. It doesn’t feel that way right now and I am having trouble seeing the forest through the trees. Geez, I am full of platitudes today. Lazy writing, I’ll blame the meds.
Anyway, I’m in a bad place mentally when I should be celebrating victories. I need to give myself a break. Really, I know this and am trying. For now, I guess I should be thankful that I don’t have a beloved late-night television personality calling me a fat tub of goo on his highly rated program. I’ll just call myself one in a little read blog while fighting every urge I can to binge.
As my self-pity party comes to a merciful conclusion here, I will admit that the surgery is the likely culprit in my mood, focus, and overall view of my life currently. I’ve never been through anything like this and hope I never have to again. Big picture, I’m blessed and know it. Now to tell that mental fat guy to settle down and watch a movie or something – just stay away man, please.