New Yearās was only a couple weeks ago, but Iām sure some people are already starting to question their resolutions.
Pessimistic? No. Not generally, so far as people looking to make a change for the better. However, two years ago, when my former editor told me he quit smoking, I said, āWell, you know what they say. Nobody likes a quitter.ā Of course, we had a good-natured relationship. Quips, jokes, jibes were well within the boundaries, and were, in a way, our expression of support.
Momentum slows, though, if the right results arenāt regularly achieved. Itās practically a force of physics even on a mental level. This is why Iām not the biggest believer in clean breaks, or resolutions, at the turn of the year. If I remember correctly, my editor didnāt quit smoking as a New Yearās resolution. The news came completely out of the blue, thus maintaining my editorās nature as a real newsman.
Iām happy to say that two years later, my editor is still smoke-free and weighs about 50 pounds less, so Iāve heard. I havenāt seen him in close to a year, and I can barely imagine the changes in him, which is the same most people say to me when I tell them that I was once 75 pounds heavier than I am now.
My turning point did not come with the turn of the new year. It came, believe it or not, in Benniganās on a fine summer evening where my wife (then girlfriend) and I sat down to have dinner while a dark summer storm rolled in. A snap decision, a clean break, did, however, set the ball rolling.
I was deciding between a big, juicy burger and something else smothered in cheese, piled with fries, and topped with bacon, when the waitress came for our order. Out of nowhere, when she asked what I wanted, I said a grilled chicken salad with a light ranch dressing. I stunned even myself because I only glanced at this menu item, barely took it in, as I sped past the salads on my way to heartier, body-building selections, which was my modus operandi for the three years that led up to this point. I ate whatever I set my eyes on, scaring refrigerators and pantries everywhere I went. I ate like I might not eat again.
Despite that my family is comprised of big eaters (when I was growing up, weād figure one pound of pasta per person should do just right), being BIG was way outside my norm. I was always a skinny kid. Too light for my height. And except for a minor weight gain around 12 years old, which Iām sure was a lead up to puberty, I never was heavy until those three years in my late teens and budding twenties. My normal, natural state is thin. Not to say anyone elseās isnāt. But Iām intensely uncomfortable when I get a little, oh, how should I say, thick. Plus, I have an odd body shape. And trust me when I say, I donāt look good with some weight on me, which many people can pass off and look great.
Over the past ten years, my weight has fluctuated within a range of only 10, maybe 15 pounds.
The decision I made to lose weight came quick and took on a life of its own. I lost the weight not in years, but in a matter of months, shedding between 2 and 3 pounds a week, which I read was healthy to do. I wasnāt starving myself either. In fact, my wife and I were eating desserts, real desserts, almost every night. Seven pounds seemed to be the turning point, the moment people started asking, āHave you lost a little weight?ā Once that happened, momentum built, and a little turned into a lot.
Iām currently considering stopping by my former editorās office to see the sleeker, thinner version of him, and say, āHey loser.ā
