I have peaked and plateaued in my weight loss more times than I have fingers and toes to count them on. I have been slim, slightly overweight, overweight, obese, and "that-woman-has-a-nice-rack---oh-wait---it's-just-a-fat-guy" fat.
As I start this project to become a new person, you could safely categorize my weight as "Wow, he's probably very greasy" or the ever-popular "I'd bet he's got a corn-dog somewhere on his persons", which is a winning bet.
So yeah, I'm fat. I'm not proud of it, but I am.
I mean, who doesn't like a pack of hot-dogs now and again? Or how about a nice basket of onion rings with a forklift-load of ranch dressing? Who can honestly pass up a full-pound hamburger and fries, or a tube of biscuit dough and a hearty glass of sausage gravy?
I'll have seconds over here.
And don't get me started on breakfast buffets.
But enough is enough.
I have been hiding in the shadow of my fat-friendly wardrobe for too long (baggy shorts, solid shirts ranging in color from midnight black to, well, panther black (dark charcoal gray on a skinny day)). I am done hiding in my cocoon of cloth while slowly (hell, sometimes rapidly) slapping pounds of adipose tissue on my chest like war paint for my eventual battle with heart disease, diabetes, and loneliness.
A war is here. The adipose will be deposed, or I will be publicly humiliated trying.
And so, only one question remains: are you gonna finish that pizza crust?
Dammit.
