I have this brown leather belt that I wear almost every day. I remember when I first got it. It fit comfortably on the third notch, and life was thin and pleasant.
Over the years, as I crammed more and more crap into my face, that third notch started to produce some mild discomfort. I paid little attention to the cause of the problem, and came up with the brilliant fix of simply using the second notch instead of the third. Problem solved.
Solved, that is, until I became completely addicted to High Fructose Corn Syrup and all of the tasty things it's dumped into. Take ketchup for example, who the fuck knew that it was loaded up with HFCS? Well, people who read the back of those little packets probably knew, but the rest of us - who were too busy tearing them open with our teeth – we failed to notice.
Eventually, the second notch could no longer take the strain of my gut. When it hurt to sit down, and I started to lose circulation in my lower extremities, I was forced to take immediate action. Said immediate action came in the form of me moving to the last notch, of course.
That might have been great, except for the fact that the belt was now loose, but my pants were straining at the button. I undid the button to limit the pants strain, and went about my business.
It never even crossed my mind that I might need to start exercising, or start eating less.
When I finally reached my peak weight of 253lbs, I could no longer buckle the old belt. So, naturally, I did what any fatass in denial would do, I went to shop for a bigger belt. Not just a belt though, I needed bigger pants, shirts, all of it.
My wife went with me to Gap to pick some new clothes out. I grabbed a bunch of stuff and headed for the dressing room. One of the thing's I grabbed was a pair of 38" pants. I had stopped wearing my 36" pants when the belt hit the first notch. The 38's I had barely fit me, but there was NO WAY IN HELL I was going to wear 40's. No way. Apparently that’s where my brain drew its line in the sand.
After several minutes of sucking in my gut, and some sweaty heaving and panting, I finally got a shirt and pants on. They were tight, but I didn't fully realize just how tight until I opened the door...
When my wife saw my fat ass crammed into the pants and a shirt that I had fully convinced myself was the right size, she just lost it. I mean, it wasn't like a random giggle or even a chuckle. No, it was a full on attack of gut busting hilarity brought on by seeing me attempt to shoehorn my girth into clothes designed for much thinner, hipper people than myself.
I stood there for at least an entire minute while she kept trying to say over and over, "I'm sorry, I don't mean to laugh." It was hard to pick up her sincerity through all the guffaws and tears though. Yes, she literally had tears she was laughing so hard. THAT is the moment when it FINALLY hit me.
I was a ridiculous fatass.
I didn't end up buying anything, but the nice (skinny) lady that worked there was more than happy to tell me that there was a selection of larger sizes available at their online store.
Online store. Screw that. I went home and drank Mt. Dew and ate an entire frozen pizza by myself. I convinced myself that it was brain food, and I needed to do some thinking to figure out my next (fat) move.
It might not sound like a Hollywood version of rock bottom, but you try having your wife laugh at you until she cries because you look pathetic in a store where none of the clothes fit you. That’s what it means to be fat, and she did exactly what had to be done in order for me to fully grasp how far I’d let myself go. This is my way of thanking her for doing the right thing.