Oh wow.

My size 34 slacks are groaning in discomfort right now. And that’s because they’re being ruthlessly strangled by my growing fat rolls.

This is not pretty.

Have I mentioned that I used to be fat? And when I say fat, I don’t mean like, oh, look at that guy’s root-beer belly, he better watch out next time he’s served dessert fat. I’m talking fat like if I were caught sunbathing on a beach there might be wild-life rescue teams literally trying to shove me into the depths of the ocean because they’ve confused me for a beached orca fat.

300lbs. THAT fat.

You want pictures, don’t you? I can just hear the cynics now “if there’s no pic, it never happened” and “yeah, anybody can claim to have weighed as much as a new-born elephant, but where’s the proof?” and “please, for the love of all that’s good in the world, don’t post your fat pics, especially if they really are of you sunbathing your pasty white skin on a beach.”

All right all right naysayers, here you go:

Is that t-shirt tucked in? Yes. Is it stained with some white powdered substance? Yes. (Me shaking pre-Wife’s hand (arm’s-length away!)before leaving on my LDS mission to Venezuela where, after losing over 100lbs from walking and eating beans and rice, I was hit on by gross women constantly.)

Same day. Less grainy. More crooked. 
  Me and Grandma The Weed. (If this were a grandmother/grandson look-alike contest, we’d totally bring home the blue ribbon.)
The one thing freakier than having a deformed eye? Having a deformed eye while making this face.
  Is my childhood friend Heather (Boyack) Nuesmeyer laughing or screaming in terror at the monster to her right? Hard to say…

So yeah. As you can see, things weren’t pretty. Not just attractiveness-wise, but otherwise as well. I did not feel good about myself. I did not like how I looked. I wanted to punch myself in the face repeatedly. I felt trapped inside a fat-suit, and then when I touched the fat-suit, I realized it had nerves because it was my skin. And I was getting stretch marks and I wasn’t even pregnant.

I just looked a little pregnant from the side. And a little bit like a duplex resting on legs from the front.

(Man, it’s amazing how the “make fun of yourself” habit just re-ignites when talking about the fat days. I actually have great sympathy for those who struggle with weight (for obvious reasons) and I hope my taking jabs at my former self isn’t offensive.)

So, why am I busting out the fat pics? It’s because when I stepped on the scale this morning, it said something terrifying. 201.2

That might look like a tolerable weight to some. But for somebody like me who views food as a form of digestible entertainment and can therefore gain 10lbs in about a week if I’m not careful, this is not okay. Today it’s 201.2. Next week it’s 210. Next month it’s 230. Six months from now it’s 320. (Sadly, that sequence is not an exaggeration. That’s about how fast I went up to 300lbs when I was 19.)  Then, the next step after that would be me having to be hoisted out of my bed by a team of 12 men who carry me to a flat-bed truck so I can be transported to the hospital for my gastro-bypass which would start working for several months right before my heart gave out and I died leaving my wife and three daughters to fend for themselves. And that would just be uncomfortable for everybody.

Here are a couple more pics for comparative purposes.

This is me a couple of years ago when I weighed about 185. (We’re with our good friends Anni and Dan Beecher.)
 And this is me right now. At 201.2ish. On my way to 500.

To circumvent that eventuality I’ve decided to be real with all of you about my weight. Accountability to both strangers and friends is an amazing thing. It can really motivate. And we all know how well it’s worked for Oprah.

(Wait, what am I doing?)

No, but seriously, I’ve decided to come here to the World Wide Web of Shame and announce that I have been eating too many nachos and drinking a little too much sweetened condensed milk from the can (don’t hate. It’s delicious) and it has got to stop immediately.

I’m gonna get back in shape. And it’s gonna start tomorrow. And I need your help. I need you to tell me that I can do this, because truth be told, I’m slightly freaking out right now. (Once you’ve been the size I was in those pictures, it always feels just a few Red Robin cheeseburgers away.) And also I need you to congratulate me heartily when I get on here a month from today, June 1st, (so, on the 1st of July) and tell you how much weight I’ve lost. Because I need to have something to work towards. And being able to tell you, yes you with the hair, that I made progress is a powerful tool.

So, in other words, you just became my personal trainer.

Congratulations.

Can you go get me some water and a towel to wipe down this treadmill? Thanks.

PS, in all seriousness how much weight do you think I should lose this month? And do you have any weight-loss tips or suggestions for me? I’m all ears… ears and excess body-fat…