Physical appearance is the one thing I might control. Maybe. This makes, therefore, my issue with weight all the more troubling.
Last night I struggled. Needing that Fourth Meal, I dared not. Slowly this year I’ve been losing—not like ’06—but losing.
I have (they tell me) a “disease of perception”.
Too often I view things better than they are or worse than and never…quite….as they are. Same with people. How often do I trust one more than I should, yet another not enough? And with food. My lifelong battle with weight drags on and, even now, I have no idea what a “portion” is. Never thought it mattered. Frankly, though, I come by this honestly.
It remains…a disease of perception.
As a kid it was simple:
Our bungalow on Bayard had no dish washer yet it mattered not.
“Eat everything. Clean your plate,” Elaine Bogart would urge. So I did. As no one in 80+ years would ever accuse our mother of being a good cook, her lesson was clear: quantity over quality. It was a lesson well-heeded.
So I wore my shirts out and “huskies” for pants.
My Dad, of course, had no problem with this. “You’re supposed to be big,” he’d assure me. (The man weighed 300 by then. I’m thinking maybe a second opinion was called for).
Mark or Bobby might remember, but I don’t recall being fat in high school. Shy? Yes. Nerdy? Yes. But not fat.
In college things changed; things opened up. Working meant money. Unlike most college kids, though, I spent not on clothes drugs or booze. Money, therefore, meant freedom…and food. Never let it be said that this cowboy cooked in. In four years I hit every restaurant in Franklin County. More than once (I’m sure), and never alone.
But like I said, my issue with food comes honestly.
I loved my father and everything he stood for. He was to me, like the old E.F. Hutton commercial: when he spoke: (silence…I listened). Still, I’m sensing he wasn’t the best influence when it came to food.
Not that he forced me to eat. Not that he took the food and jammed it down my throat. But still…
My Dad too lacked portion control. Even in the ‘70’s, when he’d drive north for family dinners: En route to his mother, he’d hit Corky’s at Cedar and gobble down a corned beef sandwich as he drove until, ultimately, when pulling in the drive, Harriet would wipe food from his lips. “They eat like birds,” he’d protest.
This beautiful man—who would walk into a drug store to buy Camels, see two bodies ahead of him, and leave abruptly to find another store with a shorter line—this beautiful man would stand endlessly awaiting David’s Buffet on North High Street in Columbus or (for that matter) any buffet in Las Vegas. (And he never played favorites. Though not a fish-eater, how often when I was sold Highlights on the road did he remind me that Fridays at Howard Johnson’s it was all-you-can-eat?)
My Dad, you see, didn’t just eat food—he romanced it. One could safely argue that next to Harriet food was the love of his life.
He’d wax poetic about Resche’s challah: “It’s better than cake!”
And marvel upon crafting his perfect sandwich: creamed cheese and jelly (Schmucker’s strawberry preserves only), on challah with sliced bananas inside.
And champion, ENDLESSLY CHAMPION, his favorite restaurants, locale by locale. (The Jai Lai in Columbus, Win Schuler’s in Jackson, Michigan, The Maissonette in Cincinnati, Carson’s in Chicago. Indeed, once my Dad found a restaurant he liked—I mean really liked—he never saw another kitchen in that town. Vividly I recall Harriet urging “Albert, why don’t you want to try something new?” Just as clearly I can hear his response: silence. He was, dare I say, the original Zagat.
So where, pray tell, does this euphoric memory leave me?
Fat, dare I say? Uncomfortable. In need of guidance.
I called my food sponsor today at 9:15. It’s our time. Three meals a day, he tells me, and nothing in between. I’m to phone him if itchy.
He says I can look like 2006 again. He thinks I can do it.
But I have to avoid Fourth Meal.
None of us, especially you were fat. “Fat” was not a word any of us ever used. You and me were plumb or husky. Food was always foremost, remember Mawby’s every Saturday afternoon or the opening of the first McDonalds on Mayfield? We all loved food, that is why, today, I could lose 25 lbs and still not look as thin as Stuart.