The Vanilla Caramel Drumstick and the Red Minus 317

I knew it was going to be a tough eating day. Any work day that starts with me getting up at 3:00 a.m., and working furiously on a deadline project from 4:30 a.m. to 3:00 p.m. is going to be a tough eating day. The project excellently completed and delivered, I headed home for dinner. By the time I finished eating, I was 7 calories over for the day. A BIG FAT Red Minus 7. Even though the computer was in one room, and I was in the living room in my recliner, I could "see" that Big Fat Red Minus 7 glowing on the computer screen like The Scarlet Number. It hung on that computer screen, mocking me, shaming me, demonstrating to me the lack of willpower that got me to 478 pounds in the first place. I knew this was my Alamo... my Waterloo... my Cuban Missile Crisis. If I let that Big Red Minus 7 beat me, I would certainly eat the 20 pounds that I'd lost right back in a matter of days. My failure and hopelessness would be confirmed.

To make matters worse, SHE was calling me from the freezer. SHE was a Nestle's Vanilla Caramel Cookie Dipped Drumstick Ice Cream Cone. Oh yeah, that's the stuff.... the REALLY GOOD STUFF. A crisp, thick shell of sweet dark chocolate on the outside, a crunchy sugar cone beneath, and cold, creamy vanilla ice cream with a gooey, sticky golden brown caramel surprise in the middle. Oh yeah. There's my heroin. My methamphetamine. My crack. My Brooklyn Decker. And in that second, the Big Red MInus 7 stopped glowing entirely. It was totally extinguished by HER. All I could see was that sweet chocolate coating, that creamy cold ice cream, the crisp sugar cone shell, and that oh so special plug of chocolate coating the bottom of the cone. I'm sure that I must have enjoyed Her, because one moment, I was disrobing Her, and the next moment, her "robe" was laying in a heap on the top of the wastepaper basket. I sat back on the couch with that same stupid grin that Winnie the Pooh gets after dipping way down deep in the honey pot with a belly full of sweet sticky happiness.

And then it happened. Instead of the Big Red Minus 7, I realized SHE and I had turned it into The Big Red Minus 317. Oh crap. This is bad. This is really bad. REALLY, REALLY BAD. I knew there was only one way out of this. I walked to the bedroom for a change of underwear (yeah, it's hard for a 458 pound guy to FIND underwear but it's out there), gym shorts, fresh socks and my walking shoes. I laced up my shoes (something that, by the way, had been much harder to do 20 pounds ago), and reached for my iPod. Crap. The battery was below 20%. Surely this was a sign that I should not walk. But I did anyway. I grabbed my phone and headphones, realizing that I could listen to music on the phone. Crap. Battery down to 32%. Surely this was a sign that I should not walk. But I did anyway. I turned on the music and, Crap... the earphones that fit in the phone were crackly and crappy. Surely this was a sign that I should not walk. But I did anyway. I opened the front door and walked out. The Houston, Texas, heat and humidity hung in a particularly oppressive manner this evening. Surely this was a sign that I should not walk. But I did anyway.

About four blocks into the walk, I realized that instead of my light, summer, underarmor shirt, I grabbed a thick 100% cotton heavy t-shirt. However warm and humid it was walking in the right shirt, this shirt make it feel five times worse. Surely this was a sign that I shouldn't walk. But I did anyway.

Around the half way mark of my walk, a song came on the phone. It was from the album, "Hit Man, David Foster." It was Charice singing a medley of the songs "I Have Nothing" and "I Will Always Love You" made famous by Whitney Houston. I thought to myself how beautiful those songs are, and how sad it was that Whitney Houston lost her battle with the demons that drove her to her death. And suddenly I was thunderstruck. I realized that up until the past month, I had been doing the same thing with my weight and food. And if I didn't win the battle, I would end up the same way as Whitney... VERY SOON.

I don't remember much about the last mile of walking except for two things. First, the heavy cotton t-shirt that I knew was a mistake weighed about 5x more than it did when I started walking from all the sweat. Second, there was no way I wasn't going to finish those two miles.

Well, I did. And though you will never read about it in the newspaper and I won't be named Time Man of the Year, I did it. I won my version of the Alamo. I won my version of Waterloo. I won my version of the Cuban Missile Crisis. In 36 minutes of brisk walking, I turned that Red Minus 317 into a Big Green Happy 94. Hurray!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Here's to all of you winning YOUR personal Alamos, Waterloos and Cuban Missile Crises. As for me, I am going to rehydrate and drag my stinky self into a nice cool shower. Have a wonderful evening wherever you are!