Recently, I hit another milestone in my weight loss program:
35 pounds down!
So, why doesn’t it feel different? I suppose it does, really. I mean, 35 pounds is more weight than in four gallons of milk. That’s nearly two cases of beer. Three or four school backpacks of books.
But I scarcely notice it. Sure, my wristwatch, which at one time nearly cut off my circulation, is now about to slide down my wrist and over my hand, and my knees don’t hurt when I jog or climb stairs. But I know I still have about 40 pounds left to go, and the process seems to be slowing now—I’ve stayed at the same weight for several days. Plus, whenever I look in the mirror, I still see what appears to be some alien embryo developing in the vicinity of my stomach—or perhaps it’s a basketball that was inadvertently left in my abdomen during a botched surgery. I still feel bloated all the time, and I never like what my mirror on the wall says when it talks to me.
I know I must be getting healthier, but I’m not ready to celebrate yet. I’m not even halfway to my goal, and I’m not even sure that my initial weight goal is low enough. I seem to have a rather thin frame, when you get down past the blubber, and even when I was in my 20’s and was doing aerobics I measured out (in an immersion test) to have a much higher body fat percentage than the average male of my age. So, maybe 150 should be my goal, rather than 165. If I remember correctly, though, the calculations said that in order to get my body fat down to a reasonable amount, I would have to lose to around 137 pounds. Wow. That would be another 66 pounds, meaning I’m only about a third of the way there! Well, I could always have my arms cut off. It’s only a flesh wound!