LIFE

I COULD say that the reason I wanted to lose weight was so that I would have more time on this planet with my wife and kids. And sure, those were huge motivating factors for me, but really it came down to the small things. Like having to carry a washcloth or a wad of paper towel in my pocket so that I could mop my brow when needed (which was often). Like sweating through my clothing, even on cool days, almost immediately after putting it on. Like stepping into an elevator and holding my breath because I didn’t want the other people in the elevator to hear how hard I was breathing. Like going to sleep at night with my feet hurting so bad that I feared I wouldn’t be able to walk the next day. Like wondering whether every chair or bench would support my weight. Like the fucking stairs—any number of them. All these small things were constants in my life. Constants.

I’ve blamed this host of nagging and uncomfortable problems on a lot of things: genetics, my upbringing, In-N-Out Burger, myself. But what I blame these days is the very thing that also always