An excerpt from
Rebel Without a Clue
(Tales of an Imperfect Man in an Imperfect World)
FATSO
Turning fifty came up on me fast. The year was 2000—the millennium! It seemed like only yesterday that I was lean and tan and sweating in the fields of Kentucky at twenty-five years old. And my muscles were sinewy and rippled as I hauled in heavy nets of fish on the Mediterranean coast before I was even thirty. And my shoulders were broad as I lifted massive wooden girders on Jersey construction sites at thirty-five. Those were glorious days when I was still young and strong.
But times had changed. I now devoured huge lunches with a bunch of guys in suits every day. I exercised less. And at night, I went out and sat at the bar of a local pub, drinking Scotch and eating prime rib dinners. Then I drove home and fell asleep in my reclining chair.
One weekend, a female friend invited me to attend a Bar Mitzvah with her. The photographer walked around taking group pictures of each table, and later, the host mailed them out to everybody. I didn’t see myself in the picture. I saw the woman whom I had accompanied, but who was that next to her? Holy shit! It was me. I was all swollen up! I looked like Jerry Lewis when he was on steroids. So, I went and bought a scale. It read 235 pounds! How was that possible? Sure, every time I’d bought a new pair of pants, I needed a bigger size. I guess that 42-inch waist should have tipped me off that something was wrong.
When guys go to department stores shopping for pants, there are certain benchmarks at play. When you’re young, almost everybody wears a size 28 waist. That’s standard. Only freaks maintain that throughout their lives. As time goes on, you creep up through a progression—30, 32, 34, and then 36. A 36-inch waist is kind of the outer edge of the trouser universe. After that, it’s uncharted territory. Fewer options, distorted dressing-room mirrors, and lowered self-esteem are just some of the side effects. You go through several stages of grief, and then things only get worse—38, 40, and then you have entered the Twilight Zone. A 42-inch waist means you have failed. You are weak, stupid, and a slave to your appetites!
I had let myself go to pot and didn’t even realize it. Suddenly I was being bombarded with comments about my appearance. I ran into my friend’s Uncle Sol in the supermarket. He said, “Hey, Chollie, what’s with all the weight?” Sol had been my insurance agent when I was in the construction business. He was an old school Jew with a thick Brooklyn accent. He was one of the most memorable characters I have ever known, and his opinion meant a lot to me.
A few days later, some other guy I knew walked up to me at the local deli. I was sitting there minding my own business, reading the newspaper, and eating a corned beef sandwich. “Hey, Chucky, what happened to you?” And this guy was a fat slob! I would see him at the beach club with his bald head and big hairy belly. And now even this guy was giving me shit?
Enough was enough. I raised myself up and shouted from the mountain top, “This will not stand! Things are gonna change!” But how? I had never been on a diet in my life. The thought of dieting sounded terrible and foreign to me. But I had no choice. This skinny Jewish kid was now a middle-aged fatso.
I threw out the Breyer’s ice cream and Entenmann’s chocolate chip cookies that were steady staples in my apartment. You know those cookies. They’re soft and sweet, and you can’t stop eating them! Instead, I went out and bought cottage cheese. Ugh! Cottage cheese—the symbolic food of personal failure. Only losers eat cottage cheese.
I then stumbled onto a technique that I could stay with. I would just eat less. Genius! I still went to lunch with the guys, but I wouldn’t finish my food. I ate half my sandwich and a few french fries and then placed my napkin over the plate. Finito! My meal was officially done. Push the plate far away to discourage the temptation to reach back for more. Treat every single meal like this. Reduce my Scotch intake. Increase my water consumption. Join a gym. Walk more on the Boardwalk. Add up all these healthy habits and over time, I would no longer resemble that fat fuck Jerry Lewis! Nothing personal, Jerry. I know he was sick and had to take steroids as part of his treatment. At least he had an excuse. I’d gotten this way all on my own!
I flipped the switch and reached deep into the well of my character. I located my lost sense of discipline and applied it to this new regimen. I did not waver and did not look back. I was committed to losing this unacceptable weight, step by step, one pound at a time. Damn, if I had applied this kind of commitment to my career, I’d be retired by now!
CHARLES LEVINSOHN 