So, merrily bouncing along, doing the same thing I'd done two weeks ago, I GAINED three-tenths of a pound. Perdition catch my soul! Ah, heck, I knew i wasn't going to drop much, if anything, this week, because it's been a nutty week: dinner late every evening, and way too many calories left at the end of the day..all adds up to "weight gain." Oops. A whole .3 pounds. 4.8oz.

Am I looking at the noose? Am I self-shaming? Am I ready to throw it all away on a visit to Golden Corral?

No.

No.

And, NO!

"Progress, not perfection;" and the practice of  all the Principles in all my endeavors (Thanks, Allison!) As I once saw on an inspirational calendar, "It's not a stumbling block, it's a stepping stone." Or...a foundation stone!

Because, look: since the tail-end of September, yours truly has been engaged in the Battle of the Belt-notch, and I've gained FOUR notches! Yes, indeed, I used to have to PULLLLL to get my belt to hitch at the end hole. Now, I'm on the fifth hole back. Y'know those highly fashionable, railroad-pinstripe bib overalls of which I'm so fond? At the end of rollercoaster season, they were snug. And I'm not saying "merely binding;" I'm talking sausage-tight. (More on that, and rollercoasters, in a second.) Now feast your peepers:

Yeah; there's almost enough spare fabric to make a pair of bibs for Aiden. The tie-dyed shirt I'm wearing? It's stretched out to the shape of my old gut. My old gut and me...longtime acquaintances. "Friends?" Not so much. Oh, he came along with me on vacations and trips, to the pool, to the park, to Kings Island...but he was sort of a fifth wheel, you might say. My Mom would talk to HIM while addressing ME, up north when we went to visit. "You know, Steven, when your grandmother was alive, she'd say how your grandfather's physician would tell him that belly fat would be the death of him." From what I understand, it was. Massive heart attack at 56. Short trip to the Veterans Cemetery out on Long Island. Sadness. I never got to meet the guy. I'd say, "Yeah, Ma, I know, I know, I'm working on it..." My foot. The way I was working on it, if I'd been in charge of the Empire State Building, they'd STILL be working on it. 

Then, summer rolls around to the Heartlands. Pool time, water park time. Arthritis water classes at the YMCA time. Putting on my trunks, I see my barrel-like gut hanging. And, I'm embarrassed, so I put on a tee shirt to cover it. Out of sight, out of mind, no? The one go-to shirt gets tighter and tighter, until I have another one. A larger one. Soon, any shirt I chose was snug. Screw it, I don't know any of these people at the Y;  and oh, yeah, I wore my tee shirt to the water park, too. My 'embarrassment shirt.' They've all seen fat guys before. I'm just one more well-fed chunker. A chunker that wears slip-on shoes because he can't bend over and tie real shoes, and uses the excuse that his replaced toe-joint swells and becomes uncomfortable in real shoes (NOT so much of an excuse, but, hey, it's not all as bad as that.) He can't run and play with his grandson (arthritis notwithstanding) because taking a few running steps would have my heart pounding, my lungs burning, and diaphoresis in full "Holy Crap" mode."Chunker." Humorous, sick attempt at admitting I was one or two shades under "morbidly obese."

I'd mentioned roller coasters. Early on we'd gone to Kings Island. Darn near a graveyard, that day, we had our choice of 'coasters to thrill us. The Beast; Mystic Timbers; Backlot Stunt Coaster...then, the  Flight of Fear. All dizzy and grinning from the previous three rides, we settle into those snug little cars, and watch as one rider ahead of us is approached by one...then two...then three ride attendants, attempting to a) get her lap belt on and b) get the securing bar down into position. One attendant, a girl, leans over and whispers to the patron,  gives her the most sincere and apologetic look I've ever seen, and...in a huff, the girl climbs angrily out of the ride, and storms off in tears. She can't fit safely into the gondola to ride. There were snickers from some riders. And mortification from others. My heart was as still as a mortuary at midnight. I leaned over to Dawn: "Oh my hell, I don't know WHAT I'd do..."

Fast forward to the end of the season. Heading into Haunt Fest and Winter Fest, we want to burn the last of the ''shiny' off our gold passes, when...I can't get the safety bar down over my lap in Flight of Fear. One attendant tries; no go. Another attendant comes over. I'm starting to sweat. She pushes. She shoves. "On three, together," she says. "CLICK!"

I have never been so uncomfortable in my life. Not only was it mortifying to have to get two able-bodied teens to SHOVE me into my little coffin of an amusement ride, but I could barely breathe throughout the few seconds it takes to navigate the track. Dawn doesn't know it. Not yet. I was crying inside, and passed off the visible tears as "wind in my eyes." The rest of the season was similar. It had come to the point at which I'd have to suck in my gut to fit on everything we rode, except the Carousel. Where I'm sure the wooden horses shied sideways when they saw me coming.

But did I stop eating like a gavone? Nope. Like the addict I am, I ate to hide the pain, the self-loathing, the anger, the discomfort. "Hey, if *I* can eat this well, it means that I'm providing for the family I love." Right? No, really, right?

Wrong. *Food is not a reward.* We're not trained animals doing tricks. Our rewards lie elsewhere. But I'm not at the point of pain where getting better hurts less than staying sick. So, laying in bed at night, falling asleep, waking up, falling asleep, tossing, turning, sneaking downstairs for 'another little nip,' I engage in the old, self destructive behavior I've admitted to my Mom, my wife, my VA nutritionist and my VA physician. I've admitted it; I've taken the First Step: I admitted I was powerless. But, half steps, we are warned, avail us nothing. I had to admit that I was powerless AND that my life had become unmanageable. Finally, that visit to Dr Dhingra and the conversation with Dawn, back in September did it.On the 26th of September, 2018, I weighed exactly 254.4 pounds.

That's where the old Steve ends, and the new one begins. And, so what? I gained .03 pounds this past week. Ate, past 1900hrs a few times, accidentally sandbagged my calories until too late, and tried to consume them. Which, as I should remember, is a recipe for illness. DO NOT SLEEP ON YOUR CALORIES. 

And, here I am; a little better for having done what I do, and moderately proud, immensely grateful. IMMENSELY grateful for a loving God, a beautiful wife, an incredible family. 

Thanks for dropping in. Thanks for reading.

 Be well; practice peace, and see you at the next one.