Being fat had its obvious rewards. Writing with an open box of Sugar Pops next to my thick thigh had always been a comfort. When I lacked ideas, chewing on a mouthful of pretzels helped stimulate my brain. A Dairy Queen Blizzard or an Entenmann’s Pound Cake helped steady my nerves when I became anxious about exceeding a word count. Food helped me write. Food helped me be funny. But when the scale topped 225 pounds and my doctor started screaming things at me about killing myself a little more every time I chomped down another super-sized portion of French fries or inhaling a pizza by myself, I knew it was time to repair my body and, as an unexpected side effect, put a little spice in my creative spirit.
On a rampage, I started throwing out all the food in my house. That is how I always address things. For me, it’s all or nothing. However, I was going to lick this thing by putting an end to the licking, chewing, and swallowing processes. No more fattening food. No more in-between meal snacks. No more munching while I typed through the night. If I was going to see success, I had to get back in control.
What was odd about my weight gain was that I had always been so in control of every other aspect of my life. I was organized and ambitious. Being out-of-control in my eating habits was out-of-character. In addition to my