I was inspired by “My body is a cage of my own making” by Roxane Gay. This essay is about me and no one else.

There was no disputing the blood test results. I am more than pre-diabetic. I’m on the line between pre- and diabetic. The culprit seems to be what has plagued me since I had to begin wearing husky-size pants when I was 12 years old: that ugly word Fat and I don’t mean the good kind.

I really am oversimplifying the word along with what’s hanging on my body and the causes. What is not in dispute is…

“In the body, fat, also known as adipose tissue, is a connective tissue that primarily stores energy, insulates the body, and cushions vital organs. It’s composed of fat cells (adipocytes) that expand when the body has excess calories and shrink when there’s a calorie deficit.” – Cleveland Clinic

Through the years, my body has been called butterball, fatso, fatty, roly-poly, and overweight. I call myself carrying excess weight (easier to swallow). The names don’t quite describe how I often feel.

Fat. I feel it in my bulging stomach, the rolling love handles, the man boobs, the loose skin hanging under my chin, and the upper arms.

TheFreedictionary.com defines the word Fat as it applies to a person as “Obesity; corpulence: health risks associated with fat. Unnecessary excess. Having much or too much fat or flesh; plump or obese.”

This isn’t about body image or body shaming. This is about my health and my crazy fantasy of living at least thirty…okay, twenty…man, what I would give to live some more years.  

(According to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, in 1900, the average life expectancy at birth in the United States was around 47 years for males and 49 years for females. In 2025, according to Macrotrends, U.S. life expectancy in 2025 is 79.40, a 0.18% increase from 2024. I’m 76 years old. Damnit!)

My excess weight, I mean, my fatness, started when I was about eleven or twelve years old. Puberty, I’m sure, played a role in that. I did lose more weight later in my teen years because of my heroin addiction (I’m not suggesting that as a healthy way to lose weight). My body eased up on me after that, and I stayed around an average weight into my mid-twenties. I’m not talking about being slim and trim. You just didn’t need a thesaurus full of alternative words for Fat to describe me.

I never really worried about my weight during my twenties and mid-thirties. I would buy a larger size if I had trouble fitting into my pants or shirts. Then, I would just go back to my usual routines. 

For several years afterward, during my early thirties, the fast-paced lifestyle of sex, drugs, and rock n’ roll helped me maintain a weight that made me feel comfortable. Unfortunately, the yo-yo weight fluctuation was caused by the excessive intake of food, drugs, and alcohol. 

I squeezed in a little exercise here and there, but the fast pace of life left me with no time. Anyway, living a healthy life was the least of my problems. I am not advocating this sex, drugs, and rock ‘n’ roll lifestyle as a solution to obesity. Hell, I was lucky to get out of it alive.

Yo-yo weight has been plaguing me for more than forty years. It began with bartending in a German restaurant. Too much beer, Bratwurst, Weiner Schnitzel, and shots of Jägermeister.

After I left the restaurant and moved to Hollywood, I settled down for a while. Then, I would feel miserable about myself. Try something different. Lose weight. Gain weight. Feel bad about myself. Try something different. Feel good about myself. And the roller coaster ride would start all over again.

There were doctor-prescribed pills, therapy, weight loss programs, the gym, eating less, eating healthier, and running half and full marathons. Drinking less, taking fewer drugs—my life has been a lesson in fooling myself into thinking that my problem is just about my weight. It’s my state of mind, they say. If I pump up my mind, my body would follow. But my weight problem, like life, is a little more complicated.

My problem is I loved everything that made me Fat (I’m sorry, overweight, roly-poly, bubba cheeks). I still craved food, drugs, alcohol, and the escape from reality that all three offered. Then, I convinced myself that all I had to do was eliminate two of these, and my life would improve. 

Well, I’ve gotten rid of drugs and alcohol. I’ve been sober for nearly fourteen years now. But there’s still food. A lot of food. And I just can’t damn stop.

The real issue now is that all the excess Fat on and in my body is causing health problems. Over the past ten years, I’ve become a textbook example of everything that can go wrong with a person’s health. I had Hepatitis C (which is now cured). I’ve had two knee replacements, one for each leg. I’m pre-diabetic and have episodes of Sciatica. I have flat feet. There are breathing problems, and the doctor says my persistent cough might be caused by Acid Reflux, or maybe not. Recently, I was diagnosed with Diverticulitis. Oy vey. 

I’m not saying my weight problem directly causes all these issues, but they definitely don’t help.

I have plans. I need to add at least thirty more years to my life (hey, it could happen). I’ve wasted a lot of time, and I’m playing catch-up. I graduated last year from college, and I have fantasies of an MFA in Creative Writing bouncing around in my head. Why not?

I don’t have a full-time job, and I don’t play golf. So my only other options are dying from a lifetime of bad habits or getting my act together and extending my life. So I’m back to weight loss programs, regular visits to the gym, and walks through the neighborhood. Oh yeah, learning to put less junk food into my body.

There are real consequences to abusing your body. I know that in the end, how many more years I live will depend on more than just how much food I eat. My genes, the environment, and luck will also play a role. In the meantime, being overweight with Fat won’t help. 

I’m not looking for a Mister Universe physique. Just a body that might give me a few more healthy years.

I also need to work harder to find a different state of mind.