This is not a word to be thrown easily at anyone these days. I’m told it’s very disparaging. 

Obese is the proper term to use. 

Porky. Falstaffian. Overweight. Plump. Fleshy. Tubby. Roly-poly. 

What does it matter? We’re all getting to the same place. 

“Having a surfeit of body fat.”

This is a story about me—my obese (or any word you want to use) self.

The struggle with food and my weight goes back decades. 

“Obesity is a complex disease involving an excessive amount of body fat. Obesity isn't just a cosmetic concern. It's a medical problem that increases the risk of other diseases and health problems, such as heart disease, diabetes, high blood pressure, and certain cancers.”
Mayo Clinic

It all came back recently with my stroke. 

A seventy percent clogged Carotid Artery was to blame. 

Fed by too much of a good thing and the worst thing in my foodie hunt for gastronomic delights.

Yeah, that didn’t work out so well for me. I’m sure the forty-five years of alcohol and drug abuse didn’t help me.

I’ve written about this subject before, and I’m here again to tell you that this has become a priority for me, now more than ever. 

I’ve beaten back drugs, alcohol, and even my famous temper (Well, still working on that one). However, my weight? 

Damn, it’s an albatross around my waist and my internal organs. 

This is no joke, and I know it intellectually and feel it physically and emotionally, but this is hard to lose, especially at my age.

“How many friends with similar challenges have I seen drop dead or end up in the hospital? Honestly, this time fear has slipped into the picture. I have too many things that I want to do before I pass on. Writing these words scares me because I know this is real. What I do next is up to me, and for my own health, I better get it right.”
antonio pedro ruiz

Since my last doctor’s checkup in March, I’ve been bouncing around in the 210-220-pound range. Trust me, for someone my size and age, this is dangerous territory.

No lie, I love to eat. 

I like to think of myself as a “Foodie” who loves tasting the world's cuisines. 

I’m game for almost anything from any culture. A regular Anthony Bourdain (may he rest in peace).

And that would be okay in some planned moderation. 

The problem is that the word “moderation” doesn’t seem to register with me when I start diving into a pool of arroz con pollo, Texas BBQ Chicken, ramen, or mole, and the occasional pork something (yeah, that went off the menu as soon as the stroke struck me), along with foods from every country and every continent. 

Then, add the sweet stuff, the bread, the peanut butter, and the bread (did I already mention the bread?), add up the calories, and it all piles up inside me like mounds of fat and whatever else goes along with it, into your arteries and your organs.

Trust for America’s Health Trust (TFAH) is “a non-partisan public health policy, research, and advocacy organization," according to its website. 

The nonprofit, funded by foundations like The California Endowment and Robert Wood Johnson Foundation, “envisions a nation that values the health and well-being of all.” 

I’m all for that. 

Shocker: according to TFAH, the obesity rate for adults in this country “passed the 40 percent mark for the first time in 2019, standing at 42.4 percent.” 

That adult rate has increased by 26 percent since 2008. Their annual report shows that poverty and discrimination have pushed the obesity rate up among particular “racial and ethnic populations.”

For a seventy-seven-year-old male, a former smoker (cigarettes and Mary Jane), an ex-heavy drinker (what’s a better word than heavy?), and an ex-drug user, I sit here wondering what that level of abuse has done to my body, along with my current weight load. 

I know I’m pre-diabetic, suffer from occasional sciatica, and always feel tired. Let’s not even get into whether my mild asthma and acid reflux have anything to do with my occasional bouts of chronic cough. 

And now a stroke.

OMG, I’m falling apart!

Back to food. 

I know I love food, but sometimes I think I love the mechanics of eating more. 

How do you explain grabbing stuff I know is terrible for me and shoving it into my mouth? 

Breakfast sandwiches from McDonald’s, BBQ chicken, fried chicken, donuts, and pizza with extra Mozzarella, Ricotta, Gouda, and goat cheese. 

Really? 

And don’t get me started on ice cream. Ice Cream? DQ or Baskin-Robbins. 

Doesn’t matter. 

Not a small-sized cup. But a waffle cone with two scoops of the most fat-creating flavors they got. 

At least I’m not asking them for chocolate syrup on it. 

Not yet.

Food, or at least certain foods, is like a drug. 

Remember, I’m an ex-junkie, and we’re never satisfied with just one shot of dope. 

No, even while we’re still nodding off, we’re trying to figure out when we’ll get our next shot. 

Same with food. Not satisfied with two eggs and two turkey breakfast sausages, my mind tells me, “Hey, one more egg and a turkey sausage ain’t going to hurt.” 

Except that I’m usually moving a short time later to feast on lunch, double what I ate at breakfast, and then dinner, double what I ate for lunch, interspersed with that snack at ten a.m. and 3 p.m., and some dessert at 8 p.m., maybe some popcorn, followed by getting ready for bed an hour later. 

Imagine all that fat and cholesterol sitting in my stomach overnight, ripening into gas and whatever else happens down there, leaving me with the worst stomach hangover when I finally crawl out of bed in the morning and make it to the bathroom, where I wish for a moment that I never see food again and that death would come quick enough to relieve the pain I feel.

Now, that’s a problem.

I understand the whole image and body shaming debate; however, this is a profoundly personal

This is moving past the debacle of a stroke and the very real fear that it could happen again if I don’t stop fucking around.  

So, I’ve met with a nutritionist, am slowly returning to daily walks, and hope my gym visits are imminent.

In the meantime, that fear I mentioned earlier will have to be my guiding light because I never want to experience this life trauma again.

This time I mean it.

If I want to live 20 more years.