You refuse to go gently into that good night, like so many men and women do, slipping into middle age as if it was an oversize pair of jeans.

One hour every day, you work up a sweat. Running, swimming, biking or lifting weights it doesn’t matter. As long as you do something that makes your arms and legs burn, tightening the flesh against gravity. Haunted by memories of obesity. Driven by them.

As a boy, your friends had relentlessly tormented you about your weight. They’d nicknamed you “Fats.” Called you that in front of your peers. In front of your parents and theirs. Worst of all they called you “Fats” in front of females.

Your father once offered you five dollars for every pound of fat you could lose. The ploy didn’t work. It only saddened you knowing he felt that way about his son. At the time, your mother suggested Atkins –a trendy but notorious diet that took away pounds but left you feeling dizzy and weak. You got thinner but one morning fell down a flight of stairs. It was then you decided that the gym was preferable to avoiding carbohydrates, a measure you still practice today.

To be continued…