New series- My Calorie Chronicles

After about a week of sniffling and coughing, this morning was finally persuaded to see the doctor. The nursing home near my place is dingy enough to make one sicker, but thankfully everyone seemed to want to see the OBGYN and not the GP (note to self: must be baby season). Throat definitely bad, declared doc, but no sign of chest congestion. Will write you a couple of mild antibiotics and some cough syrup. Then he got a peculiar gleam in his eye and I knew what was coming next.

When a man crosses 25, there are only two things that a visit to the doctor’s entail: dire warnings about giving up smoking and reducing your weight. Since my lips these days are fairly pink and my breath in the mornings Colgate-Total fresh, he skipped right to the meat. Pun intended.

"Step up on the scales please," he said and the effort to suppress a hige grin was only too obvious. Resignedly, I obeyed and my heart stopped as the scales rose and rose and showed no signs of stopping.

"Hundred and three," announced the doctor’s asssistant boredly (226 lbs). I cringed and dared not make direct eye contact with the doctor; I could sense him smiling beatifically.

"Have you put on a lot of weight lately?"

I could not lie. About 10 kg (22 lb) in just over a year, I told him shamefacedly. He just laughed and said something casual about people working in offices and not getting any exercise these days. I suppose he sees that a lot.

Maybe I’m not yet at that age when he’d get all lecturey and ask me to get my HDLs and cholestrol tested pronto. But with a history of heart disease, hypertension, diabetes, and now probably cancer in the family, my weight gain cannot be dismissed with a laugh.

Hundred and three. 1-0-fuckin-3. My previous best was 102 back in 2001-02 after a series of longish foreign trips where I’d visited one too many Burger Kings and Pizza Huts. Being "between jobs" for about three months got my off my ass then and into the gym. The efforts of a patient dietician and sadistic personal trainer helped me reach a respectable 88 kg (193 lb- I’m almost 5’10", so that’s still about 10 kg overweight but one has to be realistic). Then a change of job and city disrupted the routine and within a year, I’d put half of the lost weight back on. In three years after that, the pounds just kept adding up. Culminating in this morning’s grand finale at the doctor’s clinic.

The drive to work was not pleasant. I could have sworn Jimi Hendrix on the stereo was singing Do You Wanna Die Fatso and kids in schoolbuses were pointing at me and laughing. I’d called in saying I’d be late for work and my wan face convinced everyone I was really sick. And I was- sick and totally disgusted at myself for not staying in shape.

I know all the theory. I’m good at that. Top-load your calories. Which means a good breakfast, light lunch, bare minimum dinner. Dinner at least two-three hours before going to bed. At least 20 minutes of cardio every day, walking is also fine if not up to visiting the gym. Small meals, spaced closer apart. Drink lots of water. Avoid added sugar, butter, ghee, cheese, unskimmed milk, refined flours. Increase fibre in diet. Eat more fruit and curd. Give up snacking completely, or if you must, make it a couple of Marie biscuits instead of Frito-Lays.

I don’t know why I’m fat at all. My parents are slim, some say painfully so. My grandmother was rather overweight, but she was discliplined in her eating and exercise habits and lived to a hundred. There’s no obesity visible in either branch of the family. But my sister (at last measure hovering about the 175 lb mark) and I are the exceptions.

[Couldn’t we have been tall? Raven black instead of being blessed with good complexions (she’s fair, I’m wheatish tending to fair, which is acceptable for a man in our culture :p)? A little lower on the IQ scale wouldn’t have hurt, it’s not like either of us designs rockets for a living. But no, some mutant gene had to express itself in our generation and make us fat]

After denying for years that I eat any more than the next person, I was finally forced to accept that my eating habits were absolutely atrocious. For one, I eat a lot towards the end of the day, just before going to bed. I hold my alcohol well, so usually end up drinking more than my share at any party. I snack like a rabbit in a carrotfield when drinking: nuts, chips, fries, chilli chicken and egg pakodas being the favourite accompaniment to my Old Monk and Thums Up (or Antiquity and water, depends on the company). Actually, I’d given up the former totally because I’d somehow convinced myself that drinking whisky is better- no sugary additives- but that phase didn’t last very long.

I also eat very fast. Not that I stuff my mouth and make chomp-chomp noises, but i hate dawdling over meals. I’m usually on seconds before people have sampled all the things on their plate. I do not chew 32 times, or even 12 times. And I’m not fussy at all about my food and have been taught, like every well-brought-up Indian child, that I’m supposed to finish all the food on my plate.

I was 58 kg (127 lb) when I hit my teens; hovered between 69 and 76 (160 lb) through my teens and early 20s. After I hit 21 and found cool friends who can only socialise over anything alcoholic (cough syrup included), my slide over to the dark side was complete. Not that I can blame any of this crap on my friends. Some of my friends play tennis twice a week and others maintain their pre-college weight. None of them for sure weights a hundred and fuckin three kilos. "Saale, train mein quintal ke upar extra charge lagta hai," a friend of mine quipped. But he wasn’t being unkind. Most people who tease you about your weight have the best intentions. Which is why it hurts so much.

I know I’m obese. I know it’s unhealthy. I know it makes us sick. I have seen my family going sick, and it’s not pleasant when you’re in peak health, forget about when you’re 30% overweight. Worst of all, I know how to change things. I’ve down it once before and it’s not that unpleasant. I miss my dietician from back home but I still have her notes. And Lisa helps. She and my dietician from back home could be twins, the way they say the same things. The gym is close by. And virtually free. The weather where I live is never extreme, ideal for long brisk walks. I can manage, for my own sake, to do without drinking binges, beyond a certain age it’s plain undignified. I have a nice situation on the home cooking front, and am rarely forced to depend on greasy restaurant food. I don’t even like pizza that much.

So why do I insist on killing myself slowly?

I refuse to be a victim anymore. I am responsible for the mess my body is in and I am responsible to get it back as God intended it. I will not externalise my problems anymore, they are solely of my own doing. What has my excess weight brought me except rejection from women, derision from my friends, exasperation from my family? If I were fitter, I’d probably be a lot less lazy, and the universal perception of me being a rather laidback, low-initiative guy at work, the one who could do a helluva lot better if he’d only shape up, might not be so strong. If my waist went down 6 inches, I’d be able to use a lot more of my wardrobe, including some really good stuff I’d bought but grew out of. I’d stop snoring (happened last time), my eyesight would get better (no kidding), I could run to catch a bus without huffing like I’d just run a half-marathon, and hell, maybe someday, i’d even be able to run half-marathons like every blasted friend of mine on the West Coast seems so hellbent on adding to their resumé!

So from today, I begin the Calorie Chronicles. Every meal jotted down, every bit of exercise, every cigarette and drop of alcohol recorded for posterity in these i-logs. I thought I’d add it to my regular blog, but the problem is that only peopel I know or work with read my blogs and I don’t want any feedback in real life. I do not know any chowkie in real life to boast of, so this is the ideal forum.

Every chowkie is invited to send in feedback, critique, taunts, insults or possibly encouragement and sound advice to burpinder@gmail.com

Let the good times roll....!