The Long Road Back

I was in good shape this winter, for awhile. Went to the gym frequently. Ate well.

My body changed shape. People looked at me differently.

"Hey there...uh, great haircut".

I worked out more. Longer. Harder.

My body felt lighter and stronger. I did set after set after set of push-ups. My arms felt like hydraulic pistons effortlessly tasked with pushing up my body which felt air-light, like balsa.

Eating was like throwing whole, dry logs into a roaring fire. My digestive system broke down, assimilated and processed food like a machine. Chicken breast. A pound of spinach. Four apples. Egg whites. Oatmeal. For breakfast.

I put on eight pounds. Lost two inches around my waist.

I felt like Dr. Bruce Banner, secretly waiting to go green and get my Hulk on.

My workouts were undertaken with Swiss-watch efficiency.

I ran faster, pushed harder, sweated more than anyone around me. I named my workouts: "Unforgiven", "Tapout", "Crybaby".

Worked out so hard my lifting partner stopped coming. Just, didn't show up one day. Never came back.

Worked out so hard I met The Clown. As in, "Pukey The Clown".

Winter came. The sun departed at 4:15pm. People got grumpy, got depressed, got colds.

I didn't get tired. I didn't catch colds.

Instead, I put 600+ pounds on the leg press. During my fifth set, I looked around for more 45LB plates to add.

When I finished, I turned around and people were staring at me. Then, quietly they just went back to their workouts. A trainer walked by, looked at the fourteen 45 lb plates on the machine and just shook his head.

600+ lbs was actually the last thing I kinda remember. A few nights later I felt tired. And feverish.

The next day I was 103. I sweated like I'd been dipped in a big, wet bucket of misery.

My body felt like angry dwarfs were pounding me with sledgehammers.

I felt white hot metal spikes pierce my head, puncture my eyes and pour searing white light into my brain.

I cried. I prayed. I prayed harder. I lost weight like some maniac butcher had sliced off whole slabs of me from each side. A pound a day, then two. By the end of the week, 10 pounds.

A month later, I had enough strength to walk around the block without coughing.

I felt like I'd been through a kind of spiritual awakening. And during this awakening, I realized two things.

1. God probably doesn't exist.
2. Donuts had taken his place.

I could not eat enough of them. Iced, glazed, old fashioned, sprinkles, sugared. Even that most old school of all fried creations, the crueller, had become family to me.

I felt like the Manchurian Candidate. As if somehow, someone, perhaps even yes, a foreign government had sneaked a chip into my brain. The chip was encoded with a simple binary message that repeated itself in my brain over, and over and over again.

"Donut"

After about a month, again, people looked at me differently. But now they didn't find ways to compliment me.

I didn't care. Unless they worked as a night manager at Dunkin Donuts, they were irreverent to me.

Soon, my old clothes fit again. Snugly, at first. Then uncomfortably.

I no longer craved lean proteins, green vegetables. Leafy greens and robust fruits.

I was a Donu-vore. I existed solely for The Donut. Like a grizzled old drunk I was cranky most mornings. Until that first, heavenly bite of Chocolate Glazed with sprinkles.

Then, an angelic smile would cross my face. I'd see holy light fill the room and I'd go out of my way to help strangers.

And then, it ended. I went to a wedding. Packed my "fat suit" to wear. A simple, classic linen suit two sizes too big for me. Figured I'd just tighten the old belt up, suck it up for a night and get through the evening.

Except I was too fat for the fat suit. I had to leave the pants unbuttoned in order to walk around without feeling like a trussed sausage.

Mid-way through the ceremony, I felt flush. The pants were still too tight. I breathed in, and unzipped them a bit. I wanted to cry. My wife looked over, saw my emotions rise to the surface and squeezed my hand, so proud her husband was moved to tears at this joyous occasion.

I silently wondered if anyone had ever been sliced in half by too-tight pants.

So I put the donuts down and picked up my sneakers. Went for a run. After ten minutes I was exhausted. Light-headed. Then, just off the trail I saw a chocolate donut. Hallucination? No, the sweet redeemer of life. I slowed my pace. Could see it just ahead a few paces.

My own morality flashed before me like a cheap diner menu--"Do I eat food off the ground?". My mind argued, "It's nature for chrissakes. If you can't eat food from nature what's the $%^&$# world coming to, eat it man!".

I stopped. And wondered what to do. I looked at the donut, snuggled there in the leaves. Perfectly shaped...like a pinecone.

It was more serious than I thought. I was having flashbacks. Where would it end? When I actually bit someone, a live person? Having mistaken their arm for a fcuking cinnamon twist?

It's been two weeks now and I'm happy to say I no longer mistake the forest's natural bounty for iced carbs on my runs. Hey, one day at a time, right?

Been back at the gym. Have lost two pounds. I'm getting there.

Coming home from my run the other day, I cut across the park into the city. Running by a Starbucks, time suddenly slowed. Like it had been stretched out like taffy.

Through the window, I could see the pastry case.

I took a deep calming breath, "Just keep moving...".

And then, I saw it.

A raspberry, apricot cookie. It looked so benign, so homemade. So trust worthy. Like mom had just baked it. For me. I stopped, looked at the cookie. It smiled at me. No really, it did. Not some weird, computer generated fake smile. It just made this cute little face at me, turned up the sides of its mouth like the cookie-version of Meg Ryan. Awww.

I wanted to hold it. Provide for it. Give it a home and care for it.

And maybe, someday I will. But until then, I can remember like it was yesterday--the time my own pants almost sliced me in half.