We Are What We Eat

We are what we eat…right?

As a guy who has done a gym thing more often than not, all my adult life, I don’t like to admit the truth of that. Shouldn’t I be exempt from being fat if I work out regularly? Sadly, the answer is no. The fact is that when it comes to our weight, it’s only about 30% exercise and 70% diet. Maybe even 20%, 80%. For a foodie like myself, that’s a bitter pill to swallow, even though I seem to have little problem swallowing almost everything else in sight. I love to cook, and constantly obsess over where we’re going out to dinner or what I’m going to fix at home. I mentally schedule at least for the next three nights in a row.

Then there is the fact that I’m no longer protected by youth. These days I look more like a pregnant woman, a very unpleasant balding one with disturbing facial hair. Fresh out of the shower I peek down to see that my pregnancy belly is blocking any real proof of my gender. I’ve turned into that guy with a horizontal belt buckle holding up pants that are fastened beneath my belly. I make a size 36 waist work when my true waist size is probably closer to my age.

My need to figure out how to best restrict calories dovetails with the fact that most of the other fun stuff in life is now on the “Do Not Touch” list as well. It may be for the best that drugs and alcohol have their own built in memory erasing ingredients. I don’t miss them all that much…because I can’t remember what happened after I used them. And sex? Why embarrass myself? If I try to initiate something with Carla, she tells me “maybe later, Honey, I have to get ready for work”, but she doesn’t have to go back to work for three more days. How long does it take to slip into her scrubs and a bunch of ID tags anyway?

I like to say: “Moderation in all things, including moderation”. So when my doctor told me that I can have two drinks a day, I save them up to have 14 on Saturday. That’s moderation, right? Hey, sadly, it’s not even true, I was just going for a laugh. But if I can’t throw a string of firecrackers into the bonfires of life every now and then, what fun is left out here?

Not much. So now more than ever, food has become my drug of choice, and the exercise that I’m weakest with, is pushing myself away from the feeding troth.  

Then last week I read an article by a highly respected doctor who claims to have found a key to weight loss for men over fifty, and how to get healthier in the process. He asserts that it all gets down to the growth hormones we use in our factory farm beef, pork, and chicken. Young people need their own to grow, but for us old guys who get it in the meat we eat, it’s poison. That’s the main reason that we develop the excess belly fat that hugs us like a border baby and doesn’t want to let go. The solution? Either stop eating red meat, or better yet, stop eating all meat, or go all organic.

I’ve been trying to do that more and more anyway, but guilt over buying factory farm meat and that article, pushed me and my fat belly over the edge. PETA tells me that I need to go vegetarian, but that’s not going to happen. The occasional steak or maybe some burgers are now my fireworks in the fire, my raison d'être when all other vices have flown the coop. PETA is never going to convince the world to stop eating meat, but it would be nice if we didn’t torture it first. The key is humane and healthy treatment of animals. Factory farms suck. For them, it’s all about money. Growth hormones cause the animals to increase their size at alarmingly unnatural and unhealthy rates, all while being locked up like prisoners in overcrowded cells. More meat per animal at faster turn over times equals increased profits. The only winners in that scenario are the corporations and their stockholders. Both animals and consumers loose.

With that in mind, I’ve been buying organic, believing that it’s better for me and it carries an increased assurance of humane treatment for the animals. If I have to pay almost twice the price, I’ll eat less meat as well. Even with organic and grass fed meats, less is more.

For several weeks now, it seems like my Facebook has been awash with a tidal wave of advertisements for food and meal delivery services. I took the plunge and signed up with one that promises to deliver meat that is free of growth hormones and additives, humanly raised, harvested, and in the case of beef, grass fed.

I’ll let you know how it goes and post an “after” picture of myself so you will recognize me if we see each other in person. I expect the pounds to melt away like ice cubes on a hot sidewalk with just that one change in my diet.

Soon, I will no longer look like an old, scary pregnant woman.

If none of that works, it’s back to drugs, alcohol, Krystal Burgers, and firecrackers. Carla will probably still be getting ready for work, but hey, four out of five ain’t bad.