I'm fat.

 

It's useless to sugar coat my self-description with words that sound nicer than they should, and the truth is that I'm fat. I haven't always been fat, but there was a time several years back when I consciously decided that I enjoyed eating more than I cared about how long I lived. Then June arrived.

 

Two months ago, my friend, Jorge Lopez, passed away, and I became scared. We weren't close friends, but I thought the world of him and was quite sorry for the loss. Jorge and I shared a common body shape which is to say that he, too, was fat. And whether or not that contributed to his death is unimportant to me. Then came Tim Russert. Within two weeks, the country was mourning the death of someone I made a point of watching weekly. Mr. Russert was not fat, but he was certainly not at an ideal weight. And, again, whether or not his weight contributed to his death, I was inspired.

 

I now exercise twice daily. I'm eating better, though certainly not perfectly. And it shows. When I started in June, I had ballooned so much that even my 4X shirts were a bit on the snug side. The 3X shirts were clearly too small. When I weighed 430 pounds, I was in the 3X-4X range. Now that I was in the 4X-5X range, I could only guess at my weight, but it had to be at least 440 pounds. That's a staggering number.

 

I'm pleased to say that the new exercise routine has been successful so far. I don't know the exact number I started at, but right now, I'm at 390 pounds, and I'm feeling way better than I have in years.

 

Thanks, Jorge. You're helping me see my daughter through college.

How interesting that I would choose to add an entry with this title as the first entry since "Life is Good" went in. Sadly, like many fans, I allow the performance of my football team to influence the moods I display. And since my football team is displaying new and inventive ways of looking terrible, I've been falling into a deep funk.

 

This is despite the fact that good things have been happening lately (not in the football world, but everywhere else). My daughter (the older one) and I are getting along well. We had dinner the other night, and I picked up the older granddaughter. As we waited for the other two to arrive, I happened to mention that Erica was my daughter. This caught Mackenzie's ear, and she asked me to clarify. Was I Erica's daddy? I verified it, and when Erica arrived, Mackenzie was full of wonder. "I didn't know he was your daddy." Isn't it wonderful to observe that point in a child's life where they make a discovery. It was a fantastic moment (at least for me).

 

With moments like that to reflect upon, you'd think that I'd be happier today, but that's just how much the football game depressed me. Oh well, by Thursday, I'll be full of hope again and will expect the team to finish the season with a 10-6 mark. Such are the false hopes of the rabid football fan.