The Magic Number, or Mission: Avoid Spontaneous Human Combustion

340.6

three hundred forty pounds, point six.

THREE HUNDRED AND FORTY POUNDS, POINT FUCKING SIX.

I told myself that I wouldn't freak out by the number, I was prepared to hear the number, I had psyched myself up to hear the freakin' number, I haven't blogged in God knows how long because I wanted to give y'all the sonofabitchin' number!

And now, I know the number.

And now...and now...and now...

How did it get here? How did I arrive at this? Shouldn't there have been some bell going off at 300? Some noisemakers, some shofar blowing in the distance? You mean to tell me that I have 40 (point 6) pounds to shed before I reach 300? Three hundred forty isn't a weight, it's a guest list at a wedding in the Hamptons! I didn't gorge myself on every Hershey's product ever distributed, I didn't polish off a 12-pound ham by myself (despite the temptation), I eat corn, for God's sake, could someone please explain to me just how the hell this happened!!!

So, about that whole freaking out thing...yeah. Moving on...

I arrived for an appointment with a pulmonologist because I have asthma and chronic bronchitis, made worse by my smoking. The medical assistant, who was just about the nicest man another nice single gay man could ever hope to meet, was very patient when I explained to him that I needed to be weighed, but I hadn't actually known my own weight for a number of years. Hell, I didn't even know that scales had apparently gone digital. He never broke a smile when I asked him in all sincerity whether the scale would be able to register my weight, and to his credit, he made it as pleasant an experience as he could.
The indication that this was not going to be a good moment in the history of my life probably came when I deduced that I couldn't see over my stomach in order to read Satan's contraption (the scale, for those of you who skip-read). So again, the nice man (to all of my gay male followers, contact me, this one's a keeper!) was kind enough to tell me the number out loud. Upon hearing the number calmly and gently uttered from this benevolent man's mouth, I immediately stopped breathing. This medical assistant, who may very well be the Dalai Lama's illegitimate son, instantly begin pacifying me, letting me know that "it's only a number", and that he's "seen much heavier people on this scale" (because nothing makes fat people feel better than knowing that someone else out there is fatter than you, right?). And then, the unthinkable: with the best of intentions, I'm sure...he gets on the scale himself.
Why this sweet, kindhearted friend of Dorothy felt that putting his own weight out there would somehow loosen the knot firmly ensconced in my chest after hearing my weight for the first time in the twenty-first century is beyond my comprehension, but he did it. And gaily (no pun intended) proceeded to let me know that he weighed 294 pounds so you see, we both have some work to do in order to get well!

The bastard was over six feet tall.

I'm 5'7".

What the fuck did you just accomplish here, mister?

OK, look. I know there's work that must be done here. It wouldn't be much of a Mission if there wasn't, right? It was just a little unrealistic to think that I could be so Zen about finding out how much effort it's going to take to accomplish my goal. This is not a situation I can't overcome, and I will overcome it, but I think it's healthy to freak out just a little. I mean, now that I know what I'm working with, with perseverance and faith, it can only get better from here, right? Right?

(p.s. Happy Halloween and whatnot. I will be avoiding candy, but a cocktail would definitely help.)