Breakfast in Provo

I caught a glimpse of my former life as a fat man while eating breakfast at our hotel in Provo.

As I carefully selected Greek yogurt, a two-egg omelet, and half a pork sausage patty, I glanced up and saw a young man carrying a carefully constructed pile of food that would have made Homer Simpson proud. He was a bear of a man: tall, stout, and weighing at least 350 pounds.

He was eating alone, but from the look of his table, he could have fed two other people. Besides the food on his plate, he had yogurt, toast, waffles, coffee, juice, and a Diet Coke. Just when I thought he was finally ready to eat, he got up and returned with a couple of bananas.

I felt a wave of shame and embarrassment.

For decades, that was me. I played out that same scene in dozens of hotels and even more restaurants. It hurts to think about it.

These days, I probably eat a sixth of what I once did, and the foods I choose are vastly different. I owe much of that change to GLP-1 medications.

I didn’t talk to the young man. There was nothing I could have said that wouldn’t have sounded irrational or judgmental. “Don’t follow my path. You’re young and still have time.” Instead, I let him eat in peace while my mind replayed the moment over and over until I finally sat down to write about it.

Self-reflection does not come easily to me. I lied to myself for years. That’s behind me now, and I’m grateful for that.

I still think of myself as a fat man. I don’t always recognize the person looking back at me in the mirror. The face isn’t the one I carried through most of my life. My body is slowly healing, but at my age, healing takes time.

I’m still trying to lose another 40 pounds. It will probably take a year. Burning away the last remnants of my former self is a torturously slow process, even with medication to help.

But I know one thing for certain.

I’m never going back to that towering plate of food.

Never.