SF Man Part Two - I Am Not Dougie!

Part Two – I Can Hear You Getting Fatter

When your only mode of exercise is a brisk walk, the pounds quickly pile on. I will say I’ve learned a few things on those early morning walks, like how a deliberate walking style and a heft-filled frame will get you mistaken for someone else. I’d noticed a younger man walking in my neighborhood for the past year – he must have lost at least 75 pounds with perhaps another 150 to go. I’d see him every few weeks, walking the same route. He looks great for a very overweight guy, and he’s changing his life with every thigh-chafing step. The inspirational pieces of this story were ruined for me about a month ago when I found myself walking the same route just after dinner time, the evening light fading into darkness. I was walking past a neighbor’s house, and the neighbor looked up, focused on me and yelled in a celebratory way, “Dougie!” I gave a pathetic wave until he realized, “Uhh, you’re not Dougie,” and he ran into the open front door of his house. Now I can’t prove if our neighborhood’s biggest loser’s name is Dougie, Douglas or Doug, but I’ll bet you a super clam roll and some steak fries it is. I followed the same path at the same time of day, and to this neighbor, I fit the profile. The two of them probably share a bag of fat-free devil’s food cookies on his porch every Thursday night while Dougie talks about using last year’s sweatshirt as a tarp for this wood pile as the neighbor commends him on how less fat he is. Well, one man’s loss is another man’s gain, and I now walk a different route to avoid any similar comparisons.
I’ve also learned that a neighbor of mine likes to walk his dog at around 5:47 AM while smoking the reefer. In the past few weeks, we’ve advanced to the “How’s it goin’” stage of our relationship, but I need to be careful. It’s a slippery slope. First we’re exchanging pleasantries, the only two people awake in the entire South End in the dawn hours; next thing we’re sharing bowls of Lucky Charms and bong hits in his basement, only to be followed by mornings filled with F Troop and ChiPs reruns while I try to email Erik Estrada for hair care tips as my neighbor scrapes the resin from his kid’s one-hitter he got for Father’s Day 25 years ago. A slippery slope indeed.
To reconstruct an ACL, you and your surgeon are presented with four options. The first two involve slicing into healthy tissue and using it to replace what you’ve torn, either from your knee cap (the “patellar” ligament as we say in these parts) or your hamstring. The third option is to leave it alone, an excellent choice for anyone embracing a sedentary lifestyle or life without health insurance. I chose the fourth option – the allograph, taking a dead man’s ACL and inserting it into my left knee. I requested the ACL from an attractive younger man with wavy jet-black hair, a great second serve and an ability to drive a car with a stick shift, but as far as I can tell, the request was ignored. The surgery was fine, if you ignore my post-op crying fit. I’ve since discovered that anesthesia can do crazy things so my tears should be forgiven. I’ve also discovered that pain killers, a nice late summer breeze and ready access to cable TV programming can make someone never want to get out of bed nor return to work.
It’s been almost three months since the surgery and close to six months since I started this journey that’s definitely not included going to Italy. Thirty physical therapy sessions, dozens of Percocets, countless bags of ice and about ten pounds of pure belly-placed blubber - all of it adds up to a mediocre 40th birthday, obscene medical bills, tighter pants, a halting re-entry into real exercise and an appreciation for the simple act of bending my knee, something I still can’t do too well. So the next time you have the chance to prove your mettle in a game of tennis, opt for the couch instead. It will save you in so many ways.