Sunday, March 25, 2012

The Note, or "Why I'll Never be Skinny"

I’ll never be skinny. Of this I’m certain. As I consider another self-inflicted, pre-summer weight loss journey, doomed again to end in false peaks and dashed expectations, I wonder why. Why is it I’ll never do yard work shirtless or always avoid pickup basketball for fear of being on the “skins” team? I’m the most optimistic guy around, a real glass half full kind of fella, someone who sees the dawn of a new day as an opportunity. Maybe it’s because my glass is half-filled with a chocolate Fribble. That might be the first clue.

My entire life has been a steady war with myself – always debating whether the fries are worth it, if a bowl of Honeycombs is the best pre-dinner snack or if my dental work can survive another caramel apple. My childhood’s filled with memories of, “Stop eating so fast,” or “This pound cake is for the whole family!” or “Remember, Timmy - horizontal stripes are for the other kids.”

Over the years, I’ve done my best to tackle this head-on through dieting, even winning a few battles. Three years ago, I counted calories and lost almost 20% of my body weight in the process. I poked extra holes in my belts, bought new clothes and hoped I’d finally figured out how to get and stay skinny. Sadly, after fifteen months or so, the pounds slowly returned, like the distant jingle of the ice cream truck that draws closer and closer with each bomb pop and fudgesicle, returning every ounce I thought I’d shed for good. No matter how long – two days, six months, three years – I end up back where I started, no wiser for the journey and no closer to that elusive feeling of complete control over my weight.

But a few weeks ago, while rummaging through an old scrapbook, I stumbled across what I think is the reason I’ll never be skinny.

It was 1977, and I sat in my pediatrician’s office, knowing I was in big trouble. A year earlier, he’d told me I needed to stop eating so much. I was not remarkably fat – it wasn’t like they needed to wheel me into the office on a makeshift gurney with reinforced struts. I was a nine year old boy with a love of candy, root beer and anything potato-related. My rotund belly hung over my belt, and my pants never fit right. As I sat in the room, my mom next to me, I knew I was in for it. My doctor hated fat kids.

Dr. Rieger was not my favorite adult. Maybe it was his stern gaze or his way of grabbing me by the arm with just enough force to let me know I couldn’t run if I’d wanted to – either way, I dreaded these visits.

He entered the room, my chart in his hands. He didn’t launch into an attack on my weight or grab my stomach or tell me I’d never have a prom date with a gut like that – instead, he motioned for me to follow him. So I did.

He led me into a small room off the hallway, my mother right behind me. He sat me down and handed me a pad of paper and a pen. And this is what he told me to write: “I know I eat too much. It is my responsibility. My mother has done all she can. I’ll try much harder. Tim O’Shea.” As you can see, I’ve upgraded the spelling.

If a handwriting analyst examined the note, he’d see a touch of Stockholm syndrome mixed with a hint of feigned enthusiasm in my penmanship, maybe topped with a dollop of outright fear, considering the creepy tanned glare of Dr. Rieger hovered over my shoulder, he the scourge of all Nassau County tubbies, making sure I wrote down every word he quietly uttered in my chubby ear.

In the ABC Afterschool Special version of this incident, titled “A Slice of Shame,” a young George Hamilton plays Dr. Rieger, my mother by a mid-‘80’s Tyne Daly or Danny Devito, and I by Mason Reese in his deviled ham heyday. In this version, the music swells as I finish the note with a flourish, the strings rising to a crescendo as I stand, handing the paper to George Hamilton as I embrace my mother. And just before the screen fades to black, the doctor joins in and we hug, joyful in the belief this is the last day anyone can ever call me “Porky.”

But I was no Mason Reese, my mom was no Danny Devito, and there was no music, just the dull, everyday sounds of a little boy forced to admit he loved cake more than himself.

I can’t confess to knowing what I felt at the time, except that I saved the note and have kept it with me for over three decades. What was Dr. Rieger’s goal? Instilling in me a steely resolve to be more like Slim Goodbody and less like Mayor McCheese? Of course we all know age nine is the perfect age to be shamed into developing a healthy perspective on nutrition and weight, the right moment to understand and embrace the more subtle aspects of the doctor-patient motivational relationship scale.

But in truth, I can’t blame my weight struggles solely on the note – there are hundreds of other reasons like Diet Coke, cheese, red wine, heartburn medicine or certain adjectives like zesty, whipped, slathered and bottomless.

I called my mother the other day to try to grasp why our family doctor did such a thing. “He was obsessed with kids who were overweight,” she told me. “You had a big gut, and you were a chubby boy.” And in the background my dad yelled, “And you still are!” causing both my parents to guffaw mightily until I found an excuse to say goodbye. Early onset dementia or questionable parenting? I really can’t be sure.

Somewhere in the depths of my psyche lurks the tally of the lasting damage that morning in Dr. Rieger’s office caused, and I bet years of costly primal scream therapy would get at the root of the issue. Unless I start screaming for ice cream, that is.

I’d be misguided to blame my life-long travails on an earnest pediatrician who was legendary for making house calls and for saving two of my siblings’ lives (true story). I blame a combination of these and other reasons, too numerous to catalogue.

But I’m exhausted, fighting this war of the waistline, especially when there are others to wage, like ones of the wallet, hairline, lawn care, dental hygiene, tax returns and the New York Mets. Sometimes I just need to sit back, grab a bag of chips and let someone else worry about life’s problems. Then again, maybe an apple would be a better choice. After all, I can always try much harder.