Primal With A Side Of FABULOUS
I did not know.
For years, I felt virtuous for eating almost no meat and choosing wheat over white. I ran miles at the gym. And yet my reflection in the mirror was not of an average-size panda grooving under the disco ball in my bathroom, but an engorged tick that appeared to be sucking the sugary lifeblood out of every doughnut in the state.
231 pounds is my High Score. I do not carry it well. Knees throb. Tinnitus worsens. Cheeks bloat. GERD slips into my bed at night with its whip of esophageal fire, and I am just not into hardcore SM. Sweat collects in folds and the trickling down my skin of an escaped drop has woken me more than once. Inspecting my droop and dimple, I ponder: would I answer my own personal ad if I were someone else? I would not.
Gay Panda is vain, and Gay Panda admits it.
When I rode over MDA in my drunken Internet traffic weaving, looking for any solution beyond the semi-starvation misery of CW, I was 217. MDA led to Gary Taubes, who unhinged my jaw and placed it on the floor, where it remains to this day. I did not know. I had trusted that health experts were actually experts, the same way you trust at age five that your parents actually know what they are doing.
I have been primal since April. Progress is slow, but my jeans are a size smaller. My face has lost some of the engorged tick look and I am down to 193.8. Far from fabulous, but tonight Iíll know that Iím going in the right direction as I eat my sirloin.
Once I learn how to cook it.