The Overfed American Doesn't Know He's Overfed And There Lies the Problem

Several months ago, I heard Dr. Dean Edell say on the radio that the average American consumes 3,700 calories a day, which he said is a huge amount and explains why so many Americans are fat. I’m a bit alarmed to consider that 3,700 calories is about the amount I ingest on a daily basis, give or take a few. And this number explains why at 46 years of age my 230-pound bodyweight is 20-30 pounds heavier than I want it to be for appearance and health reasons.

I’ve been working out most of my life. At 13, I was a Junior Olympic Weightlifting champion. At 19, I was second place in Mr. Teenage San Francisco. I know the confidence and satisfaction associated with looking muscular and lean and I know, ever since my metabolism slowed down in my early thirties, the chagrin and displeasure of having a Pillsbury Dough Boy coat of flab over my frame.

No time did I experience this humiliation more than in the summer of 2003 at the age of 42. My wife Carrie and I were walking back from the brunch buffet at the Sheraton Inn in Kauai where I had just ingested a 3,000-calorie breakfast of macadamia nut pancakes, French toast made with Hawaiian sweet bread, turkey sausage patties, and scrambled eggs with melted cheddar all washed down with several tall glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice. As I strutted my 259-pounds outside the buffet room and past a hotel window, I saw the reflection of a portly gentleman, dressed in safari shorts and a turquoise tank top, which sported the striking image of the iconic sea turtle. This unsightly man I gazed upon looked like the stereotype of an overfed American.

I walked closer toward the bloated image and I was overcome by the shock and anxiety that the reflection was not some other guy for whom I could judge with gleeful ridicule but me. I was that dude, the type of person that I had mocked and scorned most of my life.

This was a huge moment for me, what literary people might call an “epiphany,” and I was fortunate to have experienced it. Most people are denied, or deny themselves, such moments of clarity. It is my belief that something like 95% of the human race walk around Planet Earth with their heads up their butts and this is how they die—never knowing what the hell is really going on. But on that summer day in Kauai when I saw that the corpulent man in the window was in fact me, my head uncorked from my butt and I was able to see reality for what it really was. And this reality—me being a chubster—was totally unacceptable. Something had to be done.

Some might argue that I was perfectly fine. After all, my cholesterol was under 200, my blood pressure was normal, and I could run seven miles on the treadmill in under an hour. In fact, on another radio broadcast Dr. Edell reported a major study from obesity researcher MaryFran Sowers that concludes many overweight people are fit and don’t need to lose a pound in order to live long, healthy, functional lives. But this did not console me. Even if a doctor told me I could live a long, robust life at a bodyweight of 275 and indulge my eating passions with little or no restraint, I would balk at the offer since more than health I like to look good in a pair of jeans. I like my silk shirts to drape over broad shoulders and taper gracefully over a small waist. So let’s get this on the table right now: Getting my weight down to 210 or so is largely a vanity thing. It’s about self-image and self-confidence. Those are components of being healthy that the MaryFran Sowers study don’t account for. Looks matter. And so does the sense of having control of what one puts in one’s mouth, rather than the other way round in which the individual is a slave to the appetites.

Not wanting to look like the fat American I saw in the hotel window, I returned to Los Angeles from my Kauai vacation and curbed my dietary excesses by filling my belly with large amounts of  vegetables, mostly spinach and broccoli,  stopped drinking fruit juice (which has the sugar equivalent of soda pop) quit eating desserts, and kept my calories under 3,000 for a good year. During that time I lost 40 pounds as my weight steadily went down to about 210, which I consider my ideal weight. At the time, I was running 6 to 7 miles a day on the treadmill.

At 210, I had to buy new clothes. I was 42 years of age, but I looked far younger. People at the gym approached me, congratulated me on my weight-loss and asked me for advice on training and nutrition, as if my newly-acquired lean look credentialed me as some sort of benevolent dietary guru who holds the secrets of weight reduction. Alas, this adulation would prove short-lived.

Several months ago, I heard Dr. Dean Edell say on the radio that the average American consumes 3,700 calories a day, which he said is a huge amount and explains why so many Americans are fat. I’m a bit alarmed to consider that 3,700 calories is about the amount I ingest on a daily basis, give or take a few. And this number explains why at 46 years of age my 230-pound bodyweight is 20-30 pounds heavier than I want it to be for appearance and health reasons.

I’ve been working out most of my life. At 13, I was a Junior Olympic Weightlifting champion. At 19, I was second place in Mr. Teenage San Francisco. I know the confidence and satisfaction associated with looking muscular and lean and I know, ever since my metabolism slowed down in my early thirties, the chagrin and displeasure of having a Pillsbury Dough Boy coat of flab over my frame.

No time did I experience this humiliation more than in the summer of 2003 at the age of 42. My wife Carrie and I were walking back from the brunch buffet at the Sheraton Inn in Kauai where I had just ingested a 3,000-calorie breakfast of macadamia nut pancakes, French toast made with Hawaiian sweet bread, turkey sausage patties, and scrambled eggs with melted cheddar all washed down with several tall glasses of freshly-squeezed orange juice. As I strutted my 259-pounds outside the buffet room and past a hotel window, I saw the reflection of a portly gentleman, dressed in safari shorts and a turquoise tank top, which sported the striking image of the iconic sea turtle. This unsightly man I gazed upon looked like the stereotype of an overfed American.

I walked closer toward the bloated image and I was overcome by the shock and anxiety that the reflection was not some other guy for whom I could judge with gleeful ridicule but me. I was that dude, the type of person that I had mocked and scorned most of my life.

This was a huge moment for me, what literary people might call an “epiphany,” and I was fortunate to have experienced it. Most people are denied, or deny themselves, such moments of clarity. It is my belief that something like 95% of the human race walk around Planet Earth with their heads up their butts and this is how they die—never knowing what the hell is really going on. But on that summer day in Kauai when I saw that the corpulent man in the window was in fact me, my head uncorked from my butt and I was able to see reality for what it really was. And this reality—me being a chubster—was totally unacceptable. Something had to be done.

Some might argue that I was perfectly fine. After all, my cholesterol was under 200, my blood pressure was normal, and I could run seven miles on the treadmill in under an hour. In fact, on another radio broadcast Dr. Edell reported a major study from obesity researcher MaryFran Sowers that concludes many overweight people are fit and don’t need to lose a pound in order to live long, healthy, functional lives. But this did not console me. Even if a doctor told me I could live a long, robust life at a bodyweight of 275 and indulge my eating passions with little or no restraint, I would balk at the offer since more than health I like to look good in a pair of jeans. I like my silk shirts to drape over broad shoulders and taper gracefully over a small waist. So let’s get this on the table right now: Getting my weight down to 210 or so is largely a vanity thing. It’s about self-image and self-confidence. Those are components of being healthy that the MaryFran Sowers study don’t account for. Looks matter. And so does the sense of having control of what one puts in one’s mouth, rather than the other way round in which the individual is a slave to the appetites.

Not wanting to look like the fat American I saw in the hotel window, I returned to Los Angeles from my Kauai vacation and curbed my dietary excesses by filling my belly with large amounts of  vegetables, mostly spinach and broccoli,  stopped drinking fruit juice (which has the sugar equivalent of soda pop) quit eating desserts, and kept my calories under 3,000 for a good year. During that time I lost 40 pounds as my weight steadily went down to about 210, which I consider my ideal weight. At the time, I was running 6 to 7 miles a day on the treadmill.

At 210, I had to buy new clothes. I was 42 years of age, but I looked far younger. People at the gym approached me, congratulated me on my weight-loss and asked me for advice on training and nutrition, as if my newly-acquired lean look credentialed me as some sort of benevolent dietary guru who holds the secrets of weight reduction. Alas, this adulation would prove short-lived.