Losing A Human Being
Sharing A Random Chapter From My Book - Because Politics Is Nauseating
Losing a human being can be an exhilarating experience. Not an actual person such as a lover, friend, or family member; that tends to be a sad affair, though not always. Losing enough excess fat that amounts to the weight of an entire human being, now that’s exhilarating. And that was me. Such a loss — a person’s worth of blubber — was something I was fortunate enough to experience. It was the gift I gave myself for my 17th birthday.
I attributed the unwanted amount of fat I’d gained throughout my childhood to having been stuffed to the gills by my overly Jewish mother. She must’ve figured that stuffing her son like a sausage would guarantee that if the Nazis had a resurgence in America, he could live off the fat of his loins rather than scrounge around the woods for a radish. Having a Holocaust-survivor mother lurking around every corner with a spoonful of chicken-fat-laden chopped liver is no one’s idea of a carefree childhood.
Despite the damage caused by Holocaust nightmares, overeating, and getting a good look at myself in the nude, it was clear that many pounds needed to go. Besides, I wanted to see my penis again. It was either lose weight or harakiri. Since I wasn’t Japanese, that wasn’t an option. Besides, you cannot do that to Holocaust survivor parents. The guilt would haunt you into the afterlife. This was a job for Superman or God.
Dear God,
You must be sick and tired of people praying to you for stuff, especially when shit gets serious. But, what I cannot fathom is that you let the Holocaust happen and linger on for years while millions of your loyal followers were pleading for you to put an end to the Nazi madness. If you do exist and heard their desperate cries for help, then chances are what I’m about to beg you for may also fall on deaf ears.
If Genesis is true, and you made man in your image, which ‘man’ do you look like? You can’t possibly tell me that you are fat, short, and need glasses. And if you do look like me, then how did a Robert Redford or a Paul Newman happen? And since male models exist, what the fuck did you do to me, and why? With that, I’m begging you to please help me look like a more desirable human being and free me from the bondage of my height, weight, and need for glasses. And pretty please, Lord, put an end to my addiction to carbohydrates. I’m going to be a senior in high school; you must do something about this before the yearbook pictures.
Love,
Abe
And just like a Christmas miracle or Moses’ parting of the Dead Sea, something extraordinary happened on March 15, 1973, the day that changed my life. Being the Quaalude-dealing class clown while resembling Mama Cass Elliot was not a tenable situation. It’s worth noting that it was the Ides of March, the day Brutus killed Julius Caesar, and the official kick-off to my Battle of the Bulge.
That day, I met up with one of my steady customers, Michelle, an adorable, perfectly fit female specimen who was pontificating about the Dr. Atkins diet and that she’d lost eight pounds that week.
“But you look amazing!” I admonished.
“I eat whatever and as much as I want on the “Yes” list and none of what’s on the “No” list.” An awkward silence fell between us as a pink elephant lumbered around the room. Annoyed that she already looked great before the recent weight loss, I handed her a packet of Ludes; she winked, air kissed me on both cheeks, and left me standing there, feeling beyond inadequate. How dare someone already in great shape go on a diet? How dare she even bring up the subject of dieting to me? How dare I not be dieting, was the bigger question. I went home, stripped down nude, looked in the mirror, and, for the very first time, began to sob uncontrollably about my appearance.
I was so ashamed of myself for letting things get to the point of self-disgust. I knew for years that being fat wasn’t a good look. Although I was drowning in this pool of misery, keeping people laughing was the go-to coping mechanism that protected me from being judged on looks alone. I remember dreading the summers in the Catskills when everyone went swimming; I refused to go shirtless because all the other boys were thin. I would wear a white T-shirt and say it was to prevent sunburn, but that wasn’t the case at all. I was convinced that it made me look, well, maybe not thinner, but less fat somehow. But the truth is that a wet T-shirt clinging to my body brought more attention to the blubber, not less. Moments like this are when the denial gene kicks in at an early age, which became the modus operandi of my ego-system. Over time, denial becomes a blindfold to your actions and, in my case, looks. The fragile blown-glass shell that served as the barrier between me and the world had cracked, and the shards pierced my broken heart. My encounter with Michelle was like an earthquake erupting in my soul; it left me devastated, and the residual effects of what I was afraid to confront have never totally left me. Tiny little fragments of pending doom lurk around the corners of my mind.
I begged my sister to take me to the bookstore and bought the Dr. Atkins Diet Revolution. The diet was about cutting all carbohydrates. Having just begged God to rid me of my obsession, the coincidence caught me by surprise. Had God heard me and not the Jews of Europe in the 1940s? Anyhoo, so began the transformation. The Dr. Atkins Diet became my obsession. At first, the skepticism had me challenge its viability. I would prove Michelle and Dr. Atkins wrong, so I decided to overeat everything on the YES list.
Breakfast: 12 eggs, four slices of bacon
Lunch: 3 cans of tuna, mayo, and replace bread with American cheese slices Dinner: Large Steak and Lamb Chops. Eat the leftovers for snacks
I’ll be damned. I lost twelve pounds by week two, and miraculously, Dr. Atkins ripped the carbohydrates' chokehold tether from me. I would happily live without the french fries from the Cottage Inn truck stop on 9W. It would be just a matter of time before the only burden left for me to carry was not my stomach but the Holocaust guilt for my mother and the millions of European Jews whose prayers God did not answer. Once I shed the unsightly pounds, my image could fit within the frame of the full-length mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door, and I’d happily see my penis again.
Besides, I was doubly incentivized to transmogrify my entire being. My sister, Vivian, was getting married in September, the same week that I’d be starting my senior year of high school, and I needed to make a grand entrance at both events.
All my bungalow colony friends, whom I hadn't seen since we moved on up several years earlier, would be there.
Who wouldn’t want to show up to school and not be recognized? I needed a mind-altering transcendent “Who’s that?” moment.
Six months later, with an amazing transformation under my belt—six notches smaller, to be exact, I entered Dwight Morrow, sixty-five pounds lighter, five inches taller, hair down to my shoulders and a visible, working penis.
September 8, 1973
Dear God,
Thanks.
Love,
Abe
PS…So help me; if you let a Holocaust happen now that I am getting laid, I will STOP BELIEVING IN YOU.
