One Thing or Another Column: Not Worth the Weight

By Mark McNease 

How things have changed. When I first wrote this column GLP-1 drugs were not yet ubiquitous. Most people had never heard of them, except for reports of some individuals using a diabetic medication called Ozempic for weight loss. I recoiled at the idea. I would never inject myself with something to lose weight! But then, having failed for many years to actually shed the 50 extra pounds I’d put on (twice what’s mentioned in the column), I tried it. Not surprisingly, it worked. Almost a year and half later I’m still using Zepbound, among the most popular, and I’ve lost 35 pounds. Is it forever? Is anything, or anyone, forever? I’m hoping they finally come out with the pill version that’s been promised, but in the meantime I’ve got a steady supply in the fridge.

MY AMAZING WEIGHT LOSS JOURNEY began five years ago. With great effort and dedication, I’ve managed to shed four pounds since that first fateful calorie count. How did I achieve this feat of negligible weight loss? I never thought you’d ask.

It all started with a now-defunct company called Lean Chefs. For a reasonable fee, they delivered a day’s worth of prepared food while we slept: breakfast, lunch, dinner, and two yummy snacks. The food magically showed up at our front door, delivered by someone who, like Santa Claus, made their rounds unseen, past apathetic doormen and suspicious neighbors with insomnia. I would peer into the corridor first thing in the morning and there it was, a small black package at my feet, looking like something that might require a call to the bomb squad under normal circumstances. Inside it was the coming day’s food with an ice pack and an unspoken promise: eat these healthy provisions, and only these, and miracle weight loss will occur.

We devoted ourselves to the plan and I proceeded to lose sixteen pounds over the course of six weeks. But our wedding party was just around the corner, and who would insult the idea of marriage by dieting during the celebration of it? We stopped relying on the meals, replaced the carefully calibrated snacks with red velvet cake, pasta and burgers, and a month later I was back to my starting weight.

That was five years ago and I’ve recommitted myself daily to losing those pounds again. I’ve purchased three FitBit devices to track my steps and serve as a reliable reminder of failure. The one I wear now attaches to my belt, since I can’t wear jewelry at my deli job and because I don’t like devices that startle me with alarms and vibrating wrist bands. I’ve downloaded and deleted calorie apps so many times there’s no benefit in mentioning it, except to illustrate a point. Five years. Four pounds. Not exactly winning.

Now I’m facing treatment for sleep apnea, and suddenly my lax attitude about being twenty-five pounds overweight isn’t amusing. Having conducted an at-home sleep test to avoid spending the night in a mock hotel room while someone monitors me as I sleep, I was certain that if I needed a CPAP machine I’d just be fitted in the doctor’s office and get on with it. To my dismay, I’ve been told I now have to stay overnight at the sleep center so they can determine how much air pressure is right for me and which CPAP mask will least make me want to rip it off five minutes after putting it over my face.

All because I’ve refused to take the weight loss seriously. I’ve listened to friends and strangers tell me in casual conversation that I’m not “that big.” Or that I don’t look like I need to lose weight. Or that I should put off any weight plans until after the celebratory dinner Saturday night (or Monday night, or Tuesday night—every night is a celebration when you’re not “that big”).

I have the trappings of a good life: a semi-retirement job I’ll be able to leave when Medicare kicks in. A house in the country that can’t be confused with a suburb. A husband who makes dinner on the four days I’m working. Cats, cars, contentment, and sleep apnea. Dentures, too, if you want to throw those in. The kinds of things that come with age, listed right there on the warning label at birth if we’d ever taken the time to read it.

I now know what it’s like to be told that I must stop doing something (sugar, cigarettes, alcohol) if I want to stay alive or, at the very least, not have the kind of end-stage health conditions I see displayed by people on scooters at the casino with an oxygen tank dangling from the handlebars and a cigarette drooping from their mouths. I don’t smoke. I don’t drink. Lots of coffee, okay, I’m a “creative,” I can’t help it, but I’m overweight and paying the price. This time, despite my best efforts, I plan to succeed. If only for a good night’s sleep.