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A post-flu weigh-in led to a friendly father-son weight loss competition, but who won?
Rivers and Roads Photography
I thought when you got the flu, you lost your appetite, as part of the package of extreme fatigue, chills and splitting headaches.
Not for me.
I’d lived through a week after of a fever of 102.2, during which I ate and ate and ate and sat, all my energy reserved for chewing.
I hardly recognized the number that appeared on the scale—never before had I reached 201 pounds, which may not seem too terrible, but for my body type, my thin bones, it was cause for concern.
My mother’s response when I told her over the phone: “Oh my God, are you serious? What happened?!”
It’s fair to say my mother and father are obsessed with weight—noticing it on others, trying to lose it, talking about losing it—my father, Pierre, an ex-hockey player and unrelenting athlete, more so.
Yes, I’d participated in a walking competition among elementary schools before I got the flu, but I’d soon fizzled with the pedometer that was part of the event, as evidenced by my post-flu 200-plus weigh-in.
So something had to change. My metabolism wasn’t going to miraculously speed up with age. The crux of this weight problem occurred when my father told me that he weighed around 200 pounds too. Our builds are very different—he’s a bit shorter and stocky, with residual muscle from his days spent training for hockey. He’s naturally strong like I’m naturally tall, and he should always weigh more than I do, especially when he is 67 years old and I am 32.
“How about a little challenge,” he proposed to me. “The first to weigh 185 pounds.”
I took the challenge and threw in a $50 cash incentive. I was confident I’d beat him to 185, especially since he hadn’t hit that mark since he was in his thirties, just after playing pro hockey for the Roanoke Valley Rebels.
My first step was to curb my lunch fare, which consisted of mainly cheese and bread. The next step was changing my movement habits. I planned on riding my bike to work—only a mile —but couldn’t find the bike lock so I wound up walking one day instead, and loved it, the silence, cutting through the darkness at 6 a.m. with my head lamp on.
I tried to hit the 10,000-step mark daily, which was relatively easy with the walk to and from school. I found that when I actually had to walk myself somewhere to get, say, a coffee, it tasted magnificent because I felt I had earned it, like I had achieved something, if nothing more than working towards my daily goal of 10,000 steps. I decided to make my walk to work part of my everyday routine.
I weighed in every Friday morning—I found that I was most diligent, eating wise, Monday through Thursday— so to weigh over the weekend or God forbid on a Monday was just plain masochistic. One morning, after registering 189 pounds and throwing a few fist pumps, I texted my father: “189 this morning…what time does the bank open today?” I hoped he would get the insinuation that the contest was all but over.
His reply surprised me: “Not so fast buddy. Nothing better than a colonoscopy to lose weight. As of this morning 195. 10 more to go. Start saving your money.”
I’ll admit that he had me worried a bit until I got home and learned more about the colonoscopy procedure, of which I’ll spare you the details, except that in 24 hours, he dropped from 200 pounds to 195. I felt better knowing that he would have to hold off the weight for another month, but still it seemed unfair—I’m 32 and have no colonoscopies scheduled in the near future.
On the morning of the culmination of our weight challenge, I arrived at my parents’ house before the sun was up. The house was dark and after unlocking the door and flipping on a few lights in the house, I heard footsteps upstairs. Moments later, my father plodded down the steps, eyes still half shut.
“You first,” I said.
Two days earlier I’d made a special delivery to their mailbox, where I placed an opera cake pastry, along with a note that read: “Happy Dieting! From your son, with love.” My father is a sugar fiend— his beloved French pastries irresistible to him, especially when delivered to his home, for free. I’d made the drop a few days before our bet ended to give the saturated fat time to set in, and to activate his taste buds for more sweets.
He called me a few hours later: “Thank you for the pastry, my son.”
“Just making sure I seal the deal before our Friday weigh-in. You know, put the ‘last nail in the coffin.’”
“In French, we say ‘le coup de grace.’”
“I was thinking more of ‘foie gras’ strategy – stuffing you with pastries so I can take your money.”
I’m not proud of trying to force-feed my father to win a bet, but, as he said, my goal with the pastry delivery was to put the proverbial ‘nail in the coffin,’ or in this case, the ‘pastry in the Pierre.’
We both zeroed in on the scale’s digital screen as he stood still, dispirited. “194.” He shook his head, knowing even before he stepped on the platform that he hadn’t reached his goal. I unbuttoned my shirt, my pants then took my spot on the scale. The numbers shot up, then down, before finally settling on a number.
He shook his head. “Damn. Nice job, my son.”
“What was it?” My mother yelled from upstairs.
“178.”
“Are you serious!? You’re not serious.” Now this was shock I could appreciate—much more rewarding than when I’d told her I weighed 201 pounds. And if I had scraped by and came in at, say 185 on the nose, my father would attribute the victory solely to my age.
My father handed me the $50. “I’m proud of you,” he said.
Maybe he knew he’d never reach the 185-pound mark, but he’d known I was out of shape and not feeling good about myself, so he made the bet anyway. Isn’t this what parenthood is all about? Sacrifice, bringing out the best in your children even at your own detriment?
“It must be nice to be 32,” he added as I headed towards the door. Le coup de grace.
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