Inflation

Just in case you need guidance, I'm the guy on the left in the picture above. It was taken around 1985 or so — i.e., when I was just a bit over 30 years old. I couldn't have weighed more than about 135. I had a 27" waist. Shopping for something as simple as a dress shirt could be an exercise in frustration, given that most stores didn't carry stuff small enough for me in the men's department. I required a 14" neck and a 30-33" sleeve.

So here I am as of February 2012. I still require a 30-33" sleeve. But the neck is 16 1/2 inches; my sport coat ballooned from a 36 to a 44; and my waist oscillates between 36 and 38, depending on the trouser manufacturer and (it would seem) the cycles of the moon. My jaw line is more imaginary than real. My middle is ample. Once a nervous and skinny will o' the wisp, I have become a man of substance.

Not that I'm upset about the passage of time; far from it. Life is infinitely better now than it was then. I'm happier, calmer, more at ease with myself and the world, and a hell of a lot more competent in my chosen profession. Back then I could play and teach the piano, and that was about it. Nowadays I'm just stuffed full of information about music—stories, history, compositions, analysis, biographies, you name it. I'm a member of a very small and select group of musicians who have chosen to devote a significant chunk of their careers to helping general audiences get more out of listening to music. Given that I spend the remaining chunks of my career in training the musicians of tomorrow, I'm in it 24/7 and rarely if ever do I get up in the morning with a feeling of dread or sluggish reluctance. Most of the time I look forward to the day with happy anticipation.

Middle age is just great, thank you very much.

And yet: size. Expansion. Inflation. There was no way I was going to remain sylphlike as I matured; that sort of bendy-straw figure is mostly restricted to guys in the below-30 category. I began acquiring some modest heft as my thirties progressed, but it wasn't until the last ten years or so that I have become oh so very substantial. So rotund. So fat.

Scant compensation is achieved by eyeing the folks around me, ever vigiliant for those those waist sizes dwarf mine. Given the nature of American society these days, such are easy to find, even here in the trendy Castro where the one true church is Gold's Gym at Market & Noe. The boys go at it, to be sure. They're just the trimmest things you ever saw, for a while. But then the years go by and gravity starts getting the upper hand, and before you know it only a concentration camp diet and a life squandered in the grunty confines of Gold's will retain any semblance of youthful twigginess. No: Gold's may be the Castro's temple, but it does not offer salvation. Time will win out, as it always does. There's plenty of middle-aged heft in the Castro.

Nonetheless, one need not allow one's figure to become altogether spherical. My last checkup revealed that blood glucose is creeping upwards. The added weight is apparently leading me down that wide, well-travelled path that ends in diabetes. I don't want to go there. Thus I have begun, ever so carefully and ever so compassionately, a process to melt off some pounds. It won't take all that much bother, and given my ever-present coronary artery disease, I need to ensure that I don't do anything silly or stupid in the process. So just a light exercise period first thing in the morning, nothing more, and we'll see how it works over some months. I'm not setting any goals. This is an exploration, not some gimlet-eyed, lockjawed self-improvement program. After all, I'm a grownup. It's my life, my body, my decision. I can turn into Orson Welles if I want. But I'd rather not.

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