Lost, Red Hot Pokers, and Fat Mr. Brown

Last night's episode of Lost rocked my casbah (or "tasmah" as Suzanne insists on saying it.) It was dense and there were all sorts of cool, little clues and moments that I found really satisfying: Ben's time-travel/teleporting into the desert, Sayid being manipulated into becoming Ben's avenging angel, Ben disappearing into that secret door in his closet and somehow summoning Smokey the monster, the conversation between Widmore and Ben at the end -- it almost was like God and the Devil discussing the fate of Job or something. (Except, as Suzanne points out, they both appear to be evil through and through.) It wasn't some moony, relationshippy, "Why is Jack so sad" kind of episode. It just moved right along and gave me lots to think about.


(The mystery door in Ben's closet.)

Closer to home, my arms are about to fall off. I've been exercising a little over the last couple of weeks in hopes of keeping my fat-laden heart from exploding while folding the laundry or something else equally strenuous. Night before last, I moved from just walking/jogging on the treadmill to doing some weight training. My body, weak and soggy, is apparently pretty angry about the whole weight thing. Darn angry. So much so that it has gone on strike until I swear never to lift anything heavier than a Hostess cupcake again. Specifically, my deltoids (or as we professional weightlifters like to call them, my "delts") feel as though they've been stabbed straight through with hot pokers warmed in the blazing pits of hell. They hurt and doing anything more than just letting them hang at my sides like two scrawny slabs of meat is more than I can handle right now. Even as I type this, my deltoid muscles are giving me a nasty glare, saying, "You want us to lock up, funny boy? Huh? Is that what you want? First you nearly tear us to pieces thinking you're going to be all 'healthy' and crap and now you want us to lift your gangly monkey arms up to a keyboard and type for you? How would you like it if we just stopped working altogether, huh?" Needless to say, I think my muscular system is union labor. Hopefully, the deep burning sensation I'm experiencing will subside sooner than later and I'll be able to lift a fork tonight at dinnertime.


(One of my buddies from the gym.)
I'm exercising because I've gained a lot of weight over the last year or two. I've slowly been inching up the scale since I got married but only very gradually. Some of the weight I've gained has been a good thing. I spent most of my teenage years and early twenties too skinny for my own good. Somewhere along the line though (right around the time I moved to Michigan), I passed my ideal weight and headed for Chubbsville -- population: me. I think I was about 185 lbs when Suzanne and I got married in late 1998. Now, nearly ten years later, I'm close to 240 lbs. I carry it fairly well. People don't offer to roll me down the sidewalk because they think it would be easier than watching me walk or anything like that. I just have a big moon face and a belly that pokes out further than I'd like it to.

Now, I was thinking about this and working on it before this last Tuesday certainly but the events of April 22 added a little urgency in my mind. I was at our construction job site most of the morning because our organization won an award called Champions in Action. It's sponsored by the local ABC affiliate and a regional bank and it goes to local organizations who try to do good in the community. We got a check for 25K and we’ll be featured in public service announcements on WXYZ over the next three months. (Keep an eye out.) Tuesday was the morning the bank president and some guy from the tv station were coming to give us the giant novelty check and take footage of the students working so they could feature us on the news. So anyway, I’m out there working with the students, doing what little I can and, at one point, several of us were digging out a space for a concrete pad. I looked around after a couple of minutes and saw that I was the only one digging. I have a good relationship with my students and I joked with them: “C’mon guys, you’re getting outworked by a skinny, white English teacher.” They didn’t argue that they were being outworked. One student, Morris, just said, “Skinny? You ain’t skinny, Mr. Brown” and then got back to work. I laughed because it was funny but it became less so as the day went on. Two things occurred to me as I continued to dig out roots, old horse shoes, bits of brick, and rocks from Detroit soil: #1 – I think of myself as a skinny person. That’s how I envision myself. #2 – I’m pretty much the only person who still sees me that way.

Later, I was standing in the big tent we’d set up to house the festivities when the giant check was handed over. Everyone was in there and it was a tight squeeze. One student, Omar, was trying to slide past people to get outside for a smoke. As he tried to get past me, he looked down, patted me three times on the stomach like I was Santa Claus or a rolly-polly baby or something, and then kept moving. What the crap? Right?

Later still, a student who had come late to the whole shindig came around the corner and saw me. Norm was absent the last week his group was at the school and he’d been on the job site for the three weeks since then. So he hadn’t seen me in a month. When he did see me, he said, “Damn, Mark Brown, you gettin’ fat!” I don’t particularly like Norm and I know he likes trying to needle me. His comment didn’t endear him to me any further. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of letting him know he bugged me, I just kept on with what I was doing. (I’m not a complete cheek-turner however. Later I saw him rubbing his leg because he had scraped it working and I asked him if he was checking for razor burn.)

So as jolly and good-natured as it all was, I ended Tuesday just wishing that Suzanne would harpoon me and put me out of my misery. She wouldn’t do it even though we have that really nice pneumatic harpoon gun in the garage hanging just next to our hydrofoil. Ah well.

So there you have it, dear readers, a momentous occasion and not in a good way: the first time in my 34 years of life I’ve ever actually felt bad about myself because of my weight. I realize that to only experience this after three and a half decades of life is really good and quite a blessing. Some people, after all, are saddled with nicknames and mockery and diets from their earliest years. Nevertheless, I think we can all agree that no matter what age it occurs, it totally sucks canal water.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have several chicken legs and a bag of microwave burritos I need to eat before it’s time for lunch.