Of course it’s true. Everybody knows it’s true. It must be true.
Individual health is connected to the overall health of a marriage. Because of course it is. The better you feel about yourself, the healthier your relationships. It’s just one less thing to be unhappy about and put on another person. Studies have proven that “healthier people may have a better chance of getting married and staying married.”1
I’ve always known this in my heart but wouldn’t admit it. Add it to the list of healthy things I refuse to digest. I think it’s because I’m so turned off by healthy eaters. I like a lot of their food choices. I don’t even hate their approach, usually. It’s them personally I don’t like. Because like a lot of people who get into a niche and drop into a rabbit hole and then oversell the weird thing they’re into, they start pushing it on a level that sounds like Kool-Aid is on the menu. It’s never, “Hey, I’m doing this new thing. It’s worked for me. Maybe it’ll work for you.” Diet, exercise, astrology—they’re all the same. It’s too good to be true. They’re the Star Wars prequels—even if it’s good, it could never live up to the hype.
That being said, some fads are worse than others. In my professional opinion (I have a master’s degree in not liking people), there are three primary culprits who are exceptionally worse than all the others. I am, of course, referring to CrossFit, keto, and essential oils—the unholy trinity of annoying things middle-aged, middle-class adults get into.
CrossFit might be the easiest for me to say no to because I straight up don’t like the way they work out. Seems dangerous and hardly even like actual exercise. CrossFit was probably invented by a guy who grew up and really missed recess. “Okay everyone, today we’re doing rings, hopscotch, freeze tag, and tires. But first, everybody line up for kettlebell dodgeball!” And the workouts feel like borderline chores. “Today’s WOD (workout of the day): chin-ups, clean-and-press, and then everyone’s gonna chip in and help me move my fridge.”
Not interested.
Then there’s keto, which I admit is a cool name. The word keto sounds like a Pokémon or Mortal Kombat character, both things I have interest in. And yet somehow, I still have zero interest in keto.
Crazy thing? I don’t even know what it is. I think as soon as I hear the word, my brain just turns off and all I hear is Charlie Brown’s teacher’s voice. So I hate it, despite not knowing a single thing about keto and even though I’ve heard about it more than I’ve heard stories about my grandpa.
I bet I’ve heard two thousand pitches from the keet-heads. It’s all they do. Keto is like the Jehovah’s Witnesses of diets. And do they oversell it like those J-Dubs (yes, I gave Jehovah’s Witnesses a nickname) handing out tracts in the ’90s! “Can I tell you about my savior, Keto? He’s helped me with everything. I’m losing weight, sleeping better, my kids are getting better grades, and he saved my marriage. Keto guides me beside distilled waters . . .”
But the granddaddy of them all is essential oils. Nobody on the planet is more annoying than the oilers. Listening to the multilevel marketing pitch of an oiler is a torture tactic that even Guantánamo Bay would consider excessive. Please just let me off the hook and waterboard me instead.
If you are an oiler, I know you’re twitching for your vial as you read this. Thinking about how you’ll baptize me in peppermint if you ever see me. Honestly there’s a strong chance you’re diffusing as you read this. And I don’t judge you because, listen, I get it. Believing in magic is fun. I just need you to admit oils can’t do everything.
If you’re not familiar with essential oils, I’ll fill you in: it’s this small cult that thinks whatever your life problem is can be fixed by their magic oil. Their pitch goes something like this:
Oiler: Okay, just take this, rub it on your neck, and that’ll be good for your skin and your dog’s anxiety.
Normal Human: Really? Tell me more!
Oiler: Well, it’s not supported in the medical community, because what do those nerds know? And it’s a pyramid scheme! Keeps getting better!
I know a lot of people lost friends from online fighting over politicians and social issues, but I had already burned all my sage and bridges over essential oils. I went through a phase where whatever I posted, oils was the solution.
Me: I’ve got an upset stomach.
Oiler: Well, have you tried essential oils?
Me: I’m nervous about the current political state.
Oiler: Well, have you tried essential oils?
Me: I’m grieving the loss of a close loved one.
Oiler: Well, have you tried essential oils? We have a resurrection blend! We’ll diffuse the funeral and see what happens. Worked for Jesus—Happy Easter, by the way!
One of the things Melissa and I most have in common is our equal displeasure for extremes. We are truly moderates in almost everything. I can’t think of a single viewpoint we have that is extreme.
Melissa has been able to maintain that moderation in her health. Good diet, steady exercise, some chocolate at night, go hard every so often, rinse and repeat. She has the steadiness of the pace car in NASCAR races. She’s not gonna win, but she’s not gonna crash either.
Me? Absolute madness. No self-control. I am all-or-nothing. Go big or go home. Or more accurately, stay home and eat big.
There was a baseball player in the early 2000s named Adam Dunn who was good at two things: hitting home runs and striking out. He hit over forty home runs in a season six times in his career. Very few players have done this. He also led the entire league in strikeouts four times. Even fewer players have done that.
This is me with eating. If I’m gonna get in the batter’s box, I’m gonna take a big swing. Like a lot of people, food and my body and image are all tied into larger things in my life. My family is incredibly judgmental about weight. Both sides. Though my mom’s side has kind of earned it. They tend to be leaner, good-looking, athletic types who won’t outright tell you that you look fat, but they’ll be quick to tell you if you look skinny. Especially too skinny.
They say things like, “Melissa looks skinny. Is she eating enough?”
Ah, there it is. The compliment-insult combo. Because we inflict trauma if we just let someone feel good about themselves, right? Isn’t family the best?
My dad’s side is where my genes come from. And these are the genes that have a hard time fitting into jeans. But not for one second does this stop them from being as judgmental as the jocks on the other side of the family. I remember one time, after not seeing me for a few years, I saw Uncle Butch at the lake house. Butch decided he wanted to let me know that he knew I had gained weight. His choice of greetings? “Oh, Dusty! You look . . . healthy.”
Yes, Butch, a six-foot-six, 350-pound man who ate a full pack of hot dogs most nights. He decided he should say something about my weight but in a way that almost sounded nice? Talk about the pot calling the kettle black, er, in this case, fat.
Isn’t family the best?
In Butch’s defense, early in my marriage, I put on a lot of weight. Probably thirty to forty pounds over the span of a couple of years. There were lots of factors. In part it was just growing up and not having to make weight for wrestling anymore. In part it was because I lived with Melissa now and we had this weird habit called “regular meals.”
But mostly it was because I was working at Starbucks and Outback Steakhouse, so I had a steady diet of white chocolate mochas and cheese fries. I suspect I gained thirty to forty pounds and lost three to four years of my life. Yes, this is my patented life span formula: one less year of life for every ten pounds of stuffing my face until I fall asleep. Trust the science.
Finding rhythms early in our marriage was hard. We were both in school, both had jobs, and both had separate internships in jobs we thought we wanted to have.
This is why Melissa and I did the unthinkable during quarantine and became a running couple. We were stuck at home and had nothing better to do. And I still regret it. There’s just no way to get excited about receiving matching running shoes for Christmas. Honestly, I’d rather have had COVID-19. And we still gained weight! How could we not? We’re sitting at home, staring at our food. If there’s anything Melissa and I have learned about each other, it’s that during a global crisis, we both tend to eat our feelings. (I also learned that our feelings taste like cheese bagels.)
MELISSA’S POV
COVID-19 quarantine was so challenging. Dustin and I hadn’t worked out too much together previously. But attempting to do virtual school with three kids (some with learning challenges), run a struggling company, keep Grandpa Don healthy (he’s in that vulnerable health group), navigate political and social unrest with a public social media platform—well, afternoon runs saved us. Sprinting the secret stairs of our neighborhood and huffing and puffing (yes, we’d walk too) helped us navigate our thoughts and feelings and release some of the stress. Everything was uncontrollable and constantly changing—the news, the guidelines, the statistics, the stakes, the gyms—but if we could steal twenty minutes to run together, well, we might just make it through another Groundhog Day.
Thankfully (miraculously?), having come out of quarantine, we are in a season of health. I even lost twenty pounds. Melissa, as always, maintained a level of health and beauty that make people wonder why she settled for me. I don’t say this to get points, by the way, because she knows it’s true. And it’s no secret that Melissa is significantly out of my league. So much so that when people see us together they’re confused, and then they conclude, “Oh, he must be funny.”
What’s my trick for losing weight? Eating better food and eating less of it. Shocking health secret, I know. But don’t think for a second that I’ve enjoyed it, because I’ve always had this theory that we have a choice in life: eat healthy or be happy. I’ll never be convinced that food is not attached to our happiness. And now that I’ve enjoyed the benefits of losing weight through healthy eating, I know my theory is 100 percent true: I am healthier and less happy because unhealthy food makes me so happy.
Truly, there are foods attached to my joy. And I’ve noticed I tend to turn to them in the times I need them most. For example, when the Nickersons moved from Seattle to San Diego, we had everything packed up a week in advance in our POD. Literally everything, including the bed—we were sleeping on an air mattress in the living room. After spending the entire night feeling every single movement the other person made and resisting the temptation to “accidentally” put the sharpest part of our elbow in the other person’s back, let’s just say we woke up feeling like the air mattress: deflated.
Where did I find happiness in a time like this? Häagen-Dazs ice cream bars. Melissa and I had one every night for two weeks and we had never been more thrilled. There’s a reason fat and happy go together. Santa Claus knows. He eats the cookies.
Speaking of cookies, cookies make me so happy I eat them till I’m sad. I don’t stop when I’m full. I stop when I’m depressed. And I live like this for the entire month of December. I officially come home from the road around the first week of the month, and my first order of business is to go to the grocery store and transform our home into a dessert shop.
But then I control myself as soon as the holidays are over because that’s an exception, right? Well, it would be except Girl Scout cookie season is two months later. You know, that time of year that brings little pint-sized drug dealers to the outside of grocery stores, and they put pyramids of cookie boxes on tables for me to buy.
What’s wild is that people act like there are more than two types of Girl Scout cookies. There most certainly are not. I mean, technically, yes, but only in the way that a parent says, “Technically we don’t have a favorite kid.”
Samoas and Thin Mints—these are the only two that matter. Tagalongs? Trefoils? Do-si-dos? Gimme a break. Do-si-dos being your favorite Girl Scout cookie is like Arizona being your favorite state.
My favorite type is a homemade hybrid called Thick Mints, which is a whole sleeve of Thin Mints. I’m good for two Thick Mints in a sitting, which is a whole box of Girl Scout cookies. Like I said, strikeouts and home runs. And that’s why diets never work for me. Not just because I can’t eat in moderation but also because people who talk about their diet aren’t moderate either. They’re relentless in their pitch, the oversell, the hype. It’s an extreme, and Melissa and I don’t do extremes.
What eating better looks like for me is quite simple: oatmeal. God, I love oatmeal. Or perhaps I need to reverse the deity I’m addressing. “Oatmeal, I love God.” When I go to bed, I legit look forward to it in the morning. Cinnamon, chopped-up apples for a little crunch. It makes me so happy that I flipped out on a Panera employee who wouldn’t serve me any.
Panera oatmeal is a road comfort, which is one of the most important things a comedian has. My road buddy, Taylor Tomlinson, got me a $100 gift card to Panera and I got emotional. It’s not the food we like. It’s the attachment to reality. It was like the totems in Inception. I eat oatmeal so I know this is real and I’m alive and not spiraling into nonexistence.
But on this day they told me they wouldn’t serve it because it was after noon. Gimme a break. Really? This is not a big ask. I just want oatmeal. Did the guy who knows how to use the hot water tap go home? Tell you what: I changed my order. I’ll take a hot tea, hold the tea, add oats. Can we do that?
Oatmeal was part of my “this = good, this = bad” education.
Oatmeal = good, granola = bad (this kills me as a Seattle kid). One serving of tacos is fine, but don’t go back and have seconds by using the tortilla chips to make nachos. Salad = good, but bacon bits and a full cup of dressing defeats the purpose. Muffins are just breakfast desserts. Disregard everything you were taught in the food pyramid as a kid; that’s a death sentence now.
Moderate, reasonable, dare I say average advice is what helped me. No extremes. No pity statements.
Advice: Abs are made in the kitchen.
Me: Well, so are waffles. This doesn’t help me.
Advice: You and your kids should go vegan.
Me: Well, your kid is over at my house, begging for a dinosaur-shaped chicken nugget.
The best test I give myself I actually learned from my kids, and I call it the “banana hungry test.” Next time your kids say they’re hungry, offer them a banana. Then you’ll find out if they’re actually hungry. Same goes for me. If I’m willing to choke down that flavorless, chalky banana, then I’m actually hungry.
We all know what dieting truly is. It’s asking ourselves that question with every meal, snack, dessert, decision: Am I going to eat healthy? Or am I going to be happy?
That’s it. Bad food makes us happy (at least for a second). That’s why we do it. Eating better has also helped me because as a nearly forty-year-old man, injuries don’t happen; they’re just kind of always there. They’re more like gophers that constantly damage your yard and every once in a while peek their heads out. They aren’t going anywhere either.
Eating healthy is choosing to make your heart a little happier and your taste buds a little sadder. Not all healthy food is bad, but there isn’t a quinoa dish on the planet that can compete with a Dairy Queen Blizzard. I will choose the Blizzard every time. Because knowing what foods are healthy and making choices to eat that food are two very different things.
It’s the same mindset I have with sleep. I know how to go to sleep effectively. I do. Turn off my phone, limit evening caffeine, and read a book. Period. If I read, I sleep. But you know what? Reading a book isn’t as fun as the internet. Heck, writing a book isn’t as fun as the internet. Want proof? I just took a ten-minute TikTok break between those sentences.
I know that truth. I know how to sleep better. But self-control and moderation don’t come naturally for me. I also have a challenging relationship with sleep. My body and brain cannot agree on bedtime. I am so exhausted that I can barely stand, and that’s when the dialogue between brain and body begins:
Body: We should go to sleep.
Brain: Totally.
(Then we hit the pillow . . . )
Brain: Oh hey, real quick before you nod off. Here’s a reminder of every single thing in your life that you’re worried about.
Body: Come on, Brain. It’s 1:00 a.m., we’re exhausted, and there’s nothing we can do about any of that.
Brain: That’s right. I’m sorry. You know what? Instead, here’s some bad memories, a scene from the scariest movie you’ve ever seen, and a reminder that you have to go pee again (you don’t actually have to go pee—it just feels like it).
Side note: Why was this not on the warning label of aging? Peeing gets more challenging? Peeing. The basic human function I need to have because my body requires liquid. So I’m supposed to drink a ton of water but tell my doctor immediately if I’m going to the bathroom too many times? But I’m also supposed to limit my liquid intake before bed so I don’t have to go in the middle of the night? Apparently I’m potty training again.
And I’m competing with two other generations of men who need access to a bathroom for three different phases of urine strength. We’re like the three little bears but instead of porridge being too hot or cold, it’s our prostates being too strong or too shriveled.
My son is a reminder of what I once was and my dad a warning of what’s to come. My son is like going eighty miles per hour on the freeway, I’m slightly congested but still moving along, and my dad is like stop-and-go traffic. Poor guy, his pee has a stutter. Melissa, of course, pees great. (Small house. I can hear.) She’s so lovely even her pee sounds like a flowing brook. She’s just naturally harmonious.
And maybe that’s why she requires music during mealtimes. Because she likes the mood and ambiance it creates and how it adds to the setting.
Nah. She just hates hearing all of us chew. (That’s true love right there. Being with someone who can stand hearing you eat.) I like to hear the chew and sounds of everyone eating. Makes me feel like I’m providing for my family. Ahh, the sound of sustenance that my dumb jokes provided!
Melissa does prefer harmony—even on her plate, which looks a lot like a middle school dance: no touching. The salad can’t touch the chicken, the chicken can’t touch the rice, and so on. You’d think her foods hated one another. They refuse to associate. Melissa’s food is so far apart on the plate their smells don’t even overlap. She’s moderate. Disciplined. Controlled.
On my plate there’s a love fest we haven’t seen since Woodstock. It’s not dinner; it’s an orgy and celebration of togetherness. One plate, one food. None of us is as strong as all of us.
The contrasts continue with how we eat. Melissa chews her food. I attack my food. One time we ordered a Pizookie at BJ’s, and Melissa cried laughing as she watched my dad and me scrape the plate like two bears cleaning out a garbage can. You’d think we’d never eaten before. (In reality, we were full and just go all in when there’s food around.)
My kids are following my footsteps in this regard too. Melissa made a Pizookie for my birthday (I love this woman), and the kids and I attacked the family Pizookie with an intensity that was borderline alarming. Again, you would think we were malnourished. But if we’ve made anything clear in this chapter, it’s that I am plenty nourished.
Activity Time!
See how well you know your partner. If your significant other could make any unhealthy food magically good for you, what would it be?
For me, it would be granola. For Melissa, chocolate. Just all things chocolate. She’s lovely and artistic and all, but when it comes to red wine and chocolate, she is as basic a middle-aged woman as it gets.
For the record, Melissa has also put on weight during our marriage. She’s had three kids and, like all of us, has gotten older. It happens. But all her weight goes to her butt, not her stomach, and she also took up being a group exercise teacher. So Melissa managed to gain weight and get hotter. Truly, she is favored by the Lord (and frankly, so am I, because her butt makes me break out in praise).
I don’t want to make it seem like Melissa doesn’t have to work out to remain in good shape. She absolutely does. But she’ll be the first to tell you that genetics are genetics, and she’s got good ones. Because this woman has a sweet tooth that rivals any of our children. And I share her love of sugar.
When I first started in comedy, I was often getting paid in dessert. I would roll into the driveway around midnight after doing two shows, and Melissa would wake up, eat some chocolate cake, and go back to sleep. Health gurus say we’re not supposed to eat near bedtime. Melissa was straight-up eating-in-bedtime, and she’d still keep her womanly physique.
That’s a struggle for me at times.
My family is all about comparison, and she’s the one I can compare myself to the most. She has never judged me, but that won’t stop me from judging myself. One spouse being in better shape than the other can be an enormous source of shame and embarrassment. Neither of which, unfortunately, will lead to change.
Real health changes for me won’t happen by comparing myself to Melissa, though it helps to have encouragement from her along the way. It’s not up to her, it’s not because of her, and it’s not her responsibility. But sure, some “you’re doing greats” along the way don’t hurt. Because if I want to really analyze what’s behind my battle to be healthy, it’s an internal struggle with self-worth. Like most husbands, I want my wife to not just accept me but be attracted to me. To desire me, to put worth on me. Catching a pattern here?
I once asked Melissa if she was attracted to one of our friends. That went poorly. But not in the way I anticipated. She told me she wasn’t attracted to him because “I am not really attracted to people based on the way they look.”
This destroyed me on a molecular level. Cut me to the core. I would prefer that she had fantasized about him every day instead of hitting me with the ol’ “I love you despite how you look.”
Why couldn’t I take this as a compliment though? Once you unravel it, it certainly is one. Melissa loves me for me and is attracted to my character and adores my personality, which is far more valuable than defined muscles and fleeting looks. Of course I could have taken it as a compliment. And of course I didn’t.
I have managed to lose weight. I know some of you are looking at the cover photo right now, looking back at me, and thinking, This is the improved version? Yup. I work a lot—ta-da!
I am very average. I know that. I’m in the middle. I am fine. I am the Toyota Corolla of men. I am a very reliable product. Toyota Corolla is, after all, the most-sold car in America, and most people can’t remember the last time they saw one. That’s average. Some of you reading aren’t sure if you own a Toyota Corolla. You’re not embarrassed by this car; you’re not proud of it. It’s just forgettable. This is me.
The sooner I come to grips with this, the better. In part, this level of acceptance comes with age because health becomes much harder the older I get. I’ve had to change my goals. People in their twenties say things like “I wanna look hot naked,” and in their thirties it switches to “I wanna look pretty good dressed.” (As a side note, I’m convinced this is why Melissa and I became better dressers in our thirties. Yes, we had more money, but we also realized things were getting a lot looser and saggier and it might be best to dress these sacks of potatoes.)
It’s usually when picking out clothes that we all have some sort of wake-up call around age thirty. You think you need a new outfit. Then you hit the dressing room, which has all the same lighting and mirrors of a police interrogation room. You realize, Oh, this was not a shirt issue. This is a body issue.
Perhaps Melissa is onto something about having manageable expectations. A lot of our pursuit of health depends on being realistic. For example, I’m not trying to get in good shape. I’m trying to get in a shape you don’t notice. A shape nobody comments on. A shape you would never use to describe me.
“Is Dustin in bad shape?”
“No.”
“Is he in good shape?”
“Ohhh no.”
I’m in a human shape.
My wake-up call to lose weight was an innocent Monday in October 2020. We were planning Halloween costumes and I told the kids I was going to be Chris Pratt’s character from Guardians of the Galaxy.
The table went quiet. After about ten seconds Gloria whispered, “Dad, no offense, but I don’t think you could pull off Star-Lord.”
Ouch. Mel had just said she was going to be Gamora, a badass green assassin. The few clothes she does wear are exceedingly tight, and there were no objections. But they were embarrassed at the thought of me in a leather jacket.
To quote Star-Lord himself, “Wow. This is a real wake-up call for me. Okay, I’m gonna get a Bowflex. I’m gonna commit. I’m gonna get some dumbbells.” I didn’t get a Bowflex but I did get a kettlebell.
Believe it or not, I was once an athlete. My friends now call me things like “deceptively athletic,” which is code for, “We thought this guy was gonna be terrible based on how he looks.” This happens the most when I play basketball. I didn’t play basketball growing up, but I play a lot as an adult. It started when I worked at the rec center, selling memberships. That job might sound like a bad fit for me, but I was perfect for it. If you walked into a high-end, fancy gym, I agree—I’m not the guy people want pitching them on the gym membership. They’d look at me and think, Well, no way this gym is gonna work for me if that’s the guy who works here.
But rec center fitness energy is a whole other vibe. The entire community goes to the rec center. Diapers to diapers. And when I worked there, people would walk in and be greeted by me, the perfect mash-up of Homer Simpson and Ned Flanders. They’d look at me and see something attainable. You know those before-and-after weight-loss photos? I always look like I’m somewhere in between the two pictures.
But then they would go to the Body Pump class Melissa taught and realize some bodies made them feel bad about themselves after all.
When Melissa was recruited by our fitness manager to teach an exercise class, she was just a member. She had no prior experience. That means she impressed the manager so much with her exercise ability that the person in charge said to her, “You should teach other people how to do that.” It’s like trying on clothes and getting picked to be a model. She’s in such good shape that people ask her questions and advice and let her talk about her workout regimen.
Melissa’s class was essentially an hour of squats. I celebrated this class because having your wife be paid to make her butt bigger is a real gift. Plus, she was making other ladies’ butts bigger in the community. Talk about a ministry.
But I couldn’t attend her class. Turns out watching your wife squat, bend over, stretch, sweat, and yell orders at you to do the same is not the easiest environment to focus in.
I was looking for tips and asked a personal trainer friend of mine what he recommended. His response was, “You know, for a guy like you, you can just do a lot of bodyweight exercises.” When you think about it, telling someone to do bodyweight exercises is so insulting. “Listen, you’re so out of shape, all you really have to do to get a workout is lift your arm.”
I did try a bunch of online workouts, YouTube videos, and stuff like that. These were a problem because I don’t trust people. I spent the whole time convincing myself there was no way that the exercises I was doing were what got that instructor to look like that. This was fake news. Best if I don’t work out at all.
My goal is to get to a level of fitness where I tell someone that I swim laps and they don’t assume that I’ve just started. I did start swimming when I worked at the rec center. I thought:
I was a terrible lap swimmer. I can swim. Just not fast or in any way you’d want to keep watching. I am slow and ungraceful. Melissa, on the other hand, would swim during her pregnancies, which was hilarious because she would do the backstroke. So all you would see is this basketball floating down the pool. Then when she’d get her arms going, she looked like Baloo from The Jungle Book. But she, of course, stayed in excellent shape during pregnancy. Me on the other hand? Well, let’s just say we were both getting bigger boobs.
One time I saw someone swimming at the same speed I was and felt good that I had a peer. I got out of the pool and realized she had only one leg. True story. She was the same speed as me and I had a literal leg up on her.
That ended my swimming exercises, and that was when I decided it was best to stick to basketball. At least I could score a bunch of points during the first game because the other team would put their worst defender on me. For that initial game I enjoyed a false hint of basketball with myself as a top scorer. A friend of mine named Jee, who played junior-college ball, said to me, “You would have been an All-American in 1964.” It was the nicest thing anyone has ever said to me.
Workouts have come and gone, but changing the way I eat has been the only way I could really lose weight. To choose to be unhappy so that my blood still flows. My workout playlist is literally called “Workout music to help Dad not die young.” I’m not happy about this fitness but I’ll do it.
I started a program that really helped me pay attention to what I was eating. Helped me focus on food that had better caloric density and set realistic food and diet expectations. I mean, honestly, it just helped motivate me to not eat a mixing bowl of Golden Grahams before bed. That was the main thing. But also fruits and vegetables.
The diet stuff is important and it’s why Melissa has always been in better shape than me. She is good at moderation. Not just saying it, like the Nickersons. Living it. That’s not my natural way. If I see a pecan pie, I’m not eyeing the biggest piece; I’m eyeing the remaining pie. I go full O-Town. I want it all, or nothing at all.
Workouts take time and dieting doesn’t, which is why dieting helped. It also helped because you can’t get injured dieting, and injury was more of my early twenties than you’d think. Turns out being an aggressive in-liner, which had short-term negative social effects, had long-term negative physical effects. So I had three surgeries on my ankles and wrist in my early twenties, which meant I couldn’t work out and had no good healthy diet habits. In other words, I was getting metal and fat put in me at the same time.
Those surgeries weren’t on my back, but recently I threw my back out when I went to pick up my dad after his back surgery at the hospital. I pick him up from the hospital. We have to make one quick stop at the rec center to drop Claire off at art class. As I’m walking back, about twenty feet from the van—boom. It hits me. I know what’s happened and I know I’m in trouble.
If you’ve ever thrown your back out, you know it’s the worst. It doesn’t ache; it’s agony. A very sharp, intense pain. You can’t move in any direction other than down.
So my dad is sitting in the passenger seat of our minivan, high as a kite and wondering why I’m lying on the ground outside my former workplace. Luckily nobody saw me or it would have been the most embarrassing thing to ever happen to me there since every time I took my shirt off.
I somehow get to the van, fueled mostly by fear someone will see me. I groan in pain nonstop for about ten minutes while my dad offers me his pain meds. This would be a terrible idea.
I consider it.
I finally get us home. I FaceTime Melissa to ask if someone can pick Claire up. I then proceed to lie in place for the next three hours because when you’re old, sometimes the answer to your injury is “just wait it out.”
Later that night, the pain and the drama are subdued and I’m feeling better. I try to help get the kids down for bed because I hate to be a burden.
It happens again. This time in the middle of my daughter’s room. Just like that I’m facedown in every mystery stain that rug has.
When you throw out your back, it’s like you get shot but nobody sees anything. They just hear you make noises that would be humiliating if you were a dying baboon.
I go down. My kids mock me. The cherry on top is Claire jumping on my back.
If I could move, I would move out.
I look at Melissa, tears in my eyes.
“Please get me some ice . . .
. . . and a cheese bagel.”