I entered the planet at nine pounds 14 ounces.
Assuming that to be normal, thirty years later, as a newly minted father, I panicked when the doctor informed me that my firstborn weighed six pounds six ounces.
Looking me in the eye, attempting to calm my jitters, he replied, “Six-six is normal. I promise he’s fine.”
“But I weighed ten pounds when I was born!” I protested.
“I can’t help it if you were cruel to your mother,” he replied.
Moral of the story: I was born big, and from that moment, packed on the pounds, tipping the scales at ten pounds for every year.
To explain, I weighed 50 pounds at age five, 90 pounds at age nine, and 130 pounds when I was a teen. From there, I accelerated, reaching 230 upon entering high school — poor timing to say the least. Of the 1107 students in my class, I was the second fattest. Further putting this in perspective, that was in the day when childhood obesity was an oddity, rather than unfortunately as it can be today, quite common.
Kids are brutal, so what were supposed to be some of my best years were anything but. Girls ignored me; guys badgered and bullied me.
Yet, I find myself in that position (hopefully I am not crotchety however).
This September 28, I will turn 60 years old.