Page 578 - WhyAsInY

Why (as in yaverbaum)
should feel free to do so. Of course, you’ll miss out on reading about one of the proudest moments of my life, but I’ll understand.]
In Chapter Three, I treated you to a tour of my childhood diet (one that, in truth, I keep trying to re-create today, but, fortunately or unfortu- nately, I have a wife who cares about my health and spends almost as much time on the Internet researching food as she does medicine and, her real favorites, vacation possibilities, real estate possibilities, and weather). You may recall that in sixth grade, I had reached the weight of 160 pounds before I had even reached five feet. It was with good reason, therefore, that I felt “husky” at the time and, more important, that virtu- ally whatever my fluctuating weight was in years to come, I felt that I was a fat person. Which I do now. Correctly.
Over the years, I have attacked the problem at various times (when I became single being the first one that comes to mind), and my result- ing changes in weight have cost me a small fortune, particularly because my ups and downs led me to buy the same basic, but expensive, suits and the same tuxedo at Paul Stuart, and the same very pricey Bogner ski pants, at least three times—to cover three vastly different waists. Fortu- nately, though, my constant frugality led me to overcome the temptation to discard the “fat” wardrobe, disregarding the notion that, if you keep the bigger clothing, you will certainly find a way to use it again.
In the waning years of my first marriage, I took up biking with a vengeance, which is, I guess, the way in which I take up most things, and, once I got to New York City, there was no question that I needed both to let off steam and to try to get into shape. I had the Richard Sachs refit- ted with the latest improvement in pedals, those that locked into shoes that were made for the purpose. I liked circling Central Park, but I dis- liked the constant threat of going over sideways in traffic if a quick stop were required. Thus it was that I decided to take up the (inexpensive) sport of jogging, to which Central Park was equally well suited.
Now this may sound stupid, but I thought that jogging was slow run- ning, and I thought that running entailed a foot strike with, as the pros say, a landing on the forefoot (read toes) first. I thought this because I
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