The New Belt

One of the biggest weight-gain red flags in my life was raised by an Amish friend.

First, a word of context. I live in Amish Paradise.

My county has the largest population of Old Order Amish people in the entire South. The Amish people from my area are renown for their conservative approach to the Amish lifestyle.

They have no electricity, no cars, no phones, and travel everywhere by horse. People come to my hometown from all over the country to buy things in Amish shops, take wagon rides through Amish neighborhoods, and consume Amish vegetables and baked goods.

My friends from college were amazed when I brought them home and showed them the hitching posts outside of our Walmart.

But I digress.

I have gotten to know a few of these Amish folks over the years. In fact, nearly every belt I have owned since I was 16 years old was made by the same Amish guy.

A couple of years and 170 pounds ago, my belt ran out of holes, so I went back to the Amish guy’s shop and told him that I needed a new one. He eyed my hefty waistline skeptically.

“It will need to be a few inches bigger than your waist. What size pants do you wear?” he asked.

I checked the label. At the time it was 52 inches.

My friend laughed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I don’t think they make cows that big.”

He wasn’t being mean. It was a good joke.

And he was telling the truth.

He really didn’t have a belt that long on hand.

I had to go to another Amish guy down the road to find one long enough to fit me. The finished product was just over five feet long.

My new belt was almost as long as my wife is tall.

Misplaced Blame

The giant belt was a serious red flag that my weight was out of control.

But instead of seeing it for what it was, I remember feeling annoyed that it was so hard to find belts big enough to fit me.

And pants.

And shirts.

And coats.

And ties.

I am 6′ 2″ and wear a size 16 shoe, so I am no stranger to the big and tall section.

But at right over 400 pounds, it was hard to find anything that fit me. I got frustrated and angry at stores for not stocking bigger sizes and at web sites not carrying larger inventory.

I even raged against the drier a few times because I was sure that it was shrinking my clothes (in hindsight, it was pretty funny; imagine that scene in Christmas Vacation where Clark Griswold shouts a stream of impassioned insults at his boss, only replace the boss with a drier, and you will get a close approximation).

The red flags were flying everywhere I looked, but for years I ignored them or pretended they weren’t there. Until one hit me in the face and made me come to terms with a harsh reality.

The Symptoms

I first began to suspect that I might have diabetes in April 2018, and my suspicion was fueled in part by Greek mythology.

My friend Jason is a lifelong diabetic, and he and I are both history freaks. We have spent hours at battlefields, in historic houses, and participating in historic reenactments.

So when he posted a clever observation on Facebook about a character from Greek mythology, I naturally read more. My friend’s post inadvertently ambushed me with some truth that day.

In careful detail, my friend’s Facebook post described the symptoms of diabetes. While I read, the unquenchable thirst burned in my throat and the insatiable hunger raged in my full belly, as it had with increasing intensity for several months, and I realized that he was describing my situation.

The Culprit

But even with a five-foot belt around my waist, a wedding band that would no longer fit, memories of being too big to fit into a Santa costume at work, and of having to stand through a program at the state capitol because I wouldn’t fit in any of the historic chairs, having to buy a special bathroom scale that went above 400 pounds, and a slew of friends and family who had told me they were worried about me, it was still more than two months after I read Jason’s Facebook post before I considered going to the doctor.

Why?

Because I was proud. Because I was ashamed. Because I was afraid.

Because I was angry about all the wrong things.

I nearly ate myself to death for all of those stupid reasons.

And while I raged at stores for not stocking larger clothing, and raged at driers for supposedly shrinking my shirts, and raged at automakers for not making cars with larger seats, nothing changed for me until I got mad at the person who was really responsible for all of my woes.

The man in the mirror.

Once I started blaming that guy for my problems, I could finally do something about them.

Respect the Flags

In nautical parlance, a red flag on the beach means that swimming is discouraged due to some hazardous condition. More than one red flag means that the beach is so unsafe that the water is closed and off-limits to swimmers.

Double red flags are raised at beaches where severe weather is expected or where sharks or other dangerous sea creatures have been spotted nearby.

Most of us wouldn’t ignore double red flags and take a dip with the sharks. But I saw dozens of red flags in regards to my weight and still kept diving into those shark-infested waters day after day.

If you are dangerously overweight and seeing as many red flags about your weight as I was, the time to do something about it is now. Stop what you’re doing and seek medical help.

Perhaps this is the sign that you or your loved ones have been praying for. Or maybe it’s the wake-up call you have been dreading. Whatever it is, don’t let it be another red flag that you ignore.

Trophy Belt

When I finally took action and began losing weight, my Dad helped me drill new holes in that giant five-foot belt. It rapidly became too big.

I wore it until it literally wrapped around me one-and-a-half times, and I keep it as a reminder that red flags are there to help if we recognize them.

Red flags are serious business, but they can be lowered just as much as they can be raised.

Take heed. Take action. Most of all, take care of yourself.

You may be hungry, but the sharks in that surf are hungrier.