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187 Before I left home to attend Temple University in the fall of 1979, I underwent the required physical examination, conducted by our family doctor. The exam was at first uneventful, and I was about to be cleared for my journey to Philadelphia when I learned I weighed nearly three hundred pounds, not a healthy figure, even for someone of my height (6-5). Dr. Early, a timid man with exceptionally cold hands, recommended as strenuously as his demeanor would allow that I lose a significant amount of weight if I wanted to live a long, healthy life. To that point, I was an indiscriminate and voracious eater, famed at home and in school for my love of Twinkies, Entenmann ’s Danish rings, a half-gallon of whole milk at a time, good deli, ice cream, cake frosting out of the can, and double-cheese pizza. In high school, I developed a new “sandwich inside a sandwich” recipe (one on white or whole wheat bread that was then tucked inside a Kaiser roll I’d slathered with mayonnaise) of which I was quite proud. But like so many others who graphically share their weight loss stories in bestselling books and television shows like NBC’s The Biggest Loser, I grew tired both of the razzing from not so close friends and the “you’re perfect just the way you are” platitudes from family members. But I wouldn’t begin trying to lose weight for nearly two more years. I was a regular at the McDonald’s located across the street from my dorm at Temple and the Wendy’s near the southern end of doeS aNThoNy BourdaiN haTe rachael ray? SeVeN 188 — More — campus. I had standing orders in both establishments: two or three Quarter Pounders with cheese, large fries, apple pie, and large Coke at McDonald’s; two or three Doubles, large fries, Coke, and a large Frosty at Wendy’s. I’d like to tell you it was Dr. Early’s “Droopy Dog” (a Tex Avery cartoon character) voice describing my decreased life expectancy that finally broke through and nudged me to begin a diet, but the primary reason was a serious case of “third wheel-itis,” complicated by a pressing desire to go out on an actual date and wanting to play quarterback and the outfield instead of offensive lineman and first base all the damn time. And so the diet began when I went home after my junior year. My weight hovered around 300 pounds. That summer, I spent even more time than I did as a kid throwing the tennis ball against the side of our garage, reduced the size of my portions, replaced the “sandwich in a sandwich” with Dannon banana yogurt, and all but stopped eating rich desserts. By the time I came back for my senior year, I had already lost a significant amount of weight. By graduation in June 1983, I was down nearly 130 pounds. My waist shrank from 48 to 34 inches. I’ve been between 185 and 190 pounds ever since. Telling this story to my students highlights that one of the quickest , surest ways to gain or restore fame is to either (a) acknowledge with great angst the need to lose weight, (b) discuss in painstaking detail your efforts to lose weight, and (c) shout to the masses from a variety of media platforms how much weight you’ve lost. Yet except for these conversation starters and sharing my experience with my wife, I don’t talk about it all that much. When pressed, I explain I lost the weight without buying a diet book, “sweating off the oldies” with fitness guru Richard Simmons, heading off to an early 1980s version of a weight loss “boot camp” like the one on VH1’s Celebrity Fit Club, or jogging all over the place. Interest in my story often wanes at that point, as though we were back in the employment agency visited in a previous chapter, and I was Abe Lincoln telling the interviewer that I was right for the job because I had “done a lot of reading and studying, sort of on my own.” Saying “I just watch what I eat, keep my calories down, and try to exercise a little every day” seems to have little cultural relevance or resonance. But why? Nowhere in all the provinces and hamlets we have toured is the “lack of scale” narrative offered up for consumption by the media...

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