After losing 200 pounds, people expect the changes to be seismic. They expect fanfare, balloons, a scene from Rocky where I sprint up the steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art, arms raised triumphantly above my now-visible waist. And yes, there are obvious benefits. My knees don’t scream like a haunted Victorian child every time I bend down. My back no longer files daily complaints with Human Resources. And I can walk up a flight of stairs without clutching the railing and wondering whether I’m experiencing cardiac arrest or just dying of shame.
But there are subtler changes; changes you don’t read about in Men’s Health or see on an inspirational Instagram reel narrated by Morgan Freeman. Like how people look at me now. Or more accurately, how they don’t.
At 5’11” and over 400 pounds, I used to have what polite folks might call a presence. I didn’t walk into a room so much as materialize: an eclipse of man. Mothers would draw their children close as if an impending storm had just rolled into Target. Men would eye me with caution, unsure if I was going to buy socks or body-slam them through the seasonal aisle.
I was a teddy bear, of course. A hugging, apologizing, perpetually-aware-of-my-body-in-space teddy bear. I tried not to be in anyone’s way, but when you’re the size of a refrigerator with opinions, avoidance has its limits. Sometimes collisions were unavoidable. And when it came down to it, between me and some 145-pound dude with a vape pen and something to prove …. well, physics has no loyalty.
I’d knock people over. Not maliciously. Not even often. But once in a while, usually after they attempted to assert their presence through the sheer force of misplaced confidence, I’d bump into them and watch them bounce off like I was a pinball bumper in a bowling shirt.
“Sorry!” I’d yell after them as they tumbled backward, wondering what it felt like to have been hit by a wrecking ball with social anxiety.
My favorites were the tiny, furious men. The kind who walked like lowercase bulldogs, arms bowed wide, as if perpetually ready to either fight or enter a body-building competition for ants. They had what I like to call “budget Vin Diesel energy.” They took up more space than physics allowed and aimed directly at me like we were in some kind of unsanctioned boss battle.
I don’t see those guys anymore. More accurately: they don’t see me.
Because now, I’m average. No longer big. No longer scary. Just some guy. Which is oddly disorienting. You don’t realize how much of your identity has been wrapped in “presence” until it’s gone.
I walked into a hotel lobby today (my family and I are staying there while we wait for the AC in our house to be resurrected), and came face-to-face with one of those formerly-beloved angry chihuahuas in human form.
He squared his shoulders and walked straight toward me, the way they used to. I tried to move, but my knee had other ideas and locked up like a reluctant safe. He slammed into me and, to my shock, I stumbled back a step.
He fell. Of course he did. Physics still leans in my favor.
But it hit me then, like he hit me now: I’m not who I used to be. I’m still bigger than average, sure, but no longer looming. No longer a walking colossus that makes children wonder if they need to say “excuse me” or call animal control.
And it’s nice. Mostly.
Nice not to feel like a novelty act every time I walk into a room. Nice not to be the before in someone else’s imaginary weight loss ad.
But also, it’s strange.
Because in losing the weight, I also lost the armor. The perceived power. The ability to part a crowd just by approaching it. Now I’m just a middle-aged guy with knees that only occasionally betray him. I don’t make people nervous anymore. I don’t make them anything.
Maybe that’s a good thing. Maybe now I’ll be seen for who I actually am: mostly kind, sometimes funny, occasionally winded, and deeply afraid of hotel buffet eggs.
Or maybe I’ll get mugged. Who knows?