I am officially forty pounds lighter than the bloated wreck I was in August. I am winning the war on gravity. But to understand the victory, you have to understand the humiliation.
I remember Santa Fe. I was with Lara, the South African. We were doing the “serious relationship” dance, and I needed pants. We went to a Lucky Brand store. I told the clerk I was a 42. All they had was a 40.
I bought them without trying them on. Arrogance? Stupidity? Probably both.
I got back to the hotel room, and let me tell you, you couldn’t have greased me up with enough butter to slide my fat ass into those denim casings comfortably. I had to lay on the bed, suck in a gut full of expensive food, and pray to the god of zippers. When I finally buttoned them, I had a mammal toe. I could barely sit. I ate dinner looking like a sausage that was about to burst its casing.
That was a size 40.
Today? I’m giving those pants away. I’m a size 38. My shorts are falling off. I’m trading them in on Amazon like bad stocks. I haven’t seen a size 38 since the Clinton administration.
The Calorie Sabotage
But here is the problem. Just as I’m getting lean, just as I’m prepping the machine for the jungles of Vietnam, the universe sends me the Phoenix Siren.
She manhandles me. She plays the “Wife” scenario to perfection. And part of that roleplay involves eating and drinking like kings.
Every weekend I spend with her, I gain ten pounds.
It’s a kinetic equation: Sexual energy burned < Calories consumed in Bisbee.
We are on our fourth long weekend. My body is broken, bruised, and confused. It doesn’t know if it’s training for a marathon or a hot dog eating contest.
But the goal remains. Fifty pounds total. I want to shave the goatee. I want to look in the mirror and see a fresh start, not a tired old project manager. I want to land in Vietnam ready to eat real food—no more preservatives, no more red dye, no more American poison.
The Liquidation of Bisbee
We leave Bisbee tomorrow.
And once I hit the Tucson city limits, the Mass Liquidation begins.
I am posting everything on Facebook. The furniture. The electronics. The clothes that don’t fit the new, leaner James. It’s all going. I’m donating the fat clothes to the poor folks’ home. Let someone else wear my old failures.
The Collateral Damage
And then, there’s the woman.
She has expressed her love. She has done everything a wife is supposed to do. She has given me every ounce of her body for three weekends straight. We have one more week in us. One more push.
And I know, with the cold, hard clarity of a man who has seen the end of the movie, that she might get hurt.
It makes me sad. It really does. There are possibilities here. In another life, in a life where I didn’t have a ticket to Da Nang burning a hole in my pocket, this could grow.
But reality kicks in. We are both here for the purpose. We are both feeding a hunger.
Nothing lasts forever.
In a few months, I will be gone. I will be replaced. She will find another man to play “Husband,” and he will inherit the training I gave her. And I will find another connection in a new country.
It’s the game we play. It’s the “No One Really Gets Hurt” lie we tell ourselves to sleep at night.
But we know the truth. We’re just renting space in each other’s lives until the lease runs out.
So, pack the bags. Sell the jeans.
The lease is up in February.
