It was farther from being a joke than anything
you ever heard about. It was a tragedy--a grim, relentless tragedy! It
was acute physical suffering. My body cried out for that same amount of
food I had been giving it all those years. I wanted to give it that same
amount. I have had to leave the table time and time again to get hold of
myself and go back to the smaller portions I had allotted to myself. I
liked to eat, you know.
Nothing much happened for a few weeks, though the waistband of my
trousers grew looser. Then a lot of excess baggage seemed to drop away
all at once. I weighed myself and found I had taken off twenty-five
pounds. Friends told me to quit--that I should overdo it. I laughed at
them. I knew I was still twenty-five pounds too heavy and I was just
getting into my stride. It is strange how men, and especially fat men,
who haven't the nerve to reduce themselves, think a man must be sick if
he takes off flesh. I knew I wasn't sick. Indeed, I was just beginning
to get well.
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