I am fat. That’s what the American media tells me, anyway.

According to the “experts,” I’m not just a bit overweight. Nor pleasingly plump. To them, I am fat; that really-out-of-shape, can’t-squeeze-into-my-jeans fat.

To hammer home this point, ‘they’ bombard me with relentless images via infomercials and magazine ads of guys with 33 and 34 inch waists (the new fatties) who are shamed into buying boat loads of gym equipment and specially prepared dietary meals delivered to their door. The inevitable “after” shots reveal slimmer, trimmer Matt Damon look-a-likes (could this really be the same guys?), with washboard abs, zero percent body fat, and surprisingly enough, a George Hamilton tan and a full head of hair.

Sure, I knew I was heading into the weightier zone, especially after hitting the “mature” mark; but I never considered myself fat. Complicating matters is that I hail from an ethnic background that consumes daily doses of flour and corn tortillas, rice (cooked in fatty chicken broth), ladles of refried beans, and sweet breads.

Not too surprisingly, the sales pitch worked on me and millions of other gullible and confidence-challenged Americans who bought into the self-image obsession craze.
The plan was simple: I’d immediately return to the gym. The emergency resolution also included cutting out the “bad stuff” from my diet, such as carbonated drinks, fried foods, breakfast cereal, and ice cream – all of my favorite culinary groups.

The transformation, I believed, would be a piece of cake (no pun intended)….until day one.

The difficulties began before daybreak when I discovered that I could no longer crawl out of bed at 4 a.m. and head to the torture chamber (the gym) prior to a full day’s work at the office. Not a problem, I told myself. I would simply visit the gym on my way home from work.

That strategy failed several hours later as I found myself stuck in 5 o’clock traffic, brain-dead and exhausted after eight hours of stressful employment. I was convinced tomorrow would be better.
Meanwhile, the dieting issue offered its own challenges. Most evenings I began with the best intentions, usually with thoughts of a crispy salad with chunks of roasted chicken, sans the dressing. Then I would spot the pork steak I subconsciously put out to thaw. Next thing I knew I was standing at the stove frying meat, the ghost of my Grandma Lupita whispering in my ear, “M’ijo, add potatoes or rice, something to give this pork some real Latin flavor.”

After two months of soft-core dieting and exercise, I decided to reward myself and buy some new clothes. First, I tried on a pair of 31” waist slacks (who were you kidding, Fabian?). Not too surprisingly, I couldn’t even move the zipper up one notch. Undeterred, I went up a size, then another, and another.

Unable to hide my emotions, I stormed past a sea of size 0 sales associates and mannequins, determined never to shop there again. Once home, I turned on the TV and fought the urge to drown my sorrows with a feast of steak and cheese quesadillas and a half gallon of fried ice cream.
I refused to quit and launched a new strategy: stop eating pretty much altogether. After two weeks of practically starving myself, I began to feel weak and finally passed out in the men’s room at work. The next day I dragged myself to the doctor’s office and listened as he growled, “Your problem is malnutrition.  Are you not eating?”

Thanks to an endless parade of unrealistic images, I had begun to lose my health and self-esteem. Never again would I allow some invisible weight control police to define me just because I could no longer squeeze into a 31” pair of slacks.

So what if I was a bit overweight and out of shape?  The transformation back to a leaner, trimmer Fabian was still possible when—and if—I decided it needed to happen.  No matter what, it would be my decision—a practical and healthy choice, not something I felt guilted into just because I didn’t adhere to some appointed body size and shape.

I mean, what kind of crazy perception would make a person come to that decision?