In denial about a weighty problem I'm not afraid to admit that I'm one of those six in 10 Americans in denial about the extra weight I'm carrying around. At 6'1" and 200 pounds, I'm not what most people would consider obese. And I'm about 25 pounds lighter than I was 5 years ago, right before I was diagnosed with diabetes. (The diagnosis came after I dropped about 30 pounds in a month's time during a bout of the flu and severely blurred vision.) So, becuase I've dropped that excess weight, and I exercise regularly, and I've lowered the amount of bad cholesterol in my system to a near-managable level while maintaining the ideal level of glucose on most days, I usually feel pretty good about my health. But I'm carrying around an extra 20 pounds, and losing it would do me a world of good.
Yet, when people tell me I look fine, that I don't need to "get any skinnier," inwardly I glow with a smug sense of self-satisfaction. I am the captain of my fate, or so I begin to think.
We humans all are little caesars, demigods who could benefit from that whisper in the ear, that constant reminder: Thou art mortal.