Fat boxing

 I didn't invent the sport of Fat Boxing, but that's what I've decided to name my lifelong struggle with weight loss. It isn't a nice, sophisticated sport like say, hockey where you make nice with the other team after beating them to a pulp with a big stick. Some people are even lucky enough to survive a career of Fat Boxing without losing a limb or a set of teeth, but not many. We Fat Boxers climb into the ring in a fight to the death. We knock that opponents gloved fists with our own and let it know, "it's you or me pal, but one of us is going down".

I started my boxing career years ago. Match after match I got my hat handed to me, fighting without the same heart and drive as say, Rocky Balboa, but showing up faithfully to take my beatings. Every time. With a 0 win, 240 losses record, I never dreamed I might one day hear my name roared in encouragement in the arena.

Good boxers study their opponents and get to know their weaknesses. They learn the techniques of delivering the blows and they build strength to endure the punches. If they keep at it, keep training and watching and learning, they might not get their teeth kicked in during the next fight.

Fat Boxing is a very individual sport. Everyone who participates has to develop their own techniques and battle their opponents in their own way. Sometimes the opponents are sneaky, nasty, dirty fighters. My greatest nemesis, and the one to whom I own my first real win gave me a hell of a fight. It was a rash. The Mr T (I pity the fool) of all rashes. A medical team of internists, allergists and dermatologists were completely stumped. They scratched in empathy. They prodded, poked and biopsied my skin. They gave me massive doses of steroids and chalked it up to complications from type two diabetes.

With that pathetic Rocky theme music playing in my head, you know the tune; the soft, sad, piano plinking of hopelessness, I started researching it on line. After hours of intense scratching and study, I had one of those AHA! moments.

Dermatitis Herpetiformis. The cause? Gluten sensitivity. The cursor on the web page winked at me sort of like Rocky's cauliflowered old trainer, Mick. The theme music changed in my head from piano to brass and drum. The triumphant determined music was telling me I was "gonna fly now". And I did.

After getting confirmation from the medical team, I left them with sheepish grins and made an immediate change to my diet. I'm down 140 pounds with 100 more to go. I hear my name chanted (Bethie, Bethie, Bethie) as I prepare for the next fight.  I am champion of my weight class with 140 K.O.'s.

I wish you success in your own Fat Boxing careers. I hope you are good students of your opponents and that you find your own themes to get you through the hours, days and weeks of training. If you choose Rocky, beware of Mick. He's a real nag.