By Nick Divito
As Las Vegas Weekly’s token fatty—seriously, they’re a bunch of skinny bitches here!—I’ve been tapped to weigh in on recent news from Men’s Fitness that we here in this Valley are the nation’s fattest. Again.
The magazine took about two dozen factors into account for the ranking, including the city’s sports participation rates, time spent working out, number of parks, average commute time, TV viewing rates and legislative health initiatives.
Before we go any further, the painful admissions: I weigh in at a solid 254 pounds. Give or take. I stand at about 6-foot even, with a 52-inch chest. Pants size: [deleted]. Yeah, you could say I’m pudgy. Fat, even. (Just don’t say it to my face. That would be rude.)
I know how this happened. It really is Las Vegas’ fault. No, really.
Sure, I’m ignoring the “me” in this equation, the me that can say no to a fistful of Del Taco yumminess, the me that can go for a jog, the me that should switch to diet soda. Or water. And yeah, I could chose to eat healthier fare, from places like Evos, Go Raw Café, Whole Foods, even Trader Joe’s. But hear me out.
There are fast-food joints on almost every corner in this town, offering up double-triple-quadruple pile-ups of meat and cheese and bacon and oozy sauces and deep-fried cheesecake bites. You don’t even have to get out of the car. You don’t even need cash! The booze flows freely here. The buffet trays runneth over. (And who walks anywhere, really, unless they’re poor?)
Vegas can make you fat.
•••••
As a high-schooler in this town about 15 years ago I topped out at about 300 pounds. Then something amazing happened: I moved to New York City, and after about six years fighting it out in the Big Apple, I lost weight. Sixty pounds, to be exact.
I walked. Everywhere. To the subway. To the grocery store. To the Laundromat. To the theater. And back. Stairs were almost always involved. Treacherous snow was often a factor, too. A favorite pastime of mine was to take urban walkabouts through unknown neighborhoods, get lost, take it all in. Miles would go by almost effortlessly. Pounds would shed.
And there wasn’t much in the way of fast food in New York City. I mean, yeah, there were McDonald’s and Wendy’s and Burger King. But you had to actively seek them out, and, even worse: You had to suffer the scornful eyes of the natives, tsk-tsking you for choosing fat from a national chain, and not something more healthful—a bagel, a boiled egg, perhaps—from the struggling mom-and-pop deli that really needs your business and actually does care about your cholesterol levels.
In fact, when I left New York City, there was but one—one!—7-Eleven in all of Manhattan. Were they serious?!
Now here I am, back in Las Vegas, and I’m watching the belly return to its original, front-and-center position. The new jeans I bought when I first got here a few months ago no longer fit. My shirts are starting to pull at the buttons. The most walking I do is from the apartment to the car, the car to the office and everything back in reverse order.
And I’ve again become a slave to the convenience stores, with all their Slurpees and bags of Cheetos and, oh God, the two-for-a-buck hot dogs.
•••••
It’s time for a change. If not to get healthy, lose weight and feel better, then to prove Men’s Fitness wrong, especially since the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention ranks us 33rd-fattest city in the nation, out of a list of 144 places it tracks. (Sure, it’s not a ranking to be proud of, but the feds don’t think we’re the fattest, so there, Men’s Fitness.)
Monday morning: Today’s the day. Fast food out, healthy groceries in. I’ve been in this new apartment for about two months and still have yet to buy groceries. Why is that? Maybe because that means I would also have to buy some pots and pans. And a spatula.
Forget it. Not today. And anyway, McDonald’s is having a sale on Egg McMuffins—99 cents! Hash browns, too. And the largest Coke you got.
Lunch, later that day: I’ll go to Smith’s and get a salad. Light vinaigrette, on the side. Oh, but that means I have to navigate the car across four lanes, around the barrier, battle through the parking lot, find a place to park, get out of the car, walk into the store, buy the salad, get back into the car, battle said parking lot, whip the car around said barrier and back across the four lanes of traffic ... and screw all that.
Vegas’ traffic is clearly a part of this city’s fat problem.
Wendy’s drive-thru is right there, on the corner. A burger, with fries. And another large Coke, please.
I’m back on track for dinner. But oh, Taco Bell is right by the apartment, on the way home from work. Three tacos it is. And yeah, another large Coke. Tomorrow. We’ll start tomorrow.
I really should join the gym.
•••••
I’ve always been a “big guy,” probably since junior high school, and I remember the humiliation of having to buy “husky” clothes for school. I have never been able to buy clothes from the mall. And yeah, people sometimes don’t want to sit by me in public, like at a movie theater, because they fear I’ll spill over into their half of the coveted armrest. Yes, there were countless times when, after job interviews, I was convinced I didn’t get the job because I was fat. Or didn’t get the date because I was fat. Or didn’t get the scholarship because I was fat.
It could be worse. To pull directly from the “Life’s Not Fair” file, it’s probably easier—certainly more socially acceptable—to be a fat guy than it is to be a fat girl. Being a fat guy means you’re doing your guy-ly things, drinking beer and eating chicken wings and gorging on pizza, like you should. Having meat on your bones, I think, shows that you’re robust, certainly not the persnickety sort who pushes a piece of boiled chicken across his plate.
•••••
Tuesday: Skipping breakfast. That’s the idea. Cut calories, good job.
Lunch: So hungry, don’t even feel like fussing with any kind of hassle for sustenance. I do, however, have the energy to get in the car, mount the freeway and drive three miles to Carl’s Jr. I love you, Western Bacon Cheeseburger. And you, Criss-Cut fries. You too, large Coke.
Dinner: Two greasy hot dogs from 7-Eleven. Ketchup, mustard, a sprinkling of onions. Big Gulp. Bag of Cheetos to round it out, make it seem balanced. And oh, two of those small peanut-butter cups sitting by the register, thanks.
Still no gym.
•••••
Wednesday-Thursday: Don’t keep a food diary because frankly I am too ashamed to even bother to track the crap I’m putting into my face. Del Taco, Burger King, In-N-Out—they all play prominently in this tragedy.
And no, still no gym.
•••••
A new wrinkle unfolds for me as a gay man: The gays don’t like the fats. This truism becomes obvious to the outside world by simply scouring the craigslist.org men-for-men ads, where peppered throughout the bulletins is the phrase “no fats, no fems.” (Translation: The person who posted the ad doesn’t want to talk to anyone overweight or overly feminine.) But thankfully for me, there’s a subset within the gay community known as “bears” (because they’re usually fat and usually furry), where I fit in quite nicely, truthfully.
And anyway, I’m often told I “carry it well,” that I’m not as fat as I think, which I guess is a compliment that speaks to my ability to suck in my stomach and pull my chest back when I walk.
•••••
Friday, breakfast and lunch: Both fattening, both from fast-food places, both accompanied by a large Coke, both punctuated with bars of chocolate.
Enough! I really should join the gym.
Grocery shopping first; let’s finally do this.
Whole wheat bread, yes, and turkey breast lunch meat for sandwiches, good. Ground turkey, for turkey chili. A box of those 100-calorie-pack potato chips. (Not so good, but at least it’s cutting back, right?) Handfuls of fat-free yogurts, high-fiber cereal, fat-free milk. Veggies—lots of veggies. Oh, and fruit. Yes, fruit.
Dinner: Turkey chili. So good, so on track. But no, it needs shredded cheese on top. Can’t have chili without shredded cheese, right? I telephone my dinner guests, ask them to bring shredded cheese. We eat, see a show, come home. I have a glass of wine. Then another. Then, apparently, another ...
•••••
Saturday morning: Ow. My head. The empty bottle indicates how much I drank last night—and wait!—is that an empty box of my new 100-calorie-pack potato chips sitting on the counter?! Did I actually eat 16 individual packets of chips in one night while drunk?
That’s it, I’m going for a walk, 3 miles to the Strip. I’ll walk back if I can.
Instead, I end up at the corner convenience store. Large Coke, please.
A jogger passes me on Flamingo, and I’m growing more irate. What is my problem? You know what? Screw this. It’s Vegas, baby. Live it up, have fun! We don’t need no stinkin’ diets.
•••••
Sunday: It was a great, controlled day. Yogurt with cereal and a banana for breakfast, turkey sandwich for lunch, and leftover turkey chili for dinner. (No cheese!) Water, water everywhere.
It’s late Sunday, and I’m just now back from seeing Stomp Out Loud. Can’t stop marveling at the performers’ athleticism, their stamina, those rock-hard bodies.
I begin to daydream, wishing I had a body like that, wishing that I could move said beautiful body in ways I could have never imagined, wishing my fat ass didn’t feel like it was crammed into that little seat in the audience. I catch myself tapping on a banana, rhythmically and artistically, of course.
Yes, tomorrow, I’ll join the gym. Tomorrow.
Maybe it’s not Vegas. Maybe it’s me.
Nick Divito is a Weekly staff writer.
Illustration by Meg Hunt