It started from the earliest days I can remember, when my grandpa on my dad’s side of the family nicknamed me Pee-wee. He did it, so he has always said, because I was born six weeks early and came into the world at a puny 4 1/2-pounds or so. I never liked being called Pee-wee.
In grade school, many of the other kids called me Bulldozer — Bull for short — because by then I was bigger than all of them.
On the first day we put on pads during football season in seventh grade, I sacked Vince Chandler, the eighth-grade quarterback, who said: “Get off of me, you big, fucking Moose.”
From then on, nearly everyone in my hometown, including my dad, called me Moose, a nickname I liked and took much pride.
In college, many of my friends called me Hoss, after the character of the same name on the TV show, “Bonanza.”
Just today, I bumped into a stranger as he left the men’s locker room at the Muscatine Family Y and I entered. “Excuse me, big guy,” he said.
I’ve heard that one many times through the years. Too many, actually. I say that not because it offends me, but mainly because I’m just tired of being a big guy. Actually, it pisses me off. I’ve reached this point after losing a lot of weight two to three years ago — actually reaching the point of almost being skinny. After some stress and turmoil, I fell back into old bad habits and gained all of the weight back, maybe even more.
So, here I am, starting over again. I got in a good workout today. Exercising isn’t really my problem. I like doing it. But I’ve got to relearn the good and healthy habits I developed a couple of years ago when it comes to food. I’ve tried just about everything through the years. For a brief period three years ago, I found something that worked. I need to duplicate that effort. Writing about it here may not help, but it can’t hurt.