CHAPTER 150

Original: 2007-08-02

Rewritten: 2026-04-29

A good friend once visited and remarked that the groom in a wedding photo on my wall must surely be my very good friend—otherwise why would I have it displayed? I replied, “That’s me.” She couldn’t recognize me, simply because I was several sizes slimmer back then, and my wife was wearing heavy makeup that day.

Before the age of twenty-five, I was very thin. After that, I gradually put on weight—very steadily, about a pound each season. I met my wife at seventeen and married at twenty-three, which counts as early marriage. When we first met, I weighed 110 pounds; by the time we married, apart from having permed my hair, I looked much the same, still under 120 pounds.

I loved watching wrestling and paid close attention to the wrestlers’ weights. I felt I was a bit on the thin side, but still within a standard range. After marriage, I would often ask my wife how my figure looked. She would say, “Looks pretty good.” That continued all the way up to 189 pounds.

In the year 2000, at age forty, I stood before the “magic” mirror in a hotel in Victoria, and when I turned sideways, my round shape was fully revealed.

Counting it up, from immigrating in 1988 to the early 2000s, some eleven or twelve years had passed. I weighed 140 pounds when I immigrated, gaining about four pounds a year. A gain of fifty pounds over twelve years seemed quite reasonable.

I have loved eating since childhood. Growing up in a poor family, I often competed with my brothers for food—eating as much as I could whenever I had the chance, until I was full. Banquets delighted me most, with their abundance of meat and fish. My parents also disliked wasting food, so I developed the habit of clearing the table.

During my growing years, I could eat five bowls of rice in one meal, stopping only when my stomach hurt. A joke in Reader’s Digest once advised chewing each bite thirty times to promote longevity. From then on, I chewed slowly—only to end up eating more and absorbing better. Yet I remained thin, which made me fearless.

When eating heartily, I would chat and laugh, which somehow helped me eat even more. I built quite a reputation for it. Relatives and friends who shared a table with me would habitually expect me to finish the leftovers, and I never disappointed them.

After twenty-five, perhaps my metabolism slowed and fat began to accumulate. Gaining a pound each season didn’t seem like much, but every two years I needed new pants. After passing 170 pounds, I stopped trusting those weighing machines—until that hotel mirror exposed the truth.

One reason, I believe, was caring for my eldest son with autism. The mental and physical strain, along with chronic sleep deprivation, led me to rely on food to maintain energy and relieve stress. Though understandable, it was still a misguided path.

My family doctor agreed I should lose weight to protect my heart. I began by cutting down on starch, replacing it with vegetables, and exercising regularly. At one point, I ate so many greens that I felt nauseated at the sight of anything green. During the first ten years, my stomach shrank, but my weight still fluctuated. Only after fully adopting a diabetic diet—further reducing starches, fruits, and sweets—did my weight finally stabilize, hovering around 160 pounds.