What Doesn’t Kill You…
…might just kill you a little later on…
I started life as the third son and fourth child out of six of my parents; a Madison Avenue ad executive and stay-at-home mom. My three older siblings never caught any crap about their bodies, at least not that I remember. On the other hand, I was always catching crap about being skinny. The neighbor down the street called me droopy-drawers. At the beach or municipal pool, I always heard comments about my ribs sticking out. I was also anemic for much of my childhood, and jaundiced, a condition tied to liver function. Also, Mom had to change laundry detergents several times because I would get skin rashes.
I have a mouth full of metal. No matter how many times I brushed my teeth, no matter how much time I spent on my dental hygiene, every visit to the dentist meant more drilling and filling. I think I have fillings in my fillings.
At around 12 or 13 years old, I started eating. And eating. And packing on weight, following years of being scrawny. You’re probably thinking that this weight gain was linked to puberty, given my age. It was not. In fact, I wouldn’t begin puberty until well into my late teens. During my elementary and junior high years, I suffered from frequent leg cramps, dismissed as “growing pains.”
