Brian Callaway writes The Midlife Sherpa and coaches men and women through the long middle of life. The essays are where the work begins.
Looking down to the shower floor, something doesn’t look right. There’s only water rushing to the drain. Bending forward to get a better look, I feel why. My belly has expanded to the point of eclipsing the view of my toes. My feet have disappeared.
I am fat.
I am twelve.
I want a hug, someone to tell me it’s going to be okay.
Crying. Sitting on the shower floor.
I am alone.
Keep it to yourself. Don’t let them see you like this. Pull yourself together before they hear you.
She’s drunk by noon most days. My stepdad, by dinner time. Before that he’s upset about his life choices and takes it out on me, mostly with words, occasionally with hands. To survive, I must be silent, self-soothe, adapt.
St. Irenaeus is a wholesome Southern California Catholic school, stuffed with some of the most evil kids God has produced. Uniforms required: white short-sleeve Izod and blue corduroy pants from the private school supply store.
They didn’t have my size. Why would they.
My mom spat out her cigarette and took the Lord’s name in vain (not sure what she spat out first) like it was my fault the store didn’t have enough fabric to make a size 42. She yanked me by the collar and we tore off to Sears, where they proudly sold Huskies, the big-kid brand.
Thankfully the fat pants are mostly identical to the normal ones. The last thing I want is for Patti Richmond to see I’m wearing Huskies. (I’ve had a crush on her since third grade.) She’ll never know. Nobody will know.
Unfortunately it only took 22 seconds after I deplaned from the station wagon. It started with a yelp. Then a howl. Then the whole pack of fellow Christians joined in.
The alpha, Curtis, approached me. “Nice pants, Cowie.” Punching me in the chest as he skipped into first period.
That was a great day.
Later, at home, I went straight to the refrigerator and fried a couple of SteakUmm sandwiches and washed them down with apple juice and a grape popsicle, or two. Feeling much better, I took my pants off, letting them just drop on the kitchen floor (no one was home), and there it was, staring right back at me. A huge patch on the back. HUSKIES. How did I not see that.
Determined.
I started bringing salads to school. When you wear Huskies and squeeze a packet of fat-free Italian vinaigrette on lettuce for lunch, you might as well have a billboard behind you that says FATSO. I endured slurs, projectiles, and the occasional loogie on the chin, especially when I turned the other cheek. What would Jesus do, right?
It took a few months and a growth spurt (thank god) for things to flatten out. And hundreds of salads in the library for the noise to stop. (Even Patti Richmond said hi to me in the hallway once.)
But the damage was done.
Since the home front was lacking compassion and an ability to see past a highball glass, I soothed myself by yanking out all of my eyelashes, listening to Depeche Mode, and my fave, even to this day, pulling my underwear up and over my belly button to compress my rolls.
Call me the original Spanx of Body Dysmorphia.
A batch of Mai Tais is whirring in the background while I wrestle with the top button on my swim trunks. Stretching the fabric to the manufacturer’s safety limit, I give up. Arms exhausted, I settle for the semi-secured look: top open, belly clenched like a water balloon. Sexy. Nothing a little day drinking won’t cure.
Soon the family and I are downstairs at the pool and I’m out of breath. From the elevator. We pick through the disaster zone of reserved-yet-abandoned lounge chairs, looking for somewhere to land.
I collapse into an open spot, start spraying everyone down with enough SPF to open a new hole in the ozone, and am joined by a courageous sparrow pecking at abandoned curly fries on the chair next to me.
Those fries look good.
Slightly drunk, I lay back and wonder why the bird can grab one and whether it would be weird if I did. Mouth watering, I’m calculating the possibilities of being caught when the bird darts off, straight away from me, and I lose sight of her over my belly horizon.
An alarming thought surfaces: if that bird disappeared over my belly into the blue sky, that means my belly is so big that…
“Where are the girls?”
My wife’s voice pulls me back. Only for two seconds.
“I don’t know,” I say.
And then I understand why I don’t know. I can’t see them. My stomach is in the way.
Again.
Hello old friend. It’s been awhile. I wish I could say I missed you.
Have you ever bought a car and then suddenly seen that car everywhere? That’s happening to me now, except it isn’t red Honda Civics. It’s bloated middle-aged dads, smothered in white SPF war paint. They are everywhere. Their bellies are everywhere. I am surrounded, by me.
We all have the same look on our face. What is that? A pang of dread hits as I realize:
We’ve normalized our dad bods. This is our fat fate.
It feels like panic at first. But it’s deeper than that. It’s Patti Richmond, Huskies and the wolf pack. It’s the same shame I’ve been carrying since I was twelve, the one I bury under enough food (you gonna finish that?) and enough drinks to keep it quiet for one more day.
Worse than shame, it’s resignation.
And we’ve made it a joke — the common denominator that binds us. Saddle up to any timeshare pool bar and the deadweight dads will be laughing about how it’s out of their control. Thank God for Viagra, bro! If it’s my time, it’s my time. Shots!
I’m lying in a boozy pool of my own sweat, uncomfortable and self-conscious for the first time since my mind let me back in.
I’m not just overweight. I’m in the early death club.
Wait. I want to see my girls grow up, cheer for them at their college volleyball games, and go on vacations together. I want to walk them down the aisle and dance like a maniac. I want to hold their babies and be the grandpa I never had. The last thing I want to do is leave my wife a widow.
Especially when this is a lifestyle choice.
Suddenly, as if summoned by the belly bird, a leathered old guy with long braided silver hair and neon yellow Dolphin shorts sprints by, flinging sweat droplets all over me and the fries I wanted to eat. I love my wife, but this dude looked good (except for the turquoise bracelets). Healthy, powerful. Alive in a way I hadn’t felt in a long time. OK, I’ve never looked or felt that way.
I want to do that. I want to look like him (no turquoise though). Do hard things. Marathons? Maybe an Ironman. No more cruising or hiding in burgers and nachos.
Buzzed with a new clarity, and Bacardi, I nudged my wife and told her I was going to lose the weight and run marathons. She looked at me half-asleep, yawned, and asked me to put some lotion on her back.
Fair enough.
The family lovingly refers to that day in Hawaii as my Apex of Gordo. I peaked at 255 pounds and began my journey back to health.
Today I’m 54 and weigh 180. For the first time in my life, my waist is 32, maybe smaller on fasting days. I run ultras, marathons, and lift weights with the forever goal of comfortably taking my shirt off at the pool, again, for the first time in my life.
None of this happened by accident.
I chose it. Every day.
I keep choosing it.
And you know what? I still pull my non-Dolphin shorts and underwear up high over my belly button. Even though the flesh is not there, it feels like it is. Like a phantom limb. Until I look in the mirror and confirm it’s not there.
And when I get in the shower, I still look down to see if my feet are there.
They are. I checked this morning.
Brian Callaway is The Midlife Sherpa. He writes here every week and coaches one-on-one at themidlifesherpa.com.
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Why did you wait so long to write. I'd like to meet 2026 Brian. I miss your face :)