Big & Tall Chronicles: Misadventures of a Lifelong Food Addict!

Copyright © 2004 by Gary M. Marino

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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This book is dedicated to the memory of my mother, Lorraine Rainbow

Marino. You gave me the support and inspiration I needed to begin my road

to health, and in turn I gave you everything I had on the road to The Million

Calorie March.

October 2001

Contents

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

FOREWORD

PART I PARADISE BY THE BUFFET LIGHTS

INTRODUCTION: GOING WIDE

GENERATION XL

A BLOCK OFF THE OLD CHIP

The Art Of THE ITALIAN GRANDMOTHER

The Late 70s: LIVIN’ LA VIDA LO-CAL

BIG AND TALL CHRONICLES

The Art Of: THE BIG AND TALL STORE

WAISTED YOUTH

THE LIQUID DIET: Pick a body and go with it!

LIFE, MARRIAGE AND THE PURSUIT OF EVERYTHING BUT HEALTH

MEET MR. PIVOT: Sports and Weight Gain

BUILDING SOMETHING BESIDES A SANDWICH

BLESSED WITH GOOD TEETH

SLEEP APNEA: WAKE UP ALREADY!

POST-TRAUMATIC STRETCH DISORDER: Death of a Rainbow

10,000 CHEESEBURGERS IN PARADISE

397

YOU KNOW IT’S TIME TO LOSE WEIGHT WHEN…

PART II MAN ON A MISSION

ASSEMBLING YOUR WEIGHT LOSS DREAM TEAM

DISSECTING THE DISORDER

POWER WALKING: Don’t be Careless about Calluses!

ANALYZE THIS: Revisiting your youth

CLOSE ENCOUNTERS OF THE THERAPY KIND

THE MILLION CALORIE MARCH PROJECT

50 THE HARD WAY

GIRTH ANNOUNCEMENTS:

Staying Away From the Numbers

RELAPSE: STOPPING THE MADNESS

TOP HALF-DOZEN OBESITY FELONIES

THE BLAME GAME

RELAPSE REDUX

YOU’RE MY EVEREST

INTENSITY vs MAKESENSITY

The Art Of THE SALAD BAR

MY BODY THE TEMPLE:

Feeling the low-carb love

I’ve Relapsed Again…And I Can’t Get Up!

JURASSIC PASTA: When Bloated Things Happen To Good People

MAN ON A MISSION

FROM PIZZA TO PROZAC

SPIN CONTROL

DOLCE VITA (The Sweet Life)

TRIPLE THREAT’03

YOU KNOW YOU’RE ON YOUR WAY TO GETTING HEALTHY WHEN…

TIME IS A TOOL

GARY VERSION 2.0

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Smart guy, that Ringo Starr. As far back as the 60s, he knew that surrounding himself with a little help from his friends was the best way to get through life. Of course if you are defeating a lifelong weight problem as I am, it may be a good idea to surround yourself with a lot of help from a whole lot of friends.

Many people contributed to helping me battle this disease, and their support directly influenced the material in this book. In the end, my body may have become smaller, but my heart has become larger, and it’s because of these very special individuals.

I’ve often referred to the individuals directly involved in my health effort as my Dream Team—not because their work was particularly expensive, but rather due to the fact that they have helped this onetime hopeless food addict achieve his dreams—namely, to win control of my health and to help others. I’m forever grateful to my nutritionist Melinda Vaturro, R.D.; my therapist Ruth Schwartz, L.C.S.W.; my trainers Vincent Zarella, Sharon Cummings and the entire fitness staff at The Boston Sports Club in Lexington, Massachusetts.

Other professionals from Massachusetts General Hospital who provided additional support, education and expertise include Dr. Lee Kaplan of MGH’s Weight Loss Program; Chief of Sports Medicine Dr. Bertram Zarins; and finally, my primary care physician, Dr. Jeffrey Harris.

My family’s love and support is and always has been astounding. Love to my wife and Generation Excel Executive Director Julie Marino, my late mother Lorraine Marino, my father Leonard Marino, my late grandparents Ida and John LaCam-era, Donna Marie Miller and her husband Tony, Laura Dean and her husband Leo, Richard Marino and his wife Josie, Uncle Dave LaCamera and his wife Karen, Alexandra, Mackenzie, Christopher, Brette, Devyn, Aunt Lee Mangiar-atti, Michele LaCamera and her husband Douglas Maccaferri, my in-laws, Patricia and Bill Harmon and Linda and Ed Thorn, and finally my cousin, Andrew Rechnitz, for his amazing creative editing work on this book.

The inspiration for this book came from nearly three years planning The Million Calorie March, the first cross-country walk for obesity. Friends who helped make that dream a reality include Matty Blake, Vinnie and Diane Sestito, Russell Surette, Brian Baldwin, Dan Jones, Dave McGillivray, Stephen Warshaw, June Knight, Denny Houghton Productions, Jim Gross and JRG Art, Leo Gozbekian Photography, Steven Richard Photography, Ellen Burnett, Linda Simon, Tony D’Amelio, Chris Zito, Ken Dicamillo and the The William Morris Agency, Boston City Councilor John Tobin, Representative Peter Koutoujian, Steve Grossman, Don Rodman, Bob Cotter and Ellen Gallo from Starwood Resorts, and finally the man who made the Florida to Boston walk a reality when all else failed: Todd Patkin and Todd G. Patkin «Dream Maker» Endeavors.

God bless Melissa Hurley, Wendy Mejia, Tricia Raynard and Rick Rendon at The Rendon Group, Boston and Jennifer and Adam Marko at The Marko Group, Jacksonville.

«A little help from my friends» also came from K.T. and Paul DiPanfilo, Honey Quigley, Bob and Nikki Garvin, Dr. Lillian Arleque, Susan Sloane, Norma Buckhaulter, Colleen Bleakney, Marco Discipio, Cheryl and Dave Slocum, Chuck and Mary Risch, John Cannava and Georgeanne Coleman.

Finally, I am deeply grateful to Boston comedians Tony V., Jimmy Dunn, Michael Coleman, John Turco, Tom Briscoe, Chris McGuire, Jon Stetson, Tom Hayes and Joe Yannetty for their creative input and contributions to this book. Laughter is truly the best medicine for overcoming any addiction. Thanks for writing the prescriptions, guys!

FOREWORD

I recently came up with a term to describe all the things in my life that I wanted but did not get. You may have heard of them referred to as Broken Dreams or Unanswered Prayers or even Curses, but I now call them Failure Miracles.

Like my childhood prayers that some day I’d play in the NBA. Each night when I went to bed my prayer was (from about ages 8-16), roughly translated:

Now I lay me down to sleep—God please let me play in the NBA. I’ll do anything. I’ll be your humble servant boy on earth. I’ll clothe the hungry! I’ll feed the naked! Just please—me, NBA…do your thing’

Guess what I don’t do for a living?

Or things you don’t want and get in bucketfuls. Like my pre-prom anxiety zits. " God, please don’t let me get zits before the prom."

Guess what happened as I lay in my bed the night before my prom? Pop! A big one right at the end of my nose. I could almost hear it come to life: The zit heard round the world.

As I grew older, my prayers and wishes became more serious. I begged harder and nothing seemed to come true.

I spent so much time cursing what I didn’t have and lamenting what I did. What I wanted I didn’t get. And what I got I didn’t want.

It was only years later, looking back, that I realized these things were blessings. No, not just blessings, but miracles.

God, why can’t you give this to me? eventually turns into Thank God I didn’t get that!

Failure Miracles.

You would not be where you are today without them. As painful as they may be, they make you who you are. But here’s the rub; you gotta make something of them.

Gary Marino has made something of his—big time.

Gary Marino, my friend and the author of this book, has known many successes, but he also had a really big Failure Miracle. He has endured a lifetime weight problem. He’s addicted to something we all need: food.

How many times do you think Gary prayed,

Please take this burden from me. Why can’t I just eat normal? Like that guy? Why can’t I just lose some weight and keep it off?

I’m sure Gary would have killed for my little zit problem at the prom if it meant someone would take away a few pounds.

But nobody ever swept in and cured Gary. God never took away the food addiction. Gary struggled and lived the best he could, battling this problem for years, his prayers unanswered, or so it would seem.

See, if Gary had been born with a perfect physique, or if he had lost all the weight he wanted, every time he wished it, he would not be who he is. He would not have learned what he learned. He would not have become who he became—namely, one of the best people you could ever hope to meet.

•   What did he gain by having this weight problem? What did he gain having his prayers unanswered? Here’s a short lMental toughness and inner fortitude.

•   A beautiful and sharp sense of humor.

•   Empathy for others.

•   Patience in the face of real problems.

•   Pride in the face of ridicule.

•   Kindness in the face of the not-kind.

•   Fierce determination with just the right mix of humility.

•   Hope.

•   And finally, it gave him a mission in life.

This book represents Gary’s mission: to help others.

This book is the long-awaited yet blessed result of many Failure Miracles.

Gary lost this weight the hard way. No operations. No quick fixes. If you are looking for how a grapefruit can make everything okay, you’ve bought the wrong book. He looked inside, he made a stand, and he followed through. Now he shares all those things with you, using his journey to help you on yours.

So no, Gary never had his weight miraculously taken from him—thank God for that—for he would not be the person he is and so many people would not benefit from his awesome journey and inspiring story. So next time you don’t get what you want, think Failure Miracle. Think of Gary.

And thank whomever it is you believe in for their non-answer to your prayer. Although…I’ll still negotiate the NBA thing if you’re listening, Big Guy. And the zit thing was just uncalled for.

Matty Blake

PART I

PARADISE BY THE

BUFFET LIGHTS

INTRODUCTION:

GOING WIDE

Bourne, Massachusetts

July 1998, 11:35pm

As I speed down Interstate 495 towards my uncle’s beach house in Cape Cod, an eerie and familiar feeling returns to my mind and body. Behind the wheel, the white lines on the highway suddenly blur a bit through heavy, exhausted, almost hypnotized eyes. A warm, numb feeling slowly makes its way from the base of my spine up through the tips of my fingers. As a matter of protocol, I turn off the radio so I can concentrate on the impending problem. I open the window and moon roof to keep the wind in my face. In an instant, I am suddenly drained and paralyzed behind the wheel. I summon whatever little energy I can to keep my hands on the steering wheel. My foot seems permanently asleep as it applies pressure to the gas pedal. The car slows from 70 miles-per-hour to almost 50, but then begins to weave slowly in and out of the center lane. The cars in the lanes to the left and right begin to beep their horns and swerve defensively to avoid being hit by my four wheel death trap, which now seems in control of its own destiny. I’m but a mere passenger in this horrific scenario, without even the energy to lift my foot off the gas pedal or turn the wheel to pull into the breakdown lane. Things suddenly begin to dim and my consciousness begins to fade. At 40 miles-per-hour, with cars in the lanes on both sides of me, my eyes begin to close and my head falls back against the headrest. I am not horrified or alarmed. This scene has repeated itself dozens and dozens of times for the past two years, and the only one truly responsible for this disease’s powerful hold over me is myself. Although these episodes have become more and more frequent as of late, I am, for whatever reason, not afraid. The feelings of numbness gripping my body have lately become almost nostalgic in a sense, like an old friend I never asked for, like an old enemy I can’t seem to get rid of. Long ago, I accepted these frequent losses of consciousness as my disease and became resigned to its hold over me. The scene has suddenly become quiet. I am in a deep subconscious state. By all rights, I should crash through the gates of Heaven any second. Suddenly a car horn plays loudly in my head. My brain goes from zero to 60 in half a second and my head snaps to the right in time to see the front of my car heading straight for the driver’s side door of the car in the right hand lane. The driver is now leaning on his horn in hopes of avoiding the impending crash. Instinctively, with almost no input from my brain, my arms turn the wheel to the left with not a second to spare. Back safely in the center lane, I seem to be alert and in temporary control of my mind and body. Ahead, the Bourne Bridge takes me over the Cape Cod Canal, offering a breathtaking night view of Buzzards Bay and the quiet side of The Cape. At my uncle’s beach house, family and friends are already fast asleep in anticipation of our usual weekend fishing and boating routine. They are, unfortunately, not the only ones fast asleep. On the other side of the bridge on Route 28 south, the white lines suddenly go blurry again. The scene I’ve just described repeats itself a few more times. With each episode I am amazed at how little warning I have. Once again the wave of exhaustion grips my body before I can pull over. As I drive towards Falmouth on a road that leads to the ocean, I suddenly slip into another coma-like state. At this late hour I am the only car on the road, but the road is a two-lane street that veers sharply to the left as it reaches the ocean. I am, of course, in no position to navigate a left. My head is back on the headrest and my eyes are closed. As usual, I have no control. Once again, everything is suddenly quiet. The silence itself is unnerving. Something deep inside my subconscious urges me to open my eyes and see what has become of my world.

I raise my heavy eyelids half-way. A white fence is heading for my car, or rather my car is heading for a white fence. I can make out the blackness of the Atlantic Ocean. In a second’s time I spring into a state of complete alertness and slam on the brakes. The car skids loudly and stops only inches from the fence which blocks me from the rocky cliffs and dark waters below. My car stops, but my mind races with thoughts of how close I’ve just come to my demise. I can see the lights of Martha’s Vineyard across the water, where by all rights I should be floating at this moment. I’ve come close before, but never this close. As I stare out at the ocean and digest what has just occurred, I can’t help but ask myself how my life has come to this. Nearly two years earlier I had been diagnosed with sleep apnea, a disease caused, in my case, by weight gain and obesity. Can a man truly eat his way into a bizarre sleep disorder that threatens his very existence? The cold reality is that my life has come down to this. As a result, simple tasks such as driving have become nearly impossible. The tiny lights of the island are still shining at me from across the sea, creating a quiet, friendly haven in which to reflect on my mortality and begin the process of self analysis, perhaps for the first time in my life. I turn off the car’s headlights, put my head on the wheel and ask myself where it all began.

Suddenly my mind goes back to a warm fall New England day in October, 1975. The orange, yellow and brown leaves were falling, literally raining down from the trees onto the Harrigan family’s front lawn. My brother Rich and I, along with some neighborhood kids, were immersed in an intense game of tackle football. Mrs. Harrigan just happened to have the biggest front lawn on the street, and in those days, before we’d developed any real common sense, that was the only permission we needed to rip it up with our football antics. No need to ask. Have lawn, must play, you know?

Go wide! yelled the quarterback. Before I could look, the pass came to me from my left. As I jumped up and twisted my body to catch the ball, someone threw himself on me from the right and tumbled me to the ground. In typical neighborhood-game fashion, every kid pig-piled on me just to make sure I was down. (Of course, before you feel bad for me, consider that I had been leading the pig pile just two plays before.) The last kid jumped up on the mountain of players on top of me. And that was when I heard it for the first time—the F word. No, not the four-letter word, but the three-letter one…F-A-T. Apparently someone thought I’d been gaining too much poundage and not enough yardage.

I slowly got to my feet and wore an awkward smile. I wasn’t sure exactly how I was supposed to respond to an unsolicited insult of a personal nature. I waited for a referee to call him on an illegal use of the mouth, but the player who dropped the F-bomb continued his verbal pig pile. You are. Look at you. You’re fat, said the player who had unfortunately ended up underneath me when I was tackled. I kept a smile on my face, but felt embarrassed, and for the first time in my young life, extremely vulnerable. Meanwhile, the angry rant continued, while the game seemed to be on permanent hiatus. The other players stood in a circle, waiting to see how I’d respond. Apparently I’d taken the words go wide! too literally. I determined that this kid’s anger was less about my impending weight problem and more about the fact that he had landed underneath me when he tackled me.

I figured it was a whole lot of 10-year-old 60-pound Italian landing on him at once. Nevertheless, the game went on without any further incident, and I used my new-found status as the fat kid to successfully tackle many players. Be that as it may, I’ll never forget the first time someone publicly insulted my appearance. At age 10, I’d been introduced to the cheap shot, and it had an impact on me. At that moment in my life, I was suddenly aware of my vulnerability to rude comments about my physical appearance. I wish it had been the last time, but it was only the first of many verbal and mental daggers to come that would assault my psyche and self confidence, essentially motivating me to eat even more to numb the anxiety.

Of course years later I did not take such insults as well. Cute little boys don’t stay little or cute. They grow up to be hardened men who will defend themselves at any cost. It got ugly. Really ugly. But from that day on Mrs. Harrigan’s lawn, I always felt that there was something deeply wrong with me. At a young age, my life had somehow become a left-hand turn and I seemed entirely powerless to stop it. My world had become like a movie that starts out great and then gets really stupid, and I’m sitting there in the theater with a Jacuzzi-sized popcorn (extra butter of course), saying to myself, Do I really have to sit through this? Don’t get me wrong; I wasn’t suicidal. I was just not up for watching this display of ridiculousness that my life was becoming due to my developing food addiction and weight gain. Psychologically, the disease had set me apart from other kids and I always felt one step behind everyone else. I was a person who needed to be fixed before he could move forward in life. Jobs, school, relationships, hobbies, careers—it all seemed to be affected.

Beyond my weight, I was always pretty different. I had Attention Deficit Disorder (ADD), and I was not much of an athlete so what chance did I ever have to be normal? My sense of humor, however, always helped me socially and kept me far from lonely. Eventually I learned that I was not alone in this struggle. In time I met others with the same food issues as myself.

Back on that day in 1975, however, I would never have believed that I and millions of other kids my age would struggle with our weight, damaging our health and enduring discrimination into our thirties. Never did think I would see a day when 65% of the country was overweight. One in three children born would develop type two diabetes and obesity that were linked to some fifty diseases, including the very deadly sleep apnea. And never did I think I would see the day when I’d become just one more statistic in some pediatric obesity file on some doctor’s desk.

The kid’s comment on the lawn that day, although innocent enough, sent me scrambling to learn about quick-fix diets and exercises, but it was already too late. The misadventures had begun.

GENERATION XL

It came quickly, with little fanfare, and was out of control before the nation noticed. Obesity, diabetes and other diseases caused by diet and sedentary lifestyle now affect the health, happiness and vitality of millions.

—Dr. Kelly D. Brownell, PH.D.

Director of the Yale Center for Eating and Weight Disorders

Looking back on it, my first Little League experience was probably an omen of things to come. On a chilly spring afternoon in the mid 1970s I was just another chubby, slightly freckle-faced kid signing up to play baseball in my hometown of Medford, Massachusetts. My folks, Leo and Lorraine Rainbow Marino sat shivering on the bleachers as 175 kids waited to be assigned to teams. It worked like some kind of junior draft system. Coaches scouted each kid at bat, on the bases and in the outfield. Depending on how a kid performed, he was assigned a team. If a kid was a good hitter but not much of a fielder, he balanced out the team in need of hitters. If a kid had all the right moves in the field, he was picked up by a team who needed solid defense. Me? I didn’t really do anything right, but I had a good attitude and it worked. Other factors seemed to come into play as well. If a player was the son of a city councilor or lived on the same street as the coach, he stood a better chance of being picked by a talented team. Also, if a kid’s young mother was known to attend games wearing a low-cut sweater or tight-fitting skirt, you could count on that kid being in demand as well. Medford, at that time, had some great teams. There were some great sponsors as well. Knox Photo had one of the best win/loss records around. Andre Realty had the best looking uniforms. Gaffey’s Funeral Home wasn’t the most inviting name for a baseball team, but they had one of the hardest throwing pitchers in the entire state. As the options dwindled down that afternoon, my time came and my name was called.

Gary M. Marino, yelled the coach. You’re with McDonald’s. Head on over. I remember my very first reaction. I thought, McDonald’s—Life is good! The

Mickey D’s Little League team had come in dead last the previous season, but I wasn’t so much interested in the team’s win/loss record as I was the much-talked-about incentive program I’d heard about.

If you hit a triple, explained the coach, you get a free Quarter Pounder with cheese. A home run gets you a free Big Mac. I remember thinking And do I get fries with that? Hey, here’s an idea. Why don’t we drink strawberry shakes in the dugout instead of Gatorade. Why not chew Chicken McNuggets instead of chewing tobacco? On cold days, flaming hot apple pies could keep the players warm…

The incentives on the McDonald’s team were exciting, all right, but just in case that wasn’t enough, every team victory was celebrated with a private party at—you guessed it—McDonald’s. I didn’t want to know what they offered as incentives over on the Gaffey’s Funeral Home squad.

Every Saturday afternoon we put on our bogus blue and yellow McDonald’s uniforms, which made us look about as intimidating as Ronald McDonald himself, and headed for the ball park to win some incentives. Now I couldn’t hit a triple to save my life, but getting up at bat I was more fired up about the concept of the two all-beef patties and special sauce than I ever was about actually winning the game.

I guess I should have noticed my strong connection to food right then. It may sound like a cliché from a twelve-step program, but food truly was my friend. It was not fuel, it was love. Food had a kind of sixth-sense presence to me. It tasted beyond delicious. Food was what I lived for. It felt great going down and eating it always seemed to be front and center in my mind. Rather than list the foods I loved, I’ll just make it easy and list the foods I didn’t like: oysters, stuffed artichokes, fish cakes and liver. Have you got the picture? Everything else was fair game. Eating good food was pure rapture to me. I was drawn to it. I needed it. The powerful impulse to eat came from very deep within. From my earliest memory, I never seemed to have much control over it.

If ever a kid was truly cursed to grow up with a weight problem, I was still the luckiest cursed kid on the planet. Despite being at war with myself early on, I was born into an incredibly loving and nurturing family that remains close to this day.

Both of my folks were from working class, first-generation Italian-American families. Mom grew up in Cambridge, Massachusetts, and Dad on the streets of

Somerville. My sister Donna was the oldest, followed by my brother Rich, who was two years behind her. My little sister, Laura Jean, the youngest one in curls, was two years my junior. Oh yeah, you guessed it—there I was, right there in the middle child slot. My problem, however, was not middle-child syndrome. Both my folks were masters at spreading the love into four equal parts. It was more like Chubby Midriff Syndrome.

Despite the troubles to come, I had good role models. Dad was a salesman and the proud family provider. Whatever we kids needed we usually got, as long as we approached Dad with Ma on our side. Ma needed no approaching. Her ability to tune into her kids and determine our individual needs was legendary. The quintessential mother of all mothers. Her nickname was born in Nantucket one year when a waitress asked her what her hippie name had been back in the 60s. Rainbow, she responded. As the years went on, the name stuck because it was so fitting for a woman who radiated light and love. My dad, who usually went by the name Leo, had a nickname as well: Labio. This nickname was coined by my mother in the late 80s after deciding he looked much like a bald version of the famous romance novel model Fabio. Labio was a great Italian cook who could be counted on each and every weekend to whip up amazing multi-layered lasagnas or massive antipastos with heapings of cheese, salami, eggs, and olives. You name it, it was in there. Rainbow was an even more outrageous cook. Her specialties were spaghetti sauce with meatballs, sausages, beef ribs and crown pork roasts with potatoes, onions, carrots and stuffing.

Between both parents, I was in a food funk pretty early on in life. My strong connection to eating continued to grow stronger as I got older. It was sheer addiction, combined with some solid Italian genealogy. The right to eat the foods I loved when I wanted was a big part of my very existence and I was always emotionally protective of that right. I was also acutely aware of my slowly building weight problem, but only half of me wanted to deal with it. The other half was just way too hooked on the concept of eating and it’s soothing, tasty and instantly gratifying effects. Like most kids today, I probably watched too much TV when I should have been exercising.

My love of food was also compounded by environmental factors, such as the growing fast food industry. For myself and for an entire generation of kids, the 1970s were the test years for harmful marketing strategies such as supersiz-ing—simply known as large and extra large back then—and merchandizing, with movie and toy tie-ins. The test was a success, and consequently it helped millions of children develop pediatric obesity in the years to come. What had been a treat in the 1950s and 60s had become a way of life for school-aged kids such as myself. The corporate giants were the only winners in this developing nightmare.

Eating shaped my childhood. However, it wasn’t just the fast food industry that enhanced my love of food. Growing up in an Italian-American family was a front-row seat in the Land Of Plenty. On holidays such as Thanksgiving and Easter, the festivities were not one day, but two. Aunts, uncles, grandparents, neighbors, therapists, family friends, household pets and anyone else with hunger pangs gathered around the dining room table, which was packed with mouthwatering dishes. The next day the same crowd reconvened around the table once again for the traditional leftovers. To not show up to the table on day two was the equivalent of being a no show on the holiday