IS GLUTTONY, OVER-EATING BAD? Hear the answers from an 'expert'
MEET "GILBERT GRUB," EXPERT AT OVER-EATING, GLUTTONY AND LOVING FOOD
MORE HONEST EXAMPLES OF EATING, OVER-EATING AND GLUTTONY
LOVING TO EAT
are not, in themselves, harmful. Fatal. Deadly. But a constant, dedicated loyalty to both can lead to harmful diseases such as diabetes. And deadly attacks from clogged arteries and high blood pressure.
Seemingly, in some areas of the United States, people have this magnetic-attraction to loving food and seeing just how much food they can 'shovel down' their throats. Whatever happened to moderate eating? Sensible portions? Eating like a civilized human being? Huh?
We even glamorize over-eating and border-line gluttony on television with a hit-show called "Man Vs. Food," with Adam Richman, a man who goes about the country taking on food-challenges which is nothing more than a series of glamorized competition eating. And the Nathan's Fourth of July Hot Dog Eating Contest, don't get me started.
After you read this somewhat comical hub, that does have some truth in it, you can make up your own mind as to if you agree with the hub and the views of the guy, "Gilbert Grub," who talks about his love for food and love for eating.
I respect your intelligence.
"Hello, my name is 'Gilbert Grub,'
and I love food. Love to eat. And I want to talk to you, first-person, about my rather unhealthy lifestyle that some in our country would call 'dangerous,' 'unhealthy,' and 'gluttonous.' I hate to disagree, but there isn't a thing wrong with me. Just look at my photo above. I have just finished a seven-course meal in a fancy restaurant in Brooklyn, New York, and I am satisfied. Really full. As a tick. I love the feeling of being full to the brim. With food. Of every shape. Size. Texture. And taste. From raw oysters by the dozen to dozens and dozens of fresh, cream-filled dough nuts, I love it all.
I think that my 'love affair,' with food started when I was a baby. I came into this world weighing 12 pounds, six ounces. My mom stayed unconscious for days. As I grew, some say that my love for food began with being breast-fed. Well, one honest family member, my "Uncle Teddy," an outspoken, World War I vet, told me when I was eleven, that I ate from both of my mom's breasts--as soon as I had drained one, I would start on the other one. Teddy even said that mom laughed at my appetite. And so did everyone present when she breast-fed me. In the doctor's waiting room. Grocery store. Or in the city park. Mom loved me.
As time went by, so did my waistline. I weighed 188 pounds while in the fourth grade at a school who begged me not to mention in my lecture today. By fifth grade, I weighed a whopping 201 pounds. People loved to see me try to sit in my desk. I was such a distraction in class that my teachers had a big wooden chair for me to sit in near her desk. That was a loving gesture if you ask me. Pretty soon, and without me asking for it, I was nicknamed, "Grub," and with my first name, Gilbert, it was fitting for people to call me, "Gilbert Grub." I didn't mind. I just loved to eat. As many times in a day as possible.
I can say, with a clear conscience, that I was 'the darling of the lunch room,' for I was the only student who could juggle five plates of food. Finish them with the speed of a cheetah running down its prey. And return for more. The lunch room ladies thought I looked cute with my pudgy little legs digging and pumping to get up speed to return to the lunch counter. And they winked at my belly, that honestly, was bigger than most kids' bellies--it piled over my jeans that looked like they were going to rip at anytime. I loved to eat. And eat a lot. The only time I couldn't eat was during class. I cried to my mom who went to see my teacher, a Mrs. Bigsby, who was firm in her rule of 'no eating' in class. Mom always said that it was Mrs. Bigsby's stern nature that made me what I am today as an adult: overweight. A glutton. Dangerously-fat. But those are mere words. Opinions of a mortal. I love myself. I don't see "me" as any of these negative things. I say live and let eat.
Hey, I don't hurt anybody with my large passion for food. And eating. I cannot be what people want me to be. It was always like that in high school, which also begged to not be mentioned in my story. I was always known as 'Grub man,' "Food freak,' and a name that was really hurtful: "Cholesterol Kid." What a mean bunch of friends I had to contend with, but that didn't stop me from loving food. Eating the size of lunch that would feed three grown men. Sometimes my high school teachers who ate with my class would let me sit by myself. What an honor. I remember my tenth-grade history teacher, "Mrs. Overton," a nice, northern lady, and very persuasive. She told me that sitting alone--gorging down my seven plates of food didn't mean that I was not loved by my friends, but I was the "Prince of Peas," and "King of Kraut," as the said were my new names of honor. I didn't mind. I loved the extra elbow room. No one trying to sneak a free bite of my lunch(es).
Then my high school graduation rolled around. I was excited. I remember the day I graduated. It was on a hot Saturday in June. I was to walk the aisle that night at 7 p.m. sharp. But during the day, a few pals and I went 'restaurant hopping,' to celebrate "me" getting a diploma. After 14 years in high school. Something about my 344 pounds that hindered me from getting a regular education like the other students. That day was one to remember. We hit "Popo's Pizza on Beeker Street, where I alone, put away three-large pepperoni and sausage pizzas while my buddies laughed and bragged on me for being able to eat more than anyone in town. And they didn't lie. I could. Eat more than anyone in my hometown. Or towns nearby. Then we blew-into "Sasalitto's Spicy Sausage," and what a treat that was. I ordered an entire length of spicy Italian sausage with onions, peppers, six orders of large fries, complimentary wheat rolls, and three, two-liter Cokes for my eating pleasure. My buddies were not that hungry for some reason. I guess they 'couldn't hold their calories,' huh?
I barely fit into the specially-tailored graduation robe(s) my high school made for me to graduate in. I sweated like a dog who had chased a rabbit for ten miles. My shirt was sticking to my back. My slacks were dripping with sweat also. I had begged our principal, "Mr. Dowley," to just let me walk to the stage in my street clothes, but he said that I would stand-out too much. I laughed and said, "and this 366-pound frame won't?" Dowley was a good egg. He didn't look at me for being obese, but calorically-enhanced. I always thought that meant 'fat.' Good thing he didn't say I was fat for my dad, who topped the scales at 455 pounds, would have had to talk to him in private, if you know what I mean. My dad, also a food-lover, didn't want anyone calling his 'little boy,' fat.
My life after graduation, mysteriously went into a tailspin. I wasn't accepted into the colleges I had applied for. Some admissions offers told me in our meetings that it was a health issue and they couldn't be responsible. What had our country become? A socialist nation? A place where a slightly-overweight boy cannot get a college education? But even these numerous let-downs didn't get me down for my love of food that was steadily-increasing. When I felt depressed after a day of being told, "no, we don't have the proper facilities for people of your nature," I would heal myself with three or four cheeseburgers, three bags of chips and three, large banana splits. This always put me 'in the pink,' and ready for another day of trying to get into college.
But the years went by. And they were not kind at all. The only friend I had was food. And eating when I could to hide behind the disappointing life that I had been dealt. And to think back in my grade school and high school years of my teachers and guidance counselors telling me that I needed to 'slow down' with my eating or I would pay later on. What planet did they come from? I wrote off my track record of all-defeats to enter college as fate telling me to forget higher education and just get a good job. Make good money. Marry a sweet girl. Have a few kids. And retire like the happy man that I was.
Funny thing about fate. At every factory or business I applied for work, it was like applying for college all over again. It was, "no jobs today," and "we don't have the correct facilities for people of your shape," and friend, that begin to hurt my feelings. I felt unwanted. I never thought that I was that big. But the eyes of a stranger always sees more than our eyes, so I just stayed around home with my mom and dad--loving mealtime and all that mom could cook for me. Those were special times. Even the night I got choked on three baby back ribs that I had tried to eat at one time. We all laughed at my lack of judgement. Me, mom, dad, and the two EMT's who dislodged the ribs from my throat, which took some doing, for my skin around my face and neck was in layers. Hard to get around. But those EMT's knew their business. I owe them my life today.
As time went by, I would see a few of my school chums once in a while and see, by their nice suits and ties, that they had 'made it,' and I hadn't. Oh, they were compassionate and all. But leave it to one jerk in the crowd to say, "Grub, have you been sick? You looked swelled!" I knew that was their way of softening the blow of saying, "Grub, you are the biggest man I ever saw." But even that didn't stop me from my love of food.
Then that near-fatal day came. I was at mom and dad's home, taking one of my nine daily naps in the recliner (that dad had reinforced for me to sit in) when I began wheezing. Choking. Not breathing. But this time, not for trying to eat three baby back ribs. A new team of EMT's who revived me said I was having a near-fatal heart attack and a complete physical was needed. And there was no way I could get out of it.
The day of my physical was painful. Hurtful. And very-depressing to me. The doctor, a "Dr. Zane," was not friendly. At all. I thought he was having a headache. Or his wife was leaving him that made him so hostile, but it was like he said more than once, "I was a complete obese man and unless I took off a lot of weight, I was bound to die." Harsh words coming from a man who swore to preserve life.
Dr. Zane was very methodical. He outlined the tell-tale signs that told him (and the signs were not hard to spot) that I was overweight. Obese. And nearing a meeting with the Grim Reaper.
My Symptoms were . . .
- Wheezing and not breathing like a normal person
- Laboring to get up from a sitting position
- Sweating profusely when walking across the room
- Laboring to make a step at a time
- My stomach hanging over my pants top causing the buttons on my shirt to pop off
- Swelling in my feet, hands, and neck
- Blood pressure was off-the-chart....HIGH
- Cholesterol levels were so high, it was a miracle I was still alive.
I was glad that my physical was over. I did the right thing and shook Dr. Zane's hand. He had this look of pity on his face as I worked to make my way out of his office.
When I reached the lobby of the hospital, I noticed a scary figure standing in the corner near the snack room that I had intended to visit on my way out, but changed my mind. Quickly.
I didn't know who the figure was. Maybe the hospital employees were having a Halloween party. But in August?
Never did know why that guy was dressed in a black robe and carried what looked like a sickle that you use to cut wheat.
Don't want to be like 'Gilbert Grub'?
A DIAGRAM OF "GILBERT GRUB"
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