KARMIC LOVE

The wind had picked up speed and an arctic rain

was pelting down on my thin leather jacket like

a multi-tailed whip. As I bent over the icy metal rail

on top of the concrete parapet that came up to my

waist; the frothy brown water seemed to beckon

more and more. With all the seasonal rain typical

for the end of January in this part of Germany, the

river had probably dug to at least twenty-five feet

deep and ten-foot-deep of the torrent, murky water

– perfect for swallowing up the disgusting waste of

space I had become.

T

Only a year ago I'd been on top of the world.

Granted, an almost 400 lbs. the guy being on top of

anything inevitably led to indents, cracks or breaks,

but at 6’4” I carried it pretty well. Plus, a lot of it

was muscle and the skinnier guys at the garage were

happy to let me do the heavy lifting. And there was

a lot to that, to be the one. It seemed with every

year more orders were pouring in: checkups, tuning,

tire changes, the works, and our small team of four

rapidly accumulated over time. Good mechanics

were hard to come by in general, a fact made even

worse by the younger generation being increasingly

unwilling to put down their smartphones and get

their hands dirty. Still, thanks to our amazing team as well as our boss Oskar, who worked us hard but

paid good money and still believed in the concept

of work-life balance. Then, I looked forward to

working almost every day of the year.

Over the past months, though, my diet had gotten out of whack. This last Christmas I'd taken

overindulgence to a whole new level and I hadn't

managed to get off the diet of having chocolate and

other snacks the way I usually did. My increasing

workload contributed to that: I’ve never been a

breakfast type and during the day there were increasingly fewer opportunities to take a proper

lunch break, leaving me no choice but to raid the

fridge in the evenings. I’ve always been a hefty guy

because I love food, and I’d grown even more since

I met my girlfriend, Silke. I’d never forgotten the

day we met five years ago: one of those days, she’d

driven her Peugeot 206 into our garage for tuning,

and her love for cars, her smile and most of all her

curves had caught my fancy immediately.

A big girl herself, around 230 pounds on a 5’5”

frame, Silke was my first partner that not only accepted but also appreciated my weight and even encouraged me to eat how much I wanted. She loved

to grab and knead my belly or to pat my butt, even

in public. Never indecently so but she was

unashamedly obvious about the fact that she was

into my body. Increasingly less so, though.

“You know I love that you’re a big guy,” she told

me when she saw me raid the fridge after work the

other day, “but please watch it, OK?”It was the first time I noticed she was eyeing my

body for anything but approval and it did not feel

good. It was also the first time she’d ever criticized

my weight. She never did so with anyone, not after

what she had been through with her mom. After

years of trying to please her and fighting her own

weight, she’d finally embraced it. She’d been in a

dark place and wouldn’t ever go back. She always

told me this with a grin, patting whatever part of

me that was closest to her at the time. Lately, those

parts of me got closer and closer, though, creeping

onto and taking over her side of the bed. I was

gaining fast, not only on my gut but also thighs and

butt. I was becoming soft and doughy, not in any

sight of a woman who preferred a mix of flab and

muscle that she’d like to wake up to. That she

would address my weight openly now told me the

matter was serious.

So far, I hadn’t thought so. I guess every big person has to make a decision at some point how

much they let other people’s comments and stares

get to them. With my dad, I’d managed pretty

quickly to let both bounce off, and meanwhile, I really couldn’t give a damn what anyone else thought

either. I’d so far brushed off my colleagues’ ribbing,

too. My best friend Lars, who I, unfortunately, got

to see few weeks due to his busy job, also seemed a

little worried the last time I saw him, but he didn’t

get on my case too much either.

“As long as you’re healthy and happy with yourself,” he told me, “it’s your business. Just be careful,

OK?” “Hey,” I grinned back at him, “I’d never let myself get as big as those guys they have to lift out of

their places with a crane.”

It seemed I was well on my way, though. I did

take Silke’s words to heart but I just couldn’t seem

to break out of the pattern I’d fallen into. I kept

gaining. I began to waddle. One day I felt a cool

breeze on the underside of my belly and discovered

with horror that the lowest part was peeking out.

No, not just peeking: hanging. I was thirty-one only

and already sagging! Due to my height, I already

wore extra-long T-shirts and even those couldn’t

contain me anymore?

At work, it wasn’t that much of a problem since

we wore coveralls but even the 4XL ones I wore

these days were having more and more trouble

keeping me contained. My gut kept getting in the

way, too, causing me to bump into and knock over

things I couldn’t see anymore. We had that little

niche where we kept some of the tools and it began

to be a pretty tight fit in there, as were the chairs

whenever I went out for after-work drinks with the

guys. I also had to sit down and rest more. My arms

were getting heavy during overhead work.