Margarita and My Wrath

I am obese. Like anyone recovering or recovered from an addiction, I will always consider myself afflicted by that which has the power to consume me.  It pervades every aspect of myself, informing my social confidences, my choice of clothing, my career aspirations, my humor, my choice of friends and partners, and my construction of logic.  My mental projection of what others see, for a split second, is always a rotund, sweaty, greasy man, bloated cheeks, double neck, large sausage fingers, and clothing that routinely compensates or attempts to hide the world of hurt underneath.

Medically speaking, I'm still very much obese, just not as morbidly obese as I once was.  I've spent the latter part of 18 months trying to remedy that, by running and eating right - most of the time.  The challenging part of my outward changes were that I still always feel like that fat man: 317.5 pounds of excess, of reckless living.

So when Margarita told Peter that she thinks I eat too much chocolate, in Spanish, and he translated it for me, I felt like I had just been outed. And mercilessly punched in the gut. A light conversation on the loss of weight from the Camino as a result of 15 miles of hiking everyday, brought on by us jumping on a scale at the pharmacy, now seemingly got hijacked by this woman's desire to put me down or point out a flaw.  She saw I was the fat one on the trip.  It was too late.  No one else had mentioned my size, and in fact when I told of my weight loss journey, I reaped the benefits of the pilgrim praise, the promise that my story would motivate them upon returning home, and the keen belief that my vacation in Spain could be spent enjoying foods I otherwise avoided, such as beer, heavy breakfasts, and, of course, chocolate.  Spurred on by the understanding that as a distance runner, one needs to replenish his glucose stores after a workout to avoid crashing - feeling overly drowsy and lethargic - I felt it best to keep my sugar level stable by eating a chocolate bar a day, or almost everyday.

The bars would be whatever I saw, and they always tasted great. They never got old, and in fact, eating them was devoid of any fat man guilt.  I knew I was climbing mountains everyday, knew that no matter how much I consumed on my trip afterwards, I couldn't possibly make up the calories I burned on my trip each day.  The bars would vary in size, depending on how naughty or in need of a reward I felt, but they were always in my rucksack.

So I stood in the square, with my Camino family, as the mid-afternoon sun scorched us.  We were now restocked on medical supplies; I had my tape, Peter his ibuprofen, Pedro and Manuel their prescriptions.  We had just stood on a scale, and joked at how much weight we had lost.  I was down about 7 kg since I left America, or about 15 pounds.  In about 3 weeks.

Margarita motioned for me to spin as Peter told her about my weight loss in Spanish, and she raised a single finger, seemingly to object to his words, and they conversed for a brief time.  She then nodded her head, then bowed it, as if she was content in keeping her words to herself.  It was then that I asked Peter what she said.

I was stunned, and did my best to move past it.  In fact, it was not a factor at our family meal, which was quite memorable.

But the fat man feelings, like they always do, creep in when we are most vulnerable for them.  For me, it was when I was finally alone, in my bed, and the next morning, when I set out alone before sunrise to the next town. I was ashamed of myself, of all the potential lost weight I could have experienced had I not partook in my sweet treats.  Seven kilograms could have been ten, or more.  My desire to be skinny, which comes from the source of who I am, could finally be realized, if only I had displayed even a modicum of will power.  Why even come on this trip if you're just going to live lavishly, I asked.  Why are you here?

This crushing pity party and guilt fest quickly turned to anger.  You see, there's no greater situation for a man upset at his own decisions than having a scapegoat on whom you can deflect, demonize, and scorn.  And deflect, demonize, and scorn I did.  Margarita.

I walked alone, very, very angry, at this slender Spanish woman.  Righteous thoughts entered my mind, like how un-Atticus-Finch of her to assume I had an eating problem.  She knew nothing of my personal journey, the half marathon, the 450+ miles I've logged in the last 7 months running, the days spent logging calories, spent walking for 5 or more hours. She knew nothing of the internal mental constructs I had built as a defense of the fat man feelings.  She knew none of this, and judged my book without reading my pages.  And she crushed me.  

That day, I walked about 30 km in beautiful weather, with no other goal in sight than to find her again, use my translation feature on my phone, and tell her in her own tongue that 15 months ago I weighed 80 pounds more, that I still had a ways to go, and she owed me an apology for rushing to judge me.  I wanted my pound of flesh for her words, for her failure to keep her comments to herself. Moreover, I ditched the chocolate in my bag, and had daydreams of triumphantly proclaiming to her when I saw her: "Guess what, Margarita?! I didn't eat any fucking CHOCOLATE today!!" 

I marched up mountains, past group after group of pilgrims, and said nothing to them.  This is a very un-pilgrim-like practice, as we pass each other often and are expected to wish one another a happy trip, or a good day.  It is one of the most beautiful parts of the whole walk, that constant experience of positivity.  

Not today, I intended to get to my next destination first, to feel accomplished, and wait for that smug Spanish woman to walk into the square, so she could feel my wrath.  Needless to say, I was seething.

I sat in a cafe, one of the only places open during Spanish siesta, well off the main square, and drank a gin and tonic, ate lunch, and watched mindless Spanish television.  I was zoning out between feelings of extreme guilt and anger, each feeding off the other, a shame spiral I haven't experienced in some time.

Then a hand on my shoulder.  I turn.  It's her.  Of all the gin joints in all the world...

She motions if she can sit down, and I immediately feel I am sitting with my doctor, nurse, or teacher.  She knew the real me, the fat man, and I somehow felt I needed to answer to her.

She began to speak in Spanish, and was motioning out the door, to the left.  I recognized "familia de Camino" and "Pedro" and "Manuel."  I got out my translation function on my phone, and began to feverishly type.  Here we go.  "Una momento," I said in terrible Spanish.

It was then she placed her hand on my hand, covering the phone, causing me to look up. "Vamos! Vamos!" She said, and I understood.  We go, come on.

I walk out into the Spanish heat, and there in the square, a mirror image of yesterday: my international friends, my Camino family, all seated around the statue in the square, taking a long respite after a strenuous days walk.  Margarita placed her hand on the small of my lower back, and gently motioned for me to join them.

I was greeted with a prodigal son's welcome, hugs, kisses, and smiles as if I had been gone for months.  The Spanish pilgrims began speaking to Peter, so he could translate for me. 

"They want to know why you went off by yourself today.  They were worried," Peter said.  "We were at breakfast, and Pedro talked about us all as the Camino Family, and then it got quiet."  This line of talk did nothing to calm my feelings of shame.

"And then Margarita said that we were missing one of our family - you."

My heart welled up, and for some reason, I still felt the need for last ditch effort at my ego.  "Well, Peter you can tell Margarita that I didn't eat any chocolate today."

He looked at me funny, and didn't bother to translate it for her. "She didn't mean it like that, John.  She said she thought you would have lost like double what you have if you were not eating so much chocolate."

"Then why did you say that she said I ate too much of it?!" I quipped.

"Because I was feeling rushed in our conversation.  I'm sorry.  Anyways, I hope you will join us for dinner, we've found a place that looks great."

I didn't know what to say or feel.  All that negative energy, all that anger and frustration, a construction of my own insecurity, a byproduct of my own feelings of unworthiness.  I wasted an entire day in paradise, missed chances to connect with others, with the earth, with God.  For nothing.  And now, when I think back, it was a powerful lesson on the rush to judgement.  I had been guilty of the same crime I had accused Margarita of committing to me.  Yet it was I that worked hard to destroy myself, and then tried to destroy someone else.