Feet don't fail me now

I had always been a skinny kid. I remember being weighed at 56 pounds in the fifth-grade.
Throughout high school, a lot of sandlot football and pickup basketball kept me in good shape. That, and the three to five miles I had to run every day as part of the high school cross country team.
In college, there was no one yelling at me to run, so I didn't.
I put on some weight (probably healthy in my case), but kept it in check with intramural soccer, wallyball (intramural champs, 1996, yeah, baby) and a lot of trips to the gym for basketball.
In the summer of 1997 I went to England where you have to walk everywhere, and I came back to the States in great shape.
Then I moved off-campus.
Little by little, I started to slip.
Then I graduated and, after a bit of Hoffman-esque floating, got a job.
I was now on one of those water park slides to weight gain.
Finally, I decided to do something about it, for myself and for a new girlfriend who would eventually become my wife.
I started biking. Every day. When it got too cold for biking, I started running, something I never thought I would do again. I was back up to three miles a day.
I was inching ever closer to my college weight, when I walked into a door jamb (something, if you've read the "Kicking Glass" column I seem to have an affinity for) and broke my toe.
I should clarify, I broke one of my toes. Not everyone in Appalachia is without their full compliment of fingers, teeth and toes, people.
As far as injuries go, a broken toe really sucks. Any doctor who is not in it for the money will tell you there's nothing you can do for it except take a lot of Advil.
It's such a tiny injury, but it completely takes you out of commission. You limp around everywhere, and people you approach view you with apprehension, as if you're a shambling zombie drawing ever closer to eat their brains.
I was thrown completely out of my regimen, and, even after the toe healed, I couldn't get back into a routine.
So, I put the weight back on.
Then, I got a job out-of-town where I ate out almost every day for lunch, and, later, every night for dinner when I became a night-dwelling editor type.
Last year, I was put on a doctor's scale and couldn't believe how far out of hand things had gotten.
I was also huffing and puffing in half-court basketball games at my church that didn't involve more than four people.
Time for action.
In February, 2011, I finally started going to the gym that I had a membership at on a regular basis. I even bought a Toronto Maple Leafs shirt that was too small for me as incentive to keep moving.
I was making unbelievable progress.
I dropped 20 pounds in two months, and was within striking distance of 30. I dropped a shirt size. The Leafs shirt fit.
Then, my wife and I took a trip to Naples, Fla.
I hadn't been to a beach in years, and, even though the temperature was nice and not too hot, I forgot how close the sun is to your body in that region.
Long story short (too late, ha) I ended up with second-degree burns on my feet.
I won't describe the condition and treatment of those burns, in case you are eating.
I have broken my left arm twice, and the aforementioned toe, but I don't think anything I've experienced compares to the agony I was in from those burns.
A friend dropped by my house to see how I was doing, looked at my feet, said "Oh, gross," and snapped a picture with the camera on his phone.
I spent the next few weeks at work with bandages beneath sandals and my feet propped up on my overturned garbage can.
Eventually, things healed. But again, I found myself unwilling or unable to get back into a routine.
I didn't put too much weight back on, and kept things steady.
When we visited a friend's house recently, one of their adorable children asked me how much I weighed. I told him. He looked horrified.
"I still have a few pounds to go," I said.
"If I were you, I would lose 100 pounds," he said.
Cute kid.
After some dithering about, I finally returned to my gym.
I'm settling into a good routine, and watching my feet very carefully. I will not let them be my downfall again.
Besides, my wife and I will eventually have children, and I don't want them to have a fat dad, nor a dad who dies at 60 due to complications from diabetes, heart disease or whatever else is waiting for me if I don't right the ship.
So I am 35, and I weigh 220. Do the math and you can see where I came from. But you can also see, especially if you knew me when I was much younger, that I have a long way to go. I plan on getting there sooner rather than later.
That is, as long as my feet don't get mauled by squirrels or something.