I have never been what most people—with or without medical degrees—would consider to be an ideal weight.

I have, from time to time, dieted and exercised. That succeeds in bringing my mass and girth down somewhat, but never to the point where any sane person would call me thin. (This has given me an appreciation for insane people.) And after I stop watching my weight it inevitably sneaks away from me and climbs back up the fat slope.

Don’t misunderstand me. I’ve never been so morbidly obese so as to block out sunlight for a large crowd. For one thing, I’m far too short to do that. But even if I did have sufficient height to cast a total eclipse of the sun on a mob, I have never had enough width for that.

Nonetheless, despite never having been misidentified as a blue whale or a bull elephant, I have also never been mistaken for an anorexic—not even close.

I’ve always been somewhat chubby. I was born at 9.5 pounds and kept going from there. When I was a kid, my parents had to buy my clothes in the “husky” section.

Back then, adults often told me, “No Joel, you’re not fat; not at all. You are just big-boned.” It consumed all of my energy to avoid laughing when people told me that.

I know what you are going to ask, “Why didn’t you just laugh rather than struggling against it?”

I would have, but if I laughed any more vigorously than a slight giggle, my fat would jiggle hideously. That was far too embarrassing to consider.