COMMENTARY
Overweight Americans are victims of being overserved

By Craig Wilson
USA Today

America's overweight can cite a number of reasons for the added pounds — bad diet, lack of exercise and the all-too-familiar super-size meals at fast-food outlets. Gannett News Service

I made the mistake of looking at one of those height/weight charts, which tell you where your body fits in the great scheme of things — regular, large or super-size. I fell into that gray area of large.

I prefer to think of myself as stocky. I believe that at 53, a guy earns the right to be stocky. But there was no such category. You were either of healthy weight, overweight or obese.

I'm not alone, of course. Six in 10 of us are considered overweight, and almost a third are labeled obese. A number of reasons were cited: bad diet, lack of exercise, wrong grandparents. The usual culprits.

But what's a guy to do?

I was home last month, and my mother kept serving me Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Warm. I ate the whole box, not wanting to hurt her feelings.

Dinner at my neighbor Patti's. More lasagna? Please.

And if there's a plate of chocolate-chip cookies just begging to be touched, I'll touch. Maybe twice.

My colleague Sue even puts out a basket of candy on the days she knows I'm in the office. It would be rude of me not to take one, or two, considering the time and expense she goes through.

Though I may be stocky, I'm still in pretty good shape, if I do say so myself. I can see my toes, for instance, which I think is good. I just can't touch them.

But you only have to look around to see that Ronald McDonald is not our friend. Last week I was coming up out of the subway, and at the bottom of the escalator I came upon a huge crowd of people just standing there, staring up.

Was there a terrorist waiting at the top? Was it raining?

No. The escalator had stopped. The only way out was to walk up. I suspect that the crowd is still there, waiting either for a repairman or Jenny Craig to come to the rescue.

I witnessed a similar incident years ago covering the Olympics in Norway. One of the venues could be reached only by walking up the mountainside. There was no other way. Rosy-cheeked Norwegians, children and knapsacks on their backs, happily trekked up the hill. The Americans waited for a bus that never came.

I was brought up to take responsibility for my actions, and I do, but I recently came upon a word that, well, makes me feel a whole lot better.

A few months ago, we had a delightful houseguest. She was from the Deep South and came with family stories only Southerners offer up. Her grandmother is called Miss Missy-Miss. Or something like that.

She called her mother Sunday morning and found her under the weather. There had been a party Saturday night, and she told her daughter she had been "overserved."

She didn't eat or drink too much, mind you. She had been "overserved." I embraced the term immediately.

Now, on those mornings when the pants are too tight and the shirt neck won't button, I comfort myself with the fact that my overweight designation has nothing to do with anything "I" might have done.

I've merely been "overserved."