Though you might not know it from looking at me now, I've always struggled with weight. In the summer between high school and college, I topped out at 225 pounds, which with a 6'0″ frame put me square in the "Morbidly Obese" category. I justified my increasing weight and waistline by my athletic physique; after all, I played a multitude of sports in high school, but I was more of a David Ortiz than a Jose Bautista (a chubby guy who could hit home runs instead of a lean, mean, fighting machine).
My transition started that fall. I had chosen a college close to home, mostly due to the fact that my mother was seriously ill and I wanted to be close to her in case she needed extra care. She ended up passing away over the summer, leaving me at a school I didn't really want to attend, with classes so easy I had significant amounts of free time. Sure, I partied a lot–San Diego State is a party school, after all–but I also hit the gym. 6 days per week. 2 hours per day. Over about 12 months and with no small amount of sweat, blood, and pain, I had dropped to a lean 165, and fell in love with my body.
Of course, the working world has a way of letting the pounds add up. In the fall of 2011, I was back up at 195-200, a full 30-35 pounds heavier than at my ideal weight. Problems were adding up; asthma made a reappearance, allergy issues I hadn't faced in years reared their ugly heads once more, and I felt like a lug. I knew
