I’m seeking out bariatric surgery to improve my life. I want to feel better and do more. I want to live longer and healthier, which is important not only to me, but to my family. I want to break the downward spiral of ongoing weight gain and falling self esteem.

But there is one more reason. I need to set a better example for my children. My daughter is in 3rd grade – the same age I was when my weight problems started. Sometimes I watch her eat and I see myself. She eats more than she should, and often when she’s not hungry. She gravitates toward processed carbs and junk over whole grains and vegetables. My wife is a trim, healthy eater who exercises regularly. Together we try to teach our daughter better habits. But I have no credibility. If I’m not living a healthy lifestyle, how can I possibly teach my daughter? And I fear that my son isn’t far behind, despite being just three-years-old and quite slim. As parents, we have always worked hard to be on the ‘same page.’ From one perspective, going ‘under the knife’ offers me the chance to become a better parent.

The desire to solve my weight issue is huge. I think about it every day. How would my life be different if I lost 100 pounds? How much easier would it be to find a new job? How much more could I accomplish if I felt better physically and emotionally? I’m committed to weight loss through bariatric surgery because at age 40 I’m quickly reaching a incontrovertible decision point – do this and live well, or don’t, and live a sickly and shortened life.

Still, I’m terrified.

The idea of my body being cut open and replumbed scares the living daylights out of me. What if there are complications? Anesthesia scares me. What if I don’t wake up? Change scares me. What kind of person will I be without this 100 pound truck tire around my middle? Inertia scares me. Sometimes it is easier to do nothing than it is to hit the brakes and turn around. What if I can’t stick to the prescribed diet and exercise program after the surgery? I’ve never been successful before, so why should this time be any different? I know some of my fears are unfounded and silly, but they are my fears nonetheless.

I’m lucky to be surrounded by a loving, strong family and many wonderful friends. My friend and Rabbi, Joel, says I owe it to myself – and to them –not to leave this life any earlier than I’m supposed to. My longtime therapist, Don, has offered similar comments many times over the years. I think they are both right. I know in my heart that the benefits of bariatric surgery and the weight loss that follows far outweigh the risks of the procedure, and of doing nothing. I have a great life – except for my obesity. It is time for me to leave that burden behind and live the rest of my days to the fullest.

I hate when people tell me I remind them of that guy on Seinfeld. It is rude and insensitive. It’s a backhanded way of pointing out that I’m fat, and I’d really appreciate it if people didn’t compare me to Newman. It stirs up a well of feelings, from anger to frustration to sadness. It hurts. Sometimes I think these continuing insults are reason enough to subject myself to bariatric surgery.

So, for the record, here is a list of some of the differences between me and Newman:

• I’m a real person, with feelings. Newman is a fictional character played by an actor named Wayne Knight. Any physical resemblance between me and Wayne is purely coincidental.
• Newman is mean, manipulative, crude and evil. I’m a pleasant guy and I generally try to maintain a positive attitude. Newman doesn’t.
• People who watch Seinfeld, including me, usually hate Newman. People usually like me.
• I’ve got an amazing, beautiful wife and two incredible children. Newman lives alone with his misery.
• I’m not a mailman (frankly, if I was I probably wouldn’t be so overweight).

I don’t mean to be so tongue-in-cheek, because this really does piss me off. So don’t do it anymore.

I’ve been the fat guy since third grade. Prior to that, I was skinny-as-a-rail slim, like my three-year-old son Ari is today. With my shirt off you could see ribs and a flat stomach. But between 1^st and 3^rd grade, something changed. I blew up like a balloon, as the saying goes. I remember sad, strange things from this time. My mother replacing my winter coat several times in one year, as I outgrew the smaller sizes. Struggling to fit in to my Star Trek Halloween costume. Being embarrassed to take my shirt off at the beach. Feeling different than everyone else.

After I got fat, school life changed for the worse. I was always picked last for team sports, since I couldn’t run fast. Kids teased me relentlessly, calling me ‘the bubble’ or comparing me to Weebles, a popular toy with egg shaped characters. It was hard to find a seat on the school bus, because the other kids insisted I’d squish them. After a while it became impossible to make friends. It didn’t help that my parents moved us every few years. Not only was I always the new kid, I was the new fat kid. So I ate more.

I don’t know exactly what triggered my initial weight gain. But I know that as I got older, eating became my way of dealing with stress and hardship. I gained weight steadily from my teenage years into young adulthood. By the time I graduated from college, I was trapped in a vicious circle. I eat because I feel bad about myself, but then I feel even worse about myself. I eat when I’m stressed and worried. I eat when things are not going well. I eat when I don’t know what else to do. I try to exercise, but my weight makes it too difficult and painful.

I’ve tried diet after diet – Weight Watchers, HMR, Atkins, South Beach. I’ve worked with nutritionists. When I was 12, my parents sent me to Weight Watchers summer camp. The idea was I’d get into shape before my Bar Mitzvah the next year. I spent a month with other heavy kids, running and carrying on, and eating the prescribed diet (which at the time included a horrible – and offensive – liver stew). I also spent time sneaking sweets and other forbidden goodies from a convenience store near the college campus where the camp was based. At the twice weekly weigh-in, I was chastised by the camp nurse because of my inability to lose weight. I came home a bit thinner, but quickly gained it all back, plus more.

Obesity has a huge downside. I reached my current and peak weight about three years ago, when my wife and son almost died in childbirth. 321 pounds means I can’t easily hike or ski with my kids. It means I can’t keep up with my kids while they are having the time of their lives at DisneyWorld. It means I can’t easily bike with them during summer trips to our beloved Nantucket. It means I have a much harder time doing the home improvement projects I love so much. It means I have to shop for clothes at a big and tall shop. It means I have to drive a bigger car. It means I can’t sit comfortably on planes or at the movies, or even in my synagogue. It means I’ve suffered discrimination at work. It means I’m constantly aching. It means medical comorbidities, like sleep apnea, asthma and fatty liver, not to mention the future complications that await me. It is a burden that has had me depressed for most of my adult life.

I’ve been in therapy for years, trying to figure out why I eat and how to control it. I’ve learned a lot about myself and why I eat. I’ve come to terms with some of the more pervasive issues from my childhood – a difficult and controlling father, low self esteem, undiagnosed attention deficit disorder. At age 40, what I’ve realized is that without a drastic step, I’m not going to win this battle.