I’m at the most lovely resort on Miami Beach, watching my kids play in the water. Ari, my three-year-old, just dumped a bucket of water on Annie, who’s nine. He’s so proud of himself. Annie is turning to mock-attack him with a splash and a smile. There are a few fathers in the pool, splashing with their own kids. I was in for a while, towing the kids on a boogie board and teaching Ari to kick while holding his hands. It’s getting late, so I stepped out, giving the kids a few extra minutes, racing to get my shirt on before anyone looks my way.

It’s great to escape the New England winter for a while.

There are many beautiful people here. Women in string bikinis, men with six-pack abs. I also see lots of overweight and obese folks, like myself. No doubt many of the beautiful people are naturally that way, especially the men, I would guess. Some have surely had ‘enhancements’ here and there. I can see a few who’ve gone too far – the woman with Michael Jackson lips and the one with impossibly large breasts squeezed into an ill-fitting swimsuit.

Then there are the regular folks. Hardly stunning nor majorly overweight, they’re just average. There’s the Wall Street stockbroker I talked to, with the slight paunch and sinking portfolio. The slim but dowdy mom, enjoying her kids and the sun. The older couple near the hot tub, hiding behind floppy hats and sunscreen, their loose, leathery tanned skin on display. These are the normal, average-looking people I see everyday at the mall, the supermarket, or waiting to pick up the kids all over town. Nobody stares at them; no one turns away either.

Sometimes, when I’m bingeing on Mallomars or burgers and fries, I think I’d kill for their average looks. Not for their lives, or their money or success. Just to trade my freak body for theirs. I can’t even imagine what it’s like to be average. To walk in a business suit with no worry that people hear my thighs rubbing. To sit in a chair without squeezing between the arms. To swim with my kids minus my Man-Boobs. To change in the locker room.

I have no illusions that weight loss surgery will turn me into Keanu Reeves or Tom Selleck (the respective fantasy men of Erica and my Mom). I just don’t want to be the fat guy anymore. I want people to see an average-looking Mike. Oddly enough, some already do: “I never realized you saw yourself as the ‘fat guy,’” my friend Arlene wrote after first reading my blog. “I certainly never did. It is amazing how we see ourselves and even more amazing how others see us.”

Should have realized that myself.

My friend Renee is a brilliant physician. She’s the obstetrician-gynecologist who helped my wife, Erica, through a difficult pregnancy, followed by a really difficult pregnancy a few years later. As a doctor, Renee is meticulous, certain and caring. Her demeanor is calm and steady, which puts her patients – and their husbands – at ease. As a friend she’s incredibly thoughtful and interesting. Looks good in scrubs too (no offense to her husband).

So I can’t understand why she tried to do a C-section on me the other night.

They wheel me into the OR for my gastric bypass. I’m doped on the delicious meds they give you, my mind swaying to the Grateful Dead that no one else can hear. They slide me onto the table and suddenly Renee’s masked face drifts into view. She’s holding a scalpel. “Try to relax,” she says. “We’ll get the baby right out.” I freak.

The rest is fuzzy. I’m saved by my internist, Michele – yeah, kind of a friend too – who suggests I might not actually be pregnant. Good doctor, that Michele. I wake up with a start and knock the CPAP machine off my nightstand.

I think this is what they call an anxiety dream.

My first appointments at the weight loss surgery clinic are a little less than two weeks away. I haven’t met the surgeon yet, although he was hand-picked by my wife (also a doc – what’s with all these women doctors in my life?). I’m not normally a nervous guy. I’m pretty good in a crisis, in fact. I’m usually the one that keeps it together and helps everyone else through. I know bariatric surgery is the right thing to do. I’m certain of it, and I feel good about my decision. I’m not too worried, at least not yet, about the required lifestyle changes. I’m excited about slimming down.

It’s hospitals and surgery that scare the bejeezus out of me.

I don’t like people touching me. I don’t like people telling me what to do. I don’t like hospital gowns. I don’t like those stupid hospital name bracelets. I hate the nurses, with their nurse-like attitudes. I don’t like knives that slice me open like a baked potato. I don’t like anesthesia, and I don’t like depending on some anesthesiologist, who prefers his patients stay asleep, to wake me back up right. I don’t like catheters, IVs or phlebotomists (except Remy). I hate those annoying tray-tables that slide over the bed. There’s no TiVo, no WiFi, no MacBook. My iPhone will get lousy reception in the hospital. I don’t like being stuck in bed and I hate the idea of being forced out of bed right after surgery because it’ll hurt. I hate hospital-acquired infections that require more hospitalization. I’ll miss my wife, my kids, my dog and my bed.

Yeah, probably was an anxiety dream.

Big Fat Mike received more than 100 hits yesterday, after my Mallomars post. This is the highest number of daily readers on the site since I started blogging last month. I wanted to say thanks.

Please keep your hits and comments coming. It keeps me motivated to continue writing. As you might have guessed, my intention is to write about my weight loss experience continually, at least until I hit my goal weight, if not longer – gory details and all. I’m not usually the kind of guy that spills out his emotional guts. Maybe that’s been part of my problem all along.

Thanks again.