Nea Fane – Un Biet Român Pripășit în America / A Hapless Romanian Stuck in The US

Eight years ago, after my father rushed to be with my mother, my friend Mișu convinced me to promise that I’d try to lose weight. At 5 foot 7 inches, I was 273 pounds. A lot. Way too much. Énorme, as the very distinguished French gentleman would say when explaining that 80% of car accidents are caused by water drinkers.

Mișu (obviously) recommended a top-notch nutritionist doctor (“everyone at ProTV goes to him”). I went, and I got an ultra-personalized diet “that will help you lose weight and won’t leave you hungry.”

My ”promise” that I’d “try” got translated into action immediately: for nine months, I lost a lot of weight (a very good thing), very fast (a very bad thing), but I ended up looking almost human (another very good thing).

For nine months, my only friend in the kitchen was a small scale. Every night I went to bed hungry, and every morning I woke up starving and dragged myself through the entire day thinking about nothing but food. After those nine months, I maintained the amazing loss for another three. Two years later, I was right back where I started.

I went from size XXXL to M-L, then back to XXL. At the bottom of the closet, I rediscovered the large clothes. I cursed loudly in two languages and started wearing them again.

….

Three days ago, on July 15, 2025, eight years after Dad passed, Irina used some emotional blackmail (“Just imagine how happy Grandma, Grandpa, and Cosmin would be if you moved your body a little and lost some weight”) and asked me to sign up for a gym with a pool. With a pool. For October.

Of course, I protested and said “No.” But the gym’s website was already open in front of me. Irina had sent me a link that I “accidentally” clicked, and she kept repeating that it was nine dollars and ninety-nine cents per month. She was almost completely off: it certainly wasn’t the right gym, it definitely wasn’t in the right place, and it absolutely wasn’t the right price, but the seed had been planted.

For those who don’t know her, Irina is tenacious. Thirty-five years of marriage have taught me that much. From the start, I was fighting a losing battle.

Somewhere deep down, I realized that, actually, it was in my best interest. Right now, I weigh 224 pounds, and I’m stuck at a seismic physical and psychological plateau: I can’t get down to 220 pounds (100 kg).

I didn’t quite get what October had to do with all this: I’m not getting married in Romania, I’m just going on vacation. And I don’t want to become a Legend like she is at Pilates, or like The Cousin is on Strava with his “little” 40-mile daily bike ride. Two Legends in the family is enough, no need for a third. Or, if I really have to be a Little Legend of some kind, then fine. I’ll settle for being great at cooking meals from leftovers.

To make a long story short (though that’s not really my style), I signed up someplace replete with lots of fancy gym equipment and, thank God, a swimming pool (which was the whole point to begin with).

I showed up at the front desk like a spring flower in flip-flops with a towel in a cheap plastic bag and announced, “My wife sent me to swim.”
“All right,” said the young lady at reception. “I see you’ve got flip-flops, but do you have trunks?”
“I do,” I said.

And just like that, I was allowed into the pool where I embarrassed myself for half an hour, swimming as best I knew how. I then took a shower using their hot water and went home in a somewhat fuzzy mood.

At home, Irina, overwhelmed with joy and emotion, made a surprising decision: she took the clothes off the elliptical machine.

This elliptical was some very fancy, high-end piece of gym equipment we bought during the pandemic so we wouldn’t fall out of shape. Which we didn’t. Or at least I didn’t: I was round as a ball when the Covid lock-down started, and I was still round when it ended.

Like in any normal family, a month after we bought it, the instrument of terror morphed into a clothes rack, only making its presence known when we tripped over it and hurt ourselves. Eventually, we ignored it long enough that it became one of many dust collectors in the house.

So, suddenly, Irina starts using it properly, and the machine panics. It starts flashing messages on its very smart screen: “I’m cold, put the clothes back on, I’m freezing.”

I looked at the poor elliptical. It was vibrating and trembling in all its joints. Irina was pedaling like mad. The whole house was in general turmoil. It took forty-five minutes (a whole episode of some sries), but eventually the peace was restored.

I went into the bedroom. The Bowflex bike (another very smart clothes rack) looked at me as if to say: “Stay right there! Don’t come any closer. Leave the clothes on me. Don’t stir the dust. Please.”

….

Three days have passed and I’ve kept going to the pool. Just like in the old days, the real miracles last three days.

Today is day four. I’m getting ready to go again. I now have a gym bag (a gift from my dad), my own soap (the good kind, the one you put in the drawer with the clean underwear so it smells nice), and I’ve even learned how to use the swimsuit spin dryer (who knew something like that even existed!?) If I muster enough courage, maybe I’ll step into the weight room and try to use a machine or two.

But I have two major problems:

1. Personal trainers who want to help. (My last experience with a young, handsome one cost me two years on the sidelines with a busted rotator cuff.)
2. A delicate and very personal issue: staring at girls.

Everybody knows that men do it. Every man does it – especially since the invention of Lululemons. A normal guy throws a glance, maybe two, and moves on. But our guy – yours truly – is half-blind and doesn’t see very well. One of my glances is the equivalent of an entire session of ogling, which is neither very classy nor very appropriate.

Then again, I can’t walk with my eyes up, I trip. Eyes down, I bump into people. Eye level, I’m only human.

‘Tis a Puzzlement!

Eight years ago, I promised I’d lose weight.
Three days ago, I promised I’d try again.
Today, I kept my promise.
Let’s see what day five brings.