Perspective

If I sat down and made a list of my enemies, I don't know how many there would be.

That's always a dangerous subject anyway, because you really never know who hates your guts. Most folks don't have the cajones to tell you. They hit and run, so to speak.

Anyway, that's not the point.

If I could make a list of my enemies, I may not know how many to write down. But I do know who would be at the very top.

Me.

I am my own worst enemy.

Not in the breaking the diet sense. In the self-inflicted stress sense.

Here's what I mean:

When I started the weight-loss process in late Dec. of 2007, I finally came to the realization that I wasn't in a race. I wasn't going to take off all the necessary pounds in just a matter of months, because it took over 20 years to get to that 479 mark I topped out at.

I finally accepted the fact that it was going to be a long process to get it off, and then a lifetime of work to keep it off.

There have been ups and downs along the way. The good weeks are an incredible high. The bad weeks - some of them anyway - have been terrible lows. But for the most part I've been able to stay on something of an even, albeit unsteady, keel.

So this holiday season comes along, and for the last 10 days or so I've not done well at all. In fact, I'll have gained weight when I hit the scales Wednesday morning for my first weigh-in in two weeks.

And as each slip-up accumulated into this bad stretch, I allowed myself to slip back into the "I'm failing, I'll always be fat" mindset. Spent a good deal of time feeling sorry for myself, to be honest with you.

But no more.

Today, while driving from Clemson to Titusville, Fla. (I have a game to broadcast in Miami tomorrow), I had a long time to mentally hash things out in my head. It was quite the battle, me vs. my psyche.

But about three-quarters of the way through the trip - as corny as this sounds - I felt a sudden peace come over me. And within that peace, I determined that I wasn't going to mentally whip myself anymore.

I'm not in a race. I'm not on anyones time schedule but my own.

Yes, I know John and Vernon want the weight to come off me as quickly as possible. And yes, I know the closer I stick to the Ultra Fit program the better, more rapid success I have.

I also know they both read this blog, and guys, I promise you. I'm there with you. I want the weight off, and I'm going to see the program through, and I'm going to make you proud and be another shining example of your success.

But what I'm not going to do is kick myself all over the East Coast because I've had a bad stretch.

Beginning right now, it goes in the books for what it is. Black and white. Nothing more.

If I take eight more months to get the rest of the weight off instead of six, or even a year, so be it.

What's a couple of extra months compared to the rest of my life?

Now understand, I'm fully intending to get back on the straight and narrow and get this done based on the proven Ultra Fit timetable.

The point of this whole manifesto is simply this:

I'm finished beating up myself mentally over every bad meal or bad day.

If I screw up, I'll acknowledge it, get right back up on the proverbial horse, and take off again.

I keep reminding myself, just like others have reminded me in recent days, that I've done a hell of a lot of good in the first year.

Sometimes those accomplishments get obscured in the heat of the moment. And trust me, I'm still big enough to cast a shadow large enough to obscure pretty much anything.

But not where I've come from, and where I want to go.

Those destinations are more clear than ever today.