Victory Lapnesia

For most of my adult life, I’ve been stalked by a sneaky, waistline-widening predator I now call Munchdrift—the stealth snacking habit that brings in a slow-motion avalanche of calories like a drip IV of lard straight to the gut. I didn’t even realize it was happening. One minute, I’m nibbling on a handful of almonds “for heart health,” the next I’m housing a Costco tub of peanut butter with a ladle. Result? I’ve been fat four times. 1996: 235 lbs. 2003: 253 lbs. 2017: 245 lbs. And now, 2025: 247 lbs. Like clockwork. Like a cursed zodiac of self-sabotage.

I don’t have the luxury of “body acceptance” or any other hashtagged delusion. When I weigh over 230, my body throws a biochemical tantrum: cholesterol, triglycerides, and blood pressure all go full DEFCON 2. This isn’t about self-love. It’s about not dying in the next decade.

The pattern’s always been the same. I muscle my way down to 200 on 2,400 calories a day, white-knuckling my appetite like I’m defusing a bomb. And then—poof. The discipline vanishes. I get smug. The weight loss high wears off and I forget every methodical trick that got me there. Slowly, entropy creeps in, disguised as “flexibility,” “moderation,” and “deserved treats.” The order collapses. Munchdrift returns. Pride dies. And I wake up bloated and furious, wearing sweatpants that used to hang loose and now plead for mercy.

Now I’m 63, and I’m done playing Groundhog Day with my waistline. I needed a name for this psychological sabotage—the specific kind of pride-drunk amnesia that ruins everything. And here it is:

Victory Lapnesia.

It’s that delusional post-weight-loss fugue state where, drunk on success, I forget every sweaty, hungry, unsexy tactic that got me to 200. Suddenly, the rules become negotiable. “Moderation” sneaks in. Maintenance becomes an endless cheat day. And my once-disciplined mind turns into a TED Talk on rationalization. The result? Munchdrift relapse. Button-flying denial. A renewed subscription to regret, with auto-renew turned on.

But not this time. I’ve drawn the line. Here are 7 unforgiving strategies to keep Victory Lapnesia from moving back into my love handles like a squatter with squatters’ rights:

1. Celebrate with Systems, Not Sweets
No more “I deserve this” cake. That’s how the descent begins—frosted and full of lies. My real reward is knowing what works. So instead of high-fiving myself with a slice of cheesecake, I schedule my next month of meals, workouts, and weigh-ins like a man preparing for war—not a man planning brunch.

2. Install Post-Goal Protocols
The scale hitting 200 isn’t the end. It’s the beginning of a long maintenance trench war. I now have a one-page “Maintenance Manifesto” taped to my fridge, my bathroom mirror, and the dashboard of my car. It’s non-negotiable, like brushing teeth or paying taxes.

3. Rebrand Maintenance as a Project
Maintenance isn’t a passive state—it’s my next mission. I’ve dubbed it Project Anti-Rebound. Think Marvel meets middle-age. This isn’t about keeping weight off—it’s about defending the citadel of sanity against the invading hordes of snack-based betrayal.

4. Weigh Myself Like It’s Church
Sunday mornings. Same time. Same scale. No excuses. I treat the weigh-in like mass: a ritual of reckoning. The scale doesn’t care about my feelings, my schedule, or how “good” I was. It tells the truth like an indifferent god.

5. Make Munchdrift Illegal
Snacking is banned. Full stop. No more “just a bite” diplomacy. No handfuls. No desk-side almonds. No post-dinner kitchen loitering. Every bite is logged. Every calorie accounted for. If it’s not a meal, it doesn’t go in my mouth. Period.

6. Hang My Fat Pants Like a War Trophy
I’ve kept my largest jeans. They hang like a scarecrow in my closet. A denim warning sign. Every time I feel tempted to “ease up,” I look at them and hear them whisper, We remember who you were. I do too.

7. Outsource the Shame (Productively)
I text my weight to a friend every Friday. I blog about my progress for strangers who don’t care but might someday. Shame kept secret is corrosive. Shame shared is accountability. I’ve turned my relapse history into content—and I dare my ego to screw it up again.

This isn’t a journey anymore. Journeys end. This is a regimen. A regime. A ruthless campaign against the soft tyranny of my own bad habits. Because I’ve learned the hard way: if you don’t fight for maintenance like you fought for weight loss, you’ll lose everything—and you’ll gain it all back.