More than thirty pounds ago, my life was different. As a naturally happy person, thankfully, most people didn’t notice the changes in me. Yes, of course, they could see the extra weight I was carrying, but I’m talking about the big wet blanket effect that dampened my lust, my enthusiasm for just about everything. Most people couldn’t tell because I love to be happy. I love to make other people happy. I could force myself to be my outwardly chirpy self while I hated the package I presented to the world, and worse yet, in which I kept myself entombed. Trapped. Desperate. I told myself that my weight didn’t change who I was inside, but man, it did. Dramatically as it turns out. As the numbers on my scale climbed and I flailed for footing on that slippery slope so I could grab myself by the fat rolls and get control, it began to change my personality. I yo-yo’d quite a bit. The effect would wax and wain accordingly. The higher my weight got, my normally naturally high enthusiasm would drop inversely. More