BOOK EXCERPT: Jared, the Subway Guy

— -- Jared Fogle became a weight-loss icon in the United States when he appeared in Subway commercials touting the "Subway diet" in 2000.

His book is intended to help people change their lives and offers people hope and inspiration.

Lesson #1 -- Open Your Eyes

The first step toward change is recognizing that you have a problem. When I was at my heaviest, every time I passed a mirror, every morning when I got dressed, each time I had to haul myself out of a chair -- nearly everything I did told me that I had a serious weight problem. BUT I REFUSED TO ACKNOWLEDGE IT.

Simply admitting that you have a problem is a HUGE step. In the beginning you don't even have to do anything about the problem. Just think about it. Consider your situation objectively and try to see it for what it is. All you have to do is admit that you have a problem and you're already on the road to a solution.

I will never forget the day I went to my endocrinologist's office to finally face the music. It was the scariest day of my life. Just being there in the examining room made me panicky and claustrophobic even though it was bigger than the little rooms you find in a regular doctor's office. The table was larger and lower to the ground. The chairs were extra wide with no arm rests. The blood pressure cuff hanging on the wall was big enough to put around some people's waists. And then there was the scale.

I remember sitting on the table, staring at the scale as I waited for the nurse to come in and weigh me. This was the moment I had been dreading for years. I had put off this examination for as long as I could, even tried to figure out ways to cancel the appointment by faking some sort of mysterious illness that would save me from this monster embarrassment. But scale was right there, standing against the wall, looking back at me, waiting for me to get on, snickering as if it already knew how much I weighed.

I knew this had to be done. Not so much for my health -- I wasn't even thinking about that. I just wanted to save myself from further embarrassment. I knew that doctors' scales -- even the super heavyweight models -- went up to only a certain weight. The one in my father's office topped out at 350. I had no idea how much weight this one could handle, but I did know that if you maxed out on one of these babies, you had only two alternatives. I'd either have to go down to the local meat-packing plant and get weighed on the scales they use for livestock, or I could drive to a truck stop with a weigh station where they'd weigh my car with me in it, then weigh it again with me not in it, subtracting one figure from the other to get my weight. In either case people would be watching, and I didn't want to be gawked at like a side of beef or a big rig.

But more than that, I just didn't want to know. I was in denial. I knew I had a problem, but somehow not knowing the specifics seemed better than having to face a cold, hard, undeniable number. The examining room was silent except for the muffled sound of easy-listening music filtering in from the waiting room. I wondered if they played this kind of bland, soothing music for the steers before they went to slaughter.

The room had no windows, and now I really started to feel closed in. The office was on the ground floor of the building, and I wondered if there was a back door. There had to be, I thought. I could sneak down the hall and slip out the back. But then I thought about it. At my size I didn't do much sneaking or slipping out of anything. Wherever I was, my body made a statement -- even (or should I say, especially) when I didn't want to.

I drummed my fingers on the edge of the table. My mouth was dry. I cracked my knuckles out of nervousness. My legs trembled. I was afraid that if I tried to stand up, my knees would buckle. Then I'd be on the floor and believe me, getting back up wouldn't be easy.

I realized that there was no escape, no way around it, no talking my way out of it. This was my vision of HELL, and I was scared.

Suddenly I heard a knock on the door. It was a light, fast knock -- one, two, three -- but to my ears it was a battering ram breaking down the door. The Fat Police were here to get me. I was busted! "May I come in, Jared?" It was the nurse who'd brought me back to this room. She sounded so nice, like someone's mother.

I didn't answer. I couldn't.

"Jared?" she said. "Are you all right?"

I coughed. "Ah… yeah," I said. "I'm fine."

"May I come in?"

Could I say no? Was that an option? And what if I did? Would she get the doctor? Would she get my father who was waiting in the reception area? Please no, I thought. I didn't want anyone else to see me on the scale. "Yeah, sure," I said. "You can come in."

The door opened, and there she was, a nice middle-aged lady with wire-rim glasses, short blonde hair, and a kind smile. Too young to be a grandmother, but too old to have kids still in school, kind of that in between age. She was wearing pale blue scrubs and a stethoscope around her neck. She seemed totally nice, but there was one thing about her that made me wary. She was carrying a clip board. My chart was on that clip board. The chart where she wanted to write down my weight.

"Can you step up on the scale for me, Jared?"

I didn't know what to do.

"You don't have to take your shoes off," she said.

Obviously the extra weight of a pair of sneakers didn't matter much at my size, but she was probably trying to spare me the ordeal of having to bend over and put them back on later.

She stood by and waited patiently as I slowly got off the table and stood up. My knees felt so weak I was afraid to take a step, fearing that I might collapse on the floor. Then what would they do? Call a tow truck?

I moved carefully, taking sliding baby steps toward the scale. I could swear the damn thing was laughing at me.

"Just step right up on there," the nurse said. "That's it."

My brain was telling me not to do it: Faint if you have to, Jared. But I did as she asked. I knew there was no way out of it.

The counterweights were already pushed to the left and set at zero. The scale clanked as I stepped onto it, and the pointer clunked into the up position. Sweat was dripping down my brow. I usually perspired a lot because of my weight, but this was beyond normal. This was panic sweat.

"Okay," the nurse said. "Let's see how we do."

She slid the big counterweight to the right, past the 100-, 150-, 200-, and 250-pound notches, stopping at 300.

The pointer didn't budge.

She slid the small counter weight to the right, nudging it along.

I forced myself to keep my eyes open, staring at the pointer. It wasn't moving.

She got to the midway point.

Nothing.

She nudged the counterweight faster until she moved it all the way to the right.

The pointer didn't move.

Oh, God, I thought. I was over 350. I had kind of suspected that I was, but how much over 350? She slid the small counterweight back to the left and moved the big one over another notch to 350. She slowly moved the small weight to the right.

The pointer stayed right where it was. I started to wonder if it was glued there and this was some kind of sick joke.She kept pushing the small weight with her finger. I stopped breathing, waiting for the pointer to move. 360… 370… 380... 390... 395...

She slid the small weight back to the left and reached for the big weight. My mouth was a desert.

"Do you want me to take my shoes off?" I said. I sounded so lame.

"That's okay," she said, maintaining her pleasant demeanor. Whatever she thought of me and my monstrous size, she wasn't letting on.

She put her finger on the big weight and pushed it over another notch to the 400-pound position. My heart was slamming in my chest. She started to nudge the small weight. 405… 410… The pointer didn't move, not even a flutter.

She kept pushing.

I closed my eyes. I couldn't look.

My shirt was drenched. I wanted an earthquake to crack the earth open and swallow me up. I wanted to disappear. I didn't want to be here.

The sound of the metal weight sliding along the metal bar was like a samurai sword slowly sinking into my chest. When was it going to stop? I thought. When?

#

I wasn't born fat. As a little kid, I was pretty normal, and I played all kinds of sports -- basketball, baseball, soccer, tennis, even ran track. But when I started third grade, something happened and little by little I started to gain weight.

One contributing factor I can pinpoint is that I just love food. All kinds of food. Healthy food, not-so-healthy food, junk food -- you name it, I liked it. Everyone in my family loves food. Our kitchen was always well-stocked --