When I graduated from high school, I was 5-foot-9 and weighed around 145 pounds. By the time I came home for the summer after my first year of college, I was 6-1 and 160 pounds, and had finally finished growing … up.

My girth increased, ever so gradually over the next 30 years — so slowly that hardly anyone noticed. I had been fortunate enough to be able to eat just about anything I wanted, and in whatever amount I chose — and I did.

But somewhere around my early 50s, either my diet or my metabolism, or maybe both, changed. Suddenly (at least it seemed that way to me), I was buying the next waist size bigger every time I went to purchase a new pair of Wranglers. The old, loose-fitting size L Carhartt feeding coat, which I had worn for years, was replaced by a rather snug-fitting XL.

I also began to notice a trend, when I would meet old friends that I hadn’t seen for a couple of years, I received not-so-subtle comments like: “Your wife must be a really good cook,” or “Looks like you’ve kicked that anorexia in the butt.” My farming buddies would pile on with statements such as, “I sure wish I could buy a load of stockers with your rate of gain,” or “What do you suppose your yearling weight EPD is?”

Good friends, huh?

Over the past 10 years, I’ve noticed that I don’t get out of the way of wild calves, protective mama cows, or angry bulls nearly as fast as I used to. I blame it on age. For a recent checkup, I made a checklist of all my aches and pains. After a couple of minutes in silent review of the rather long list, the learned physician said, “You know, Mr. Crownover, if you could lose a few pounds, that would take a lot of the stress off your feet, knees and hips.” She went on to add, “It would also reduce your chances of a stroke or heart attack by quite a bit.”

“Yeah, yeah,” I replied. “That’s the same thing my last doctor said, and I outlived him.”

Then, yesterday, all the subtle little signs, as well as the not-so-subtle warnings from people I care for and respect, came to fruition in a life-changing event.

I was on my way back from the creek place, where I had finished feeding hay for the morning. I was driving the tractor on a straight, level, paved county road, when all of a sudden there was a huge pop, then a wham, followed by an immediate drop of my posterior of about 8 inches. It felt like my spine had suffered a compression fracture. Immediately, I stopped the tractor and got out to see what the problem might be. I quickly discovered that one of the two springs that keep the tractor seat suspended had broken in half.

I start my diet tomorrow!

Crownover is a Missouri beef producer.