Losing a lot of weight very quickly has many unexpected - sometimes wonderful, sometimes terrible - consequences. One of the very best is the feeling of being able to bend over and tie your shoes without having to lift your foot onto a chair. It's the number one trademark of a fat person to do that. I still haven't broken the habit. Even a few inches helps. Holls has a short stool she uses to grab those upper-cabinet things that are always a little beyond reach, such as crock pots and that set of glasses we won't see again until we move out. So yes, the habit is still ingrained in me to the point where I will make a concerted effort to seek out the stool and plop my 13 4E sneaker 4 inches off the ground.
And you know what they say about guys with big feet, right? Heh heh...
Small hands...:(
Anyway, tying my shoes has nothing to do with the rest of this entry. What it does have a lot to do with is the rest of my wardrobe. Since April, I've dropped from a 40 to a 36 (comfortable) waist. Awesome, right? (In a weird related story, the length of my pants has grown from 30 to 32, so either I'm still going through puberty or I'm turning into Gulliver). And as is typical of losing a bunch of weight, the greatest reward is slipping on those old pants and seeing how much real estate is there. And you pull out the extra pants and say, "Damn, I lost a lot of weight! Well, goodbye fat pants! Time to slip in my svelte sexy jeans and take my ass to Subway!"
Imagine, however, you take off the old fat pants, and quickly realize you don't have any new pants to slip into. Soooo...that's correct, I have to spend a lot of time in old fat pants wearing a belt that I might have to carve an extra notch into. I feel like a new man!
And pants are expensive! Old Navy, Kohl's, Target: it costs some cash to cover my ass. Lower your prices! I bought one pair of size 36's: $18. How much money do you think I have? Do you think money just shoots out of my butt? Well, you can find out, because pretty soon all my fat pants are going to be sliding down my legs when I walk, and you'll be able to see for yourself if money walks.
So I'm taking donations to the Keep Chris's Ass in His Pants Foundation. Corduroy For Chris. March of Dungarees. Whatever you want to call it. Just hurry, because I'm one dropped pencil away from a full moon rising.
Me discussing my previous point with the CEO of JC Penney's
*****
Now, you can call me crazy...
People think heavy people get heavy because they load up on sweets. For some, that may be true. Growing up for me, however, I was more of the Second Helping variety. Not so much cookies and ice cream, more like "More meat loaf, please." Stop right there! Not that Meat Loaf
Don't get me wrong, I did enjoy the pleasures of a sweet tooth. But I was never one of those Oprah guests who sits and eats four rolls of raw cookie dough because I had a tough day at work. Lately, though, the Call of Candy is too prevalent for me these days. I work for a grocery store chain, and next to nearly every register is stack upon stack of delicious, extremely fatty, nutty sweets and chocolates. For some reason, whenever I try to eat healthy, I end up beelining for the chocolate factory like Augustus Gloop. It's infuriating. I've been eating Butterfingers, Peanut M&Ms, Twizzlers - hell, I even partook in a Baby Grand. They still make those things!
I can't explain it. I'm not sure there's a scientific conclusion for it. I was never one to load up on sweets (chips, maybe). But even chips have not held a huge appeal for me lately, either. Just give me the candy. So for the next phase of my workout, I'm cutting out sweets altogether. And no, I will not allow you to point out the obvious contradiction when I say I've not lost a ton of weight because of my new workout, but meanwhile I'm stuffing my face with empty calories. Has nothing to do with it. So far as you know. "Das bullshit!"
In 1994, movie critic Roger Ebert, upon reviewing the Rob Reiner flick "North", wrote a review that became so popular, he used an abbreviated version of it for the title of his book years later. I shall paraphrase the most famous lines of that review to describe my feelings on my particular workout:
I hate this workout. Hate hate hate hate hate this workout. Hate it.
Much like Reiner, at some point I had a severe lapse in judgment, only in my case, instead of hiring Elijah Wood and Bruce Willis, I decided I needed a workout that played to my worst fitness characteristic: flexibility. Time and time again, I've learned that my undoing every single time is my trust in myself. I cannot afford a workout that tells me I don't have to go to the gym six days a week, but only two. I can't have a workout that says in between my gym time, I should be doing other exercise activities. Stupid as it sounds, I need a workout that says, "On Monday, you're going to the gym. Tuesday, you're going to run five miles. Wednesday, you're not going to Burger King, etc., etc."
I'm happy to say that for now, Wednesday seems to be the only day I'm in compliance with.
*****
The whole idea for this workout started earlier this summer. I had been diligently pounding the gym six days a week since mid-April, and the results were astounding. 34 pounds lost in ten weeks, more than I could have hoped for. Even when I took a much-deserved Week Off, I still managed to lose another 4 pounds. But since then, I've only dropped 1.1 pounds. There were fluctuations each week, but still...that's pretty terrible. I don't think it's enough to say that eventually you'll hit a plateau. Of course I will, but not when I'm still about 60 lbs. overweight.
I have one more week of this godforsaken workout, then I'm starting a new one. That new one will be announced next weekend. Holls thinks I should go back to my old workout, and I agree, but not quite yet. As Winston Zeddemore says, "We've got the tools, we've got the talent!" Interpret that as you will. The new workout will not give me a ton of flexibility, but will get me back to that much-desired quality I so desperately seek: consistency. As in, "Wow, that guy sure is consistent in his workout routine," and not, "Wow, that guy is consistently spilling cheese on his belly."
In a related story, I now want cheese.
WEIGHT AFTER EIGHTEEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, OCTOBER 4, 2010: 262.8 LBS. (-4.6 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER NINETEEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, OCTOBER 11, 2010: 262.6 LBS. (-0.2 LBS.)
*****
How do I feel at this exact moment? What the hell: On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm Rob Reiner: got off to a blazing start, "consistently" continued to churn out awesome work, and then one bad mov(i)e and I have to start all over again. Also, one more week of so-so progress and I'm afraid Holls will start referring to me as "Meathead." In a related story, I now want meat.
What have I done? My God, Body, WHAT HAVE I DONE?!?!
Apparently, I'm more fond of Weeks Off than I am Weeks On. So how does it stand now? Be prepared for a lot of information. You may need the data retention skills of Number 5 in order to understand what you're about to read:
WEIGHT AFTER SIXTEEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, AUGUST 9, 2010: 265 LBS. (+0.4 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER WEEK OFF 2 - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, AUGUST 16, 2010: 265.4 LBS. (+0.4 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER SEVENTEEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, AUGUST 23, 2010: 257.7 LBS. (-7.7 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER ONE HIATUS WEEK - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, AUGUST 30, 2010: 260.4 LBS. (+2.7 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER TWO HIATUS WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 6, 2010: 263.5 LBS. (+3.1 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER THREE HIATUS WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 13, 2010: 266.5 LBS. (+2 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER FOUR HIATUS WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 20, 2010: 266.95 LBS. (+0.45 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER FIVE HIATUS WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, SEPTEMBER 27, 2010: 267.4 LBS. (+0.45 LBS.)
In other words, blah dee blah dee fatass.
*****
So what exactly is a Hiatus Week? A term I coined while writing it for the first time above, a Hiatus Week is the technical term used to describe a palpable and sudden decline in cardiovascular and mental capabilities due to adult onset lethargy a.k.a. I just got tired of going to the gym, ok?
Let me explain something to you. While the rewards are so worth the trip every day to the gym, going to the gym, even if you're used to it, is a huge time commitment. And with my new job and the ever-changing schedule I must keep, there is no set time of 12:00 every day when I clock in. I just don't really feel like going in one day at 9am, and then turning around and not going in again until 9pm the next day. It frigs my body up.
And this is not some weird excuse to say it was all right to skip the gym. I'm not going into a Food Relapse or anything. I didn't black out and wake up with the blood of an entire roast beef caked all over my body. I will admit, though, that food has been somewhat of a problem lately. See, I discovered that eating healthy is verrrrry expensive. And if I'm going to spend a lot of money, I'd rather do it on something that gives me an immediate gratification, like beer or seeing the Jets lose. Eating risotto is delicious. Sitting comfortably because my wallet is empty sucks. Holls was doing a lot of the cooking. But her schedule is all messed up now, too, and it's not so fun to work an eight-hour shift, come home early in the afternoon, and cook an entire meal. It's just time to get back in the swing of things. I'm heading back to the gym this week.
Also, you should know I took a Week Off to go on vacation. Apparently, I had such a great time I decided to keep vacationing when I got back. What can I say? I've always had a soft spot for beer and hot dogs. That soft spot is somewhere beneath my slowly-expanding gut.
More after I polish off the rest of the roast bee - eeeans. Yes, beans I mean.
*****
Exercising's been out. Food's been on the fritz lately. You don't care about that. You just want to hear about my personal life, right?
Holls and I are still together. She hasn't changed her mind yet. I keep telling her that she has two years and plenty of opt-out clauses, but she's stubborn, and keeps saying she "loves me" and wants to "marry me." Apparently, I "asked her" and she said "yes." We're getting "married" to each "other," and we will live "happily ever after," "together."
We are still getting married in August 2012. We're narrowing the choices of venues down. So far, making the cut is PT's Showclub, our local Staples, and Pump 6 at the Irving's gas station on Westbrook St. in South Portland. Still crossing my fingers that she'll say yes to my honeymoon idea of courtside seats at a dogfight of her choice.
Holls is quitting her job! Just tired of it, I guess. Time to move on. She's not sure what she's going to do next. Whatever it is, I hope it's delicious. That's not a sexist joke or anything; she's just really good at cooking, and I'm good at eating cooking.
On a more serious note, on September 25, my mom, sister, aunt, and some mutual friends did the 2010 Memory Walk to benefit Alzheimer's research. My mom, who's been training for quite some time, led us all throughout the morning. We had a great time, shared some great laughs, and are looking forward to doing it again with even more fundraising next year! Please check out the Memory Walk page at http://memorywalk2010.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=340219&lis=1&kntae340219=F4ACEE58D6D649EF94BA15D394065D55
Finally, my mother has also started a weight-related blog as well! Check it out at http://largeladyonthemove.blogspot.com/. She's a very good writer, and doesn't tell any embarrassing stories about me, so I'm hooked!
*****
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm Bobby Moynihan from Saturday Night live: not exorbitantly overweight, I have my moments, but it's been a while since you've seen me, and things haven't changed for the better. Still, funnier than Jimmy Fallon.
Jimmy Fallon thinks that's the funniest goddamn thing ever said, and just laughed midway through the joke, ruining it for everybody.
So something else happened that I didn't share with you masses. Something vewy intwiguing...
Good and bad things happen when a family member dies. Obviously, the worst thing is that you lose somebody that you cared for very, very much. You've probably lost somebody in your lifetime; I don't need to elaborate further. But there are a few good things that can happen as well. For me, these sad events are a chance for me to catch up with friends and family I have not seen for a while. One of those family members is my Uncle Shawn.
Uncle Shawn and his family live upstate, a two-and-a-half-hour car ride away that limits my opportunities to see them. Uncle Shawn, for the last 15 years or so, has done the Trek Across Maine, usually with a close group of friends that go cycling together a lot during the year. For those not in the know, the Trek Across Maine is a yearly event on Father's Day weekend that literally takes participants across the Pine Tree State on bicycles. It starts at Sunday River (western Maine) and ends two days later in Belfast (eastern Maine). Needless to say, it's not an easy experience, but by all accounts it's an extremely rewarding one. It benefits the American Lung Association.
Well, anyway, my Uncle Shawn was a small business owner for many years, and an extremely successful one to boot. To be a small business owner, you have to not only be a hard worker, but you have to be able to talk a good game. It's been known for years that he was extremely skilled with the former, but the latter didn't become clear until my grandmother's wake. That was where we started talking about various events in our lives, and one of us happened to mention the Trek which had just wrapped up a couple weeks prior. Uncle Shawn started telling me about how much fun he and his friends every year, and how various cousins of mine had participated over the last few years. He talked about what a physical challenge it was, how you needed endurance, but how you always felt great after each day. He told me how every pit stop is essentially a giant outdoor festival, and how when you wrap up the final day, you cruise into eastern Maine feeling like a million bucks.
At some point, my lips formed the words, "I'm in." And since then, one thought's crossed my mind: is my butt ready for this pounding? I haven't sat on a bike in a few years, but from what I remember, if you haven't done it in a while (cycling, I mean), that bike seat invades you like an alien probe. So I've created a Trek List (kind of like a check list) of things I need to do before June 17 of next year:
1) Get skinny(er) 2) Buy a damn bike 3) Raise money 4) Get a CAT scan 5) Not buy a "Livestrong" bracelet
The details are muddy right now. I still have to figure out how to register, and set up a pledge sheet and what-not, but this should be a fun experience. To the right, you'll see a countdown to the 2011 Trek Across Maine. So it's out there. I'm in. So, there it is. While the wedding is the ultimate pay-off, this is something more immediate that I can test my physical stamina on. And should I do well and have a great experience, maybe I'll do it again the following summer, in which it will be called - you know I had to make this joke - Trek Across Maine II: The Wrath of Shawn. Ricardo Montalban approves this bad joke
Week 11 officially began for me on Sunday, June 27th at 1:56 AM. It was technically the last day of my first Week Off, but life - as it has a tendency to do - intervened. And when you look over at your screaming cell phone and see your father's phone number lit up on the screen, and knowing my father probably wasn't in jail or needed a ride home from a bar, it just can't be good.
Needless to say, my grandmother had passed away about an hour or so earlier. You ever have those visions in your life when you imagine somebody telling you some devastating news, and exactly what your reaction would be? Perhaps you would be cool and collected and hurt on the inside, or maybe you throw a teary fit, or maybe you're the rock for everybody else. My reaction was more like a series of tired condolences for my father. When the day's only 116 minutes old, you're never quite ready for news like this. She passed away somewhat peacefully in a hospital in Central Maine, losing her final bout with pneumonia. She was an incredibly strong woman, and I have many, many memories that I'll keep forever. And in fact, one crystal clear memory I have of her somewhat pertains to this whole blog.
Since we lived in the same town, quite frequently we would all get together for meals. When I was about 12, I was at my grandparents' house for lunch. Grammie and Grandpa lived with my Great Uncle Al, my grandmother's brother. Uncle Al was a dear sweet man, though he had a tendency to not always filter what came out of his mouth. I don't mean he swore and cursed a lot; it's just that he would say things that maybe sometimes a 12-year-old didn't need to hear.
At this particular point in my life, I was starting to gain more weight. I was only 12, so I wasn't like one of those 400-lb. toddlers you see on Maury Povich or anything, but I was heavier than a preteen should have been. Uncle Al, as of late, had been on this kick about making snide comments about my weight whenever appropriate. Not all the time, mind you; in fact, I think he thought he was toughening me up for the future or something, when people would make comments about my weight all the time. Luckily for me, America would grow up to become the most obese, fat-ass nation in the world, so all things considered, I was pretty lucky! Anyway, this particular time, we were sitting down to eat at the table, when my Uncle Al said something along the lines of, "You sure you need to eat with that spare tire?"
Being 12, I'm not 100% sure how I should have responded to that. Should I have told him to shut up? Get bent? Should I have started crying? Laugh it off? I believe my reaction was just a silent head drop, and begrudgingly I began to eat my meal. My Grammie saw this, had heard it a few times before, and apparently reached her breaking point before I did. She gently set her fork down, looked my uncle in the eye, and said, "You know, Allen, sometimes people might be hurt by some of the things you say," and then quickly glanced toward me. Uncle Al, needless to say, uttered about three words the rest of the meal (which I believe were "Pass the ketchup"), and my Grammie looked at me and winked. It might be a cliche to try to throw a morality lesson on top of this story, but if there is one, it's that that particular moment taught me that even though I wasn't perfect, it was ok. She stuck up for me when it was probably uncomfortable for all involved, and I wish I had been able to tell her how much that meant to me.
WEIGHT AFTER ELEVEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JULY 5, 2010: 263 LBS. (-0.7 LBS.)
PART TWO: TOO CLOSE TO THE SUN
In the world of less important things, the rest of the week was somewhat scattered for me. Monday saw the first day of a completely new workout for me, one that I was not quite ready for. Essentially, this workout consisted of about 18 different exercises, with one superset of each, interspersed with 5-minute bursts of cardio. The great thing about a new workout is that when you read it on paper, you feel invincible. I know when I was reading this thing, I figured about halfway through my first workout, a fresh six-pack of abs would pop out of nowhere, and I would walk out of that gym about 20 lbs. lighter, for some reason wearing a cape, and being carried on the shoulders of obese children with remnants of chocolate frosting around their mouths. A parade of revelers and trumpet-blowers would follow, and I would ascend to the heavens, riding on an escalator made of dried sweat.
Not only did any of that not happen, I almost didn't walk out of the gym. Counting on my body to all of a sudden up its game tenfold when all it had known for two and a half months was a perfectly measured exercise routine was unfair to me. My previous workouts had all been three sets of ten reps each; my first exericse on this new workout was 50 weighted sit-ups. Around sit-up #29, my body looked at me and said, "Hey, Chris? Not cool." Several other exercises followed, and during my second five-minute blast of cardio, I began to have sexual desires for my bottle of water. My head swirled twice. I essentially pulled a Southern Belle and swooned right there in the gym. By exercise #8, I couldn't lift my arms anymore. Exercise #9 was 50 dumbbell deadlifts. I set the dumbbells on the ground, reached down to pick them up, and very nearly fell over. I wasn't dehydrated, so I knew it had to be my workout. I had flown too close to the sun on wings made of overconfidence (nice line).
I sat down for a moment, determined to go on, but it wasn't meant to be. For the first time in eleven weeks of working out, I had to give up. And that's where this whole mess began.
See, when that happened, all bets were off. My routine was destroyed. The plan was to hit the gym twice a week, with four days of straight cardio taking up the rest of the week, and one day off as usual. Between my over-ambitious workout and a trip north for the funeral in the middle of the week, the routine was gone. Of course, I had waited until the last day of my Week Off to figure out exactly what my routine would be, and had not given myself enough of an opportunity to psyche myself up for it. Regardless of the reasons, when that happened, the schedule went to shit and the rest of the week was moot. What I should say here is that I did squeeze in two days of cardio and the other gym day, but it just wasn't the same. The week was shot. I supposed it was going to happen at some point, but exercising, like gambling, operates under the same basic principle: sometimes, you don't have control over the outcome.
WEIGHT AFTER TWELVE WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JULY 12, 2010: 269.2 LBS. (+6.2 LBS.)
PART THREE: THE DISEASE OF SATISFACTION
So what the hell happened there? 6.2 lbs. gained? It's over.
Well, not quite. When the routine was thrown into a tailspin, many things went wrong for me, chief among them my resolve to keep moving forward. With this plan not set in stone and not really thought out by yours truly, there was not much motivation for me to give it my all like I did way back in April. And since my cardio-only days were loose guidelines more than hard-and-fast directions, there were more than enough loopholes for me to mission: abort.
And I did. During Week 11, I took three days off. Same for Week 12. Two during Week 13. Not good. But my workout routine was not the only thing that was destroyed during this time-frame. My diet, which had proved very successful during the first 10 weeks, was suddenly deep-fried and served to me on a platter of butter and Crisco. Holls and my mom have both accused me of being all-or-nothing. In this particular instance, I definitely was. I should have been watching what I ate, but the snacks started to creep back into my daily diet, and I wasn't watching my portions. After 3+ months of shedding weight like a damn fat suit, I've learned that you can still lose weight if you eat healthy or work out - you have to do one of the two. If you don't do either, well, you might as well put a coaster on your beer gut and settle in for a marathon of Man vs. Food, because you're not losing any weight at all.
The food problem culminated during the last half of Week 12. My parents threw their annual Camp Party - essentially, lots of good friends, lots of good eats, lots of good beer. I may have drunkenly devoured five or six chicken thighs throughout the course of the day. Hey, for a recovering fat-aholic, a platter of burgers and potato salad just sitting there is like taking a recovering alcoholic on a tour of a Smirnoff factory. Since my diet was already going downhill that week, why not shoot a hole in the parachute and finish the job?
When I awoke Sunday morning, three things were abundantly clear:
1) My head hurt 2) My stomach was still full 3) I had to go to the gym that night
Crap. Crap. Crap. Well, that's the price I pay for being...what? A fatty? Now wait a second. After 2+ months of working my cherry red Irish ass off, shouldn't I be allowed a less stressful workout routine, one that is tailored to my schedule and that doesn't chop up my whole day EVERY DAY? Methinks so. Then again, I wouldn't be having that feeling if I hadn't pushed myself very hard to begin with. I think it's time to find some common ground and kill that nagging feeling that I've hit the high point already and should just be happy where I am a.k.a. The Disease of Satisfaction.
As Week 13 wound down, I awoke Saturday morning and quickly realized that I couldn't remember what was the last day I had been to the gym. I know I had been Sunday, but after that? I had quantum leaped to a different point in time, not touching the gym for nearly a week. There had been some cardio, but the workout was a different story.
And another phenomenon occurred: I felt completely and totally gross. I mean, I wasn't eating right, I wasn't exercising very well, and I was becoming extremely lethargic again. The last time I had that feeling? April 12: the night I weighed in for the first time. I had to get to that point before I felt compelled enough to lose weight. If I was having that feeling when I was much skinnier, that meant to me that I was never going to go up significantly again. From this point forward, I need to keep making progress. So on Saturday, I made up my mind to get back on this horse. I went Saturday and Sunday to the gym, and I plan on going Monday. I have to amp up my diet again, and my workout schedule will have to be more balanced, but that's easy enough. I just have to want it. Do I want it?
WEIGHT AFTER THIRTEEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JULY 19, 2010: 261.9 LBS. (-7.3 LBS.)
I want it!
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm Kevin James: found unexpected success, hit a plateau, seemed to go downhill for a while (Chuck and Larry, anyone?) and now I'm becoming more and more successful when all signs say that I shouldn't. Also, all my success is owed to Ray Romano.
I'm going to be perfectly honest with everybody. This post, I'm just going through the motions. I genuinely do not feel like writing. In light of the fact that my Grammie Gordon passed away early Sunday morning, I don't feel it would be appropriate to pretend to be in good spirits, crack dirty jokes, talk tongue-in-cheek about how awesome it is that I'm losing all this weight, etc. So I'm just going to post the regular information, and I'll be back to good form later this week.
The heart and soul of the Gordon family.
*****
After an intense 10-week workout, I took a week off. Didn't pig out too much, but also didn't exercise. And since I'm moving into a new phase of the weight loss, we'll call this my new starting weight, even though next week will count as Week 11.
NEW STARTING WEIGHT - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JUNE 28, 2010: 263.7 LBS. WEIGHT LOST SINCE LAST WEIGH-OUT - 4.0 LBS. WEIGHT LOST SINCE BEGINNING OF PROGRAM - 38.1 LBS.
This new program, by the way, will see me in the gym twice a week for an intense super-cutting program that combines supersets of many different exercises with five-minute increments of cardio. There will be about four days of cardio-only workouts during the week, and one day off as usual. This is a bit more flexible schedule than I allowed myself in the beginning.
Thanks for understanding, everybody. I'll be back to form soon enough....
Ok...
One joke, what the hell...
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I am definitely a George Lucas: overweight, happy, questionable facial hair, and possibly misguided in my attempt to take something that went amazingly well the first time and trying to improve it by constantly, CONSTANTLY, CONSTANTLY tinkering with it. At least I'm not enlisting a nerdy Canadian kid with no acting ability to play one of the most iconic roles of all time.
"This is the dawning of the rest of our lives On holiday" ~Green Day~
So after ten grueling weeks of diet and exercise, the first leg of my journey is complete.
It started on a sunny day back in mid-April, when a heavily-out-of-shape redhead meandered into a barely-used fitness center and started pumping the iron. In addition, I started on an extremely strict diet of vegetarian meals and water for the first few weeks in an attempt to jump start my weight loss. And for the first few weeks, I stuck to it hard-core. Through the first five weeks, I lost 28.7 lbs., an average of 5.74 lbs. per week. I was on a roll. Two more solid weeks saw another 4.2 lbs come off the frame, at which point I accepted the fact that the long-feared plateau had finally been reached.
Along the way, I passed tests at almost every interval, from eating out to avoiding comfort food to not snacking between meals and so on. In fact, I started to get very comfortable, and maybe even a little greedy. This became glaringly apparent in Week 8, when I gained back 5.7 lbs., bringing my total back to 27.2 lbs. (still not bad at 3.4 lbs. per week). But if I learned one thing during this journey, it's that I don't like having my hard work undone by anything...especially my own lethargy.
In Week 9, I got back on the horse a little bit, but not by much...or so I thought. My workout routine really wasn't much different then in weeks past. Maybe I was curtailing the size of my meals, but really, that was about it. My weight loss for Week 9 was an astounding 11.9 lbs., bringing my total back to 39.1 lbs. (4.34 lbs. per week). I had not taken any especially long trips to the bathroom, and I still can't explain why I lost 4% of my starting weight in one week.
So after 9 weeks, that's where we stand: 39.1 lbs. lighter...1 weigh-in from the future...7 days off from the gym...1 "Hallelujah".
*****
After my Week 9 weigh-out (I like this better than weigh-in, because at least I feel better saying something like, "All my fat's on it's Weigh Out" (c) Chris Gordon), I was ecstatic, and also a bit freakishly obsessed with trying to lose more weight. In fact, I believe the first words out of my mouth were, "Eleven-point-nine pounds? How much do you think I can lose next week?"
Which is where the worry comes in from my family and friends. See, there are certain folk in my life who believe that I am losing the weight too fast, and that this could be detrimental to my health, as well as extremely gross when you factor in how much extra skin I will eventually have. Well, not quite that bad.
Regardless, I've been told several times that losing too much weight too fast can be bad for you. I'm not trying to be naive, but I just don't see it. Somebody please tell me before I get on the treadmill again and hurt myself.
So when I saw the 11.9 flash on the screen, I was obsessed with getting as close to that number as I could again. And since Week 10 was my last week before a mini-vacation from the gym, I decided to go back to basics: up the weights at the gym, up the speed of the treadmill, go easy on the food, and get back to feeling like I did that first week when I was miserably out of shape and wondering why the hell I even got into this. No music, no television, practically no human contact: just shut up and lose the weight.
And I can say for a fact that I wanted it bad. How bad? Two things happened this week that proved the ultimate test.
1) I fell on the treadmill. I alluded to this earlier this week, but here's the full blow-by-blow. When I run on the treadmill, I tend to drift from side-to-side once in a while. Usually I see this happening and correct myself. For whatever reason, this time I did not. My right foot was then half on the belt and half off the track, and since all my weight was on my right foot for the moment, the belt whipped my foot out from under me. That shot me 90 degrees to my left, where for an awkward second or two I tried to remain upright. When that failed, the belt - whipping under me at exactly 7.0 miles per hour, flung me into the air, where I proceeded to crash hard on my left side. But it doesn't end there, oh no! The belt shot me off into the wall, and since there wasn't a lot of space between the treadmill and the wall, I had to curl into the fetal position while the belt tried to ground about four layers of skin off my back. It hurt, like, a lot. I yelled and swore, shutting off the treadmill for a moment and tried to walk it off. My left arm and leg hurt a lot, but not as much as the treadmill, as I had landed so hard there was now a giant crack near the back of it. Regardless, I had less than a quarter-mile left to run, so I got back up, turned the treadmill on, and ran it out. Old Chris would have never done that. He would have drowned his sorrows in NeoSporin and Tostitos.
2) On Friday, my last official workout, I came down with a pretty bad stomach cramp that afflicted me so badly throughout the day that I briefly considered not going to the gym at all. I had been to the bathroom several times that day, and when I started stretching for the gym, sweating out another 1,000 calories wasn't exactly something I was looking forward to. But I sucked it up and went through with the whole workout, even running out the mile at the end. That's not to say that (children and civilized people, cover your eyes) I didn't have a life-altering fart in the middle of a set of incline push-ups that I could feel coming down the hatch 20 seconds before blast-off. It required so much energy I had to stop breathing for a second to fully appreciate the impact this particular form of flatulence was about to have. That, and I was afraid I would contract prostate cancer if I breathed in the fumes.
So you see, on the exercise end of it, I really wanted a big weight loss bad this week. Too bad my diet didn't get the same treatment. On Saturday, I journeyed to Northern Maine to DJ a wedding, stopping at the one and only Mickey-D's on the way up, where I devoured a Big N' Tasty, fries, and a Diet Coke in about 14 seconds. On the 3-hour drive home, I stopped twice: once at Tim Horton's where I ordered an XL coffee with cream and sugar and the biggest turkey bacon club sandwich I had ever laid eyes upon, and once at Irving's, where I downed a liter of Mountain Dew and a bag of Chex Mix (I do not receive compensation from these companies, not even the fine folks at Taco Bell, home of the $1.99 Chalupa!)
So that wasn't such a good thing. But wait....there's more!
*****
To celebrate 10 weeks of [constant] exercising and [mostly] dieting, I determined that I would have to commemorate this first leg by doing something so far out of my comfort zone that I would be proud of it for years to come. I had already hurdled one mountain by running the 3.5-mile Back Bay, so I would have to go bigger this time. And when you look at the Portland Trail System, there's only one trail that's longer than the Back Bay. In fact, "dwarfs" might be a better word.
I decided that I was going to run the Harborwalk Trail. There's no point in trying to describe it, so here's the map instead Just know that the starting point is East End Beach (at the top) and the end point is Bug Light Park (to the right). Total length: just about 6 miles i.e. THE LONGEST DISTANCE TRAVERSED BY ONE CHRISTOPHER GORDON. But could I do it? I thought I could anyways. I ran a mile almost every day for over two months, and as long as I didn't get too ahead of myself, I though I would have a pretty good chance of completing it.
I started shortly after 6pm on Sunday...
...and finished my non-stop run at 7:15. Unbelievable. Touching Bug Light was the highlight of my ten weeks thus far, and on top of that it was a beautiful day, I hadn't collapsed, I had lost tons of weight...do I need to explain how big my smile was? Just to prove I was there, here's a picture of Bug Light shortly after I touched it... And for you true cynics out there, here's a picture of me in front of Bug Light, all sweaty and stuff And for those who just like sexy things, here's another picture of me And for those tired of me trumpeting my own virtues, here's a picture of Fat Me frowning
Everybody happy?
*****
So after running 6 miles, busting my ass for 10 weeks straight, and promising myself a week off for good behavior, I come to my tenth and final weigh-out, hoping beyond hope that all my hard work paid off just one more time. So how'd I do?
WEIGHT AFTER TEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JUNE 21, 2010: 267.8 LBS. (+4.9 LBS.)
You know what? After 10 weeks, 85.5 miles ran, only one steak eaten, and a total of 34 pounds lost, I'm not even going to bitch this time. Just...grin and bear it.
LATE ADDITION: Two more developments that should give me a reason to keep hope alive...
1) My waist size dropped to a 36 - well, 38 comfortably. Had I bought the 36 shorts, the button would eventually have gone flying across the room like a champagne cork
2) I dropped a whole shirt size to an XL. No such luck with my enormous Irish head.
So now I'm on break for a week: break from the gym, break from the strict diet, break from taking three hours out of my day to prepare for the gym, work out at the gym, and unwind from the gym. C'est la vie! See you in a week!
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm a Big Baby Davis: tried hard for a long time, the weight kept coming off, and much like the 2010 Celtics, the final week didn't turn out exactly like I thought it would; also, like Big Baby, I screamed so loud after the Week 10 weigh-in that I scared the HIV out of Magic Johnson.
To answer the question hanging on the tip of everybody's tongue, yes, I did do the double workout on Saturday. Will I ever do it again? I'll let Arms answer this one:
"YOU DAMN FOOL! IF YOU EVER PULL A STUNT LIKE THAT AGAIN, I'LL CRAMP YOUR BICEP IN THE MIDDLE OF A WIPE!"
Loud and clear. The Double Workout is not a fun time, especially if, over 9 weeks, you're used to doing 6 exercises and then a mile. 12 exercises and 2 miles equals Certain Death. It's not so bad when you're doing it, but the next day you feel like you've been the victim of a Superfly Splash: just pure pain rushing at you at 12 feet per second.
*****
Not to get all preachy or anything, but I figured I would share some words of wisdom. After 9 weeks, I'm getting into pretty good shape, not just physically but mentally, too. By that I mean that my attitude toward physical fitness has changed tremendously. I no longer dread going to the gym (even though I still have many more trips ahead of me), and eating healthy is not as bad as it sounds (although lentil chili still doesn't sound very good). I hope at the very least that if this blog accomplishes nothing else, at least one person out there will get inspired and want to start changing their life as well. One word of advice, if I may: over 9 weeks I have learned this -
My body doesn't owe me shit.
That's the truth. Let me give you an example: say I work out five days during the week. I eat healthy, and generally take care of myself. Now let's say that on the sixth day, I feel like rewarding myself, so I eat an entire stuffed crust pizza, using the logic that I've been good all week and my body will give me a free pass just this once.
That's a big negative. Your body thinks like an accountant: it's just numbers and basic math. If you lost 5 lbs, and then eat 2 lbs worth of junk food without compensating for it - like exercising, for example - your body is only going to give you credit for 3 lbs, and probably less when you factor in lethargy, grease, fat, etc. All those fancy diets - Atkins, South Beach, Atkins Beach, etc. - may actually work for a couple people, but nothing on Earth allows you to eateateat with no repercussions at all. It's sad, I know, but unless you're dieting and exercising on a regular basis, you're never going to spur any real change in your body chemistry. That being said, don't read the next paragraph...
Week 9 saw somewhat of a return to form for me. While I did take two days off at the gym rather than my normal one, I made up for it on Saturday, while at home, I managed to work in some more healthy meals (although the allure of chicken ceasar sandwiches still hung in the air all week). After last week, where I re-gained nearly 6 lbs, I was bound and determined NOT to have regressive weeks in a row. Even if I lost nothing this week, there was no way in hell I was gaining any weight. I made sure of that on Sunday night; while the Celtics were whipping the Lakers in Game Five, the treadmill was whupping me during a faster 2-mile run.
(Note: Initially, I was going to run the Back Bay again, but Maine is in this peculiar weather pattern where we can't seem to get the same weather two days in a row. Everybody's mood is going south for the summer...very frustrating).
Two major relapses this week: 1) Earlier in the week, I treated myself to a midnight snack: cheese popcorn. A lot of cheese popcorn. I started crying midway through, thinking that the whole week was down the drain (didn't really start crying, but you get the idea) 2) Saturday night, while over to my old roommate Shorn's house watching UFC, I treated myself to not one, but two bowls of fat free chocolate ice cream. No word on whether or not the pizza and wings that I DID NOT EAT were jealous at all.
That feels kind of like the explanation and confession of guilt right before the jury's verdict is delivered, but anyway...here goes nothing...wince...
WEIGHT AFTER NINE WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JUNE 14, 2010: 262.8 LBS. (-11.9 LBS.)
...
I think that just about says it all. I'd like some popcorn now.
*****
Week 10 is here. Time to re-up and work out hardcore, and then I get a week off. Looking forward to it, too. Nothing but pizza! I wish...
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom,I'm like Monica on "Friends": the change has been so drastic so suddenly, people wonder if I'm going to balloon back up again. I know on the show she's skinny, but she used to be fat, remember? (er...not that I've ever seen the show...um...)
I knew that eventually something would happen that would prevent me from hitting the Sweat Factory and getting my sexiness all in order. Well, wouldn't you know that it ended up being my laziness? Who'da thunkit? Oh, I know who: my 275-lb. fat ass that took almost 26 years to get to this point.
Let me recap without chucking invectives wildly like a Dave McCarty fastball: about four weeks ago, I transferred to another department within my company. In my new position, my schedule changes almost daily, and it is rare that I have the same two days off in consecutive weeks. Therefore, my 1pm start time that I had relied on for over a month has been violently ripped away from me (although my happiness level at work and at home has exponentially risen). So every day I have to work out at a completely different time, and since some days I don't get out of work until 9pm...you do the math. You know I'm not waking up an hour earlier if I don't have to be to work until 1 in the afternoon. And after nine weeks, my gung-ho Go Team! attitude has been reduced to a broken noisemaker and 5.7 previously-lost pounds finding their way back into my body.
Anyway, with different start times every day, I've been occasionally rearranging my day off from the gym every week. It used to be Saturday, but lately it's been Tuesday, or Friday, or Wednesday, or whatever. This week it was Wednesday. I worked a nine-hour shift, and was supposed to head right for the gym after work. But at the end, my boss sat me down and told me training was over, and that I was now effectively released into the wild, as it were. I was incredibly happy. Here's a brief idea of how I looked:
Just add about 22 years and a couple hundred pounds (but the same wife-beater) and you get the idea.
So how did I want to celebrate? Did I want to go leg press about 300 lbs. and almost snap my tailbone like a dead tree? Or did I want to go home and kill a bottle of Zinfandel with my honey? Or did I want to drink and work out at the same time?
Well, I opted for B (although C sounds wonderful). So much for Saturday being my day off. But it wasn't a huge deal. I would just have to work out every day for the rest of the week. Yet Thursday had other plans for me. It was my day off from work, and I spent most of it unpacking and rearranging things in our new apartment. Around 3:30 or so, I was literally walking out the door to head to the gym (it should be noted that Holls was out of work at 3, but was on her way to an oil change). She pulled into the driveway right as I was walking out the door. She had one of those looks that every husband/fiance/boyfriend recognizes right away: it's the I'm-going-to-say-you-can-leave-for-the-gym-now-but-if-you-leave-me-alone-I-might-murder-a-cat-in-cold-blood look. Like this:
Wait, that's the cat. More like this:
Minus the nurse's uniform.
So I gotta find out what's wrong. I can't leave my girl hanging like that, so I put off going to the gym. And we talk for a while, and we end up going out for dinner, and the potential bad night turns into a very good one.
And at a certain point, it's about 10:30...
And my bag is still packed for the gym...
Only I am in absolutely no mood to go to the gym...
And in a flash, I tell myself I'll make it up somewhere else...
Even though I'll be shorting myself a workout this week...
Goddammit...
(Sidebar: I just re-read everything I just wrote, and realized that it sounds like something...else was going on. That's a negative on that. We just ate pasta and went to Home Depot. I promise you. So far as you know [giggles!]).
But seriously....no.
Regardless, when I woke up Friday morning, only one thought crossed my mind: ".....Shit." Now I have to make up a workout somewhere. I foolishly told myself that I would work out Friday morning and night, and I did hit the gym this morning, but I decided about .000067 seconds after I punched out that one workout was enough, and that what was best for my body was scouring YouTube and my television for fitness-related programming aka hey Ass, let's take a night off and worry about doubling up tomorrow. You've earned it!
Will I double up a workout tomorrow night? Or will I go double-or-nothing on Sunday, when I'm already supposed to run 2 miles? Guess you'll just have to stay tuned! Good day...
After nearly 2 months of a steady workout regiment, Week 8 was the first time where I felt my resolve start to slip a bit. It was mostly little things: larger meal portions, less emphasis on weight during my workout, etc. I still haven't missed any workouts, but this was the first week where midway through the week I knew something was a bit off.
For example, at work one day, I had for lunch a grilled reuben sandwich with half a bag of pretzels. That's an old Chris meal. A new Chris meal would have eaten half the sandwich and a few pretzels. Part of my slip this week centered around a holier-than-thou complex that's been building inside of me for a couple weeks now. Whereas in the past I would not specify to people exactly how much weight I had lost, I was proudly telling people left and right this week that I had lost 33 pounds. And after hearing myself say over and over again how awesome I am, I started to feel invincible, and felt that I could just about anything and I would lose weight.
That's not accurate. The whole reason I've been shedding so much weight is because the diet and exercise portions both act as supplements to each other: they bring out the best in each other, like Heidi and Spencer only the exact opposite. And this week, I stupidly thought that I could just rely on exercise to carry the day, and could still eat whatever I want. No more Frosted Flakes burritos for me (although that does sound wonderful...).
So how'd I do?
WEIGHT AFTER EIGHT WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, JUNE 7, 2010: 274.7 LBS. (+5.7 LBS.)
Yikes. So the slip was more like...
FIVE THINGS TO KEEP IN MIND:
1. I ate a really big dinner on Sunday night. That could have something to do with it.
2. I ate a Tums right before weigh-in. I don't know if it weighed 5.7 pounds, but it could have...
3. This picture was taken Saturday night. Who the hell is this guy? Compared to this guy, that is.
4. I figure there's been one bad week out of eight. Not too shabby.
5. And then this...not everything is bad
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom,I'm Eric Cartman in the "Weight Gain 4000" episode: I think I'm losing a lot of weight, but in reality, it's not going so well. "Beefcake! BEEFCAKE!!!"
WEIGHT AFTER FOUR WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 10, 2010: 281.3 LBS. (-1.8 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER FIVE WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 17, 2010: 273.2 LBS. (-8.2 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER SIX WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 24, 2010: 272.3 LBS. (-0.9 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER SEVEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 31, 2010: 269.0 LBS. (-3.3 LBS.)
So there's that...
*****
So the question is, as Jerry Seinfeld once said, what have I been doing? Well, interesting that you should ask. There's been much ado about everything in my life lately, which explains why I've failed to keep my apt readership informed as to the goings-on in the life of Christopher Jasper Gordon. But now Fella's got his groove back, things are getting back to a steady rhythm, and I finally have some time to sit down and tell you exactly what the hell I've been up to.
Quick interlude: Initially, I had started writing a rather long and complicated "24"-themed entry a few days after my Week 3 wrap-up. But 3/4 of the way through, I mistakenly deleted it, and rather than spend hours trying to remember every little inside joke that only true Jack Bauer fans would understand, I said to hell with it, and pretty much Fatty and Julia fell off the face of the earth for four weeks.
I had many personal challenges over the last four weeks that, at times, threatened to upend this whole experiment. My sister's birthday was the first such occurrence. I drove down on a Wednesday morning to take her out for breakfast, and needless to say Massachusetts traffic generally does not give a flying rat's patootie what my workout schedule calls for that day. So when I rolled into the gym at 2pm - with an upcoming shift starting at 3 - I rushed through the workout, cranking out every exercise, and I do mean every exercise. And wouldn't you know it? I was under the hot spray of the company shower at 2:50, and still managed to punch in on time. I wish Sergei our Croatian janitor hadn't insisted on standing outside the shower and watching me, but that might be another journal entry, or at the very least a small claims case.
Something else extraordinary happened that pleased me in new and exciting ways: the little cinch that kept my b-hole tight loosened up a little bit, and I allowed myself a few off-the-road dietary detours while still eating mostly healthy. For instance, on May 7 at 11:31 pm, I had my first beer in over four weeks (I believe it was that time; it could have been 11:32). Anyways, after weeks of greens and H2O, to have that salty, hops-filled, barleyriffic sensation of pure liquid sex poured straight down my gullet was like a gift from the gods. I also drank PBR. I decided that after nearly five weeks of maintaining a strict diet - and with the wedding more than two years away - that I had earned the right to partake in a little reward or two.
And then there was the unexpected. A couple weeks later I was in the Bangor region DJing a wedding, and stayed with family members for a couple nights. One morning, as I prepared to help one of my cousins move into his new place, my aunt had made me breakfast: eggs, toast, COFFEE and BACON. Why was this a big deal? At this point, I was still in the mindset that pork, chicken and beef were a ways off, so if I ate the bacon, I felt like I would be balling up the whole plan and chucking it out the window. Needless to say, the bacon didn't have a chance to get cold, and the coffee tasted as if a Colombian coffee bean farmer had brewed it in the next room. It was heaven. (It also kicked the door open to drinking coffee again, which I'm not entirely displeased about).
That same weekend, Holls and I moved into a new place. As I write this, we're finally moving the last of our things in, which is surprising, since I'm writing this six feet off the ground while balancing on two stacks of shoeboxes and the entire 1998-2004 issues of Glamour magazine (ha ha, just kidding, love you hun). That might have sparked some more weight loss, since I carried about twenty-seven boxes down two flights of stairs for days on end. So finding time to work out regularly in the weeks since the move began have been challenging to say the least.
And can we all agree that moving is one of the five most terrible experiences a person can go through? Forget all that crap about fresh starts, new friends, etc. Moving consists of cutting a chunk out of yours and possibly your friends and family's lives and moving your shit into the back of a dirty truck or van while the rest of the world goes to the beach. At least that's how it felt when I trucked up I-295 on an 85-degree day with a pickup full of photo albums.
On Monday of our first week here, I started my new position in the company. My schedule changed to a rather sporadic spattering of times and locations, all of which change day in and day out. Translation: nearly impossible to want to work out on a Friday afternoon at 5:00 when it's absolutely gorgeous out. And I think that was an unexpected challenge that I hadn't foreseen way back on April 12th: what happens when the Psycho Child that Lives in the Clouds stops frigging with us poor Mainers and lets us have a few weeks of nice weather for a change? Think I'm going to want to spend an hour or two in a sterile exercise room stuck watching repeats of "Rob and Big"? J'don't think so.
And the last big challenge consisted of an unexpected day off that could have been dire for the old fatty Chris. Two weeks in a row, I was forced to change my day off from the gym because, as Jeff Goldblum once said, life found a way. One week it had to be a Thursday; the other was a Friday, I believe. But although it would have been a huge deal had it been one of my first weeks doing this program, it actually was just as easy as rescheduling an appointment. As long as I made good on the missed workout, what the hell difference does it make what day I work out? (301.8-lb. Chris would have made up that missed workout on Nevterday).
The important point? I didn't miss one workout. Not one.
*****
On the last day of Week 7, something extraordinary happened to me.
I was out of work at 6pm, and where I was working was only a quick 10-15 minute jaunt to the gym. So as I traveled up Route 1, I rolled my window down and took in the beautiful Maine evening. Fresh air, beautiful sunshine, bumfights on the sidewalk: it was magic. Without giving too much personal info away, Holls and I have moved into a spot very close to the mythical Back Bay in Portland. The Back Bay is a long and beautiful walking path right near the heart of downtown Portland (I should write travel brochures). The total length of the path is just over 3.5 miles.
Now, I've walked this trail many times. Holls and I have walked it together. I've ran part of it, but usually bottom out shortly after a mile. As I inched closer and closer to the gym, it suddenly dawned on me that my proximity to this beautiful free resource needed to be taken advantage of. So I bypassed the gym altogether today, threw on my workout clothes, grabbed my Sansa Fuze, and walked the short distance to the Back Bay.
I started running. Well, more like a steady and healthy jog, maybe slightly slower than the four or five times I had bolted out of the gate when attempting to traverse the entire trail. And I ran by Vannah, and Dartmouth, and eventually made it past Hannaford, and then past the soccer field...
...and amazingly enough, after nearly 3 miles I was picking up steam while running toward Tookis Bridge...
...and I lagged a bit on the bridge, but still didn't stop...
...and at the other side, I saw the final sign post...
...and much like Rocky turning up the juice while running along the docks, I sprinted the final portion of my run to my starting point. Let me say that again: after over 3.5 miles, I SPRINTED to the final destination. Actually, sprinting is not the correct word, because that sounds like something a high school cross country coach would say. Let me rephrase: I ran like a goddamn pack of axe murderers were hot on my heels. And when I hit my starting point, it was the closest this big man has come to shedding a tear. In my 25+ years, I have never ran that distance before without stopping. Ever. Even now, I'm so proud of myself that it's making me sick. Were it not for several other people still on the trail, I would have made a banshee call that would have raised the hounds of hell.
(And to you folks that regularly run 5-10 miles a day, this may not be a big deal for you, but for a guy who used to get light-headed while tying his shoes, I may as well have climbed Mount Everest today. That's how good it felt. The only way I can relay it to you is imagine your local Starbucks suddenly ran out of grande cups, so they relented and gave you a venti for the grande price. Like hitting the jackpot, right? /shakes head disgustedly)
*****
Few other things...
THUMBS UP: to me, for running the Back Bay non-stop. HOOOOOOOOOVAAAA
THUMBS DOWN: to the City of Portland for decorating their trail with non-working water fountains
THUMBS UP: to Lucinda Williams, one of only five artists who can actually change my mood in a matter of seconds (the others being Wolfmother, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles and AC/DC. What can I say? I dig Australian stoner metal bands).
THUMBS DOWN: to the Raveonettes. One of their shit songs came on my Fuze today, just a random chant with static and screeching that almost blew out my damn eardrums. Ask my buddy Tom: he'll tell you about the time we went to say four bands with the Raveonettes as the headliner, and they ended up being the only band that sucked. I believe the Raveonettes doubled as our excuse to go get a few beers before the next band came on, right KrzyLggz?
THUMBS UP: to not having boobs anymore!
DOUBLE THUMBS UP: to not having chaffy nipples when I run anymore!
TRIPLE THUMBS UP: to Holls, who called me "hot" the other day!
THUMBS DOWN: to Sergei, who said the exact same thing after my shower
And finally, THUMBS UP: to me, for dropping the best "That's What She Said" in my quarter-century on this earth. My supervisor at my new job was in the process of training me, and reached into his desk drawer to grab a piece of black liquorish from a bag he keeps stored in there. He started complaining that the candy was old, and at one point he said - I swear to the Psycho Child in the clouds he actually said these words - "It's hard, but it still tastes pretty good."
You know the funny thing is? Instinct plays a big part in these situations, and rather than think, "Hmm, maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to say something like that only a week into my new job," "That's What She Said" flew out of my mouth so quickly that it almost shattered the sound barrier. Lucky me: he spit the candy out and started laughing.
Methinks I'm gonna like my new job. It's pretty tight most of the time, and there's always a couple guys around to give me a hand.
Wait a sec...
*****
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom,I'm Ricky Gervais: sometimes you may not hear from me for months at a time, but when you do, I seem to be doing pretty good. Also, I'm hosting the Golden Globes next year.
WORKOUT SONG OF THE WEEK You may think I'm crazy, but this is the song that came on the exact moment I started sprinting in my jog. Why do I have an influx of Phil Collins songs in my Fuze? As Bluto would say, why not?
The Week of Treats is officially over, and it's time to put this train back on track. I broke my stride ever so slightly this week, partaking in such things as glasses of milk, bites of ice cream, ginger snaps, and today - oh, the humanity! - a couple handfuls of unroasted peanuts. Just kill me now!
The good news about all these little excursions away from my goal is that each time I had a little snack, I was pissed at myself because I knew with each little bite that I was making it harder for myself to lose the weight, even if it was just tiny rewards. I know I have time, but I'll be damned if I want to allow myself to get into the mindset that I can coast for now and make it up later. I was bound to have at least one bad week; I just didn't think it would be the third one.
So how'd I do?
WEIGHT AFTER THREE WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 3, 2010: 283.1 LBS. (-2 LBS.)
As you can probably tell, after A New Hope in Week 1 (major, life-changing) and The Empire Strikes Back in Week 2 (a personal best in its own right), Week 3 was obviously bound to be Return of the Jedi (hey, it's better than nothing). I'm going to have to amp up this week if I want to keep this going. No more snacks, no more milk, nothing but the strict diet that I strayed from a bit this week. Anyway, I'm tired, only slightly skinnier this week, a little annoyed with myself, so I'm going to bed. Say good-night, left bicep.
("Good night, left bicep. Ppppphhhhhh!!!")
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom,I'm definitely a John Travolta: I'm going to have my good ones and bad ones, and the weight won't always fall off so easy. Just as long as Week 4 isn't my Battlefield Earth week, I should be ok.
I reintroduced fish into my diet this week. Instead of munching on Veggie Tales, I dished up some Nemo and Sebastian (or halibut and tuna steaks - all we could afford this week). To be quite honest, I thought that there was going to be some huge emotional outburst when I tore into that halibut earlier this week. But thanks to my limited culinary skills, I overcooked the fish, burned the sauce, forgot to make rice, and essentially murdered Wednesday's dinner and Thursday's lunch. Yay, me.
But the tuna steaks were amazing (mostly because I begrudgingly ceded control of the kitchen to Holls). And I thought that after two weeks of intense diet and exercise, I had earned the right to eat a dead thing.
However, I wasn't totally comfortable with it. See, once I allow myself a little wiggle room, that's usually game over for me. I get spoiled, I get lazy, and before I realize it, I'm riding the Gravy Train back to Peanut Butter Jelly Time. I was afraid that once I allowed myself to eat more diverse foods that I would start slipping back into old habits, even if the whole thing were kick-started by something as simple as burnt halibut.
I was only half-right.
I've been very hard on myself not to stray from my diet AT ALL. I allowed myself a break that first week in the form of a brownie and a little ice cream, but I thought that if I only rewarded myself at the end of a week of hard work and strict dieting, that I would be ok.
Well, last night I had one lick of ice cream. Just one. It was mocha chip. And I almost swallowed the whole thing in one foul swoop. That's how good it was. And after my initial glass of milk on Monday, I had one or two more throughout the week, which wasn't the end of the world, but still. And tonight came the grand daddy of un-nutritious treats: I ate 9 ginger snaps in about 5 minutes. This week in particular, I've felt a little pressure from a bunch of people to cave on my diet a little bit. None of this was done maliciously. I think it has more to do with the mindset of, "I'm eating. You're not. I'm enjoying myself. You must not be. Want something to eat?" I totally understand that. At work tonight, one of my co-workers had a bag of ginger snaps that he placed beside me and offered me some. I initially refused, mostly because I hadn't eaten my dinner yet (see, I learned something from my momma!). After I had polished off Holls' delicious homemade mac and cheese, I found I really hadn't packed much M&C for myself, and that I should probably up my calorie intake for this one meal.
(eyes slowly stray over to open bag of ginger snaps...
...Chris's mouth starts drooling...)
You know what happened next. I polished off 9 of those ginger-flavored bastards, the last 4 of which were from sheer impulse alone.
STOP IT, FATTY! What are you doing?!?!?! (That was me, not my coworker. And no, I don't call myself "fatty," usually.)
I said 5, and I ate 9. What the hell is wrong with me?
But don't I deserve a little treat once in a while?
Yes, you do. "A." Singular. One.
Shove off, Tall Danny DeVito! Don't ruin it for the rest of us.
Hey, I'm trying to lose weight here!
Look at the damn nutrition facts! You only had 216 calories. You're going to be fine.
Really? Then how come I'm scared to death that I'm going to have to loosen my belt back to two notches?
...Um...that's just...macaroni gas. You'll be fine.
I literally had this conversation with myself. After Animal Control was done vetting me, I was allowed to return to my owners, where I was told to keep the ginger snaps as far as away as possible, for fear of reprisal from the Gods of Weight Loss.
*****
One other thing of note this week...
Normally, my day off from exercising is Saturday. This is because as of right now, it is my only day off, and I wish to keep it that way. Sunday is the day that I run my 2 miles before I punch in. But since I switched days for this weekend, I had Friday and Sunday off, and ended up working Saturday. It was hard enough coming in on Friday. But really, could I trek back to my employer on both of my days off?
Hell no! I switched my running to today, and will chance that my weight loss total every Sunday night is not solely dependent upon me running like a fool that same afternoon. Here's hoping...
Was it Henry Longfellow or John Fogerty who said, in every life, a little rain must fall? Whomever said it was a genius, because it's been storming in my neck of the woods lately.
As I've said before, a big part of this weight loss routine is mental. In fact, almost all of it is mental. I know I can run, lift, etc. But if my mind's not in the right place, none of that matters at all. Suffice it to say that for the last couple days, my mind has not been in the right place. Stress outside the gym almost affected me inside the confines of the Sweat Factory. Stress from work, stress from home - both things started to catch up to me this week and it almost derailed me. The specifics aren't important.
The one saving grace was that now, after 2 1/2 weeks of going to the gym nearly every day, it has now become a daily part of my routine. There really is no question anymore of if I'm going to the gym today; that question has been rephrased to "What time am I going to the gym?"
Trust me, though: if this series of events had happened my first week in, I would probably be burying my sorrows in a bag of Doritos. But I've built up enough discipline that I can sidestep the land mines that threaten to destroy all my hard work and keep chugging forward.
Which brings me to my one piece of advice for anybody looking to start this type of routine: Make sure your life outside the gym is stable before you commit yourself to this. I don't believe it's enough to depend just on sheer willpower alone; the rest of your life can catch up with you, and when it does, you will find yourself less and less in the gym. Trust me.
Few words in life can fully describe the excitement and joy that is waking up on a Saturday morning knowing that you don't have to work out, don't have to be civilized, don't have to deal with anything if you don't want to, etc. After a particularly tough workout Friday afternoon, I was really looking forward to a completely relaxing day of doing absolutely nothing. That is, until I had a moment of inspiration that would be beneficial to both Holls and myself.
"Wanna travel up to Boothbay and check out potential wedding spots?" I asked.
*****
A couple hours later, we're in Boothbay, home of some of the best clam chowder this side of Bill Green's Maine. Alas, I am not allowing myself to eat clam chowder, as I have apparently banished myself to a self-imposed exile free from the naughty temptations of meat, poultry and fish.
What am I doing to myself? I should have known better. Every other house in Boothbay Harbor has a lobster trap in front of it. A month or two ago, I would have stopped at the closest grocery store and purchased a tub of Land O' Lakes in preparation for the feast of underwater delights I would have partaken in. But for now, I have to play nice, drink my tap water, eat my veggies, and pretend like there isn't a special section of my shrinking stomach that wouldn't fit perfectly a nice 3-pound hard-shell.
Holls packed peanut butter and banana sandwiches along with two slices of vegetarian pizza, and after you've eaten so much rice and beans you think your local oil refinery may have a gas leak somewhere, PBB sandwiches are like a gourmet meal cooked by Bobby Flay; I would have bulldozed an 1800s' orphanage for a PBB sandwich. And while the only kink thrown into the works on that fine Saturday afternoon was an unscheduled stop to Subway where I polished off yet another foot-long Veggie Delight, there was no real weight loss story associated with the day.
But as I said in the beginning of this blog, I'm working toward not just losing weight, but losing weight for the wedding. I'll talk about the wedding from time-to-time. There are obviously things I cannot tell you (such as whether my tux will be powder blue or popsicle orange), but there are some things I can say. I can tell you, for instance, that the wedding is officially going to be held on August 4, 2012. (For you potential invitees, it's very easy to remember: 8/4/12, 8+4=12. Huh? HUH? Laughing...whimsical sigh...)
And I can't really say where we visited for the potential wedding sites, either. I can say that Boothbay is certainly a possibility, as are other coastal Maine towns, but none of that is set in stone. By the way...
TEN WORST PLACES TO GET MARRIED (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER) 7-Eleven gravel pit Auschwitz airport tarmac bar bathroom Cactus Club (Google it) Mount Everest Wilco-Hess Truck Stop just off Exit 4 in White Pine, Tennessee Waco, Texas Chernobyl
(FYI, we've crossed most of these off our list.)
I can also tell you that she will be wearing white, and I've been ordered to Shoot to Kill if I spot anyone else wearing white. Besides that, there's not too much to tell. She hasn't even told me if I'm invited yet, so stay tuned.
*****
Sunday was a day of cooking and running. Practically from the moment we awoke, we were cooking our meals for the day, which is also becoming tiresome. Cooking is great, when you only have to do it yourself once a month and the fine people at Domino's do the other times, but when you're constantly rinsing out measuring cups and spoons, it starts to wear on you after a while.
(...just being handed an urgent development...)
Oh, I only cooked just a little, tiny bit for the past two weeks? My apologies. When I said, "We were cooking," that should be corrected to now read, "She was cooking." Terribly sorry.
But it's absolutely true. Any weight I lose is certainly helped by Holls. She's been nothing short of amazing during this past fortnight, cheering me on from the sidelines as I start slimming down and stop eating cupcakes. She's worked tirelessly to make my meals healthy and nutritious, all while sacrificing a great deal of her free time to make it happen. She has definitely earned the coveted Chris Gordon Foot Rub, previously awarded to such stellar recipients as myself, my father as punishment for breaking a living room window when I was 6, and my parents' slightly confused black lab Gus one night when I was home drinking.
After polishing off homemade apple cinnamon bread, I was off to the gym for my Sunday run. My workouts as of late have become more enjoyable, as within the last week I have purchased a new set of headphones and a new pair of shorts, both sleek and white, both about to have 14 gallons of Irish sweat ruin their sheen (wouldn't that be the grossest body wash ever, Irish Sweat? You could rub it on, and instead of those cute little Irish lasses that pop out of the spout and giggle suggestively at you, it would be some drunken County Cork farmer swearing he would kick your Protestant-loving arse if you or any of your lot ever came within 3 kilometers of his potato fields).
Two hard miles than followed, that were notable only by three things: 1) I sweat. A lot. 2) I got my heart rate up way past the training zone 3) My side didn't even remotely begin to hurt
I was very pleased about #2, and quite hopeful about #3. When my side hurts, that's when I know I'm pushing myself hard. Since it didn't hurt today, that means I could have gone longer (that's what sh - never mind), which means next time I can push myself hard. I want the Clubber Lang Prediction; I want pain.
And now we've reached the Magic Hour. No, not that terrible talk show from the 90s, I mean it's midnight on Sunday and time to weigh myself. Workouts were a bit easier this week, only because I was more used to it, which means I'll have to adjust next week. I didn't break any rules, didn't indulge in any sweets, so I should be good. I suspect the weight loss will be a little less this week, as I understand it plateaus after the initial drop.
So how'd I do?
WEIGHT AFTER TWO WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 26, 2010: 285.1 LBS. (-6.8 LBS.)
So another big dent? Nice. I have to admit, I had the tiniest of letdowns when I saw the scale this time. After a week of working hard, and of course seeing that 9.9 disappear last week, it was more like a good-natured letdown, akin to being told the Saturday night movie is The Breakfast Club, but then it turns out to be Weird Science; you're disappointed, but what the hell?
One final thing: this week, I'm going to treat myself one day. Maybe it will be a coffee, maybe an ice cream, maybe a glass of milk. And should that little treat hinder my weight loss and I don't see another significant dent, it will be akin to being told the movie is Teen Wolf, but it's actually Teen Wolf Too; same name, totally different product, and I will cry.
How do I feel right now? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I would say I'm about a Jason Alexander: I'm known for one particular thing (in my case, being huge), I immediately thought that my prior success would carry me further, and I hope this temporary setback doesn't seal my fate. At least I'm not doing commercials with Valerie Bertinelli
