DAYS 16-17, TUESDAY-WEDNESDAY, APRIL 27-28, 2010
829 DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
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.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Monday, April 26, 2010
Jesus Christ has returned
Today, I had my first glass of milk in over two weeks.
It was not water.
It was delicious.
I almost cried.
I earned it.
The End.
It was not water.
It was delicious.
I almost cried.
I earned it.
The End.
Sunday, April 25, 2010
Week 2: Fin
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.)
"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
831 DAYS UNTIL THE WEDDING
Friday, April 23, 2010
A Wheezy, Hulking Mass of Sweat
DAYS 8-12: MONDAY-FRIDAY, APRIL 19-23, 2010
Wow. How to come down from the emotional high that was losing 10 pounds last night? When I stepped off the scale, I was obviously quite jubilant, but I was unsure of exactly what to do next. Part of me wanted to work out right then and there (gotta take advantage of that early-morning exhaustion!). Part of me wanted to take the next week off. And for some reason, part of me wanted a Philly cheese steak.
I ultimately decide to stay the course, keep exercising just as hard, and watch what I eat. I was entering Week 2 of this program - which meant more veggies and water, yippee - and so I knew I couldn't throw in the towel now. 10 pounds was a sign that better things were to come, so as long as I didn't miss too many days at the gym, and as long as I didn't have an exorbitant amount of food in one sitting, I would be fine.
The following morning, Holls and I had been invited out to breakfast by her parents. I had passed this Restaurant Test two nights earlier, so I knew this would be a cinch. After perusing the expansive menu - while avoiding land mines like bacon and sausage (stomach grumbling) - I settled on a sensible and nutritious choice: a vegetarian omelet with toast. And since it was one of the less-expensive items available, I knew it couldn't have been that big, right?
Not right. Simply put, this was one of the biggest breakfasts I've had in two months. The omelet was thicker than a Trapper Keeper, flanked by four slices of iron man Texas toast, buried underneath the rubble of a home fries explosion. The plate was almost bigger than my head, not an insignificant accomplishment. I almost choked when I asked somebody to pass the butter. They were essentially musket balls from a Redcoat's bayonet, except edible. This is not what I had in mind when I placed my order.
But hey, as long as it's here....maybe one...little...bite?
MMMAHHHHMMMMLWLALKSDFJASODFJELELWOWIJLDKGJASGOIAJSG!!!!!!
When I regained consciousness, it was time for the workout. The one thing I could not allow myself to do this week was slack. I had finished strong last week, and I was bound and determined to keep up the pace. I rammed home the power circuit on Monday, ultimately realizing that if I wanted to live past 30, I would not be able to run 2 miles every day. I could still run my hard mile, though. And I'm proud to say that I finished each day with an extremely sweaty, extremely disgusting T-shirt on my back. When I catch the guy who threw it at me, his ass is grass.
*****
As this week began, I suspected the only thing that might change noticeably would be the amount of willpower I was willing to apply to my daily workouts. Much to my surprise, it didn't happen. In fact, I think once I noticed my workouts were a bit easier this week, I started to step up the pace and really throw some weight into the exercises. But something else did happen almost every day this week that could prove to be a great lesson or a great undoing.
After Monday's breakfast, I found myself in somewhat of a time crunch. See, I have been arriving at the gym around 12:15/12:30 every day. That allows me enough time to stretch properly, warm up, get my exercises in, run my mile, and shower, with some leisurely sit-around-and-breathlessly-watch-TV time thrown in for good measure, all before I punch in for work at 3. But with several errands demanding my attention before I got to the gym, I realized that I was being pushed inevitably toward either having to work out very quickly or not work out at all.
As many fitness routines as I've started in my life, I've always known exactly one thing that's beyond doubt: for the first week, I will rearrange my life around my workout routine because the energy and commitment is still fresh in my mind; for the second week, I will rearrange my workout routine around my life because I've lost any resolve to keep pushing forward. It pisses me off to no end, but that's the way I've always operated.
And I could tell that with the rest of my life starting to seep back in for some much-needed attention that I would have to find a steady balance between the two priorities. I really wanted to do my workout routine, but at some point, I know that life will need me other places, and I will not be able to do it sometimes. But at this early stage of the game, there was no way in hell I was going to make that compromise yet.
I arrived at the gym at 1 pm or later almost every day this week, knowing that to get the full slate in, I would have to book it. And let me tell you something: when it's not your first day and you're not ready to pass out after every strain on your muscles, speeding through a workout is actually not that hard. You just have to cut out that precious TV time, which is a little sad, I must say.
SIDEBAR: I walked in one day and somebody had left it on the Game Show Network. As I was finishing up my mile, this show called Catch 21 came on, hosted by none other than Carlton Banks, albeit a little heavier and without that rich person egotism. The only proper way to describe how he looked was to say he was dressed like the Head Keg Pumper at a fraternity homecoming party (sports coat on T-shirt: always a classy choice).
Needless to say, Tom Jones may be making his way into my workout mix in the near future.
*****
Finally, there was one more thing I noticed this week that I brushed upon earlier. The workouts are starting to get easier, which is not a great thing. It means I'm getting too comfortable. After I work hard, I get it in my head that I deserve a break. Apparently, I let the intensity of my workout be my break. No wonder I was breezing through these workouts! Perhaps that's overstating it, though. I wouldn't call a wheezy, hulking mass of sweat exactly "breezing through" anything. It's just the motions become easier to predict; I know what I'm in for. On Friday, I decided to remedy that and started upping the weight. My God, was it terrible. After working on autopilot for the entire week, it was almost like my first day all over again. I started getting that passing-out feeling toward the end of the workout, but I think I know why.
One of my exercises calls for a Weighted Knee Raise, which calls for me to position myself in a captain's chair and lift my legs up to my diaphragm. Unfortunately, having the balance and endurance of a baby giraffe means that while I'm struggling to lift my knees up to my gut - er, abdomen, my arms are doing all the work by trying to keep me upright. I haven't been getting the ab workout that I needed. So I subbed in 3 sets of incline sit-ups, which are, to paraphrase Charles Barkley, just turrible. But with that extra push in my twice-a-week power circuit, I felt the burn hardcore.
I also discovered the power of having somebody else around. On Tuesday, another person came in and started using the treadmill while I was exercising. I don't know what it is, but when somebody else is around, I shift into Impress Mode, and I feel my workout will not be complete until I beat that person at whatever it is they're doing. This time, it was the treadmill. So when I stepped up to do my mile, I cranked it out, and made sure that I didn't leave until I felt I had sufficiently impressed the crap out of this complete stranger.
And the story about my prideful self collapsing in a blubbering mass of exhausted pity in the shower immediately after the door closed is entirely unfounded.
TWO NEW COMPLIMENTS FOR THE WEEK:
"Hello there, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jr.!" ~ coworker ~
(to which I immediately replied, "Actually, I'm more like a Lily Schwarzenegger...Jr...because I'm weak...I'll leave")
As I was taking my daily medication:
"Look at this guy! He's popping steroids!" and then my arm was immediately squeezed for good measure. Last time I trust that preacher.
Wow. How to come down from the emotional high that was losing 10 pounds last night? When I stepped off the scale, I was obviously quite jubilant, but I was unsure of exactly what to do next. Part of me wanted to work out right then and there (gotta take advantage of that early-morning exhaustion!). Part of me wanted to take the next week off. And for some reason, part of me wanted a Philly cheese steak.
I ultimately decide to stay the course, keep exercising just as hard, and watch what I eat. I was entering Week 2 of this program - which meant more veggies and water, yippee - and so I knew I couldn't throw in the towel now. 10 pounds was a sign that better things were to come, so as long as I didn't miss too many days at the gym, and as long as I didn't have an exorbitant amount of food in one sitting, I would be fine.
The following morning, Holls and I had been invited out to breakfast by her parents. I had passed this Restaurant Test two nights earlier, so I knew this would be a cinch. After perusing the expansive menu - while avoiding land mines like bacon and sausage (stomach grumbling) - I settled on a sensible and nutritious choice: a vegetarian omelet with toast. And since it was one of the less-expensive items available, I knew it couldn't have been that big, right?
Not right. Simply put, this was one of the biggest breakfasts I've had in two months. The omelet was thicker than a Trapper Keeper, flanked by four slices of iron man Texas toast, buried underneath the rubble of a home fries explosion. The plate was almost bigger than my head, not an insignificant accomplishment. I almost choked when I asked somebody to pass the butter. They were essentially musket balls from a Redcoat's bayonet, except edible. This is not what I had in mind when I placed my order.
But hey, as long as it's here....maybe one...little...bite?
MMMAHHHHMMMMLWLALKSDFJASODFJELELWOWIJLDKGJASGOIAJSG!!!!!!
When I regained consciousness, it was time for the workout. The one thing I could not allow myself to do this week was slack. I had finished strong last week, and I was bound and determined to keep up the pace. I rammed home the power circuit on Monday, ultimately realizing that if I wanted to live past 30, I would not be able to run 2 miles every day. I could still run my hard mile, though. And I'm proud to say that I finished each day with an extremely sweaty, extremely disgusting T-shirt on my back. When I catch the guy who threw it at me, his ass is grass.
*****
As this week began, I suspected the only thing that might change noticeably would be the amount of willpower I was willing to apply to my daily workouts. Much to my surprise, it didn't happen. In fact, I think once I noticed my workouts were a bit easier this week, I started to step up the pace and really throw some weight into the exercises. But something else did happen almost every day this week that could prove to be a great lesson or a great undoing.
After Monday's breakfast, I found myself in somewhat of a time crunch. See, I have been arriving at the gym around 12:15/12:30 every day. That allows me enough time to stretch properly, warm up, get my exercises in, run my mile, and shower, with some leisurely sit-around-and-breathlessly-watch-TV time thrown in for good measure, all before I punch in for work at 3. But with several errands demanding my attention before I got to the gym, I realized that I was being pushed inevitably toward either having to work out very quickly or not work out at all.
As many fitness routines as I've started in my life, I've always known exactly one thing that's beyond doubt: for the first week, I will rearrange my life around my workout routine because the energy and commitment is still fresh in my mind; for the second week, I will rearrange my workout routine around my life because I've lost any resolve to keep pushing forward. It pisses me off to no end, but that's the way I've always operated.
And I could tell that with the rest of my life starting to seep back in for some much-needed attention that I would have to find a steady balance between the two priorities. I really wanted to do my workout routine, but at some point, I know that life will need me other places, and I will not be able to do it sometimes. But at this early stage of the game, there was no way in hell I was going to make that compromise yet.
I arrived at the gym at 1 pm or later almost every day this week, knowing that to get the full slate in, I would have to book it. And let me tell you something: when it's not your first day and you're not ready to pass out after every strain on your muscles, speeding through a workout is actually not that hard. You just have to cut out that precious TV time, which is a little sad, I must say.
SIDEBAR: I walked in one day and somebody had left it on the Game Show Network. As I was finishing up my mile, this show called Catch 21 came on, hosted by none other than Carlton Banks, albeit a little heavier and without that rich person egotism. The only proper way to describe how he looked was to say he was dressed like the Head Keg Pumper at a fraternity homecoming party (sports coat on T-shirt: always a classy choice).
Needless to say, Tom Jones may be making his way into my workout mix in the near future.
*****
Finally, there was one more thing I noticed this week that I brushed upon earlier. The workouts are starting to get easier, which is not a great thing. It means I'm getting too comfortable. After I work hard, I get it in my head that I deserve a break. Apparently, I let the intensity of my workout be my break. No wonder I was breezing through these workouts! Perhaps that's overstating it, though. I wouldn't call a wheezy, hulking mass of sweat exactly "breezing through" anything. It's just the motions become easier to predict; I know what I'm in for. On Friday, I decided to remedy that and started upping the weight. My God, was it terrible. After working on autopilot for the entire week, it was almost like my first day all over again. I started getting that passing-out feeling toward the end of the workout, but I think I know why.
One of my exercises calls for a Weighted Knee Raise, which calls for me to position myself in a captain's chair and lift my legs up to my diaphragm. Unfortunately, having the balance and endurance of a baby giraffe means that while I'm struggling to lift my knees up to my gut - er, abdomen, my arms are doing all the work by trying to keep me upright. I haven't been getting the ab workout that I needed. So I subbed in 3 sets of incline sit-ups, which are, to paraphrase Charles Barkley, just turrible. But with that extra push in my twice-a-week power circuit, I felt the burn hardcore.
I also discovered the power of having somebody else around. On Tuesday, another person came in and started using the treadmill while I was exercising. I don't know what it is, but when somebody else is around, I shift into Impress Mode, and I feel my workout will not be complete until I beat that person at whatever it is they're doing. This time, it was the treadmill. So when I stepped up to do my mile, I cranked it out, and made sure that I didn't leave until I felt I had sufficiently impressed the crap out of this complete stranger.
And the story about my prideful self collapsing in a blubbering mass of exhausted pity in the shower immediately after the door closed is entirely unfounded.
TWO NEW COMPLIMENTS FOR THE WEEK:
"Hello there, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jr.!" ~ coworker ~
(to which I immediately replied, "Actually, I'm more like a Lily Schwarzenegger...Jr...because I'm weak...I'll leave")
As I was taking my daily medication:
"Look at this guy! He's popping steroids!" and then my arm was immediately squeezed for good measure. Last time I trust that preacher.
Sunday, April 18, 2010
Week 1: Fin
DAYS 6 & 7: SATURDAY & SUNDAY, APRIL 17 AND 18, 2010
The weekend! Nothing in life feels better than a day off that you've truly earned. Not just from work, but from working out. The only running I did on Saturday was when my Level 37 Rogue ran from Theramore to Stormwind City to capture the Reagents for a Murlock Stew while also trying to slay 14 shaman priests to complete a request from the Elven King and - I'm peeing myself.
Anyway, my workout is structured so that I have one day off a week. Since for right now I only have one day off every week from work anyway, let's pile on the lethargy and call Saturday off-limits to any sort of physical activity, be it exercising, stretching, shaving, brushing my teeth, showering, getting dressed, what-have-you. And let's be honest: if I had no job right now, that's exactly what I would do all day long. I would just be an unkempt, scraggly, half-dressed, overweight nerd living in an apartment I can't afford playing World of Warcraft from sunrise to sunset. In other words, I am the target demographic.
But Saturday would offer yet another test: it is the first scheduled meal I will be eating in a restaurant on my new workout. Holls' dad turned 50, and the whole family - me included - was headed out to dinner in South Portland. And Restuarant Food, while usually delicious, offers a whole new temptation: that of the "What the Hell? I Hardly Ever Go Out to Dinner!" trap. It's the feeling that I always have when I go out: This, for some reason, will be the last time I ever eat in a restaurant, so I must DEVOUR.
It was not to be so this rainy and cold Saturday night. We patronized David's 388 on Cottage Rd., where I ordered the only vegetarian appetizer and main course they offered: tomato caprese followed by mushroom ravioli.
And yes, you read that right. Vegetarian. That's the other little hidden gem of this new fitness plan: for the first two weeks of the initial ten, I'm on a water-and-vegetarian diet. It's actually not been too hard, thanks to Holls and her Amazing Technicolor Culinary Skills. I just figured I have to shock this body into some sort of change, and if I can reach the point where I cannot physically manipulate my belly button to say the words "YES WE CAN" anymore, then it will all have been worth it.
Desert was another story. Holls made her dad homemade brownies, which in my fragile state is essentially the same as dangling a $20 bill in front of a recovering addict and saying, "Now don't spend it all in one place." Can I honestly sit there and watch other people eat brownies and not partake? I made a deal: I'd have one. That's it. And I stuck to it. Although the allure of the brownie crumbs that litter the empty parts of the tray are almost too much to overcome. In addition to the brownie, I had one of those chocolate and mocha sticks you put in coffee, as well as a few spoonfuls of Edy's Ice Cream. It wasn't a test this time; I just deserved the desert. How do you like that logic?
As for Sunday, I've designated it as a light cardio day. Just some simple running. I'm in, I'm out, no worries. But there has been one weak spot of my workout thus far, and it is the final mile of cardio I run after each workout. It started out optimistically as 2 miles of jogging. But after I almost passed out on Monday, there was no way in hell I was doing two miles. So I did one mile walking. And in the subsequent days, the one mile walking turned into a walk-run-walk on the treadmill. It was the only thing I truly wanted to improve from the initial week. I determined that on Sunday, I was going to do the full two miles. Listen to some tunes, watch the Sox, and crank out those two.
And as I started running, some good songs came on, so I upped the speed a little bit.
And then Jon Lester struck out the side in the first inning (the only good thing that would happen all game), so I upped the speed a little bit.
And I started thinking about the wedding, and how debonair - and more importantly, not fat - I was going to look in a tuxedo, so I upped the speed a little bit.
So by the end of the two miles, I was in a dead run on the treadmill. The best part? My side just barely hurt, which means that I could have gone harder. Oh well, I got my run in, and when I took a shower, I remembered the change of underwear, so the day turned out to be pretty good.
But now it's the end of the day, and it's time to weigh myself. The first week has been building toward this moment, when I see if all my hard work made any dent in my physical fitness. Holls tried to calm me down a little bit by telling me that even if there wasn't a significant change, that was because muscle is heavy, and by gum, I'm starting to get some of those now. But if there is a big dent, that means that all this weight was just hanging around like Matthew Fox, waiting to get lost.
So how'd I do?
WEIGHT AFTER ONE WEEK - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 19, 2010: 291.9 LBS. (-9.9 LBS.)
In your face, brownie! When I stepped on Wii, I suspected my old friend might have a bit of good news for me. I didn't realize how good, apparently, as I kept talking myself down leading up to the weigh-in. But sure enough, there it was: I lost 10 goddamn pounds. And I weighed myself at midnight. Unbelievable.
(And yes, I know you're not supposed to weigh in at the end of the day. Better to do it on an empty stomach, so you feel better, etc. As I can see it, that's just cheating myself, as I usually spend most of the day with a little food in my system, and I might as well get a true reflection of how much weight I've actually lost. I don't want to feel great and say, "Look how much weight I've lost! I can now eat this burrito!" and then gain every ounce of it back.)
So now, I move onto Week 2. What new adventures shall await me? I'm guessing something involving sweat, metal, groaning, and peak physical exertion...but you'll just have to wait and see what exactly I'm talking about. 'Til tomorrow!
WORKOUT SONG OF THE WEEK
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm hovering around a Star Jones: still pretty hefty, but an engagement does wonders for the body!; also feuding with Barbara Walters
The weekend! Nothing in life feels better than a day off that you've truly earned. Not just from work, but from working out. The only running I did on Saturday was when my Level 37 Rogue ran from Theramore to Stormwind City to capture the Reagents for a Murlock Stew while also trying to slay 14 shaman priests to complete a request from the Elven King and - I'm peeing myself.
Anyway, my workout is structured so that I have one day off a week. Since for right now I only have one day off every week from work anyway, let's pile on the lethargy and call Saturday off-limits to any sort of physical activity, be it exercising, stretching, shaving, brushing my teeth, showering, getting dressed, what-have-you. And let's be honest: if I had no job right now, that's exactly what I would do all day long. I would just be an unkempt, scraggly, half-dressed, overweight nerd living in an apartment I can't afford playing World of Warcraft from sunrise to sunset. In other words, I am the target demographic.
But Saturday would offer yet another test: it is the first scheduled meal I will be eating in a restaurant on my new workout. Holls' dad turned 50, and the whole family - me included - was headed out to dinner in South Portland. And Restuarant Food, while usually delicious, offers a whole new temptation: that of the "What the Hell? I Hardly Ever Go Out to Dinner!" trap. It's the feeling that I always have when I go out: This, for some reason, will be the last time I ever eat in a restaurant, so I must DEVOUR.
It was not to be so this rainy and cold Saturday night. We patronized David's 388 on Cottage Rd., where I ordered the only vegetarian appetizer and main course they offered: tomato caprese followed by mushroom ravioli.
And yes, you read that right. Vegetarian. That's the other little hidden gem of this new fitness plan: for the first two weeks of the initial ten, I'm on a water-and-vegetarian diet. It's actually not been too hard, thanks to Holls and her Amazing Technicolor Culinary Skills. I just figured I have to shock this body into some sort of change, and if I can reach the point where I cannot physically manipulate my belly button to say the words "YES WE CAN" anymore, then it will all have been worth it.
Desert was another story. Holls made her dad homemade brownies, which in my fragile state is essentially the same as dangling a $20 bill in front of a recovering addict and saying, "Now don't spend it all in one place." Can I honestly sit there and watch other people eat brownies and not partake? I made a deal: I'd have one. That's it. And I stuck to it. Although the allure of the brownie crumbs that litter the empty parts of the tray are almost too much to overcome. In addition to the brownie, I had one of those chocolate and mocha sticks you put in coffee, as well as a few spoonfuls of Edy's Ice Cream. It wasn't a test this time; I just deserved the desert. How do you like that logic?
As for Sunday, I've designated it as a light cardio day. Just some simple running. I'm in, I'm out, no worries. But there has been one weak spot of my workout thus far, and it is the final mile of cardio I run after each workout. It started out optimistically as 2 miles of jogging. But after I almost passed out on Monday, there was no way in hell I was doing two miles. So I did one mile walking. And in the subsequent days, the one mile walking turned into a walk-run-walk on the treadmill. It was the only thing I truly wanted to improve from the initial week. I determined that on Sunday, I was going to do the full two miles. Listen to some tunes, watch the Sox, and crank out those two.
And as I started running, some good songs came on, so I upped the speed a little bit.
And then Jon Lester struck out the side in the first inning (the only good thing that would happen all game), so I upped the speed a little bit.
And I started thinking about the wedding, and how debonair - and more importantly, not fat - I was going to look in a tuxedo, so I upped the speed a little bit.
So by the end of the two miles, I was in a dead run on the treadmill. The best part? My side just barely hurt, which means that I could have gone harder. Oh well, I got my run in, and when I took a shower, I remembered the change of underwear, so the day turned out to be pretty good.
But now it's the end of the day, and it's time to weigh myself. The first week has been building toward this moment, when I see if all my hard work made any dent in my physical fitness. Holls tried to calm me down a little bit by telling me that even if there wasn't a significant change, that was because muscle is heavy, and by gum, I'm starting to get some of those now. But if there is a big dent, that means that all this weight was just hanging around like Matthew Fox, waiting to get lost.
So how'd I do?
WEIGHT AFTER ONE WEEK - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL 19, 2010: 291.9 LBS. (-9.9 LBS.)
In your face, brownie! When I stepped on Wii, I suspected my old friend might have a bit of good news for me. I didn't realize how good, apparently, as I kept talking myself down leading up to the weigh-in. But sure enough, there it was: I lost 10 goddamn pounds. And I weighed myself at midnight. Unbelievable.
(And yes, I know you're not supposed to weigh in at the end of the day. Better to do it on an empty stomach, so you feel better, etc. As I can see it, that's just cheating myself, as I usually spend most of the day with a little food in my system, and I might as well get a true reflection of how much weight I've actually lost. I don't want to feel great and say, "Look how much weight I've lost! I can now eat this burrito!" and then gain every ounce of it back.)
So now, I move onto Week 2. What new adventures shall await me? I'm guessing something involving sweat, metal, groaning, and peak physical exertion...but you'll just have to wait and see what exactly I'm talking about. 'Til tomorrow!
WORKOUT SONG OF THE WEEK
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm hovering around a Star Jones: still pretty hefty, but an engagement does wonders for the body!; also feuding with Barbara Walters
Friday, April 16, 2010
A Test is a Pest, I must Suggest
DAY 5: FRIDAY, APRIL 16, 2010
When you take on a complete lifestyle change, the one thing that truly needs to change is your resolve. Without that, you might as well call it quits your first day, because if you can't motivate yourself, you can't succeed. With that being said, I discovered today that my resolve has changed. It was a tough test, but I mostly passed. Here's what happened.
Holls and I had a fight. For clarity's sake, the many different reasons this particular one started are unimportant (although I will say that struggling to find a new apartment certainly played a factor). The fight started in the morning, and pretty much continued until well past midnight. We weren't screaming at each other for 12+ hours or anything; it was just one of those fights that starts, you break for a while to let things stew, and you pick it up again hours later. And in this particular fight, neither one of us wanted to give an inch on our respective points.
There comes a certain point in any fight with a loved one where you start exercising massive self-restraint not to say something you will instantly regret. It happens to all of us. Well, as far as I'm concerned, that self-restraint gets used up trying not to say something stupid, and it pretty much lets your other inhibitions run wild.
For me, I get upset to a point where I start throwing caution to the wind, or more to the point, I really don't care what I eat anymore. I don't know why I'm wired to just run to food during those high and low emotional peaks; it makes no sense. Anyway, on this particular day, my dinner was supposed to be lentil chili: a healthy food. But at a certain point, I really didn't give a shit anymore what I ate. What did I want? Pizza, burgers, vat of Crisco, who the hell knows? All I knew was I was angry, I was hungry, and the only way I could fight back against my agitation was to disrupt my diet.
But something strange happened. Rather than pop open a bag of potato chips, I decided I needed to compromise with myself. Just a bit. If I wasn't going to eat the lentil chili, I couldn't allow myself to sit down to a Double-Quarter-Diet-Undoer with Cheese. I'm five days in, off to a great start, and here's the first test. I cannot allow myself to fold so early.
I went to Subway. NO, I had no illusions of Jared-like greatness. I just wanted to eat my dinner without any formal preparation other than pulling out my debit card. But what shall I get? An Italian BMT? How about an old favorite, the Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki? Or how about the one that will propel me right back to my old ways, the foot-long, sauce-dripping, saliva-inducing, MEATBALL SUB? DECISIONS, DECISIONS, DECISIONS.
It's the moment of truth. Can I allow myself to revert back to that guy from a week ago? Nobody would blame me if I allowed myself one treat during the week. I worked hard, I deserved it. And besides, I was still pissed; people turn to comfort food during those times. How shall I proceed?
"Hi, welcome to Subway. What can I get for you?"
(Oh damn, now they know I'm here! Well, I have to get something now! Say meatball sub, Say Meatball Sub, SAY MEATBALL SUB!!!!!!!!)
"I'll have a foot-long Veggie Delight on wheat bread, please."
("I knew I had him in the first round. Almighty God was with me. I want everyone to bear witness, I am the greatest! I'm the greatest thing that ever lived. I don't have a mark on my face, and I upset [Meatball Sub], and I just turned twenty-two years old. I must be the greatest. I showed the world. I talk to God everyday. I know the real God. I shook up the world, I'm the king of the world. You must listen to me. I am the greatest! I can't be beat!")
Was it the greatest accomplishment of the week? Probably not. But I passed the test for this one night. And no, I did not get chips or cookies or soda or anything. Just a bottle of water. Of course, the compromise part is that I ate the entire sandwich there in the shop, without saving half for the next day, so for this particular test, I give myself a B+.
And more importantly, we talked later that night, where two things happened:
1) we talked it out, and everything is okay now
2) no matter what diet you're on, lentil chili just doesn't sound appealing at all
(As for the workout, today was shoulders and arms day. Military Press, Triceps Pushdown, Biceps Curls, Wrist Curls, Ab Crunches and Incline Twisting Sit-Ups which, no matter how cool they look in Rocky, suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.)
When you take on a complete lifestyle change, the one thing that truly needs to change is your resolve. Without that, you might as well call it quits your first day, because if you can't motivate yourself, you can't succeed. With that being said, I discovered today that my resolve has changed. It was a tough test, but I mostly passed. Here's what happened.
Holls and I had a fight. For clarity's sake, the many different reasons this particular one started are unimportant (although I will say that struggling to find a new apartment certainly played a factor). The fight started in the morning, and pretty much continued until well past midnight. We weren't screaming at each other for 12+ hours or anything; it was just one of those fights that starts, you break for a while to let things stew, and you pick it up again hours later. And in this particular fight, neither one of us wanted to give an inch on our respective points.
There comes a certain point in any fight with a loved one where you start exercising massive self-restraint not to say something you will instantly regret. It happens to all of us. Well, as far as I'm concerned, that self-restraint gets used up trying not to say something stupid, and it pretty much lets your other inhibitions run wild.
For me, I get upset to a point where I start throwing caution to the wind, or more to the point, I really don't care what I eat anymore. I don't know why I'm wired to just run to food during those high and low emotional peaks; it makes no sense. Anyway, on this particular day, my dinner was supposed to be lentil chili: a healthy food. But at a certain point, I really didn't give a shit anymore what I ate. What did I want? Pizza, burgers, vat of Crisco, who the hell knows? All I knew was I was angry, I was hungry, and the only way I could fight back against my agitation was to disrupt my diet.
But something strange happened. Rather than pop open a bag of potato chips, I decided I needed to compromise with myself. Just a bit. If I wasn't going to eat the lentil chili, I couldn't allow myself to sit down to a Double-Quarter-Diet-Undoer with Cheese. I'm five days in, off to a great start, and here's the first test. I cannot allow myself to fold so early.
I went to Subway. NO, I had no illusions of Jared-like greatness. I just wanted to eat my dinner without any formal preparation other than pulling out my debit card. But what shall I get? An Italian BMT? How about an old favorite, the Sweet Onion Chicken Teriyaki? Or how about the one that will propel me right back to my old ways, the foot-long, sauce-dripping, saliva-inducing, MEATBALL SUB? DECISIONS, DECISIONS, DECISIONS.
It's the moment of truth. Can I allow myself to revert back to that guy from a week ago? Nobody would blame me if I allowed myself one treat during the week. I worked hard, I deserved it. And besides, I was still pissed; people turn to comfort food during those times. How shall I proceed?
"Hi, welcome to Subway. What can I get for you?"
(Oh damn, now they know I'm here! Well, I have to get something now! Say meatball sub, Say Meatball Sub, SAY MEATBALL SUB!!!!!!!!)
"I'll have a foot-long Veggie Delight on wheat bread, please."
("I knew I had him in the first round. Almighty God was with me. I want everyone to bear witness, I am the greatest! I'm the greatest thing that ever lived. I don't have a mark on my face, and I upset [Meatball Sub], and I just turned twenty-two years old. I must be the greatest. I showed the world. I talk to God everyday. I know the real God. I shook up the world, I'm the king of the world. You must listen to me. I am the greatest! I can't be beat!")
Was it the greatest accomplishment of the week? Probably not. But I passed the test for this one night. And no, I did not get chips or cookies or soda or anything. Just a bottle of water. Of course, the compromise part is that I ate the entire sandwich there in the shop, without saving half for the next day, so for this particular test, I give myself a B+.
And more importantly, we talked later that night, where two things happened:
1) we talked it out, and everything is okay now
2) no matter what diet you're on, lentil chili just doesn't sound appealing at all
(As for the workout, today was shoulders and arms day. Military Press, Triceps Pushdown, Biceps Curls, Wrist Curls, Ab Crunches and Incline Twisting Sit-Ups which, no matter how cool they look in Rocky, suuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.)
Wednesday, April 14, 2010
We're a nation, Urination
DAY 3: WEDNESDAY, APRIL 14, 2010
On the way to the gym today, I passed a McDonald's truck parked on the side of the road. The driver was checking his oil, but I barely noticed. You want to know why? Because I saw this on the back door of his trailer:
Now, few things in this world can actually make me stop a vehicle in traffic, but there are a few. In order:
1) My life is in danger
2) The Cloverfield monster just crossed the street in front of me
3) Somebody ran out in traffic
4) I've been dieting and exercising for almost three days now and a 10-foot carton of french fries is sitting on the side of the road
Forget the fact that it's all paint and metal; those fries was lookin' gooooood. And yes, I know, McDonald's is the worst, their foods are unhealthy, they're baby-killers, etc., etc., etc.
(And for the record, people who spend their entire lives gloating to other people about how fast food is the worst need to just clam up. We all know. All of us. You're not helping anybody. I hardly ever go to McDonald's because I know their food is bad for me. BUT....I would be lying if I said that ONCE IN A GREAT WHILE there is nothing sweeter than sucking down a double-quarter-pounder with cheese, followed by a carton of fries and 3- or 400 hundred gallons of Diet Coke. I always feel like I just took a bath in toxic waste, but it's Sweet Nectar of the Gods about your third or fourth bite.)
Needless to say, I almost braked in traffic watching that truck on the side of the road. Nevertheless, I must push forward and shed those pounds. And since there's no such thing as the Deep-Fried Diet, the gym and water it must be.
Which brings me to my next point. For the first two weeks of this new workout, I will be drinking nothing but water. No juice, no COFFEE, no SODA, no BEER (you can tell I'm heartbroken about the juice). While water is good for you physically, mentally it cleans my system. I always feel cleaner after I drink water. And I'm not allowing myself any milk, any flavored waters, any sweetened waters, either. Just boring old water. It has the excitement of a Jim Lehrer karaoke CD, I know, but I need to jump-start this routine somehow.
Speaking of which, if you're ever thinking of undertaking something like this, don't do what I did this week, which is suck down a bottle of water every time you're hungry. While it might kill cravings, eventually you start feeling like you just tried breathing underwater: just a nasty, waterlogged feeling starts to overtake you. I'm limiting myself to a handful of bottles every day.
(And yes, all you McDonald's haters. I know bottled water is direct support of corporate America, the Republican party, the warmongers, blah, blah, blah. It goes against the very idea of free natural resources, boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo. You know something? If corporate America can chisel me down about 100 pounds, then I don't really care how bad it is for everybody else. I will gladly make 17 trips to my local convenience store to purchase a $1.75 bottle of "evil" Aquafina.)
One last thing about drinking water: you, um....well...there's not a nice way to say this. I have to pee. A lot. I'm probably in the bathroom more than I am the office lately. There's actually a RESERVED sign on the first urinal from the left. And when I first started this workout, I felt good after each session, because I was lighter, more springy and I just felt healthier. Now, however, I dread feeling that internal buzzer that goes off whenever the tub is full. That means if I don't find a bathroom in about 2 minutes, I will shoot a Snake River right down my right leg. Hence, this workout, while trying to keep me young, has turned me into an 80-year-old man in a matter of two days.
As for the workout, it was actually pretty easy. Today, I did my legs. Now, for all intents and purposes, you may not know how I look right now. But I'll tell you this: while my upper half may be more Stay-Puft than Scottie Pippen, my legs look like Gaston's from Beauty and the Beast. They already pretty much look like they belong to a guy who's in shape. The only logic for it is that they've probably had to support my cheese log of a body for the past 25 years, therefore they are in magnificent form. You can probably crack a walnut on those puppies. But I digress.
3 sets of the leg press, 3 sets of surprisingly difficult lunges (where I almost blew out my knee at one point), 3 sets of the dead lift, and 3 sets of the straight leg dead lift (wherein I think I shaved about 5 years off my back's life). Not a terrible workout. Did my 1 mile of cardio, and quietly petered about for the rest of the day. Dinner was homemade mac and cheese with asparagus, which Holls brought to work for me, and we ate dinner together. And hey, when you got a loved one rooting for you on the sidelines, what better health do you need?
Of course, if she had brought french fries, I would have married her the next day, but that's a different story.
On the way to the gym today, I passed a McDonald's truck parked on the side of the road. The driver was checking his oil, but I barely noticed. You want to know why? Because I saw this on the back door of his trailer:
Now, few things in this world can actually make me stop a vehicle in traffic, but there are a few. In order:
1) My life is in danger
2) The Cloverfield monster just crossed the street in front of me
3) Somebody ran out in traffic
4) I've been dieting and exercising for almost three days now and a 10-foot carton of french fries is sitting on the side of the road
Forget the fact that it's all paint and metal; those fries was lookin' gooooood. And yes, I know, McDonald's is the worst, their foods are unhealthy, they're baby-killers, etc., etc., etc.
(And for the record, people who spend their entire lives gloating to other people about how fast food is the worst need to just clam up. We all know. All of us. You're not helping anybody. I hardly ever go to McDonald's because I know their food is bad for me. BUT....I would be lying if I said that ONCE IN A GREAT WHILE there is nothing sweeter than sucking down a double-quarter-pounder with cheese, followed by a carton of fries and 3- or 400 hundred gallons of Diet Coke. I always feel like I just took a bath in toxic waste, but it's Sweet Nectar of the Gods about your third or fourth bite.)
Needless to say, I almost braked in traffic watching that truck on the side of the road. Nevertheless, I must push forward and shed those pounds. And since there's no such thing as the Deep-Fried Diet, the gym and water it must be.
Which brings me to my next point. For the first two weeks of this new workout, I will be drinking nothing but water. No juice, no COFFEE, no SODA, no BEER (you can tell I'm heartbroken about the juice). While water is good for you physically, mentally it cleans my system. I always feel cleaner after I drink water. And I'm not allowing myself any milk, any flavored waters, any sweetened waters, either. Just boring old water. It has the excitement of a Jim Lehrer karaoke CD, I know, but I need to jump-start this routine somehow.
Speaking of which, if you're ever thinking of undertaking something like this, don't do what I did this week, which is suck down a bottle of water every time you're hungry. While it might kill cravings, eventually you start feeling like you just tried breathing underwater: just a nasty, waterlogged feeling starts to overtake you. I'm limiting myself to a handful of bottles every day.
(And yes, all you McDonald's haters. I know bottled water is direct support of corporate America, the Republican party, the warmongers, blah, blah, blah. It goes against the very idea of free natural resources, boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo. You know something? If corporate America can chisel me down about 100 pounds, then I don't really care how bad it is for everybody else. I will gladly make 17 trips to my local convenience store to purchase a $1.75 bottle of "evil" Aquafina.)
One last thing about drinking water: you, um....well...there's not a nice way to say this. I have to pee. A lot. I'm probably in the bathroom more than I am the office lately. There's actually a RESERVED sign on the first urinal from the left. And when I first started this workout, I felt good after each session, because I was lighter, more springy and I just felt healthier. Now, however, I dread feeling that internal buzzer that goes off whenever the tub is full. That means if I don't find a bathroom in about 2 minutes, I will shoot a Snake River right down my right leg. Hence, this workout, while trying to keep me young, has turned me into an 80-year-old man in a matter of two days.
As for the workout, it was actually pretty easy. Today, I did my legs. Now, for all intents and purposes, you may not know how I look right now. But I'll tell you this: while my upper half may be more Stay-Puft than Scottie Pippen, my legs look like Gaston's from Beauty and the Beast. They already pretty much look like they belong to a guy who's in shape. The only logic for it is that they've probably had to support my cheese log of a body for the past 25 years, therefore they are in magnificent form. You can probably crack a walnut on those puppies. But I digress.
3 sets of the leg press, 3 sets of surprisingly difficult lunges (where I almost blew out my knee at one point), 3 sets of the dead lift, and 3 sets of the straight leg dead lift (wherein I think I shaved about 5 years off my back's life). Not a terrible workout. Did my 1 mile of cardio, and quietly petered about for the rest of the day. Dinner was homemade mac and cheese with asparagus, which Holls brought to work for me, and we ate dinner together. And hey, when you got a loved one rooting for you on the sidelines, what better health do you need?
Of course, if she had brought french fries, I would have married her the next day, but that's a different story.
Tuesday, April 13, 2010
Weight Fairies, A Thin Layer of Gabardine, and Eggplant Parmesan
TUESDAY, APRIL 13, 2010
Perhaps the most difficult part of starting any new fitness routine is the dreaded second day. At the end of the first day, you may be a bit sore, but you always feel great. "What a great workout! I could tow a truck with these abs! Boo-yah!" And for some reason, whenever I start a new fitness routine, I somehow believe that a magic Weight Fairy will visit me in the middle of the night, and by sunrise I will be a svelte 210, with my previously unhealthy habits fading in the rearview mirror.
The reality is that while I go to bed feeling awesome, I always wake up saying, "Shit, I have to do that all over again?" To make matters worse, Holls is working the next few days starting at 10am, so while we're able to eat breakfast together, there's nobody around to kick me in the butt to get me going to the gym. The second she walks out that door, I am on my own. On any other day, that means Warcraft/Netflix/TV in some order. But if I nip this Second-Day Jinx in the bud, I might be riding Easy Street all the way to I-Have-Some-Semblance-of-an-Ass Avenue! So it's worth a shot.
For breakfast, I attempt to make a fruit smoothie while Holls is showering. We both agreed that this wasn't a good idea, but I needed to contribute something to this cause. I stuffed all the contents into our medium-sized blender, which immediately regurgitated half of them onto the counter. Mmm....Counter Smoothies. Delicious, but a hell of a mess.
Things are going a little differently today. In an effort to salvage some of my sanity, I determined that the best option for me is to start packing some things for work so I can transition seamlessly from the gym to the office. That, and if I have to make more than one trip to work per day, I may suffer a severe case of depression.
So I pack everything: workout shorts, workout shirt, toiletries for the shower, change of socks, change of shorts, change of shirt, all that stuff. Remember this paragraph, because it's very important later on.
I must first head to the library to return my book. The branch of the library I borrowed it from is waaaaay up on Forest Avenue, so in an effort to circumvent the Traffic Monster That is Northern Portland, I pay my dollar to use the turnpike. I drive all the way up, park in front, ready to make my next literary selection - probably a John Le Carre novel, or maybe even go back to an old favorite like Stephen King?- and the library is closed.
Son of a crap.
I pay another dollar to head back down the turnpike to my workplace. Day 2 has consisted - thus far - of extreme lethargy, Counter Smoothies and closed libraries. I feel my gorge rising.
Upon arrival at the gym, I immediately do my three minutes on the treadmill, followed by my Elaborate Stretching Routine. In the midst of my Routine, the person who actually runs the gym - from this point forward referred to as Nameless Dictator (which is actually a joke because she's about as far from a dictator as one could be) - arrives on scene.
"Having a good workout?" she asks.
"Oh yeah! Can't wait to do some lifting!" I exclaim.
"What are you working on today?"
"Chest and back."
"Awesome. Do you ever plan on paying?"
That's how I remember it going, anyway. I square up with the Dictator, complete my Routine and begin my workout. A chest and back workout is essentially the money workout; it's the one where you feel like a champ afterward because you know that during the entire workout, you look like an iron man. Every exercise, every flex, every grunt makes you feel superhuman. There's no screwing up this workout, even if the weights are smaller.
Unless you're me, of course. Although the dumbbell flies and dumbell pullovers were relatively easy, and the lats exercises were a cinch, I finished up the weight portion of my workout with shrugs, which are about as exciting as it gets. It's essentially grab the heaviest weights you can handle and shrug your shoulders a bunch of times. It sounds very easy, except I immediately discovered that a peculiar tic I have renders this seemingly simple exercise to be a rather painful lesson in not looking like an idiot.
See, for some reason, when I shrug my shoulders, I also try to recede my head into my neck, much like a Ninja Turtle. I don't really notice in everyday situations, but when I'm grasping onto an extra 90 lbs., it gets very annoying and very agonizing. And the more you tell yourself not to do it, the more ridiculous the spectacle becomes. After the first three reps, I noticed I was doing it. I wasn't stretching out the parts I needed because I was canceling out the exercise by dropping my neck, which in turn started to crush my vertebrae. On rep #4, I told myself to stop it. I just barely did, which was apparently good enough for me, because I didn't think about it as I moved onto #5, at which point I immediately rammed my head down into my shoulders.
Again: "Stop it, Gordon!" (rather quietly to myself). I stopped on #6, but on #7 I immediately did it again.
You ever see those homeless guys wandering around, muttering incoherently even to themselves? The sight of me exercising while cursing myself trumped even that memory. What had started out as a great workout was quickly regressing into an even bigger example of why I should not be allowed into most public places.
Let's finish strong! Back to the treadmill for some hard running! And let me tell you something, Mr. Man, I ran the hardest mile of my life on Tuesday. My sides were hurting, I was panting, I was sweating, I couldn't go on...but eventually I finished re-tying my shoes and stepped on the treadmill and cranked that mile out. RUN THROUGH THE PAIN! BEEFCAKE! BEEFCAKE!!!
I churned it out, struck up a conversation with a fellow gym rat (although he actually looks like he goes to the gym once in a while), and then headed for the showers...
...where I soaped up...
...and I shampooed...
...and I dried off...
...and lotioned up...
...and went to get dressed...
...so I reached for my underwear...
...and I reached...
...and I searched...
...is it under the shorts? No...
...is it on the floor? No...
...is it...
...in my underwear drawer at home? Yes...
...am I really upset at myself? Yes.....
...what are my options?...
...workout underwear looks like I just dropped it in a puddle (DUE TO SWEATING, OF COURSE)...
...so that really leaves only one option...
"I'M OUT THERE, JERRY, AND I'M LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT!"
This works well for about .046 seconds. It becomes achingly clear that things that are clean now will not be in a couple hours. I must spit in the face of my own preparations and [sigh] drive home to grab my undergarments.
And every time I moved my legs for the rest of the day, I thanked myself for the trip.
P.S. Dinner was Eggplant Parmesan, courtesy of Holls. In this age of ranking things and naming things number one of all-time, this was, IMHO, the best Eggplant Parmesan I have ever had. Ever. Here's to you, Eggplant-Parmesan-Making Fiance!
Tomorrow: Peeing in the Free World
Perhaps the most difficult part of starting any new fitness routine is the dreaded second day. At the end of the first day, you may be a bit sore, but you always feel great. "What a great workout! I could tow a truck with these abs! Boo-yah!" And for some reason, whenever I start a new fitness routine, I somehow believe that a magic Weight Fairy will visit me in the middle of the night, and by sunrise I will be a svelte 210, with my previously unhealthy habits fading in the rearview mirror.
The reality is that while I go to bed feeling awesome, I always wake up saying, "Shit, I have to do that all over again?" To make matters worse, Holls is working the next few days starting at 10am, so while we're able to eat breakfast together, there's nobody around to kick me in the butt to get me going to the gym. The second she walks out that door, I am on my own. On any other day, that means Warcraft/Netflix/TV in some order. But if I nip this Second-Day Jinx in the bud, I might be riding Easy Street all the way to I-Have-Some-Semblance-of-an-Ass Avenue! So it's worth a shot.
For breakfast, I attempt to make a fruit smoothie while Holls is showering. We both agreed that this wasn't a good idea, but I needed to contribute something to this cause. I stuffed all the contents into our medium-sized blender, which immediately regurgitated half of them onto the counter. Mmm....Counter Smoothies. Delicious, but a hell of a mess.
Things are going a little differently today. In an effort to salvage some of my sanity, I determined that the best option for me is to start packing some things for work so I can transition seamlessly from the gym to the office. That, and if I have to make more than one trip to work per day, I may suffer a severe case of depression.
So I pack everything: workout shorts, workout shirt, toiletries for the shower, change of socks, change of shorts, change of shirt, all that stuff. Remember this paragraph, because it's very important later on.
I must first head to the library to return my book. The branch of the library I borrowed it from is waaaaay up on Forest Avenue, so in an effort to circumvent the Traffic Monster That is Northern Portland, I pay my dollar to use the turnpike. I drive all the way up, park in front, ready to make my next literary selection - probably a John Le Carre novel, or maybe even go back to an old favorite like Stephen King?- and the library is closed.
Son of a crap.
I pay another dollar to head back down the turnpike to my workplace. Day 2 has consisted - thus far - of extreme lethargy, Counter Smoothies and closed libraries. I feel my gorge rising.
Upon arrival at the gym, I immediately do my three minutes on the treadmill, followed by my Elaborate Stretching Routine. In the midst of my Routine, the person who actually runs the gym - from this point forward referred to as Nameless Dictator (which is actually a joke because she's about as far from a dictator as one could be) - arrives on scene.
"Having a good workout?" she asks.
"Oh yeah! Can't wait to do some lifting!" I exclaim.
"What are you working on today?"
"Chest and back."
"Awesome. Do you ever plan on paying?"
That's how I remember it going, anyway. I square up with the Dictator, complete my Routine and begin my workout. A chest and back workout is essentially the money workout; it's the one where you feel like a champ afterward because you know that during the entire workout, you look like an iron man. Every exercise, every flex, every grunt makes you feel superhuman. There's no screwing up this workout, even if the weights are smaller.
Unless you're me, of course. Although the dumbbell flies and dumbell pullovers were relatively easy, and the lats exercises were a cinch, I finished up the weight portion of my workout with shrugs, which are about as exciting as it gets. It's essentially grab the heaviest weights you can handle and shrug your shoulders a bunch of times. It sounds very easy, except I immediately discovered that a peculiar tic I have renders this seemingly simple exercise to be a rather painful lesson in not looking like an idiot.
See, for some reason, when I shrug my shoulders, I also try to recede my head into my neck, much like a Ninja Turtle. I don't really notice in everyday situations, but when I'm grasping onto an extra 90 lbs., it gets very annoying and very agonizing. And the more you tell yourself not to do it, the more ridiculous the spectacle becomes. After the first three reps, I noticed I was doing it. I wasn't stretching out the parts I needed because I was canceling out the exercise by dropping my neck, which in turn started to crush my vertebrae. On rep #4, I told myself to stop it. I just barely did, which was apparently good enough for me, because I didn't think about it as I moved onto #5, at which point I immediately rammed my head down into my shoulders.
Again: "Stop it, Gordon!" (rather quietly to myself). I stopped on #6, but on #7 I immediately did it again.
You ever see those homeless guys wandering around, muttering incoherently even to themselves? The sight of me exercising while cursing myself trumped even that memory. What had started out as a great workout was quickly regressing into an even bigger example of why I should not be allowed into most public places.
Let's finish strong! Back to the treadmill for some hard running! And let me tell you something, Mr. Man, I ran the hardest mile of my life on Tuesday. My sides were hurting, I was panting, I was sweating, I couldn't go on...but eventually I finished re-tying my shoes and stepped on the treadmill and cranked that mile out. RUN THROUGH THE PAIN! BEEFCAKE! BEEFCAKE!!!
I churned it out, struck up a conversation with a fellow gym rat (although he actually looks like he goes to the gym once in a while), and then headed for the showers...
...where I soaped up...
...and I shampooed...
...and I dried off...
...and lotioned up...
...and went to get dressed...
...so I reached for my underwear...
...and I reached...
...and I searched...
...is it under the shorts? No...
...is it on the floor? No...
...is it...
...in my underwear drawer at home? Yes...
...am I really upset at myself? Yes.....
...what are my options?...
...workout underwear looks like I just dropped it in a puddle (DUE TO SWEATING, OF COURSE)...
...so that really leaves only one option...
"I'M OUT THERE, JERRY, AND I'M LOVING EVERY MINUTE OF IT!"
This works well for about .046 seconds. It becomes achingly clear that things that are clean now will not be in a couple hours. I must spit in the face of my own preparations and [sigh] drive home to grab my undergarments.
And every time I moved my legs for the rest of the day, I thanked myself for the trip.
P.S. Dinner was Eggplant Parmesan, courtesy of Holls. In this age of ranking things and naming things number one of all-time, this was, IMHO, the best Eggplant Parmesan I have ever had. Ever. Here's to you, Eggplant-Parmesan-Making Fiance!
Tomorrow: Peeing in the Free World
Monday, April 12, 2010
Dehydration, like DOA, spins me right round
MONDAY, APRIL 12, 2010
Day 1 started out simple enough. I had promised myself a full eight hours of sleep, but after 7.25, my body had had enough rest. Despite my best-laid plans, Operation: No Fat Groom would have to start this morning.
Holls was all riled up and excited as she had spent the better part of the previous day making up a food schedule for us. Yes, she loves me so much she has decided to join me for at least part of this quest. That, and I promised her there was not enough tofu on Earth that could make me do this by myself.
After a bowl of cereal, I changed into my workout clothes, which consist of a sleeveless Patriots shirt, heavy basketball shorts, worn-down New Balance sneakers and borderline-flabby arms. And because you're not allowed to wear outside shoes into the gym, I grab the next available pair of footwear I can find. That would be my pair of $2 orange flip-flops.
(I think at a certain point, you have to earn the right to wear sleeveless shirts. Nobody wants to see my droopy muscles.)
I depart for the company gym, to which I have no membership. Already, between droopy muscles and no facility to work out in, this is shaping up to be one hell of a weight loss program. After several crossed wires regarding which Nameless Dictator in my company actually controls the gym, I'm allowed access for one month. So I have 30 days to lose 100+ pounds. Awesome.
Well, that's not entirely true. Since at some point I will be shipping out to the retail department of my job, it was decided it was best if I had a temporary membership i.e. the second your transfer comes through the gym is off-limits. Whatever. That's a couple months and hopefully 10 pounds from now. Today I'm starting to change my life.
But first I gotta get some water. What would a workout be without the Essence of Life? So I meander down the halls, looking for people to talk to. Oh, and getting water. In the break room, Spike TV is showing some XTC ripoff...which I must watch.
NO GORDON, GET IT TOGETHER, MAN! It's time to workout! Okay then. So after only a couple hours of TV-watching, I'm ready to work out. That's not entirely true, but you get the idea.
I jog on the treadmill for 3 minutes, then begin the hardest part of any workout: trying to suppress all those energetic juices that want to start working out NOW long enough to stretch out properly. The stretching goes on for roughly 15 minutes. At the end of it, I am sweating, I am tired and I no longer feel like working out. This is essentially the same feeling I have when I eat cookies too fast.
I grab two 25-lb. dumbbells. After several reps of Clean and Press, it becomes quiet clear that the only dumbbell in the room is the overweight redhead grunting and groaning into a wall-length mirror, while a horrified gym rat on the other end of the room pretends to be intently doing push-ups. Showoff.
Next, I take those same dumbbells and practice large stepping routines off a bench, which prove effective except for one thing: I almost pass out about three times. You ever have that feeling? The sweet release of death creeping into your eyes as you quickly realize that you could be on the ground about 4 seconds from now? Well, it happened during each of my three sets of that exercise today. After trying to prolong my life by sitting down for a few minutes, I decided I needed more water. Back down the hall I go.
After all, isn't a reservoir of chemically-altered fountain water the best thing for you at the time?
Incorrect. I drank too much water too fast, and by the time I had downed my fourth cup, it became clear that my insides now felt like a damn Brita filter, and every step I took shook the contents of my stomach to and fro to the point that I felt I might have to throw in the towel for the day.
But what workout would be complete without me completely humiliating myself in front of an audience? As the aforementioned onlooker packed his belongings for the day, I decided to perform my world-famous Pull-up Routine. How does my routine go?
Try to imagine my arms in a straight line:
---------------------------------------------------------
Now imagine me bending them at ninety degrees:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
--------------------------
Well, here's what they look like when I try doing a pull-up:
----------------------/---------------
You get the idea? It's not a fun sight. Onlooker Guy says to me, "You should try doing that at the beginning of the workout. You'll have more strength then." I responded, "Yeah, maybe I'll try that." Then I began crying for no reason.
Anyway, I wrapped up the day with 3 sets of 10 incline push-ups, a failed attempt at triceps pulldowns and an equally laughable attempt at some sort previously unheard-of ab-strengthening exercise that truly only succeeded in making me almost pee myself in the middle of the gym.
Cool Down consisted of a brisk one-mile jog on the treadmill, which was initially supposed to be two, but by that point, my stomach had seceded from my body and was starting to devour my other intestines, at which point I took my orange flip-flops, pee-stained shorts and slightly-less-droopy muscles back home, where Holls and I ate sandwiches, laughed, frolicked and danced in the Gaelic tradition. The End.
(Sort of The End. The effects of this day will be felt for weeks to come, as Holls was at the supermarket while I was at the gym, making healthy purchases for my newly-acquired lifestyle change. She said - in the way only cute girls know how - "I went a little [hanging head with mock shame] crazy at the grocery store."
"How crazy?" I asked, the word "duh" hanging somewhere in the air.
"A little over a hundred bucks," she said.
And for the first time that day, I passed out.)
Day 1 started out simple enough. I had promised myself a full eight hours of sleep, but after 7.25, my body had had enough rest. Despite my best-laid plans, Operation: No Fat Groom would have to start this morning.
Holls was all riled up and excited as she had spent the better part of the previous day making up a food schedule for us. Yes, she loves me so much she has decided to join me for at least part of this quest. That, and I promised her there was not enough tofu on Earth that could make me do this by myself.
After a bowl of cereal, I changed into my workout clothes, which consist of a sleeveless Patriots shirt, heavy basketball shorts, worn-down New Balance sneakers and borderline-flabby arms. And because you're not allowed to wear outside shoes into the gym, I grab the next available pair of footwear I can find. That would be my pair of $2 orange flip-flops.
(I think at a certain point, you have to earn the right to wear sleeveless shirts. Nobody wants to see my droopy muscles.)
I depart for the company gym, to which I have no membership. Already, between droopy muscles and no facility to work out in, this is shaping up to be one hell of a weight loss program. After several crossed wires regarding which Nameless Dictator in my company actually controls the gym, I'm allowed access for one month. So I have 30 days to lose 100+ pounds. Awesome.
Well, that's not entirely true. Since at some point I will be shipping out to the retail department of my job, it was decided it was best if I had a temporary membership i.e. the second your transfer comes through the gym is off-limits. Whatever. That's a couple months and hopefully 10 pounds from now. Today I'm starting to change my life.
But first I gotta get some water. What would a workout be without the Essence of Life? So I meander down the halls, looking for people to talk to. Oh, and getting water. In the break room, Spike TV is showing some XTC ripoff...which I must watch.
NO GORDON, GET IT TOGETHER, MAN! It's time to workout! Okay then. So after only a couple hours of TV-watching, I'm ready to work out. That's not entirely true, but you get the idea.
I jog on the treadmill for 3 minutes, then begin the hardest part of any workout: trying to suppress all those energetic juices that want to start working out NOW long enough to stretch out properly. The stretching goes on for roughly 15 minutes. At the end of it, I am sweating, I am tired and I no longer feel like working out. This is essentially the same feeling I have when I eat cookies too fast.
I grab two 25-lb. dumbbells. After several reps of Clean and Press, it becomes quiet clear that the only dumbbell in the room is the overweight redhead grunting and groaning into a wall-length mirror, while a horrified gym rat on the other end of the room pretends to be intently doing push-ups. Showoff.
Next, I take those same dumbbells and practice large stepping routines off a bench, which prove effective except for one thing: I almost pass out about three times. You ever have that feeling? The sweet release of death creeping into your eyes as you quickly realize that you could be on the ground about 4 seconds from now? Well, it happened during each of my three sets of that exercise today. After trying to prolong my life by sitting down for a few minutes, I decided I needed more water. Back down the hall I go.
After all, isn't a reservoir of chemically-altered fountain water the best thing for you at the time?
Incorrect. I drank too much water too fast, and by the time I had downed my fourth cup, it became clear that my insides now felt like a damn Brita filter, and every step I took shook the contents of my stomach to and fro to the point that I felt I might have to throw in the towel for the day.
But what workout would be complete without me completely humiliating myself in front of an audience? As the aforementioned onlooker packed his belongings for the day, I decided to perform my world-famous Pull-up Routine. How does my routine go?
Try to imagine my arms in a straight line:
---------------------------------------------------------
Now imagine me bending them at ninety degrees:
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
--------------------------
Well, here's what they look like when I try doing a pull-up:
----------------------/---------------
You get the idea? It's not a fun sight. Onlooker Guy says to me, "You should try doing that at the beginning of the workout. You'll have more strength then." I responded, "Yeah, maybe I'll try that." Then I began crying for no reason.
Anyway, I wrapped up the day with 3 sets of 10 incline push-ups, a failed attempt at triceps pulldowns and an equally laughable attempt at some sort previously unheard-of ab-strengthening exercise that truly only succeeded in making me almost pee myself in the middle of the gym.
Cool Down consisted of a brisk one-mile jog on the treadmill, which was initially supposed to be two, but by that point, my stomach had seceded from my body and was starting to devour my other intestines, at which point I took my orange flip-flops, pee-stained shorts and slightly-less-droopy muscles back home, where Holls and I ate sandwiches, laughed, frolicked and danced in the Gaelic tradition. The End.
(Sort of The End. The effects of this day will be felt for weeks to come, as Holls was at the supermarket while I was at the gym, making healthy purchases for my newly-acquired lifestyle change. She said - in the way only cute girls know how - "I went a little [hanging head with mock shame] crazy at the grocery store."
"How crazy?" I asked, the word "duh" hanging somewhere in the air.
"A little over a hundred bucks," she said.
And for the first time that day, I passed out.)
"But I like the stairs....THEY'RE FUN!"
Operation: NFG is here.
I've been thinking about it for a couple days now, and the one thing I've been able to rest my laurels on is my stomach, along with cookie crumbs, beer cans, issues of "Fat and Happy Weekly" and for some reason a jar of pickles. It's been a weird season thus far, one that's seen a progressively warmer winter descend upon the Pine Tree State, a long-planned mission culminating in an extremely romantic engagement in the middle of San Francisco (if I do say so myself), and the slow decay of my personal health.
Now, on this last front, I am extremely dissatisfied with myself. In the weeks leading up to our West Coast excursion, I made a concerted effort to shed as many extra lb's as I could by using our trusty old Wii Fit. Wii and I got extremely close during that period, especially as the scale groaned less and less every successive day that I weighed myself. It was a simpler time.
But then about two weeks before we left, I stopped. I'm not really sure why. I guess I could claim an unforgiving schedule at work, and anybody who knows how shorthanded we are right now would probably not fault me in the least for all the extra hours I've been working. I could also claim that the technical and financial aspects of planning our engagement in SF could quite possibly put a strain on an otherwise care-free personal constitution. I could also claim an abject penchant for docile mornings spent reading, playing Warcraft, watching movies and generally being a sedentary little boy.
If I'm being completely honest with everybody here, it's all or none of these. I've exercised in my life during more strenuous times than the ones I've experienced this year, and these weren't even particularly stressful. And given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to propose marriage, you would think that would be a catalyst to some sort of life-altering weight change. But something extremely disturbing happened in that time period: I got comfortable.
And that scares the shit out of me. When I was younger and first struggling with my weight, I always thought that the intricacies and realizations of time would straighten me out and make me skinny. It was just inevitable: I was not destined to grow up and be a big guy! I just wasn't.
At some point, I would leave the baby fat behind. However, these days it's more like baby, my behind is fat.
So now, I'm not just fighting a slowly-detoriating self-image and an increasingly weakening body. I'm fighting the lack of will and discipline that brought me here in the first place. On the surface, my goal is to not be the fat guy I am at this moment, but rather to be the fit, healthy, in-shape groom who will say "I do" to my fiance in a couple years. Underneath it all, however, I'm fighting a deeper problem, a problem that has finally come to a head and has forced me to make the decision of my life: do I choose a healthy, sensible lifestyle, or a slew of health problems down the road that could have been avoided had I chosen to care even a smidge more than I have before? Can I theoretically make the decision to care about how I live my life?; to no longer thumb my nose at common sense and science, both of which say that I need to disrupt the course of my life immediately before I get any older?; to make a conscious effort to, in essence, save my life before any more time passes and it becomes nearly physically impossible to do so? Over the months that will follow, I guess we'll all find out together.
So for the next couple years, I will be documenting - on this blog - my deeply personal odyssey into a perpetual state of discipline and fitness, while trying to contract a severe case of Skinny Guy Syndrome. It can't wait any longer. It starts tonight.
STARTING WEIGHT - MIDNIGHT, APRIL 12, 2010: 301.8 LBS
Operation: No Fat Groom is a go.
(P.S. How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom (Google both), I'd say I'm about a John Goodman: feeling big, trying to make up for it with personality, and wearing tons of plaid.)
I've been thinking about it for a couple days now, and the one thing I've been able to rest my laurels on is my stomach, along with cookie crumbs, beer cans, issues of "Fat and Happy Weekly" and for some reason a jar of pickles. It's been a weird season thus far, one that's seen a progressively warmer winter descend upon the Pine Tree State, a long-planned mission culminating in an extremely romantic engagement in the middle of San Francisco (if I do say so myself), and the slow decay of my personal health.
Now, on this last front, I am extremely dissatisfied with myself. In the weeks leading up to our West Coast excursion, I made a concerted effort to shed as many extra lb's as I could by using our trusty old Wii Fit. Wii and I got extremely close during that period, especially as the scale groaned less and less every successive day that I weighed myself. It was a simpler time.
But then about two weeks before we left, I stopped. I'm not really sure why. I guess I could claim an unforgiving schedule at work, and anybody who knows how shorthanded we are right now would probably not fault me in the least for all the extra hours I've been working. I could also claim that the technical and financial aspects of planning our engagement in SF could quite possibly put a strain on an otherwise care-free personal constitution. I could also claim an abject penchant for docile mornings spent reading, playing Warcraft, watching movies and generally being a sedentary little boy.
If I'm being completely honest with everybody here, it's all or none of these. I've exercised in my life during more strenuous times than the ones I've experienced this year, and these weren't even particularly stressful. And given the once-in-a-lifetime opportunity to propose marriage, you would think that would be a catalyst to some sort of life-altering weight change. But something extremely disturbing happened in that time period: I got comfortable.
And that scares the shit out of me. When I was younger and first struggling with my weight, I always thought that the intricacies and realizations of time would straighten me out and make me skinny. It was just inevitable: I was not destined to grow up and be a big guy! I just wasn't.
At some point, I would leave the baby fat behind. However, these days it's more like baby, my behind is fat.
So now, I'm not just fighting a slowly-detoriating self-image and an increasingly weakening body. I'm fighting the lack of will and discipline that brought me here in the first place. On the surface, my goal is to not be the fat guy I am at this moment, but rather to be the fit, healthy, in-shape groom who will say "I do" to my fiance in a couple years. Underneath it all, however, I'm fighting a deeper problem, a problem that has finally come to a head and has forced me to make the decision of my life: do I choose a healthy, sensible lifestyle, or a slew of health problems down the road that could have been avoided had I chosen to care even a smidge more than I have before? Can I theoretically make the decision to care about how I live my life?; to no longer thumb my nose at common sense and science, both of which say that I need to disrupt the course of my life immediately before I get any older?; to make a conscious effort to, in essence, save my life before any more time passes and it becomes nearly physically impossible to do so? Over the months that will follow, I guess we'll all find out together.
So for the next couple years, I will be documenting - on this blog - my deeply personal odyssey into a perpetual state of discipline and fitness, while trying to contract a severe case of Skinny Guy Syndrome. It can't wait any longer. It starts tonight.
STARTING WEIGHT - MIDNIGHT, APRIL 12, 2010: 301.8 LBS
Operation: No Fat Groom is a go.
(P.S. How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom (Google both), I'd say I'm about a John Goodman: feeling big, trying to make up for it with personality, and wearing tons of plaid.)
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