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
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