Well, let's get this first part out of the way:
WEIGHT AFTER FOUR WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 10, 2010: 281.3 LBS. (-1.8 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER FIVE WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 17, 2010: 273.2 LBS. (-8.2 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER SIX WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 24, 2010: 272.3 LBS. (-0.9 LBS.)
WEIGHT AFTER SEVEN WEEKS - MIDNIGHT, MONDAY, MAY 31, 2010: 269.0 LBS. (-3.3 LBS.)
So there's that...
*****
So the question is, as Jerry Seinfeld once said, what have I been doing? Well, interesting that you should ask. There's been much ado about everything in my life lately, which explains why I've failed to keep my apt readership informed as to the goings-on in the life of Christopher Jasper Gordon. But now Fella's got his groove back, things are getting back to a steady rhythm, and I finally have some time to sit down and tell you exactly what the hell I've been up to.
Quick interlude: Initially, I had started writing a rather long and complicated "24"-themed entry a few days after my Week 3 wrap-up. But 3/4 of the way through, I mistakenly deleted it, and rather than spend hours trying to remember every little inside joke that only true Jack Bauer fans would understand, I said to hell with it, and pretty much Fatty and Julia fell off the face of the earth for four weeks.
I had many personal challenges over the last four weeks that, at times, threatened to upend this whole experiment. My sister's birthday was the first such occurrence. I drove down on a Wednesday morning to take her out for breakfast, and needless to say Massachusetts traffic generally does not give a flying rat's patootie what my workout schedule calls for that day. So when I rolled into the gym at 2pm - with an upcoming shift starting at 3 - I rushed through the workout, cranking out every exercise, and I do mean every exercise. And wouldn't you know it? I was under the hot spray of the company shower at 2:50, and still managed to punch in on time. I wish Sergei our Croatian janitor hadn't insisted on standing outside the shower and watching me, but that might be another journal entry, or at the very least a small claims case.
Something else extraordinary happened that pleased me in new and exciting ways: the little cinch that kept my b-hole tight loosened up a little bit, and I allowed myself a few off-the-road dietary detours while still eating mostly healthy. For instance, on May 7 at 11:31 pm, I had my first beer in over four weeks (I believe it was that time; it could have been 11:32). Anyways, after weeks of greens and H2O, to have that salty, hops-filled, barleyriffic sensation of pure liquid sex poured straight down my gullet was like a gift from the gods. I also drank PBR. I decided that after nearly five weeks of maintaining a strict diet - and with the wedding more than two years away - that I had earned the right to partake in a little reward or two.
And then there was the unexpected. A couple weeks later I was in the Bangor region DJing a wedding, and stayed with family members for a couple nights. One morning, as I prepared to help one of my cousins move into his new place, my aunt had made me breakfast: eggs, toast, COFFEE and BACON. Why was this a big deal? At this point, I was still in the mindset that pork, chicken and beef were a ways off, so if I ate the bacon, I felt like I would be balling up the whole plan and chucking it out the window. Needless to say, the bacon didn't have a chance to get cold, and the coffee tasted as if a Colombian coffee bean farmer had brewed it in the next room. It was heaven. (It also kicked the door open to drinking coffee again, which I'm not entirely displeased about).
That same weekend, Holls and I moved into a new place. As I write this, we're finally moving the last of our things in, which is surprising, since I'm writing this six feet off the ground while balancing on two stacks of shoeboxes and the entire 1998-2004 issues of Glamour magazine (ha ha, just kidding, love you hun). That might have sparked some more weight loss, since I carried about twenty-seven boxes down two flights of stairs for days on end. So finding time to work out regularly in the weeks since the move began have been challenging to say the least.
And can we all agree that moving is one of the five most terrible experiences a person can go through? Forget all that crap about fresh starts, new friends, etc. Moving consists of cutting a chunk out of yours and possibly your friends and family's lives and moving your shit into the back of a dirty truck or van while the rest of the world goes to the beach. At least that's how it felt when I trucked up I-295 on an 85-degree day with a pickup full of photo albums.
On Monday of our first week here, I started my new position in the company. My schedule changed to a rather sporadic spattering of times and locations, all of which change day in and day out. Translation: nearly impossible to want to work out on a Friday afternoon at 5:00 when it's absolutely gorgeous out. And I think that was an unexpected challenge that I hadn't foreseen way back on April 12th: what happens when the Psycho Child that Lives in the Clouds stops frigging with us poor Mainers and lets us have a few weeks of nice weather for a change? Think I'm going to want to spend an hour or two in a sterile exercise room stuck watching repeats of "Rob and Big"? J'don't think so.
And the last big challenge consisted of an unexpected day off that could have been dire for the old fatty Chris. Two weeks in a row, I was forced to change my day off from the gym because, as Jeff Goldblum once said, life found a way. One week it had to be a Thursday; the other was a Friday, I believe. But although it would have been a huge deal had it been one of my first weeks doing this program, it actually was just as easy as rescheduling an appointment. As long as I made good on the missed workout, what the hell difference does it make what day I work out? (301.8-lb. Chris would have made up that missed workout on Nevterday).
The important point? I didn't miss one workout. Not one.
*****
On the last day of Week 7, something extraordinary happened to me.
I was out of work at 6pm, and where I was working was only a quick 10-15 minute jaunt to the gym. So as I traveled up Route 1, I rolled my window down and took in the beautiful Maine evening. Fresh air, beautiful sunshine, bumfights on the sidewalk: it was magic. Without giving too much personal info away, Holls and I have moved into a spot very close to the mythical Back Bay in Portland. The Back Bay is a long and beautiful walking path right near the heart of downtown Portland (I should write travel brochures). The total length of the path is just over 3.5 miles.
Now, I've walked this trail many times. Holls and I have walked it together. I've ran part of it, but usually bottom out shortly after a mile. As I inched closer and closer to the gym, it suddenly dawned on me that my proximity to this beautiful free resource needed to be taken advantage of. So I bypassed the gym altogether today, threw on my workout clothes, grabbed my Sansa Fuze, and walked the short distance to the Back Bay.
I started running. Well, more like a steady and healthy jog, maybe slightly slower than the four or five times I had bolted out of the gate when attempting to traverse the entire trail. And I ran by Vannah, and Dartmouth, and eventually made it past Hannaford, and then past the soccer field...
...and amazingly enough, after nearly 3 miles I was picking up steam while running toward Tookis Bridge...
...and I lagged a bit on the bridge, but still didn't stop...
...and at the other side, I saw the final sign post...
...and much like Rocky turning up the juice while running along the docks, I sprinted the final portion of my run to my starting point. Let me say that again: after over 3.5 miles, I SPRINTED to the final destination. Actually, sprinting is not the correct word, because that sounds like something a high school cross country coach would say. Let me rephrase: I ran like a goddamn pack of axe murderers were hot on my heels. And when I hit my starting point, it was the closest this big man has come to shedding a tear. In my 25+ years, I have never ran that distance before without stopping. Ever. Even now, I'm so proud of myself that it's making me sick. Were it not for several other people still on the trail, I would have made a banshee call that would have raised the hounds of hell.
(And to you folks that regularly run 5-10 miles a day, this may not be a big deal for you, but for a guy who used to get light-headed while tying his shoes, I may as well have climbed Mount Everest today. That's how good it felt. The only way I can relay it to you is imagine your local Starbucks suddenly ran out of grande cups, so they relented and gave you a venti for the grande price. Like hitting the jackpot, right? /shakes head disgustedly)
*****
Few other things...
THUMBS UP: to me, for running the Back Bay non-stop. HOOOOOOOOOVAAAA
THUMBS DOWN: to the City of Portland for decorating their trail with non-working water fountains
THUMBS UP: to Lucinda Williams, one of only five artists who can actually change my mood in a matter of seconds (the others being Wolfmother, Jimi Hendrix, the Beatles and AC/DC. What can I say? I dig Australian stoner metal bands).
THUMBS DOWN: to the Raveonettes. One of their shit songs came on my Fuze today, just a random chant with static and screeching that almost blew out my damn eardrums. Ask my buddy Tom: he'll tell you about the time we went to say four bands with the Raveonettes as the headliner, and they ended up being the only band that sucked. I believe the Raveonettes doubled as our excuse to go get a few beers before the next band came on, right KrzyLggz?
THUMBS UP: to not having boobs anymore!
DOUBLE THUMBS UP: to not having chaffy nipples when I run anymore!
TRIPLE THUMBS UP: to Holls, who called me "hot" the other day!
THUMBS DOWN: to Sergei, who said the exact same thing after my shower
And finally, THUMBS UP: to me, for dropping the best "That's What She Said" in my quarter-century on this earth. My supervisor at my new job was in the process of training me, and reached into his desk drawer to grab a piece of black liquorish from a bag he keeps stored in there. He started complaining that the candy was old, and at one point he said - I swear to the Psycho Child in the clouds he actually said these words - "It's hard, but it still tastes pretty good."
You know the funny thing is? Instinct plays a big part in these situations, and rather than think, "Hmm, maybe it wouldn't be such a good idea to say something like that only a week into my new job," "That's What She Said" flew out of my mouth so quickly that it almost shattered the sound barrier. Lucky me: he spit the candy out and started laughing.
Methinks I'm gonna like my new job. It's pretty tight most of the time, and there's always a couple guys around to give me a hand.
Wait a sec...
*****
How do I feel at this exact moment? On a scale of Olga Sherer to Gilbert Grape's mom, I'm Ricky Gervais: sometimes you may not hear from me for months at a time, but when you do, I seem to be doing pretty good. Also, I'm hosting the Golden Globes next year.
WORKOUT SONG OF THE WEEK
You may think I'm crazy, but this is the song that came on the exact moment I started sprinting in my jog. Why do I have an influx of Phil Collins songs in my Fuze? As Bluto would say, why not?
