Matt asked me to write a blog, so here it goes…
I’d like to say first how proud I am of Matt. He’s done an amazing job so far – a shadow of the man who picked me up for our first date to the Italian Festival in Norwich, and even more so, the guy the entire marching band (and half of the UConn campus) knew as Griff. Ask him to tell you about that name… perhaps a future blog?
About 8 months into dating, I asked Matt to join Weight Watchers with me. I had done the program successfully several years before and hit my weight goal. I maintained it for quite a while, but some of the weight came back to visit. I was not fat (oops, I dropped the ‘f-bomb’!), but I was not comfortable in my clothes either. I knew that if I had Matt on board with me, it would be easier to stay on plan – it’s hard to eat healthily with small portions if the man you are dating is eating what he wants, whenever he wants, and in whatever portions he wants. Matt declined at the time, so I rejoined myself, hoping to get back down to my weight goal.
Thus, the start of Weight Watchers Round #2. I was inspired by one of my good friends, and attended meetings with her. It worked for a while, but… bad influences overwhelmed me, and I stopped going just in time for my best friend’s wedding in Virginia. I felt good in my bridesmaid dress, so when I came back, I cancelled my membership. I was just 7ish pounds away from my goal.
In Fall 2008, Matt and I moved in together, in the winter, we got engaged…. Then I realized – WEDDING DRESS. I started dress shipping in the spring, and while most of the samples fit me, snuggly, but I didn’t exactly look the way I wanted to. In Fall 2009, I found my dream dress – it’s gorgeous!!!! As we ordered the dress (thanks Mom & Dad!), I struggled. Do I get the dress in the same size as the sample – which fit just perfectly, but with NO wiggle room – or do I get the dress in a size up in case I gain weight from stress eating? I eventually ordered it in the sample size, with the faith that I could get back down to my goal weight and maintain it.
Enter Weight Watchers Round #3 and Matt.
Matt also wanted to get into his dream tux (c’mon, what man doesn’t dream of what he will wear down the aisle?), and I needed to still fit in my dress next summer. I casually mentioned Weight Watchers, and gave him time to think about it.
We all know Matt joined with me, and for my sake, I thank God he did. Losing weight is hard to do, and even harder to do alone. Matt has been a support and inspiration! I am proud to say that I have gotten back to my weight goal, and have even managed to pass it. But without Matt, I would have stopped going to meetings and might have already started to head the wrong way on the scale again.
My suggestion to anyone who is trying to change themselves in some way (health, kicking a bad habit, etc) is to find a partner who has the same goal as you. My hope is that you find a partner who is as inspirational to you as Matt is to me!
Stat time (don’t I get them, too?)
Time till the wedding: I don’t remember. Ask Matt.
How much planning is left: A lot.
Current weight: A woman will never tell…
Total weight lost on Weight Watchers Round #3: 10+ lbs
Total weight lost on Weight Watchers since the beginning: 30+ lbs
Famous singer born on the 30th: Celine Dion (March 30th)
Number of subscribers to the blog: 33
Number last week: 33. BOO! Subscribe, people!
Monday, December 28, 2009
Thursday, December 24, 2009
My holiday wish? Keep it up.
I am almost through the gastronomical gauntlet.
The Holidays are the trip wire that explodes the diet of many a dieter or Weight Watcher. There have certainly been times over the past month where I've found temptation a little too enticing, a cookie just too darn convincing, and a slice of cake just look too delicious to pass up. This week , especially, has been dangerous, what with office parties and platters aplenty. I am a man with his share of weaknesses, among them carrot cake and chocolate covered pretzels, and those weaknesses were tested to extremes.
I'd be a dope of I didn't indulge a little bit. Hell, that's part of what makes the season so darn delightful. But I am proud to say I did not break, and though this weekend promises a few more hurdles, the dollops of danger are starting to dissipate (What is Christmas or Hanukkah without extra alliteration, after all).
I am not a quitter. Call me easy-going or even a pushover at times, but there are few things in my life that I've given up on, at least officially. True, I quit the soccer team in 4th grade, but the stupid coach insisted everyone pass his son the ball at all times. When I get committed to an idea or cause, I tend to stick to it.
The exception, other than that dastardly soccer coach, has been my ongoing battle against my weight. It's the classic yo yo motif that I'm sure many a dieter has experienced. You get motivated to do something about your body, you diet and exercise more, you start to see results, and you find yourself pleased. Then, like a kid with ADD seeing something shiny, you get distracted or worse, overconfident. You start to think that there's no meal you can't handle. Small excuses for avoiding the gym creep into your psyche more and more. You say, "sure, I'll enter the chicken nugget eating contest!" Or, as is the danger now, the Holidays come, and Chocolate Santas become your dietary hit men.
But something has come over me. I give plenty of credit to Weight Watchers, to the motivation of a pending wedding, and to Megan herself, who has never shied from showing her pride in what I am accomplishing. I don't want to lose momentum. Instead of making excuses, I'm going out of my way to get to the gym, and my workouts have become draining and long. On the occasions I do overeat, the guilt I used to feel has been replaced with something else, a desire to overcome any indiscretion with hard work and planning. I'm on a roll, and I'm enjoying it more than any dessert I've ever tasted.
It's been 17 weeks since that first fateful weigh-in, the day I decided to make this a public journey. In all those weeks, all those weigh-ins, I have not had one regression. On two occasions, my weight has remained the same as the previous week, but 15 times now, I've been rewarded with a smile and a smaller number. I'm close to losing 50 pounds, well on my way to 60 pounds and beyond that goal I set. Quite simply, this is the best I've ever felt about myself.
I haven't had many things to ask for this holiday season. I have a good life, a great family and friends, and a wonderful fiancee. So Santa, or Hanukkah Harry, or whatever being may be keeping tabs, here's my wish: let me keep this up. Even my DVD collection doesn't bring me as much satisfaction as getting those little stickers demonstrating more weight has been lost.
Well, that and a GPS. I could really use one of those. A few weeks ago I got lost in my own neighborhood.
Not a creature was stirring, so here come some STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 32. Yep, Karl Malone's number.
Week 17 pounds lost: 1.8
Total weight lost: 45.8 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.7 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 76.33333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to reach that goal: 14.2 Can we do it by February? We shall do our best. (at least I will. You can help by reading and commenting).
Number of subscribers to this blog: 33.
Number last week: 30. This is good.
Days before Xmas: 1.
NORAD currently tracking Santa: somewhere near the Middle East. Careful, Santa. That episode of "South Park" didn't end too well.
The Holidays are the trip wire that explodes the diet of many a dieter or Weight Watcher. There have certainly been times over the past month where I've found temptation a little too enticing, a cookie just too darn convincing, and a slice of cake just look too delicious to pass up. This week , especially, has been dangerous, what with office parties and platters aplenty. I am a man with his share of weaknesses, among them carrot cake and chocolate covered pretzels, and those weaknesses were tested to extremes.
I'd be a dope of I didn't indulge a little bit. Hell, that's part of what makes the season so darn delightful. But I am proud to say I did not break, and though this weekend promises a few more hurdles, the dollops of danger are starting to dissipate (What is Christmas or Hanukkah without extra alliteration, after all).
I am not a quitter. Call me easy-going or even a pushover at times, but there are few things in my life that I've given up on, at least officially. True, I quit the soccer team in 4th grade, but the stupid coach insisted everyone pass his son the ball at all times. When I get committed to an idea or cause, I tend to stick to it.
The exception, other than that dastardly soccer coach, has been my ongoing battle against my weight. It's the classic yo yo motif that I'm sure many a dieter has experienced. You get motivated to do something about your body, you diet and exercise more, you start to see results, and you find yourself pleased. Then, like a kid with ADD seeing something shiny, you get distracted or worse, overconfident. You start to think that there's no meal you can't handle. Small excuses for avoiding the gym creep into your psyche more and more. You say, "sure, I'll enter the chicken nugget eating contest!" Or, as is the danger now, the Holidays come, and Chocolate Santas become your dietary hit men.
But something has come over me. I give plenty of credit to Weight Watchers, to the motivation of a pending wedding, and to Megan herself, who has never shied from showing her pride in what I am accomplishing. I don't want to lose momentum. Instead of making excuses, I'm going out of my way to get to the gym, and my workouts have become draining and long. On the occasions I do overeat, the guilt I used to feel has been replaced with something else, a desire to overcome any indiscretion with hard work and planning. I'm on a roll, and I'm enjoying it more than any dessert I've ever tasted.
It's been 17 weeks since that first fateful weigh-in, the day I decided to make this a public journey. In all those weeks, all those weigh-ins, I have not had one regression. On two occasions, my weight has remained the same as the previous week, but 15 times now, I've been rewarded with a smile and a smaller number. I'm close to losing 50 pounds, well on my way to 60 pounds and beyond that goal I set. Quite simply, this is the best I've ever felt about myself.
I haven't had many things to ask for this holiday season. I have a good life, a great family and friends, and a wonderful fiancee. So Santa, or Hanukkah Harry, or whatever being may be keeping tabs, here's my wish: let me keep this up. Even my DVD collection doesn't bring me as much satisfaction as getting those little stickers demonstrating more weight has been lost.
Well, that and a GPS. I could really use one of those. A few weeks ago I got lost in my own neighborhood.
Not a creature was stirring, so here come some STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 32. Yep, Karl Malone's number.
Week 17 pounds lost: 1.8
Total weight lost: 45.8 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.7 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 76.33333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to reach that goal: 14.2 Can we do it by February? We shall do our best. (at least I will. You can help by reading and commenting).
Number of subscribers to this blog: 33.
Number last week: 30. This is good.
Days before Xmas: 1.
NORAD currently tracking Santa: somewhere near the Middle East. Careful, Santa. That episode of "South Park" didn't end too well.
Monday, December 21, 2009
The notches slide left
****In the way back machine we go, circa 1999. Cue funky time traveling music.****
"Matthew?" The nurse announces my name as a question, not a statement.
Why did Mom make me come here, I think to myself. Like no 16-year-old ever had a head cold before. Well, at least it's just a sniffle and I won't have to get on the scale.
"Alright, first things first. Let's get you on the scale."
You've got to be kidding me! "Do we really need my weight if I'm just here with a runny nose?" I ask, pathetically eyeing the device located conveniently in the middle of the hallway, next to where a gorgeous young nurse is standing.
"Doctor needs it for the chart. You haven't been here in quite a while, it seems." She's smirking at the horror that's coming over my face. I know that look she's displaying. Get on the scale, tubby, and stop you're bellyaching.
Oh, crud. She's actually challenging me. I remove my shoes, then my wallet. I take the keys out of my pocket, then my asthma inhaler, and remove the watch from my wrist. Not satisfied, I take the glasses off my face, and hand everything to the nurse. Can't write on your precious chart if your hands are full. But the joke's on me, as usual. She hands the chart to the hot nurse. "Allison, would you take down his weight. Foiled again!
Deep breath, swear inaudibly, and the inevitable small step up. The nurse slides the little metal frame to the right, then further to the right, the 50s adding up. She stops for a second, then starts sliding the smaller measure designated for single pounds.
Right, right, right, right.
And slide the big frame again. Another 50 is added, then she mercifully records a horrible number. The mean nurse hand me back all my things and sends me to a small room. "Dr. Schwartz will be in shortly." She smirks again, places all my possessions on the little table, and leaves.
(Editor's note: His name really wasn't Dr. Schwartz. Names have been changed to protect the cruel and malicious).
Did that number really say that? It couldn't be that high! What the heck! I can't really be that out of shape, can I?
A brief knock, and Dr. Schwartz enters. He is armed with the chart, a disapproving look already on his face as he reads.
"Long time, no see, Mr. Engelhardt. What brings you here today?"
"I've had a cold for about a week," I say through a stuffy nose, bringing a tissue to my face to emphasize my illness.
"The cold we can take care of. What I'm really concerned about is your weight."
You son of an orangutan's mistress! Guilt overcomes me, and I slump into my chair. "What's that got to do with the sniffles?" I mutter, beaten.
"You're going to have a whole lot more to worry about than the sniffles if you don't get your weight under control, Matt." In my head, I have Dean Wormer from "Animal House" giving me a lecture. Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son. Of course, I wasn't drunk. And I wasn't stupid, but the effect was the same.
The rest of the visit passes with me melting into a puddle of shame. There are six doctors in this practice, and I get the one with the bedside manner of a 5th grade bully. He prescribes me something for the cold, hands me the chart, and I walk back to the front. I hand the nurse the folder, which she opens to check Schwartz's notes. I see what he wrote, and the shame continues to melt me down. Preexisting conditions: asthma, obesity. There it was, the "o" word. I was 16, and the one thing the doctor wrote legibly was that I had crappy lungs and a weight problem.
I go home dejected. And, as much pity as I allowed myself to feel, the numbers on the scale would continue to slide right for years to come.
**** Present day, after a hard workout. Cue "Chariots of Fire."****
The scale in the men's room is identical to the one that tormented me as a teenager, the same that has prevented me from returning to the doctor's office unless there's a true emergency, like a cotton swab stuck in my ear canal. It's midday, and the locker room is crowded, but I don't care. I'm getting on that scale. I'm sweaty and tired, but unhindered. Once again, I remove my shoes. My wallet and everything else is locked safely in a locker, so no reason to go through the whole production again. This time, however, the glasses stay on.
Deep breath, and the inevitable step. Out of force of habit, I slide the bigger frame over several sets of 50s, then look up. I've overshot my weight. I begin sliding the smaller frame to the left.
Left, left, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT!
There's nowhere further to slide. With a satisfied "clink," I slide the larger frame left, 50 pounds left, to be exact. At last, the scale is level.
I nearly high five the old, nude man sitting on the bench. Er, maybe not. I haven't been this light since my freshman year of high school, two years before that dreadful visit to Dr. Schwartz. Since then, I've gone out of my way to make sure if I need to visit the doctor, I get someone else in the practice.
Even though I feel perfectly healthy, I'm thinking it's about time to schedule a physical. And I'll make sure I book Dr. Schwartz. Hell, just for good measure, I'll try to see if the nasty nurse is still working there too. Let her slide the scale to the left. It's about time that smirk turned into a smile.
"Matthew?" The nurse announces my name as a question, not a statement.
Why did Mom make me come here, I think to myself. Like no 16-year-old ever had a head cold before. Well, at least it's just a sniffle and I won't have to get on the scale.
"Alright, first things first. Let's get you on the scale."
You've got to be kidding me! "Do we really need my weight if I'm just here with a runny nose?" I ask, pathetically eyeing the device located conveniently in the middle of the hallway, next to where a gorgeous young nurse is standing.
"Doctor needs it for the chart. You haven't been here in quite a while, it seems." She's smirking at the horror that's coming over my face. I know that look she's displaying. Get on the scale, tubby, and stop you're bellyaching.
Oh, crud. She's actually challenging me. I remove my shoes, then my wallet. I take the keys out of my pocket, then my asthma inhaler, and remove the watch from my wrist. Not satisfied, I take the glasses off my face, and hand everything to the nurse. Can't write on your precious chart if your hands are full. But the joke's on me, as usual. She hands the chart to the hot nurse. "Allison, would you take down his weight. Foiled again!
Deep breath, swear inaudibly, and the inevitable small step up. The nurse slides the little metal frame to the right, then further to the right, the 50s adding up. She stops for a second, then starts sliding the smaller measure designated for single pounds.
Right, right, right, right.
And slide the big frame again. Another 50 is added, then she mercifully records a horrible number. The mean nurse hand me back all my things and sends me to a small room. "Dr. Schwartz will be in shortly." She smirks again, places all my possessions on the little table, and leaves.
(Editor's note: His name really wasn't Dr. Schwartz. Names have been changed to protect the cruel and malicious).
Did that number really say that? It couldn't be that high! What the heck! I can't really be that out of shape, can I?
A brief knock, and Dr. Schwartz enters. He is armed with the chart, a disapproving look already on his face as he reads.
"Long time, no see, Mr. Engelhardt. What brings you here today?"
"I've had a cold for about a week," I say through a stuffy nose, bringing a tissue to my face to emphasize my illness.
"The cold we can take care of. What I'm really concerned about is your weight."
You son of an orangutan's mistress! Guilt overcomes me, and I slump into my chair. "What's that got to do with the sniffles?" I mutter, beaten.
"You're going to have a whole lot more to worry about than the sniffles if you don't get your weight under control, Matt." In my head, I have Dean Wormer from "Animal House" giving me a lecture. Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son. Of course, I wasn't drunk. And I wasn't stupid, but the effect was the same.
The rest of the visit passes with me melting into a puddle of shame. There are six doctors in this practice, and I get the one with the bedside manner of a 5th grade bully. He prescribes me something for the cold, hands me the chart, and I walk back to the front. I hand the nurse the folder, which she opens to check Schwartz's notes. I see what he wrote, and the shame continues to melt me down. Preexisting conditions: asthma, obesity. There it was, the "o" word. I was 16, and the one thing the doctor wrote legibly was that I had crappy lungs and a weight problem.
I go home dejected. And, as much pity as I allowed myself to feel, the numbers on the scale would continue to slide right for years to come.
**** Present day, after a hard workout. Cue "Chariots of Fire."****
The scale in the men's room is identical to the one that tormented me as a teenager, the same that has prevented me from returning to the doctor's office unless there's a true emergency, like a cotton swab stuck in my ear canal. It's midday, and the locker room is crowded, but I don't care. I'm getting on that scale. I'm sweaty and tired, but unhindered. Once again, I remove my shoes. My wallet and everything else is locked safely in a locker, so no reason to go through the whole production again. This time, however, the glasses stay on.
Deep breath, and the inevitable step. Out of force of habit, I slide the bigger frame over several sets of 50s, then look up. I've overshot my weight. I begin sliding the smaller frame to the left.
Left, left, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT!
There's nowhere further to slide. With a satisfied "clink," I slide the larger frame left, 50 pounds left, to be exact. At last, the scale is level.
I nearly high five the old, nude man sitting on the bench. Er, maybe not. I haven't been this light since my freshman year of high school, two years before that dreadful visit to Dr. Schwartz. Since then, I've gone out of my way to make sure if I need to visit the doctor, I get someone else in the practice.
Even though I feel perfectly healthy, I'm thinking it's about time to schedule a physical. And I'll make sure I book Dr. Schwartz. Hell, just for good measure, I'll try to see if the nasty nurse is still working there too. Let her slide the scale to the left. It's about time that smirk turned into a smile.
Thursday, December 17, 2009
No Weight Watchers for Santa
Don't do it, Mr. Kringle.
Don't submit yourself to the insults and insinuations of some jerkhead Australian scientist who has the audacity to declare you, the one and only Santa Claus (and all your mall-sitting minions) a bad role model for children.
It's sad, but true. It seems that a scientist in Australia decided that the jolly, merry old image of Santa doesn't quite the fit the mold of what a responsible adult embodies.
SANTA'S A JOLLY BAD ROLE MODEL
I guess even Santa can't be hefty any more, at least according to this punk. Santa has his faults- I concede it's a bad image for him to smoke, and he has shown a bit of a tendency to favor Christian children over all others. But to call him a poor role model just because he's the "f" word ("fat" is truly an ugly term), is disheartening. We need Santa to be a jolly old elf. His belly needs shake like a bowl full of jelly. And the reindeer need the aerobic workout of pulling a chubby Santa around the world.
Heck, I'm Jewish, but having grown up in a household where all Judeo-Christian holidays were observed, I still appreciate everything that Santa holds dear: giving, family, cookies, and fantastic facial hair. He is the world's greatest celebrity, never had a sex scandal or other spat with Mrs. Claus, and successfully kept the Miser brothers at bay for at least 40 years.
Seriously, screw that scientist. All he's doing here is confirming the fears I've had all along: no matter what you do, or how good a person you are, if you're overweight, people won't concentrate on anything else.
I've struggled with that reality since I was a little boy still writing annual letters to the North Pole (and to Israel, where Hannukah Harry was busy shopping for socks). My fear was that no matter what I did in life, whether I became some kind of hero or blended into the crowd, people's first word to describe would be any euphemism of fat. We see it all the time. Look at an actor like John Candy. Somewhere in the first three words you use to describe him, I'm guessing his bulk would be included. The same goes for people like William Howard Taft, Marlon Brando, Chris Farley, or Rick Majerus. One was president and chief justice of the Supreme Court, one a temperamental actor, one a comedian, and one a great basketball coach. Yet all of them are best known for the size, diminishing all other attributes they may carry.
I don't want to forever be known as Matt, the funny fat guy or the rotund writer. People tell me they don't see those things, and those people are wonderful, but I still remember the kids (and adults) from my youth who took such great delight in reminding me that I was overweight. I'd love to be known as funny or as a writer, but if people could come up with other adjectives to describe me other than those associated with weight, I'd be delighted.
I'd love to pretend people don't judge others by their size, but try as I might, I've never known anyone who was truly blind to someone's weight. Kids are taught not to judge others by skin color, religion, or ethnicity, but should a fellow child be a few pounds heavier, adults are less inclined step in and tell them to stop teasing.
I'm finally working towards that, and making great progress. Sixteen weeks in, 44 pounds are gone from my frame. I got a new special charm tonight commemorating my commitment to the process. I know that role models come in all shapes, whether skinny or heavy, short or tall. I'd just like to get to a point in my own life when however people see me, they see who I am, not the size of my waistline.
But Santa, that doesn't go for you. People like me need Weight Watchers, but the world would be a much sadder place if there was less jelly to your jolly. Nothing but coal for that Australian scientist. Or may he be condemned to nothing but a diet of Spam and stringy dingo for the rest of his life. Solidarity, my corpulent, merry friend.
And if you see a house with a menorah in the window instead of an Xmas tree, be a pal and stop by. Cookies are delicious and all, but won't keep you going like a nice potato latke.
Here's a nice stocking stuffer.... STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 33. Time to start tux shopping? Let's lose a few more lbs first.
Week 16 pounds lost: 0.4
Total weight lost: 44 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.75 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 73.33333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16
Shirts fitting: very loosely
Pants fitting: Please don't pull on them. I will look silly.
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 30. Rut-roh. Must get 35 by 2010...
Night of Hanukkah: 7.
Days before Xmas: 8. How's your credit card balance looking?
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love: asked me to start singing a different friggin' song already!
Don't submit yourself to the insults and insinuations of some jerkhead Australian scientist who has the audacity to declare you, the one and only Santa Claus (and all your mall-sitting minions) a bad role model for children.
It's sad, but true. It seems that a scientist in Australia decided that the jolly, merry old image of Santa doesn't quite the fit the mold of what a responsible adult embodies.
SANTA'S A JOLLY BAD ROLE MODEL
I guess even Santa can't be hefty any more, at least according to this punk. Santa has his faults- I concede it's a bad image for him to smoke, and he has shown a bit of a tendency to favor Christian children over all others. But to call him a poor role model just because he's the "f" word ("fat" is truly an ugly term), is disheartening. We need Santa to be a jolly old elf. His belly needs shake like a bowl full of jelly. And the reindeer need the aerobic workout of pulling a chubby Santa around the world.
Heck, I'm Jewish, but having grown up in a household where all Judeo-Christian holidays were observed, I still appreciate everything that Santa holds dear: giving, family, cookies, and fantastic facial hair. He is the world's greatest celebrity, never had a sex scandal or other spat with Mrs. Claus, and successfully kept the Miser brothers at bay for at least 40 years.
Seriously, screw that scientist. All he's doing here is confirming the fears I've had all along: no matter what you do, or how good a person you are, if you're overweight, people won't concentrate on anything else.
I've struggled with that reality since I was a little boy still writing annual letters to the North Pole (and to Israel, where Hannukah Harry was busy shopping for socks). My fear was that no matter what I did in life, whether I became some kind of hero or blended into the crowd, people's first word to describe would be any euphemism of fat. We see it all the time. Look at an actor like John Candy. Somewhere in the first three words you use to describe him, I'm guessing his bulk would be included. The same goes for people like William Howard Taft, Marlon Brando, Chris Farley, or Rick Majerus. One was president and chief justice of the Supreme Court, one a temperamental actor, one a comedian, and one a great basketball coach. Yet all of them are best known for the size, diminishing all other attributes they may carry.
I don't want to forever be known as Matt, the funny fat guy or the rotund writer. People tell me they don't see those things, and those people are wonderful, but I still remember the kids (and adults) from my youth who took such great delight in reminding me that I was overweight. I'd love to be known as funny or as a writer, but if people could come up with other adjectives to describe me other than those associated with weight, I'd be delighted.
I'd love to pretend people don't judge others by their size, but try as I might, I've never known anyone who was truly blind to someone's weight. Kids are taught not to judge others by skin color, religion, or ethnicity, but should a fellow child be a few pounds heavier, adults are less inclined step in and tell them to stop teasing.
I'm finally working towards that, and making great progress. Sixteen weeks in, 44 pounds are gone from my frame. I got a new special charm tonight commemorating my commitment to the process. I know that role models come in all shapes, whether skinny or heavy, short or tall. I'd just like to get to a point in my own life when however people see me, they see who I am, not the size of my waistline.
But Santa, that doesn't go for you. People like me need Weight Watchers, but the world would be a much sadder place if there was less jelly to your jolly. Nothing but coal for that Australian scientist. Or may he be condemned to nothing but a diet of Spam and stringy dingo for the rest of his life. Solidarity, my corpulent, merry friend.
And if you see a house with a menorah in the window instead of an Xmas tree, be a pal and stop by. Cookies are delicious and all, but won't keep you going like a nice potato latke.
Here's a nice stocking stuffer.... STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 33. Time to start tux shopping? Let's lose a few more lbs first.
Week 16 pounds lost: 0.4
Total weight lost: 44 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.75 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 73.33333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16
Shirts fitting: very loosely
Pants fitting: Please don't pull on them. I will look silly.
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 30. Rut-roh. Must get 35 by 2010...
Night of Hanukkah: 7.
Days before Xmas: 8. How's your credit card balance looking?
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love: asked me to start singing a different friggin' song already!
Saturday, December 12, 2009
The right kind of pain
It's the day after a new workout, and my body is very angry with me.
Muscles that I previously had no idea I had are now sore all over. One of the cats walks across my stomach and I let out an "oof." And oy, the hurt that comes with each sneeze...
This is the good kind of pain, the doiscomfort that comes with somthing different. Last week, I tried personal training for the first time, and in addition to feeling pretty silly trying to balance my backside on a fitness orb, I think I picked up a valuable tip or two. And, since I was training muscles that otherwise wouldn't be impacted by a walk on the treadmill or ride on the bike, little bits of muscle tore, which I understand now is supposed to happen as a part of the exercise process.
I shouldn't be this pleased to feel a bit of soreness in my bicep and pectoral. But a few years ago, it wasn't the right kind of pain that was causing me much more than discomfort all hours of the day.
Sometime between my junior and senior of college, I ruptured a disk in my lower back. Between the L4/L5 vertibrae, to be exact. To this day I have no idea how it happened. Gradually I started feeling soreness and tightness at the small of my back, coupled by some unusual pain down my right leg. Eventually, I grew concerned enough to visit the doctor, something I try to avoid at all costs. I'm the classic doctorphobe. Unless something is bleeding profusely or turning colors unknown to Crayola, I'm not going to see a physician.
Yet something was wrong, and I knew it. The doctor diagnosed sciatica. For anyone unfamiliar with the term, the sciatic nerve is the largest in the body, running from your back down the length of your legs. When something pushes on the nerve, it hurts like the Dickens (Bah humbug). The doctor told me to take off some weight, so for the first time in my life, I tried going to the gym in earnest. I screwed something up, and the pain worsened. Soon, the discomfort in my leg was searing agony all the way down to my foot. A return to the doctor and an MRI confirmed suspicions. The disk was herniated, of slipped, or ruptured, or whatever euphemism you want to use. They all mean the same thing: ow, ow, ow, and ow.
Physical therapy, including traction, was useless. The traction was especially awkward: they'd put me on a table, strap some weights around my body, and pull me in two different directions. I don't know how this was supposed to cure my back, or whether they were trying to extract government secrets from me, but it sucked. Basically, I was in the torture rack, and the therapists only got mad when I screamed "Frreeeedddddooooommmm!"
Next came the injections, or as I remember them, spinal scrapings. They started administering cortisone shots in the form of epidurals, a series of three that ranged from slightly painful to holy heck, what are you doing to my back. I went from doctor to doctor as my senior year started. The pain made me lame, and I couldn't walk more than a few hundred feet before having to stop and calm the nerve. While this is mildly annoying walking around a college campus, it's awful when you're a proud member of the marching band. Suddenly, a halftime show becomes an exercise in ouch. I had to sit out shows and basically spent my entire final year of band sitting on the sideline, watching my friends perform at Rentschler Field.
Given my size, I was lucky that I hadn't ruptured a disk prior. It's a common injury for the overweight, a signal of bad posture or extra stress on a spine ill-designed for heavy lifting. But it was getting worse. One more MRI, a new orthopedist, and the decision was made. The ruptured disk had wrapped itself completely around the nerve. I got through the year, then a week after I graduated, I was under the knife.
The surgeon told me later it was a wonder I could walk at all. The injury was bad, causing me to take Vicodin with the frequency of Dr. House. I still have a zipperish scar marking the site of the incision. The surgery did the trick, for the most part. Some residual pain remained, but the rupture was gone.
I never want to go through that again. I lost a valuable part of my last year of college to an injury related to being a big dude. The worst part: when you can hardly move, you can still eat, and of how the pounds increased. It still hurts to think of the time I missed on the band field, or the fact that I had trouble enjoying my best friend's wedding since while I was standing next to him on the altar, I was in some kind of Percocet daydream. Some things you can never get back, but I'm going to do my best to make sure there's no repeat rupture.
So yeah, I'm happy to take the subtle pain of a muscle that's gone unworked for too long. It beats the hell out of sitting in the stands and watching all your friends do something you love.
But enough of the sad memories. This was a good week, and it's starting to show. I know I promised some photos, but the camera's nowhere to be found. My face has definition now. Picture John Candy morphing into George Clooney, and while I look nothing like either of them, I'm starting to feel pretty darn suave.
And what did George Clooney yell frequently on ER? STAT!
(er, Stats).
Weeks until wedding: 34
Week 15 pounds lost: 4. You may now dance in celebration.
Total weight lost: 43.6 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.9 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 73 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16.4
Percent chance I'll increase that goal: about 98
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 26. I got one new follower for every pound lost. Good thing I didn't gain any weight.
Night of Hanukkah: second
Days before Xmas: 12. Time for those geese to start a-laying.
Greatest holiday gift I ever received: Karl Malone rookie card.
Sad but true Hanukkah gift I once received: underpants stuffed inside a trash can. Oy, Harry, you're killing me!
Muscles that I previously had no idea I had are now sore all over. One of the cats walks across my stomach and I let out an "oof." And oy, the hurt that comes with each sneeze...
This is the good kind of pain, the doiscomfort that comes with somthing different. Last week, I tried personal training for the first time, and in addition to feeling pretty silly trying to balance my backside on a fitness orb, I think I picked up a valuable tip or two. And, since I was training muscles that otherwise wouldn't be impacted by a walk on the treadmill or ride on the bike, little bits of muscle tore, which I understand now is supposed to happen as a part of the exercise process.
I shouldn't be this pleased to feel a bit of soreness in my bicep and pectoral. But a few years ago, it wasn't the right kind of pain that was causing me much more than discomfort all hours of the day.
Sometime between my junior and senior of college, I ruptured a disk in my lower back. Between the L4/L5 vertibrae, to be exact. To this day I have no idea how it happened. Gradually I started feeling soreness and tightness at the small of my back, coupled by some unusual pain down my right leg. Eventually, I grew concerned enough to visit the doctor, something I try to avoid at all costs. I'm the classic doctorphobe. Unless something is bleeding profusely or turning colors unknown to Crayola, I'm not going to see a physician.
Yet something was wrong, and I knew it. The doctor diagnosed sciatica. For anyone unfamiliar with the term, the sciatic nerve is the largest in the body, running from your back down the length of your legs. When something pushes on the nerve, it hurts like the Dickens (Bah humbug). The doctor told me to take off some weight, so for the first time in my life, I tried going to the gym in earnest. I screwed something up, and the pain worsened. Soon, the discomfort in my leg was searing agony all the way down to my foot. A return to the doctor and an MRI confirmed suspicions. The disk was herniated, of slipped, or ruptured, or whatever euphemism you want to use. They all mean the same thing: ow, ow, ow, and ow.
Physical therapy, including traction, was useless. The traction was especially awkward: they'd put me on a table, strap some weights around my body, and pull me in two different directions. I don't know how this was supposed to cure my back, or whether they were trying to extract government secrets from me, but it sucked. Basically, I was in the torture rack, and the therapists only got mad when I screamed "Frreeeedddddooooommmm!"
Next came the injections, or as I remember them, spinal scrapings. They started administering cortisone shots in the form of epidurals, a series of three that ranged from slightly painful to holy heck, what are you doing to my back. I went from doctor to doctor as my senior year started. The pain made me lame, and I couldn't walk more than a few hundred feet before having to stop and calm the nerve. While this is mildly annoying walking around a college campus, it's awful when you're a proud member of the marching band. Suddenly, a halftime show becomes an exercise in ouch. I had to sit out shows and basically spent my entire final year of band sitting on the sideline, watching my friends perform at Rentschler Field.
Given my size, I was lucky that I hadn't ruptured a disk prior. It's a common injury for the overweight, a signal of bad posture or extra stress on a spine ill-designed for heavy lifting. But it was getting worse. One more MRI, a new orthopedist, and the decision was made. The ruptured disk had wrapped itself completely around the nerve. I got through the year, then a week after I graduated, I was under the knife.
The surgeon told me later it was a wonder I could walk at all. The injury was bad, causing me to take Vicodin with the frequency of Dr. House. I still have a zipperish scar marking the site of the incision. The surgery did the trick, for the most part. Some residual pain remained, but the rupture was gone.
I never want to go through that again. I lost a valuable part of my last year of college to an injury related to being a big dude. The worst part: when you can hardly move, you can still eat, and of how the pounds increased. It still hurts to think of the time I missed on the band field, or the fact that I had trouble enjoying my best friend's wedding since while I was standing next to him on the altar, I was in some kind of Percocet daydream. Some things you can never get back, but I'm going to do my best to make sure there's no repeat rupture.
So yeah, I'm happy to take the subtle pain of a muscle that's gone unworked for too long. It beats the hell out of sitting in the stands and watching all your friends do something you love.
But enough of the sad memories. This was a good week, and it's starting to show. I know I promised some photos, but the camera's nowhere to be found. My face has definition now. Picture John Candy morphing into George Clooney, and while I look nothing like either of them, I'm starting to feel pretty darn suave.
And what did George Clooney yell frequently on ER? STAT!
(er, Stats).
Weeks until wedding: 34
Week 15 pounds lost: 4. You may now dance in celebration.
Total weight lost: 43.6 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.9 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 73 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16.4
Percent chance I'll increase that goal: about 98
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 26. I got one new follower for every pound lost. Good thing I didn't gain any weight.
Night of Hanukkah: second
Days before Xmas: 12. Time for those geese to start a-laying.
Greatest holiday gift I ever received: Karl Malone rookie card.
Sad but true Hanukkah gift I once received: underpants stuffed inside a trash can. Oy, Harry, you're killing me!
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Don't toast the marshmallow...
No offense to Mr. Staypuft, but I have always been the true Marshmallow Man.
A statement like that needs plenty of explanation. I've always been a raw nerve kind of guy: sensitive to a fault and easily made to feel guilty. In a high school creative writing class, the teacher noticed me taking all criticism too closely to heart, and all negative comments from my classmates as indications that I was talentless. He dubbed me a "marshmallow," and it had nothing to do with my belly (it really did, with the whole endomorph motif, but that's another blog for another day). I was a big softy, and though I hated feeling like a ball of gooey mush, the teacher later advised me to never stop being a marshmallow, that such folks are needed.
I don't know if he was just full of bunk. It's purely possible. But he was right on the mark with his metaphor, and he should have been, as a creative writing teacher.
The fact is I've never taken well to personal intimidation or insults. I can stand my ground at angry sources upset over an article- I'm fully willing to defend myself on a basis of intellect and principle- but get in my face about something personal, and this marshmallow gets toasted. My parents realized that about me from a young age, and only years later shared with me their reasoning for keeping me out of certain activities.
Namely, as a kid, I wanted to play football. I had excellent hand-eye coordination, loved the feeling of making a big hit, and liked the down by down format. Run a play, gain some yards, catch your breath. It's the perfect formula for an out-of-shape athlete, thus the reason some NFL linemen look like they broke off from a glacier. I enjoyed playing football almost as much as basketball, and I daresay as much as watching "Saved by the Bell" repeats.
But organized football, like ice hockey and watching professional wrestling, playing with GI Joes, or microwaving my sister's Barbies, was strictly forbidden. For years, my parents told me they were worried I would get hurt, despite the fact that by the time I was approaching high school, I was bigger than most kids and the ideal size for a nose tackle or offensive lineman. I still found my way onto the football field, albeit in a marching band uniform instead of helmets and pads, but dreams of sacking quarterbacks weren't to be realized.
Years later, my father finally told the whole truth. Yes, he was worried about me getting hurt, or perhaps just as damaging to my own psyche, me injuring someone else. But the real reason was football coaches, the kind that grab players by the face mask, scream and spray spittle all over the place, then make them run laps. The thought of me on the other end of that face mask makes me cringe. My parents are smart people. They knew their son was a marshmallow, and they weren't going to let me become some angry coach's s'more.
I'd like to think things have changed, that my exterior is a little tougher. Yet whenever I watch "The Biggest Loser," (the season finale of which is playing in the background even as I type), I get angry whenever I see Jillian screaming at a contestant. If I was on the show- and a few years ago I was big enough for consideration- I'd melt under those screams and icy stares, and not in a lovelorn kind of way.
A showdown with Jillian would go one of three ways:
1. I'd get upset, beat myself up, quit the show, and suck down a carton of Americone Dream to cheer myself up.
2. I'd get upset, beat myself up, take out my guilt on myself through pushing myself too hard and launching into a pile of tears and asthma.
3. I'd get upset, beat myself up, not speak to anyone for several months, than appear at a reunion with a long beard and tendency to mutter uncontrollably to myself.
Tomorrow, I'm trying something I've never done before: personal training. No, I won't be training anyone (first thing to remember... always bring a clean rag to defog your glasses. No one likes steamy lenses!). A trainer is going to work with me for an hour or so, hopefully teaching me to do correctly all the exercises I've been doing wrong. Will I be sore on Thursday? Fair bet. Will I be better for the experience? I certainly hope so. Either way, it should be educational.
Let's just hope the trainer is less a Jillian and more someone non-intimidating and nurturing, like Raffi. Otherwise, and much to the chagrin on Baby Beluga, this marshmallow could once again get smushed.
A statement like that needs plenty of explanation. I've always been a raw nerve kind of guy: sensitive to a fault and easily made to feel guilty. In a high school creative writing class, the teacher noticed me taking all criticism too closely to heart, and all negative comments from my classmates as indications that I was talentless. He dubbed me a "marshmallow," and it had nothing to do with my belly (it really did, with the whole endomorph motif, but that's another blog for another day). I was a big softy, and though I hated feeling like a ball of gooey mush, the teacher later advised me to never stop being a marshmallow, that such folks are needed.
I don't know if he was just full of bunk. It's purely possible. But he was right on the mark with his metaphor, and he should have been, as a creative writing teacher.
The fact is I've never taken well to personal intimidation or insults. I can stand my ground at angry sources upset over an article- I'm fully willing to defend myself on a basis of intellect and principle- but get in my face about something personal, and this marshmallow gets toasted. My parents realized that about me from a young age, and only years later shared with me their reasoning for keeping me out of certain activities.
Namely, as a kid, I wanted to play football. I had excellent hand-eye coordination, loved the feeling of making a big hit, and liked the down by down format. Run a play, gain some yards, catch your breath. It's the perfect formula for an out-of-shape athlete, thus the reason some NFL linemen look like they broke off from a glacier. I enjoyed playing football almost as much as basketball, and I daresay as much as watching "Saved by the Bell" repeats.
But organized football, like ice hockey and watching professional wrestling, playing with GI Joes, or microwaving my sister's Barbies, was strictly forbidden. For years, my parents told me they were worried I would get hurt, despite the fact that by the time I was approaching high school, I was bigger than most kids and the ideal size for a nose tackle or offensive lineman. I still found my way onto the football field, albeit in a marching band uniform instead of helmets and pads, but dreams of sacking quarterbacks weren't to be realized.
Years later, my father finally told the whole truth. Yes, he was worried about me getting hurt, or perhaps just as damaging to my own psyche, me injuring someone else. But the real reason was football coaches, the kind that grab players by the face mask, scream and spray spittle all over the place, then make them run laps. The thought of me on the other end of that face mask makes me cringe. My parents are smart people. They knew their son was a marshmallow, and they weren't going to let me become some angry coach's s'more.
I'd like to think things have changed, that my exterior is a little tougher. Yet whenever I watch "The Biggest Loser," (the season finale of which is playing in the background even as I type), I get angry whenever I see Jillian screaming at a contestant. If I was on the show- and a few years ago I was big enough for consideration- I'd melt under those screams and icy stares, and not in a lovelorn kind of way.
A showdown with Jillian would go one of three ways:
1. I'd get upset, beat myself up, quit the show, and suck down a carton of Americone Dream to cheer myself up.
2. I'd get upset, beat myself up, take out my guilt on myself through pushing myself too hard and launching into a pile of tears and asthma.
3. I'd get upset, beat myself up, not speak to anyone for several months, than appear at a reunion with a long beard and tendency to mutter uncontrollably to myself.
Tomorrow, I'm trying something I've never done before: personal training. No, I won't be training anyone (first thing to remember... always bring a clean rag to defog your glasses. No one likes steamy lenses!). A trainer is going to work with me for an hour or so, hopefully teaching me to do correctly all the exercises I've been doing wrong. Will I be sore on Thursday? Fair bet. Will I be better for the experience? I certainly hope so. Either way, it should be educational.
Let's just hope the trainer is less a Jillian and more someone non-intimidating and nurturing, like Raffi. Otherwise, and much to the chagrin on Baby Beluga, this marshmallow could once again get smushed.
Friday, December 4, 2009
Succeed or fail, it's all on me
Whenever things don't work out they way we expect or hope, it's always easy to find a myriad of excuses as to why.
In terms of weight loss, that rings true as the Silver Bells playing on the radio during the holiday season. If pounds add up, so do the excuses.
"Maybe if people hadn't brought all that junk food into work, I wouldn't have to eat it!"
"It's not my fault. There shouldn't have been so much pie to get me off track!"
"Look, I'm stressed, and there's no light beer in the fridge. Spike some eggnog and help me relax!"
"Maybe if Oreos would come out with a better tasting reduced fat cookie, I wouldn't have to fill my mouth with all these double-stuffs!"
"Well, maybe if Santa wasn't so darn jolly, there wouldn't be so many expectations for the chubby to get chubbier and spread holiday cheer!"
I'm sure you can think of hundred of your own excuses that you've heard... or made yourself... about why a diet didn't work, or how the holidays got your goat. And I could too, but regardless of how many people I can find to blame or how many pumpkin pies were waved in my face, it's not someone else who has to carry the gut.
To hell with excuses.
When I began this challenge, I knew that there would be plenty of temptation. Two weeks ago, I did my best to laugh in the face of it, to the point of taunting poor defenseless-yet-delicious turkeys. I knew full well that I could screw up, and perhaps by talking (or writing) tough, I'd pump myself up to defeat the bird.
It was hard. Good lord, was it hard, and I'd love to say that I made it through Thanksgiving without trips for seconds. But then I'd be lying, and honesty is a good policy, so I'll be truthful. I wasn't as focused as I should have been. I didn't glutton myself, but I didn't exactly refrain or carefully portion out my food. I also figured, again foolishly, that Herculean efforts at the gym would make up for a day or two of indulgence.
Unfortunately, Thanksgiving doesn't actually last one day. It lasts for several, and every time you think you've poured your last gravy, there are a few more leftovers still left in the fridge. When you're surrounded by stuffing and sweet potato casserole, the last thing you want to do is track your points. So as much big game as I talked, I was a little too lax, despite putting in hours at the gym.
The good news: I didn't gain any weight over the last two weeks. The bad news: I didn't lose anything either, and now we're in December. If I was a bear (and if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I think I'd make a swell grizzly), this is the time when I'd be fattening up to hibernate. While my hair quotient might lead someone to suspect I'm at least part bear, I have no reason to pack on the pounds or to sleep for months at a time. Hanukkah starts next week, Christmas soon after that, and there will be plenty of goodies and parties just begging for me to misstep. Hershey, Nabisco, Nestle, Baconnaise... if I'm not careful, they'll find a way to make me submit.
And if I do, I'll have to accept it and only blame myself. Excuses are easy. It's facing yourself that's the hardest part.
Stat Boy!
Weeks until wedding: 35
Week 13-14 pounds lost: 0. At least there was nothing gained.
Total weight lost: 39.6
Average weight loss per week: 2.8
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 66 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 20.4
Number of subscribers to this blog: 26. Can we hit 35 by the New Year? What if I promise more candy?
Number last week: 24.
Cool things about Hanukkah: Maccabees, latkes, Hannukah Harry sketch on SNL, menorahs
Sucky things about Hanukkah: Adam Sandler's stupid song. Ya, we get it: these people are Jewish! Now shut up!
Places that have grizzly bears: Yellowstone, Alaska, zoos
Not smart: taunting grizzlies.
In terms of weight loss, that rings true as the Silver Bells playing on the radio during the holiday season. If pounds add up, so do the excuses.
"Maybe if people hadn't brought all that junk food into work, I wouldn't have to eat it!"
"It's not my fault. There shouldn't have been so much pie to get me off track!"
"Look, I'm stressed, and there's no light beer in the fridge. Spike some eggnog and help me relax!"
"Maybe if Oreos would come out with a better tasting reduced fat cookie, I wouldn't have to fill my mouth with all these double-stuffs!"
"Well, maybe if Santa wasn't so darn jolly, there wouldn't be so many expectations for the chubby to get chubbier and spread holiday cheer!"
I'm sure you can think of hundred of your own excuses that you've heard... or made yourself... about why a diet didn't work, or how the holidays got your goat. And I could too, but regardless of how many people I can find to blame or how many pumpkin pies were waved in my face, it's not someone else who has to carry the gut.
To hell with excuses.
When I began this challenge, I knew that there would be plenty of temptation. Two weeks ago, I did my best to laugh in the face of it, to the point of taunting poor defenseless-yet-delicious turkeys. I knew full well that I could screw up, and perhaps by talking (or writing) tough, I'd pump myself up to defeat the bird.
It was hard. Good lord, was it hard, and I'd love to say that I made it through Thanksgiving without trips for seconds. But then I'd be lying, and honesty is a good policy, so I'll be truthful. I wasn't as focused as I should have been. I didn't glutton myself, but I didn't exactly refrain or carefully portion out my food. I also figured, again foolishly, that Herculean efforts at the gym would make up for a day or two of indulgence.
Unfortunately, Thanksgiving doesn't actually last one day. It lasts for several, and every time you think you've poured your last gravy, there are a few more leftovers still left in the fridge. When you're surrounded by stuffing and sweet potato casserole, the last thing you want to do is track your points. So as much big game as I talked, I was a little too lax, despite putting in hours at the gym.
The good news: I didn't gain any weight over the last two weeks. The bad news: I didn't lose anything either, and now we're in December. If I was a bear (and if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I think I'd make a swell grizzly), this is the time when I'd be fattening up to hibernate. While my hair quotient might lead someone to suspect I'm at least part bear, I have no reason to pack on the pounds or to sleep for months at a time. Hanukkah starts next week, Christmas soon after that, and there will be plenty of goodies and parties just begging for me to misstep. Hershey, Nabisco, Nestle, Baconnaise... if I'm not careful, they'll find a way to make me submit.
And if I do, I'll have to accept it and only blame myself. Excuses are easy. It's facing yourself that's the hardest part.
Stat Boy!
Weeks until wedding: 35
Week 13-14 pounds lost: 0. At least there was nothing gained.
Total weight lost: 39.6
Average weight loss per week: 2.8
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 66 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 20.4
Number of subscribers to this blog: 26. Can we hit 35 by the New Year? What if I promise more candy?
Number last week: 24.
Cool things about Hanukkah: Maccabees, latkes, Hannukah Harry sketch on SNL, menorahs
Sucky things about Hanukkah: Adam Sandler's stupid song. Ya, we get it: these people are Jewish! Now shut up!
Places that have grizzly bears: Yellowstone, Alaska, zoos
Not smart: taunting grizzlies.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
Away with the desk overflow...
Whoever designed desks for the classroom under the premise that"one size fits all" is either a jerk or a sadist.
We've all sat in those bland-colored desks, those little units with the chair connected to the writing surface by a thick metal bar. The kinds where it's impossible to create any more room between one's gut and the manila edge of the desk. Sure, they may be purchased all at the same size, but whoever does the ordering fails to take the seating requirements of the larger bodied folks in mind.
At UConn, when I was at my largest, I faced two problems with the desks every time I went to class (about once a week... just kidding, Mom!). First is the lefty factor. Schools always order about 24 righty desks for a classroom, and if they're feeling charitable, they'll stick one lefty desk in the seat closest to the door. Yes, it is really just a minor inconvenience, but it's still nice to be able to rest your writing arm on a hard surface instead of having to lean across your body.
But then there's the size factor, or the second problem, and by far the most embarrassing and annoying. It was humiliating to have to sit in those desks with the edge of my belly pushing firmly against the edge. From 45 minutes to an hour and a half, I'd be forced to sit in that uncomfortable position, sometimes adjusting my stomach so that I wasn't so obviously overflowing. And if you're single and want to impress the ladies, forget it. Once they've seen you get stuck in a desk, it really doesn't matter how charming or funny you are.
A few months ago, I found myself back in the classroom for the first time since UConn, this time as a part-time grad student at ECSU. Sure enough, I walked into the room only to find those same dreaded desks... and, as an extra kick in the rear, not a lefty model anywhere to be found. My first class took place just as I started this little weight loss adventure of mine, when I wasn't as heavy as I was as an undergraduate, but still big enough to feel ashamed of stuffing myself into a desk that looked like a prop in a Chris Farley movie. During my introduction, I felt like saying, "Hi, I'm Matt. I'm a journalist, I like the Red Sox, and does anyone have any WD-40?"
Yet weight loss brings signs of success that differ from just the numbers on the scale. Clothes fit better and eventually become too big (check.). Loved ones marvel at the smallest changes, even if you don't feel all that lighter (check.). Stairs and long walks through parking lots no longer feel like an endurance challenge (check.).
And yes, even an undersized desk starts to become more forgiving.
Week by week, I've gone back to class, and with each lecture, I'm finding myself feeling more comfortable in my seat. It's no longer necessary for me to push my belly down. There's room to breathe, and getting out of the desk in the middle of the class no longer feels like setting myself up for ridicule.
I'm getting thinner, both in terms of the scale and the desk, and it's a wonderful feeling. So Eastern, I've done my part to make myself more comfortable in your classroom furniture. Now how about you do your part and put a few more lefty desks into the rooms?
In other news, Thursday marks the first meeting in the last two weeks. That means it will have been 14 days since my last official weigh-in, during which I've been served (or purchased) about five turkey dinners. Have I overeaten? Not grossly. It's hard not to, after all, around Thanksgiving. Have I set myself off course? I'm confident that come 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, I'll still feel good about myself.
We've all sat in those bland-colored desks, those little units with the chair connected to the writing surface by a thick metal bar. The kinds where it's impossible to create any more room between one's gut and the manila edge of the desk. Sure, they may be purchased all at the same size, but whoever does the ordering fails to take the seating requirements of the larger bodied folks in mind.
At UConn, when I was at my largest, I faced two problems with the desks every time I went to class (about once a week... just kidding, Mom!). First is the lefty factor. Schools always order about 24 righty desks for a classroom, and if they're feeling charitable, they'll stick one lefty desk in the seat closest to the door. Yes, it is really just a minor inconvenience, but it's still nice to be able to rest your writing arm on a hard surface instead of having to lean across your body.
But then there's the size factor, or the second problem, and by far the most embarrassing and annoying. It was humiliating to have to sit in those desks with the edge of my belly pushing firmly against the edge. From 45 minutes to an hour and a half, I'd be forced to sit in that uncomfortable position, sometimes adjusting my stomach so that I wasn't so obviously overflowing. And if you're single and want to impress the ladies, forget it. Once they've seen you get stuck in a desk, it really doesn't matter how charming or funny you are.
A few months ago, I found myself back in the classroom for the first time since UConn, this time as a part-time grad student at ECSU. Sure enough, I walked into the room only to find those same dreaded desks... and, as an extra kick in the rear, not a lefty model anywhere to be found. My first class took place just as I started this little weight loss adventure of mine, when I wasn't as heavy as I was as an undergraduate, but still big enough to feel ashamed of stuffing myself into a desk that looked like a prop in a Chris Farley movie. During my introduction, I felt like saying, "Hi, I'm Matt. I'm a journalist, I like the Red Sox, and does anyone have any WD-40?"
Yet weight loss brings signs of success that differ from just the numbers on the scale. Clothes fit better and eventually become too big (check.). Loved ones marvel at the smallest changes, even if you don't feel all that lighter (check.). Stairs and long walks through parking lots no longer feel like an endurance challenge (check.).
And yes, even an undersized desk starts to become more forgiving.
Week by week, I've gone back to class, and with each lecture, I'm finding myself feeling more comfortable in my seat. It's no longer necessary for me to push my belly down. There's room to breathe, and getting out of the desk in the middle of the class no longer feels like setting myself up for ridicule.
I'm getting thinner, both in terms of the scale and the desk, and it's a wonderful feeling. So Eastern, I've done my part to make myself more comfortable in your classroom furniture. Now how about you do your part and put a few more lefty desks into the rooms?
In other news, Thursday marks the first meeting in the last two weeks. That means it will have been 14 days since my last official weigh-in, during which I've been served (or purchased) about five turkey dinners. Have I overeaten? Not grossly. It's hard not to, after all, around Thanksgiving. Have I set myself off course? I'm confident that come 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, I'll still feel good about myself.
Friday, November 27, 2009
On Black Friday, I'm with the Grinch
Twas the day after Thanksgiving, and all through this town,
Parents were fighting and beating each other down.
For Elmos, and Wiis, and Xhu Xhu Pets by the score,
Even though kids should love real hamster a whole lot more.
All the stores were brimming with dollars and green,
With no real meaning of the holidays anywhere to be seen.
So on this Black Friday, finding me is a cinch,
I'll be up on Mount Crumpet, frowning down with the Grinch.
Do not misunderstand me. I truly believe the Holidays, especially those that come in December, are a wonderful time of the year. I have no problems with the music, or people who say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays." I love the volunteer spirit that neighbors show to each other, and the smells of the season are the most delicious of the entire year.
But despite all that, I have absolutely no love for Black Friday. This is a miserable day, and not just this year, with the air chilly and a cold rain bearing down. Working in Manchester, perhaps the retail capital of Connecticut, I've had to interview many a shopper during my time, and inevitably there's always a story about something bad happening as parents rush the stores for the best deals.
Last year, a Walmart employee got trampled to death. As of this moment, I haven't heard anything about anyone getting seriously injured this year, but it hasn't been for lack of trying. Police from several different departments were called to the Toys R Us in Manchester to calm tensions early this a.m., as 1,000 people were lined up outside before the store opened and a few had the audacity to cut in line. If I'm up at 4 a.m. to get in line with a thousand other people for first crack at a toy store, there better be an honest to goodness live giraffe walking through the aisles.
What makes it especially hard to stomach is the proximity so close to Thanksgiving, the greatest holiday of them all. No sooner had I finished my last bite of pie last night when I learned that family members were planning a midnight excursion to an outlet mall. I don't get it. I never read about Squanto or Miles Standish leaving the first Thanksgiving in order to get in line to shop for Christmas presents at the Colonial Gap.
I understand this is a short shopping season. I also understand that the economy has sucked, and Christmas usually brings a much needed shot in the arm. But some days should be sacred, and Thanksgiving is one of them. Someone told me today that when I'm a father to young kids, I'll understand the hubbub, but for now, I feel strictly humbug.
I know, this blog is supposed to be about weight loss, so let's get to that. In a few minutes, I'm headed off to the gym, where no doubt there will be many people fighting for machines to work off their holiday feasts. I was no dietary angel at either of the Thanksgivings I attended on Thursday (stops in Groton and Middletown make it difficult to stay on a plan), but I didn't go too crazy. Still, there's no doubt that I should probably spend a few extra minutes on the tread-climber and do some crunches today.
In a way, today's session will be practice for early January, when the Resolutioneers make their annual trek to the gym. There truly is nothing like a fitness center on Jan. 2. You have to park roughly three miles from the gym, and you see so many folks with the deer-in-the-headlights, oh-my-lord-how-do-I-use-this-machine? looks. Plus, many of them got designer outfits for the experience. Ah, spandex.
Yet I'm already cranky over hearing the stories about toy store fights. How grumpy will I get if someone spends 15 minutes on a treadmill doing nothing but complaining on the cell phone?
So yeah, I guess I am a Black Friday Grinch, but I'm okay with that. Come next week, hell, come Saturday, I'll be in the holiday spirit and ready to fail in attempts to build gingerbread houses. But no, I'm not likely to join you today for trips Best Buy, Borders, or Barnes and Noble (wow, I didn't realize my favorite stores were all so alliterative!) I've got too much love for Squanto, Santa, and Hanukkah Harry to see my holiday cheer spoiled before it starts.
Parents were fighting and beating each other down.
For Elmos, and Wiis, and Xhu Xhu Pets by the score,
Even though kids should love real hamster a whole lot more.
All the stores were brimming with dollars and green,
With no real meaning of the holidays anywhere to be seen.
So on this Black Friday, finding me is a cinch,
I'll be up on Mount Crumpet, frowning down with the Grinch.
Do not misunderstand me. I truly believe the Holidays, especially those that come in December, are a wonderful time of the year. I have no problems with the music, or people who say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays." I love the volunteer spirit that neighbors show to each other, and the smells of the season are the most delicious of the entire year.
But despite all that, I have absolutely no love for Black Friday. This is a miserable day, and not just this year, with the air chilly and a cold rain bearing down. Working in Manchester, perhaps the retail capital of Connecticut, I've had to interview many a shopper during my time, and inevitably there's always a story about something bad happening as parents rush the stores for the best deals.
Last year, a Walmart employee got trampled to death. As of this moment, I haven't heard anything about anyone getting seriously injured this year, but it hasn't been for lack of trying. Police from several different departments were called to the Toys R Us in Manchester to calm tensions early this a.m., as 1,000 people were lined up outside before the store opened and a few had the audacity to cut in line. If I'm up at 4 a.m. to get in line with a thousand other people for first crack at a toy store, there better be an honest to goodness live giraffe walking through the aisles.
What makes it especially hard to stomach is the proximity so close to Thanksgiving, the greatest holiday of them all. No sooner had I finished my last bite of pie last night when I learned that family members were planning a midnight excursion to an outlet mall. I don't get it. I never read about Squanto or Miles Standish leaving the first Thanksgiving in order to get in line to shop for Christmas presents at the Colonial Gap.
I understand this is a short shopping season. I also understand that the economy has sucked, and Christmas usually brings a much needed shot in the arm. But some days should be sacred, and Thanksgiving is one of them. Someone told me today that when I'm a father to young kids, I'll understand the hubbub, but for now, I feel strictly humbug.
I know, this blog is supposed to be about weight loss, so let's get to that. In a few minutes, I'm headed off to the gym, where no doubt there will be many people fighting for machines to work off their holiday feasts. I was no dietary angel at either of the Thanksgivings I attended on Thursday (stops in Groton and Middletown make it difficult to stay on a plan), but I didn't go too crazy. Still, there's no doubt that I should probably spend a few extra minutes on the tread-climber and do some crunches today.
In a way, today's session will be practice for early January, when the Resolutioneers make their annual trek to the gym. There truly is nothing like a fitness center on Jan. 2. You have to park roughly three miles from the gym, and you see so many folks with the deer-in-the-headlights, oh-my-lord-how-do-I-use-this-machine? looks. Plus, many of them got designer outfits for the experience. Ah, spandex.
Yet I'm already cranky over hearing the stories about toy store fights. How grumpy will I get if someone spends 15 minutes on a treadmill doing nothing but complaining on the cell phone?
So yeah, I guess I am a Black Friday Grinch, but I'm okay with that. Come next week, hell, come Saturday, I'll be in the holiday spirit and ready to fail in attempts to build gingerbread houses. But no, I'm not likely to join you today for trips Best Buy, Borders, or Barnes and Noble (wow, I didn't realize my favorite stores were all so alliterative!) I've got too much love for Squanto, Santa, and Hanukkah Harry to see my holiday cheer spoiled before it starts.
Sunday, November 22, 2009
Turkey Tauntin' and Trash Talkin'
This year, I have no fear of you, or your delicious legs...You better bring your A game if you think this year is going to be the same as the last, well, 26, Mr. Turkey.
You've had a good run. Really, you have, you and all your deliciously fattening friends. I'm not just directing this smack at you, but to your buddies like stuffing/dressing, potatoes both sweet and mashed, and whatever other butter-soaked vegetables you want to bring my way.
And, just for good measure, your girlfriend Pumpkin Pie and your mistress Apple Pie don't stand a chance of knocking me down this year either.
I'm on a roll right now. Aside from crystal meth addicts and Biggest Loser contestants, it's hard for people to lose more weight than I did this past week. I don't know what the formula was: could have been my body burning calories to beat my cold, or diversifying my workout, or simply cutting and counting points, but suddenly I'm within about 20 pounds of my ultimate goal. And then, perhaps, it will be time for me to consider just how far I can go.
But I'm not entirely new to weight loss. Always one to say "I've got to lose a few pounds," every once in a while, I'd actually get focused and *gulp* diet. Sometimes I'd find some success, build a little steam, and get the compliments from those I hadn't seen in a while. And then, without fail, Thanksgiving would come along, and the allure of Dad's turkey on the grill and whatever wonderful baked goods Lyman Orchards would have to offer would be the end of the diet. "I'll get back on the wagon tomorrow," I'd tell myself. Tomorrow would come, and the wagon would be filled with leftovers, and by the end of that week, I would have not only eaten the leftovers, but most of the wagon as well.
Yet here's the thing: I've never been on a roll like this before. Even a few years ago, when I was on my Israel quest and lost 50 pounds, it was a drawn out process that saw me stagger during the Holidays. It would be a shame for me to throw this year's progress on a couple of meals, even if turkey and stuffing is in my top 5 favorite foods of all time.
I'm not expecting to get through this week without a challenge. And trust me, come Thursday, I will eat and eat well. But this time, I'm working off whatever I put in, and I won't allow myself to spiral into a losing battle with the Gravy Gauntlet.
After Thanksgiving, there will be other holidays that will tempt me. I broke even on Halloween. Hanukkah begins on sundown on Dec. 11, and there will, naturally, be potato latkes and my mother's dreidle-shaped sugar cookies to threaten my efforts. Christmas brings chocolates of every shape and theme, from Santa to Frosty to the largest and most dangerous chocolate of all, the Abominable-Snowman-from-Rudolph-life sized-peanut butter cup (note: this might not be an actual holiday candy, but maybe just the best dream Augustus Gloop or Matt Engelhardt ever had). New Year's brings dangers in liquid form. And for me, the holidays don't quite end until mid-January, when I celebrate my birthday usually through the courtesy of my sister's amazing chocolate cake.
So yes, the hurdles are out there for me to trip, fall, and devour. But the focus is there, too, and it starts by not getting gobbled by the turkey. So bring it on, Butterball. For the first time in 27 years, you are entering a world of pain.
A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar. Bartender says, "what'll it be?" The priest and rabbi exchange glances, high five, and simultaneously yell "STATS!"
Weeks until wedding: 35
Week 12 pounds lost: 7.2. Seriously. And no Mom, I'm not on meth.
Total weight lost: 39.6
Average weight loss per week: 3.3
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 66 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 20.4
Number of subscribers to this blog: 24
Number last week: 21. I never should have promised free candy to every subscriber.
Things that way 7.2 pounds: infants, an almost full-gallon of milk, several bags of Hershey's Kisses
Weeks until Xmas: not sure, but I should really start shopping
Last time I weighed this much: freshman year of high school
Graduated from high school in: 2000. Yep, that's 10 years. Go Blue Dragons!
Practicality of a mascot called the Blue Dragons: high, if you're a knight.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
The Way Back Machine, Part I: The Tryout
"Everybody on the baseline!"
Suicides. The end of my first real tryout for a basketball team, and I'd have to prove myself through suicides.
That's not dramatic as it sounds. At least, not now, as I understand the literal translation of the name of the drill. To all the non-hoops players out there, here's a brief synopsis of suicides: All the members of a team line up on the end line at one end of the court. At the coach's whistle, everyone takes off in a sprint, touches the foul line, comes back and touches the baseline, then sprints to half court, touches the line, repeat back to the baseline, then to the far foul line and back, before one last sprint from baseline to baseline.
Fast players get it done quickly. The drill ends, they take a second to take a deep breath and watch as the slowpokes make their way back, then step up to the line in anticipation of the next whistle and a repeat of the exercise.
For an overweight, asthmatic, and slow-footed 7th grader, however, it takes much more than a deep breath to compose yourself. I remember slowing to a jog by half court, then trudging along slowly for the last few touches before wheezing to the finish, sometimes falling to the court at the last dash. Time to go again already? I was doomed. The drill was perfectly named. I thought I was going to die.
So here it was, the end of the first tryout for the Woodrow Wilson Middle School boys basketball team. At that point in my life, I was all about basketball. It was all I wanted to do, go outside, shoot baskets, practice free throws, and daydream about a time when someone would pay me lots of money to do so(when I wasn't watching "Saved by the Bell," at least). I wanted to play for the Huskies, then the Jazz, ultimately ending my career on a high note on my way to the Hall of Fame.
But before the glory, there was the small matter of making the middle school team.
The odds were against me. The coach was going to select fifteen 8th graders and ten 7th graders. Everyone else would be cut, something I'd never experienced before. For those 25 spots, about 50 boys were on the court for the two-day tryout. And, sad as it is to realize, I was the fattest kid there. Athletes were supposed to thrive on a run, not grab their inhalers at the first sign of heavy breath.
But I could shoot. I was a good passer, could box out and rebound, and I was determined that the coach would see that. Knowing my disadvantage, I dove for loose balls, set firm picks, and always looked for an open teammate.
And yet, at the end of the night, the suicides were going to kill me.
I ran hard on night one, pushing myself to the point of becoming ill. The ride home, as my friend Tyler's mother drove, I talked little, clutching my stomach and trying hard not to vomit. All I could think of was the running drill, the horrible feeling of finishing last, and I couldn't escape the feeling that my asthma and belly were too much to overcome.
I pushed myself harder on day 2. More diving for the ball. Practicing fundamentals, working for a good shot for a teammate instead of forcing one myself, and always boxing out.
"Everyone on the line!"
Another night, another last place finish, more nausea. I tried talking to the coach, a truly nice man who would next year be my social studies teacher. He gave me a nod of encouragement, but I took no comfort.
We would learn our fate the next day. Before dressing for practice, all tryout players were to meet in the locker rooms, first the 7th graders and then the 8th graders. We sat on benches, waiting for the coach to speak. He looked at his clipboard and began reading names, alphabetically.
Cardinal. D'Aquila. Eagleson. Estabrook. There was no Engelhardt on his list. Many of my friends had made it, kids I'd grown up with playing basketball, but I was not among them now.
The coach attempted to calm the cut players, then left us alone in the locker room. There were about 15 of us who now realized our dreams had fallen short. The word "Wilson" would not be on our chests, at least not on a basketball jersey. Some of the boys began to cry. Sniffles filled the room, followed by profanity.
I took a deep breath, finding strength somewhere. I guess subconsciously, I had already prepared myself for the worst. "It's going to be okay, guys," I said, then smiled.
Alone, I walked downstairs to the pay phone to call my Mom. She was waiting on standby, either to come pick me up immediately or hear some good news. I put the quarter in the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. By the time my mother said "hello," I was already choking on tears. So much for being strong.
But there was always next year....
So, as an 8th grader, I went for another tryout. Show energy, I told myself. Show passion. You must be confident.
Two days later, it was once again time to discover my fate. This time, there would be no coach reading names. We'd find out what happened by reading the list for ourselves.
Mr. Smee, Hook's first mate................ Matt Engelhardt
There were no tears this time around. I'd done it, gotten exactly what I wanted. No, I wouldn't be charging to the hoop as a star power forward. Instead, I found something better: the comic relief in a school play, and a pirate, no less! All the other swashbucklers cast in Peter Pan were 8th graders!
That was when it all changed. The sports dream faded, and a love for the humanities emerged. I was happy. There were no suicides on the stage, only applause and (intended) laughter.
Still, it's hard not to imagine what might of been if I'd just been in a little better shape at the time of that basketball tryout, now 15 years in my past. I wonder, given the weight that I've lost now, if I'd still finish in last place and be in the consolation locker room.
But there's no point in torturing myself. Someday, there will be other tests. And this time, my asthma isn't going to stand in my way.
Suicides. The end of my first real tryout for a basketball team, and I'd have to prove myself through suicides.
That's not dramatic as it sounds. At least, not now, as I understand the literal translation of the name of the drill. To all the non-hoops players out there, here's a brief synopsis of suicides: All the members of a team line up on the end line at one end of the court. At the coach's whistle, everyone takes off in a sprint, touches the foul line, comes back and touches the baseline, then sprints to half court, touches the line, repeat back to the baseline, then to the far foul line and back, before one last sprint from baseline to baseline.
Fast players get it done quickly. The drill ends, they take a second to take a deep breath and watch as the slowpokes make their way back, then step up to the line in anticipation of the next whistle and a repeat of the exercise.
For an overweight, asthmatic, and slow-footed 7th grader, however, it takes much more than a deep breath to compose yourself. I remember slowing to a jog by half court, then trudging along slowly for the last few touches before wheezing to the finish, sometimes falling to the court at the last dash. Time to go again already? I was doomed. The drill was perfectly named. I thought I was going to die.
So here it was, the end of the first tryout for the Woodrow Wilson Middle School boys basketball team. At that point in my life, I was all about basketball. It was all I wanted to do, go outside, shoot baskets, practice free throws, and daydream about a time when someone would pay me lots of money to do so(when I wasn't watching "Saved by the Bell," at least). I wanted to play for the Huskies, then the Jazz, ultimately ending my career on a high note on my way to the Hall of Fame.
But before the glory, there was the small matter of making the middle school team.
The odds were against me. The coach was going to select fifteen 8th graders and ten 7th graders. Everyone else would be cut, something I'd never experienced before. For those 25 spots, about 50 boys were on the court for the two-day tryout. And, sad as it is to realize, I was the fattest kid there. Athletes were supposed to thrive on a run, not grab their inhalers at the first sign of heavy breath.
But I could shoot. I was a good passer, could box out and rebound, and I was determined that the coach would see that. Knowing my disadvantage, I dove for loose balls, set firm picks, and always looked for an open teammate.
And yet, at the end of the night, the suicides were going to kill me.
I ran hard on night one, pushing myself to the point of becoming ill. The ride home, as my friend Tyler's mother drove, I talked little, clutching my stomach and trying hard not to vomit. All I could think of was the running drill, the horrible feeling of finishing last, and I couldn't escape the feeling that my asthma and belly were too much to overcome.
I pushed myself harder on day 2. More diving for the ball. Practicing fundamentals, working for a good shot for a teammate instead of forcing one myself, and always boxing out.
"Everyone on the line!"
Another night, another last place finish, more nausea. I tried talking to the coach, a truly nice man who would next year be my social studies teacher. He gave me a nod of encouragement, but I took no comfort.
We would learn our fate the next day. Before dressing for practice, all tryout players were to meet in the locker rooms, first the 7th graders and then the 8th graders. We sat on benches, waiting for the coach to speak. He looked at his clipboard and began reading names, alphabetically.
Cardinal. D'Aquila. Eagleson. Estabrook. There was no Engelhardt on his list. Many of my friends had made it, kids I'd grown up with playing basketball, but I was not among them now.
The coach attempted to calm the cut players, then left us alone in the locker room. There were about 15 of us who now realized our dreams had fallen short. The word "Wilson" would not be on our chests, at least not on a basketball jersey. Some of the boys began to cry. Sniffles filled the room, followed by profanity.
I took a deep breath, finding strength somewhere. I guess subconsciously, I had already prepared myself for the worst. "It's going to be okay, guys," I said, then smiled.
Alone, I walked downstairs to the pay phone to call my Mom. She was waiting on standby, either to come pick me up immediately or hear some good news. I put the quarter in the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. By the time my mother said "hello," I was already choking on tears. So much for being strong.
But there was always next year....
So, as an 8th grader, I went for another tryout. Show energy, I told myself. Show passion. You must be confident.
Two days later, it was once again time to discover my fate. This time, there would be no coach reading names. We'd find out what happened by reading the list for ourselves.
Mr. Smee, Hook's first mate................ Matt Engelhardt
There were no tears this time around. I'd done it, gotten exactly what I wanted. No, I wouldn't be charging to the hoop as a star power forward. Instead, I found something better: the comic relief in a school play, and a pirate, no less! All the other swashbucklers cast in Peter Pan were 8th graders!
That was when it all changed. The sports dream faded, and a love for the humanities emerged. I was happy. There were no suicides on the stage, only applause and (intended) laughter.
Still, it's hard not to imagine what might of been if I'd just been in a little better shape at the time of that basketball tryout, now 15 years in my past. I wonder, given the weight that I've lost now, if I'd still finish in last place and be in the consolation locker room.
But there's no point in torturing myself. Someday, there will be other tests. And this time, my asthma isn't going to stand in my way.
Saturday, November 14, 2009
Deflecting the monkey wrenches
Going gung ho can only last you for so long.
I guess that given the hectic pace of my life over the last few months, my immune system was due for a crash. This weight loss challenge has kept me focused on taking care of myself like never before. Free time has been spent at the gym or driving from place to place. Work has been killer lately, especially with the election. When I haven't been at work, I've spent much of my time doing homework. If that weren't enough, I took on Relay for Life, recruiting team members and hassling friends for donations (thanks again, all who helped). Plus, there's that small wedding manner that keeps coming closer week by week.
But the semester was wrapping up. The election was over, and Relay for Life came to a successful close. Surely, now was the best time to rededicate myself to exercise, helping out more at home, and taking a moment to catch my breath.
Enter the cold season. I should have expected this. Almost like clockwork, every November I seem to get sick. Not clutching myself into a ball, praying to deities for relief, and filling out a last will and testament sick, but ill enough to put me on the shelf for a couple of days. No, it's not the dreaded swine flu, just a seasonal cold, but nonetheless, I've spent many moments this week feeling sorry for anyone who's had to listen to me cough. (oh, there's my lung!)
My reaction to getting sick has been much different this year, however. Instead of worrying about having to take a sick day, whether I should call or doctor, or trying to protect loved ones from contracting whatever is ailing me, my biggest annoyance has been my inability to get to the gym. I've woken up in the morning feeling well enough to say, "alright, I'm not wheezing, if I still feel this good by the end of the day, it's to the stair machine!" Three hours later, as I eat my 34th cough drop of the day (how many points for mentholyptus? Is that even a word?), I'm still holding out hope for a brief workout. By the end of the work day, I'm too tired to think about anything but a nap, and it's only when I steer my car toward the route home and instead of toward the gym that I start to get mad.
I had intended for this to be a great week. I mean, fantastic progress, like another five-pound star and perhaps a contract to start training contestants on The Biggest Loser. It was set up perfectly, and with all the walking I did at Relay on Saturday, I would make sure my flat status of last week wouldn't happen again. But when you're body is too weak, you have to listen, and this I spent most of me free time in bed or being tended to by my beautiful live-in nurse.
I guess that's the thing about trying to lose weight. There are always going to be monkey wrenches thrown your way, factors you can't see in advance. This week, it was a cold. Maybe in a few weeks it'll be something else. You have to be able to improvise and take what comes at you. I'm learning that now. So, instead of busting my rear, I was anal retentive about counting my points and staying on plan.
My reward: a good week after all. Perhaps not interview with Oprah- worthy, but I still dropped a few pounds this week. And, with any luck and some more chicken soup, maybe this cold will pass and I'll be back amongst the gym rats within a few days.
At least chicken soup is low in calories. It's a good thing that New England Clam Chowder isn't considered a good cold remedy.
STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 36
Week 11 pounds lost: 2.2
Total weight lost: 32.4
32.4 rounds to: 32
Famous athletes who wore #32: Karl Malone, Magic Johnson, Rip Hamilton, The Mailman, Sandy Koufax, Jim Brown, Karl the Mailman Malone, Shaq, Karl Malone, and Matt Engelhardt, during his summers at Fundamental Basketball Camp that he attended in elementary school. The name on the back of his shirt: the Mailman. Ya, I need help.
Average weight loss per week: 2.9
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 54 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 27.6
Number of subscribers to this blog: 21
Number last week: 20. Still willing to accept dares.
Things that impede typing: cats in lap
Evidence that I should stop filling my pockets with tuna fish: frequency of cats in lap. Seriously. this freakin' cat won't leave me alone.
Pictures of progress: coming soon. I promise.
I guess that given the hectic pace of my life over the last few months, my immune system was due for a crash. This weight loss challenge has kept me focused on taking care of myself like never before. Free time has been spent at the gym or driving from place to place. Work has been killer lately, especially with the election. When I haven't been at work, I've spent much of my time doing homework. If that weren't enough, I took on Relay for Life, recruiting team members and hassling friends for donations (thanks again, all who helped). Plus, there's that small wedding manner that keeps coming closer week by week.
But the semester was wrapping up. The election was over, and Relay for Life came to a successful close. Surely, now was the best time to rededicate myself to exercise, helping out more at home, and taking a moment to catch my breath.
Enter the cold season. I should have expected this. Almost like clockwork, every November I seem to get sick. Not clutching myself into a ball, praying to deities for relief, and filling out a last will and testament sick, but ill enough to put me on the shelf for a couple of days. No, it's not the dreaded swine flu, just a seasonal cold, but nonetheless, I've spent many moments this week feeling sorry for anyone who's had to listen to me cough. (oh, there's my lung!)
My reaction to getting sick has been much different this year, however. Instead of worrying about having to take a sick day, whether I should call or doctor, or trying to protect loved ones from contracting whatever is ailing me, my biggest annoyance has been my inability to get to the gym. I've woken up in the morning feeling well enough to say, "alright, I'm not wheezing, if I still feel this good by the end of the day, it's to the stair machine!" Three hours later, as I eat my 34th cough drop of the day (how many points for mentholyptus? Is that even a word?), I'm still holding out hope for a brief workout. By the end of the work day, I'm too tired to think about anything but a nap, and it's only when I steer my car toward the route home and instead of toward the gym that I start to get mad.
I had intended for this to be a great week. I mean, fantastic progress, like another five-pound star and perhaps a contract to start training contestants on The Biggest Loser. It was set up perfectly, and with all the walking I did at Relay on Saturday, I would make sure my flat status of last week wouldn't happen again. But when you're body is too weak, you have to listen, and this I spent most of me free time in bed or being tended to by my beautiful live-in nurse.
I guess that's the thing about trying to lose weight. There are always going to be monkey wrenches thrown your way, factors you can't see in advance. This week, it was a cold. Maybe in a few weeks it'll be something else. You have to be able to improvise and take what comes at you. I'm learning that now. So, instead of busting my rear, I was anal retentive about counting my points and staying on plan.
My reward: a good week after all. Perhaps not interview with Oprah- worthy, but I still dropped a few pounds this week. And, with any luck and some more chicken soup, maybe this cold will pass and I'll be back amongst the gym rats within a few days.
At least chicken soup is low in calories. It's a good thing that New England Clam Chowder isn't considered a good cold remedy.
Weeks until wedding: 36
Week 11 pounds lost: 2.2
Total weight lost: 32.4
32.4 rounds to: 32
Famous athletes who wore #32: Karl Malone, Magic Johnson, Rip Hamilton, The Mailman, Sandy Koufax, Jim Brown, Karl the Mailman Malone, Shaq, Karl Malone, and Matt Engelhardt, during his summers at Fundamental Basketball Camp that he attended in elementary school. The name on the back of his shirt: the Mailman. Ya, I need help.
Average weight loss per week: 2.9
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 54 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 27.6
Number of subscribers to this blog: 21
Number last week: 20. Still willing to accept dares.
Things that impede typing: cats in lap
Evidence that I should stop filling my pockets with tuna fish: frequency of cats in lap. Seriously. this freakin' cat won't leave me alone.
Pictures of progress: coming soon. I promise.
Sunday, November 8, 2009
How to succeed in weight loss without really trying...
In response to the title of this entry, the truth is that it's impossible.
No, it's not impossible to pull off losing weight. However, after what was my first "flat" week. I know now that I have to devote all myself to making this happen. Short cuts won't work, and I must stay focused.
And like all important lessons in life, it makes the most sense when you learn from experience. Of course, it would have been much easier to have learned from the musical from which this entry title owes its thanks.
When I was 14, the middle school drama club took a trip to the Bushnell to see a traveling performance of the revival of "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." Matthew Broderick had thrived in the revival, but since this was the traveling tour, we were treated to a true master thespian in the lead role of J. Pierrepont Finch. Forget Ferris Bueller, we had Daniel LaRusso. That's right. Ralph friggin' Macchio was singing and dancing. Thankfully, I avoided the urge to yell "Wax on, wax off" or launch crane kicks from the balcony.
Here's a brief synopsis: Finch-san (it is Macchio, after all) starts as a window washer and gets his hands on a book conveniently also titled "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." It's basically a self help guide that he follows carefully, and before long, his overalls have been traded for a suit, and instead of a scaffold, he's in the board room.
But things aren't all peanut butter cups and llama races. He finds himself as VP of advertising, a dead-end for all who dare take on the position. He screws up badly, all the advice in the book is rendered useless, and if not for a happy ending, Finch would have been fired. All is well in the end, of course, and everyone is better for their experiences. Now let's go watch those llamas race.
So let's rewrite the story to apply to my little weight loss quest. Macchio is now playing me (ha ha, YES!). I'm trying to lose 60 pounds, and Weight Watchers has become my little guide. But at some point, I decide I can succeed without help from the program, and I stop counting my points. My reasoning: I've been working out so much and burning so many calories that it doesn't matter if my eating habits are a little off.
Except last week they were more than a little off. Halloween happened, and with it came fun-sized Snickers. Even more dangerous was Election Night, where in return for working til 2:30 a.m., the newspaper sprang for pizza. Plus, fellow staffers brought in chocolate cake and apple pie. It was a trifecta of temptation, and one I thought I could breeze through.
So at weigh-in on Thursday, I was expecting another good week. And yet, nothing. No loss. No gain either, but the pessimist in me can only find disappointment.
The leader is encouraging. She's said before that there will be difficult weeks and plateaus, but my momentum was such that I didn't think it applied to me. Now I realize I've become a typical Weight Watcher: obsessed with the scale, concerned over mere decimal points, and eager for quick results.
It's not going to be that easy. I can't just rely on treadmills and stair machines, especially considering that the gauntlet of Thanksgiving and the December holidays are upon us. The group leader tells us to refine our goals, to keep counting points as much as we can bear, and do our best to stay focused. By Thanksgiving dinner, I want to have some more results. And, if possible, by the time 2010 rolls in and the Resolutes hit the Weight Watchers and crowd the gym locker rooms, I want to be able to say I made it through with my waste intact, if not a little smaller.
It's going to get harder. Continuing on the Karate Kid theme, the holidays are the Cobra Kai. That makes Santa Claus Johnny Lawrence, and though I wouldn't like to have to kick Santa in the face, I should be prepared to defend myself from all chocolates shaped like him.
Before stats, I just wanted to thank everyone who supported the JI News Cycle at Relay for Life. We had more walkers than I expected, and we exceeded our $1,200 goal. Great thanks to everyone who came out on Saturday, and I was delighted with what we accomplished.
I'm starting the stat machine.... NOW!
Weeks until wedding: 37
Week 10 pounds lost: 0 (none gained, though. Yep, grasping at straws here)
Total weight lost: 30.2
Average weight loss per week: 3.02 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 50.333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 29.666666666667
Number of subscribers to this blog: 20
Number last week: 18. If we get to 50 by the New Year, I'll take on some dares. Write them in the comment section.
Number of time Ralph Macchio played Daniel LaRusso: 3 (4 if you count the video for "Sweep the Leg")
Sad but true: They're doing a Karate Kid remake, called "Kung Fu Kid," starring Will Smith's son. The Fresh Prince himself is producing. I wish I were joking.
Other notable parts played by Ralph Macchio: Billy in "My Cousin Vinny," and that's pretty much it.
Miles walked at Relay for Life: about 4
Amount of junk food consumed that offsets walking all those miles: uh, back on the program today!
No, it's not impossible to pull off losing weight. However, after what was my first "flat" week. I know now that I have to devote all myself to making this happen. Short cuts won't work, and I must stay focused.
And like all important lessons in life, it makes the most sense when you learn from experience. Of course, it would have been much easier to have learned from the musical from which this entry title owes its thanks.
When I was 14, the middle school drama club took a trip to the Bushnell to see a traveling performance of the revival of "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." Matthew Broderick had thrived in the revival, but since this was the traveling tour, we were treated to a true master thespian in the lead role of J. Pierrepont Finch. Forget Ferris Bueller, we had Daniel LaRusso. That's right. Ralph friggin' Macchio was singing and dancing. Thankfully, I avoided the urge to yell "Wax on, wax off" or launch crane kicks from the balcony.
Here's a brief synopsis: Finch-san (it is Macchio, after all) starts as a window washer and gets his hands on a book conveniently also titled "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." It's basically a self help guide that he follows carefully, and before long, his overalls have been traded for a suit, and instead of a scaffold, he's in the board room.
But things aren't all peanut butter cups and llama races. He finds himself as VP of advertising, a dead-end for all who dare take on the position. He screws up badly, all the advice in the book is rendered useless, and if not for a happy ending, Finch would have been fired. All is well in the end, of course, and everyone is better for their experiences. Now let's go watch those llamas race.
So let's rewrite the story to apply to my little weight loss quest. Macchio is now playing me (ha ha, YES!). I'm trying to lose 60 pounds, and Weight Watchers has become my little guide. But at some point, I decide I can succeed without help from the program, and I stop counting my points. My reasoning: I've been working out so much and burning so many calories that it doesn't matter if my eating habits are a little off.
Except last week they were more than a little off. Halloween happened, and with it came fun-sized Snickers. Even more dangerous was Election Night, where in return for working til 2:30 a.m., the newspaper sprang for pizza. Plus, fellow staffers brought in chocolate cake and apple pie. It was a trifecta of temptation, and one I thought I could breeze through.
So at weigh-in on Thursday, I was expecting another good week. And yet, nothing. No loss. No gain either, but the pessimist in me can only find disappointment.
The leader is encouraging. She's said before that there will be difficult weeks and plateaus, but my momentum was such that I didn't think it applied to me. Now I realize I've become a typical Weight Watcher: obsessed with the scale, concerned over mere decimal points, and eager for quick results.
It's not going to be that easy. I can't just rely on treadmills and stair machines, especially considering that the gauntlet of Thanksgiving and the December holidays are upon us. The group leader tells us to refine our goals, to keep counting points as much as we can bear, and do our best to stay focused. By Thanksgiving dinner, I want to have some more results. And, if possible, by the time 2010 rolls in and the Resolutes hit the Weight Watchers and crowd the gym locker rooms, I want to be able to say I made it through with my waste intact, if not a little smaller.
It's going to get harder. Continuing on the Karate Kid theme, the holidays are the Cobra Kai. That makes Santa Claus Johnny Lawrence, and though I wouldn't like to have to kick Santa in the face, I should be prepared to defend myself from all chocolates shaped like him.
Before stats, I just wanted to thank everyone who supported the JI News Cycle at Relay for Life. We had more walkers than I expected, and we exceeded our $1,200 goal. Great thanks to everyone who came out on Saturday, and I was delighted with what we accomplished.
I'm starting the stat machine.... NOW!
Weeks until wedding: 37
Week 10 pounds lost: 0 (none gained, though. Yep, grasping at straws here)
Total weight lost: 30.2
Average weight loss per week: 3.02 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 50.333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 29.666666666667
Number of subscribers to this blog: 20
Number last week: 18. If we get to 50 by the New Year, I'll take on some dares. Write them in the comment section.
Number of time Ralph Macchio played Daniel LaRusso: 3 (4 if you count the video for "Sweep the Leg")
Sad but true: They're doing a Karate Kid remake, called "Kung Fu Kid," starring Will Smith's son. The Fresh Prince himself is producing. I wish I were joking.
Other notable parts played by Ralph Macchio: Billy in "My Cousin Vinny," and that's pretty much it.
Miles walked at Relay for Life: about 4
Amount of junk food consumed that offsets walking all those miles: uh, back on the program today!
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Sweatin' to the funny
"Raviolis and a nap! Raviolis and a nap! Raviolis and a nap!"
Sound like a great afternoon? Well, if you're comedian John Pinette, that is your weight loss mantra and promise of reward for surviving 45 minutes on the elliptical machine.
As entertaining as I find the gym, the music they blast over the speakers is, quite plainly, awful. Yes, Pussycat Dolls, I also "hate this part right here," so by all means, stop singing it. Britney, we know he's a womanizer. How about laying off the nicotine so you're voice doesn't sound like a 60-year-old smoker?
The iPod holds the antidote to such terrible "music." And while I love the irony of listening to show tunes while sweating through a mesh shirt (nothing inspires a hard workout quite like "The Rainbow Connection"), comedians often provide the best motivation for keeping moving. Since the inception of stand-up, comics have rattled off about fat people, being fat themselves, and how much it sucks to have to lose that fat.
So who are my go-to comics while at the gym? I'm glad you asked! In fact, here are five....
5. Lewis Black, "The White Album" or "Rules of Enragement"
The world's great rage comic has some great things to say about weight loss. Granted, Lew may be getting older, but he's far from chubby. Still, he sums up well how much he hates health clubs, preferring much more to spend his time at his own health club... the International House of Pancakes, where Black rationalizes that there's always someone there who weighs 150 more pounds than you ever will ("It's on the menu, read it some time!")
Lew's best weight-related routine: "Rules of Enragement," Health Clubs
He muses on Speedos, the idiocy of watching people watch themselves work out, and the stupidity of New Yorkers paying money to use fancy stairs.
"If you're actually spending a portion of your week watching your muscle grow, your ego's reached a point where it's eating itself."
4. Mike Birbliglia, "Two Drink Mike"
My favorite comedian, but someone who also doesn't fall into the chubby category, Mike expounds on how he's not fat, but he's definitely the kind of guy who could "really out the breaks on" naughty group activity and how hard it is to impress women at the gym when you're a scrawny white guy, and the awkwardness of water aerobics.
Mike's best weight related routine: Two Drink Mike
He jokes about worrying that participating in naughty group activity (yep, trying to keep this family friendly) would be like playing pickup basketball, where no one passes him the ball and everyone asks him to put his shirt back on. Oh, and then there's the challenge of attracting the opposite sex while at the gym...
"Check out the guy in the dress socks. I saw him do one chin-up and then fall on the ground. That is hot!"
3. Jim Gaffigan, "Beyond the Pale" or "King Baby"
Jim's a bit on the pudgy guy, but not someone you'd necessarily call fat. However, when most of your routine revolves around your love of food ("when you're hungry, the Food Network's like porn."), and you bowling proves to be an overwhelming exercise, you qualify for this list. Gaffigan gets more points for being relatively clean in his act, but still undeniably funny.
Jim's best weight-related routine: "Beyond the Pale," Eat Healthy
This could go to any of Jim's bits, but I think this one best sums up how difficult it is to lay off the junk food.
"I mean I eat kind of healthy, compared to some of the Eskimos. Up in Alaska, they're eating blubber up there. I'm practically starving myself on my Cinnabon. I mean whale blubber, that's like eating a fat guy, isn't it?"
2. Patton Oswalt, "My Weakness is Strong"
A newer edition to my list, Patton has gradually gained weight through the years, culminating with his recent special where he bemoaned what's happening to his body, traveling back in time to warn his past self not to eat fried rice for breakfast, and taking pictures of his body to be published in Discover Magazine.
Patton's best weight-related routine: Fat
He worries about the standard he is setting for his unborn daughter ("I am a walking terrible example, that's all I am"), as well as being on the border of "B-word fat," where people can tell you're overweight without even looking at you based on your pronunciation of any words starting with B.
"This year, I have to commit to losing weight or I have to become fascinated with what's happening to me, like Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly."
1. John Pinette, "I'm Starvin!"
John has personal significance to me. He was the first big name act I saw live, when I was 15 during a trip to Caroline's in New York. He was, frankly, massive, joking about getting kicked out of Chinese buffets, how skinny people ruin buffets, and how dangerous water parks are for fat people. He had me in tears/in an asthma attack as I laughed, and he has remained one of my all time favorites.
Always a talented singer, John got cast a few years ago as Edna Turnblad in the Broadway production of "Hairspray." Despite the fact that he would be playing drag, more specifically an overweight woman popularized by Harvey Fierstein's take on the part, John was instructed to shed pounds in preparation for the role.
So John found himself on diets and at the gym. What transpires is the funniest routine ever on what it's like to be the fat guy at the gym for the first time. Nothing I could possibly describe or quote can do this routine justice.
John's best weight-related routine: Getting into Shape
Where to start: how he lost 100 pounds and people responded "I can really see it in your face." Or how about wearing a black Sean John sweatsuit and realizes he looked like a panda ("I didn't know you could get this close to them)? Or his fights with personal trainers, reasoning they should reward him for lifting weights with a cheese danish? His ability to "quit the gym cold turkey then eat the cold turkey?" Looking like a giant baby while working with a fitness orb? "Raviolis and a nap," as I led this blog with? It could be any, but here's a truly great quote about a trainer's repeated asking of "how do you feel."
"I feel like God is punishing me, and if I'm a better person he'll send an angel down with a chicken pot pie and a cupcake. Now don't ask me again!"
As I close this post, I once again bring up Relay for Life. The event is coming up this weekend, and the JI is sending a team. Any donation would be very much appreciated as we take part, so here's the link again.
http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY09National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=16250
We need your support! Whether it's a dollar or $100, every donation counts.
Sound like a great afternoon? Well, if you're comedian John Pinette, that is your weight loss mantra and promise of reward for surviving 45 minutes on the elliptical machine.
As entertaining as I find the gym, the music they blast over the speakers is, quite plainly, awful. Yes, Pussycat Dolls, I also "hate this part right here," so by all means, stop singing it. Britney, we know he's a womanizer. How about laying off the nicotine so you're voice doesn't sound like a 60-year-old smoker?
The iPod holds the antidote to such terrible "music." And while I love the irony of listening to show tunes while sweating through a mesh shirt (nothing inspires a hard workout quite like "The Rainbow Connection"), comedians often provide the best motivation for keeping moving. Since the inception of stand-up, comics have rattled off about fat people, being fat themselves, and how much it sucks to have to lose that fat.
So who are my go-to comics while at the gym? I'm glad you asked! In fact, here are five....
5. Lewis Black, "The White Album" or "Rules of Enragement"
The world's great rage comic has some great things to say about weight loss. Granted, Lew may be getting older, but he's far from chubby. Still, he sums up well how much he hates health clubs, preferring much more to spend his time at his own health club... the International House of Pancakes, where Black rationalizes that there's always someone there who weighs 150 more pounds than you ever will ("It's on the menu, read it some time!")
Lew's best weight-related routine: "Rules of Enragement," Health Clubs
He muses on Speedos, the idiocy of watching people watch themselves work out, and the stupidity of New Yorkers paying money to use fancy stairs.
"If you're actually spending a portion of your week watching your muscle grow, your ego's reached a point where it's eating itself."
4. Mike Birbliglia, "Two Drink Mike"
My favorite comedian, but someone who also doesn't fall into the chubby category, Mike expounds on how he's not fat, but he's definitely the kind of guy who could "really out the breaks on" naughty group activity and how hard it is to impress women at the gym when you're a scrawny white guy, and the awkwardness of water aerobics.
Mike's best weight related routine: Two Drink Mike
He jokes about worrying that participating in naughty group activity (yep, trying to keep this family friendly) would be like playing pickup basketball, where no one passes him the ball and everyone asks him to put his shirt back on. Oh, and then there's the challenge of attracting the opposite sex while at the gym...
"Check out the guy in the dress socks. I saw him do one chin-up and then fall on the ground. That is hot!"
3. Jim Gaffigan, "Beyond the Pale" or "King Baby"
Jim's a bit on the pudgy guy, but not someone you'd necessarily call fat. However, when most of your routine revolves around your love of food ("when you're hungry, the Food Network's like porn."), and you bowling proves to be an overwhelming exercise, you qualify for this list. Gaffigan gets more points for being relatively clean in his act, but still undeniably funny.
Jim's best weight-related routine: "Beyond the Pale," Eat Healthy
This could go to any of Jim's bits, but I think this one best sums up how difficult it is to lay off the junk food.
"I mean I eat kind of healthy, compared to some of the Eskimos. Up in Alaska, they're eating blubber up there. I'm practically starving myself on my Cinnabon. I mean whale blubber, that's like eating a fat guy, isn't it?"
2. Patton Oswalt, "My Weakness is Strong"
A newer edition to my list, Patton has gradually gained weight through the years, culminating with his recent special where he bemoaned what's happening to his body, traveling back in time to warn his past self not to eat fried rice for breakfast, and taking pictures of his body to be published in Discover Magazine.
Patton's best weight-related routine: Fat
He worries about the standard he is setting for his unborn daughter ("I am a walking terrible example, that's all I am"), as well as being on the border of "B-word fat," where people can tell you're overweight without even looking at you based on your pronunciation of any words starting with B.
"This year, I have to commit to losing weight or I have to become fascinated with what's happening to me, like Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly."
1. John Pinette, "I'm Starvin!"
John has personal significance to me. He was the first big name act I saw live, when I was 15 during a trip to Caroline's in New York. He was, frankly, massive, joking about getting kicked out of Chinese buffets, how skinny people ruin buffets, and how dangerous water parks are for fat people. He had me in tears/in an asthma attack as I laughed, and he has remained one of my all time favorites.
Always a talented singer, John got cast a few years ago as Edna Turnblad in the Broadway production of "Hairspray." Despite the fact that he would be playing drag, more specifically an overweight woman popularized by Harvey Fierstein's take on the part, John was instructed to shed pounds in preparation for the role.
So John found himself on diets and at the gym. What transpires is the funniest routine ever on what it's like to be the fat guy at the gym for the first time. Nothing I could possibly describe or quote can do this routine justice.
John's best weight-related routine: Getting into Shape
Where to start: how he lost 100 pounds and people responded "I can really see it in your face." Or how about wearing a black Sean John sweatsuit and realizes he looked like a panda ("I didn't know you could get this close to them)? Or his fights with personal trainers, reasoning they should reward him for lifting weights with a cheese danish? His ability to "quit the gym cold turkey then eat the cold turkey?" Looking like a giant baby while working with a fitness orb? "Raviolis and a nap," as I led this blog with? It could be any, but here's a truly great quote about a trainer's repeated asking of "how do you feel."
"I feel like God is punishing me, and if I'm a better person he'll send an angel down with a chicken pot pie and a cupcake. Now don't ask me again!"
As I close this post, I once again bring up Relay for Life. The event is coming up this weekend, and the JI is sending a team. Any donation would be very much appreciated as we take part, so here's the link again.
http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY09National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=16250
We need your support! Whether it's a dollar or $100, every donation counts.
Sunday, November 1, 2009
The 11th Hour Kamikaze
Thursdays have become my day of reckoning.
Friday is a happy day. The weigh-in is past, and the next meeting is six days away. Sure, I'll have a piece of cake! I'll just make up for it by being really good this weekend!
Saturday and Sunday are a blur. The gym is far away, so really it's on me to watch my points. But the allure of the calorific concoctions are hard to resist, especially during a season like this, when fun-sized Snickers and M&Ms offer such a small but satisfying reward. "Just a taste" turns into "hey, look how many I can fit into my mouth!", and then shame.
Monday brings the first wave of "oh, crap." The scale shows vengeance for my weekend shenanigans. Suddenly that small square of brownie doesn't seem like such a good idea.
By Tuesday, I'm convinced my week is lost. My streak is over, I think. In front of all these people, I'm going to fail. The thought is irksome and gnawing, and thus my 11th hour kamikaze begins in earnest.
The premise is simple: with mere days before the weigh-in, I will exercise to the point of killing myself. Every second at the gym seems so valuable, every deep breath important, every bead of sweat a sign that the week might not be lost. Lately, my workouts have been uberintense. Last Tuesday, I burned 1,030 calories in one workout. And I felt I should of done more.
On Wednesday, it's back on the scale. What!!!! You've got to be kidding me! I've GAINED a pound! This scale blows! ARGGGGGGHHHH! The afternoon workout is no longer to reduce stress and to stay on the plan. It's life and death. I must lose weight. I cannot lose face in front of so many people. Last Wednesday, my workout went from intense to borderline psychotic. By the time I stepped off the machine, 1,155 calories had been burned. I was winded, sweaty, and exasperated. But dammit, I could not fail.
And so Thursday comes. The scale routine, which I promised myself weeks ago that I would end, has continued. The allure is too much to avoid. I cannot be surprised. Noooo! I worked too hard! Rage proceeds. At work, all I can think about is one more workout, just 30 more minutes before it's time to face the music. I hit the gym one more time, pumping my legs as fast as I can take, urging myself in a state of asthmatic paranoia.
By the time I get home, it's not a matter of hours any more, but minutes. Did I drink enough water? Why did I eat that slice of pizza? Which pair of pants weighs less? Why, oh why, can't we just weight ourselves in our underwear and deal with that awkwardness in our way, perhaps by breaking into discussion groups? Why I am I thinking in italics?
Then we arrive at the meeting. The line seems endless. The group leader greets everyone as the members await their turn on the electronic scales. My fingernails were much longer before I got here. Oh well, so what if it is a bad habit. A little less weight with each nail I bite off!
I take the fateful step, and weight. The recorder seems to take forever to read the number. My breath is drawn in. I'm afraid to move.
"Congratulations. Another 3.2 pounds lost."
I'm all smiles now. The 11th hour kamikaze, stupid as it may be, has worked. I'm at a milestone now, more than 30 pounds down, and more than two months ahead of the goal I set to lose that much. I know I must not continue the routine like this. I must stick to the plan, count my points, and resist the Halloween candy.
But something is working. I have to be proud of what I have already accomplished. It's not time to get off-track, not with all this pressure I've put on myself. But now I have six stars on my little bookmark, a special keyring denoting I've passed the 10 percent mark of body weight lost, and pants with a smaller waist.
I have passed the halfway mark. I'd be lame to turn back or stop now. I will make this happen.
Knock, knock? Who's There? STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 38
Week 9 pounds lost: 3.2
Total weight lost: 30.2
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 50.333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 29.666666666667
Number of subscribers to this blog: 18
Number last week: 17. Spread the joy!
Last time I weighed this little: sophomore year... of high school.
Part in school play during that year: Dr. Gibbs, Our Town
Dream part in any play: Tevye, Fiddler on the Roof. Tradition!
Other parts I've played: anatomically confused baby, Free to be You and Me; Werewolf Mack, Rock On!; Mr. Smee, Peter Pan; Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer; Marsellis Washburn, The Music Man; Nick Bottom, A Midsummer Night's Dream; Zebulun, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
Solo sung as Marsellis Washburn: "Shipoopi."
Respectable things about singing a song called "Shipoopi":...
Friday is a happy day. The weigh-in is past, and the next meeting is six days away. Sure, I'll have a piece of cake! I'll just make up for it by being really good this weekend!
Saturday and Sunday are a blur. The gym is far away, so really it's on me to watch my points. But the allure of the calorific concoctions are hard to resist, especially during a season like this, when fun-sized Snickers and M&Ms offer such a small but satisfying reward. "Just a taste" turns into "hey, look how many I can fit into my mouth!", and then shame.
Monday brings the first wave of "oh, crap." The scale shows vengeance for my weekend shenanigans. Suddenly that small square of brownie doesn't seem like such a good idea.
By Tuesday, I'm convinced my week is lost. My streak is over, I think. In front of all these people, I'm going to fail. The thought is irksome and gnawing, and thus my 11th hour kamikaze begins in earnest.
The premise is simple: with mere days before the weigh-in, I will exercise to the point of killing myself. Every second at the gym seems so valuable, every deep breath important, every bead of sweat a sign that the week might not be lost. Lately, my workouts have been uberintense. Last Tuesday, I burned 1,030 calories in one workout. And I felt I should of done more.
On Wednesday, it's back on the scale. What!!!! You've got to be kidding me! I've GAINED a pound! This scale blows! ARGGGGGGHHHH! The afternoon workout is no longer to reduce stress and to stay on the plan. It's life and death. I must lose weight. I cannot lose face in front of so many people. Last Wednesday, my workout went from intense to borderline psychotic. By the time I stepped off the machine, 1,155 calories had been burned. I was winded, sweaty, and exasperated. But dammit, I could not fail.
And so Thursday comes. The scale routine, which I promised myself weeks ago that I would end, has continued. The allure is too much to avoid. I cannot be surprised. Noooo! I worked too hard! Rage proceeds. At work, all I can think about is one more workout, just 30 more minutes before it's time to face the music. I hit the gym one more time, pumping my legs as fast as I can take, urging myself in a state of asthmatic paranoia.
By the time I get home, it's not a matter of hours any more, but minutes. Did I drink enough water? Why did I eat that slice of pizza? Which pair of pants weighs less? Why, oh why, can't we just weight ourselves in our underwear and deal with that awkwardness in our way, perhaps by breaking into discussion groups? Why I am I thinking in italics?
Then we arrive at the meeting. The line seems endless. The group leader greets everyone as the members await their turn on the electronic scales. My fingernails were much longer before I got here. Oh well, so what if it is a bad habit. A little less weight with each nail I bite off!
I take the fateful step, and weight. The recorder seems to take forever to read the number. My breath is drawn in. I'm afraid to move.
"Congratulations. Another 3.2 pounds lost."
I'm all smiles now. The 11th hour kamikaze, stupid as it may be, has worked. I'm at a milestone now, more than 30 pounds down, and more than two months ahead of the goal I set to lose that much. I know I must not continue the routine like this. I must stick to the plan, count my points, and resist the Halloween candy.
But something is working. I have to be proud of what I have already accomplished. It's not time to get off-track, not with all this pressure I've put on myself. But now I have six stars on my little bookmark, a special keyring denoting I've passed the 10 percent mark of body weight lost, and pants with a smaller waist.
I have passed the halfway mark. I'd be lame to turn back or stop now. I will make this happen.
Knock, knock? Who's There? STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 38
Week 9 pounds lost: 3.2
Total weight lost: 30.2
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 50.333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 29.666666666667
Number of subscribers to this blog: 18
Number last week: 17. Spread the joy!
Last time I weighed this little: sophomore year... of high school.
Part in school play during that year: Dr. Gibbs, Our Town
Dream part in any play: Tevye, Fiddler on the Roof. Tradition!
Other parts I've played: anatomically confused baby, Free to be You and Me; Werewolf Mack, Rock On!; Mr. Smee, Peter Pan; Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer; Marsellis Washburn, The Music Man; Nick Bottom, A Midsummer Night's Dream; Zebulun, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
Solo sung as Marsellis Washburn: "Shipoopi."
Respectable things about singing a song called "Shipoopi":...
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Five ways adults ruin Halloween
With all due respect to Christmas, Hannukah, and every other holiday designed for children, there is no time of year quite like Halloween.
Ridiculous amounts of candy. Excuses to watch completely pointless, cheesy, and bloody movies. Seeing your classmates wear costumes that are designed for someone at least 10 years older than them.
And oh, the temptation of what is around the corner. Look around your local Target or Walmart. Near all those costumes for Bumble Bee the transformer and actual costumes for "sexy" bumble bees, retailers already have Christmas lights and other decorations just itching to go on sale. And in between is, of course, Thanksgiving, marking October 31 as not just Halloween, but also as the beginning of the overeater's gauntlet. If only kids got a day off of school, Halloween would be the greatest holiday ever (and, by the way, this year kids have it on Saturday).
But things get a little different once kids reach adulthood, and more changes than just the amount of cleavage shown by said bumble bee. So, continuing the theme of weekly lists, and inspired by daily such lists on Cracked.com, here are Five ways Adults Ruin Halloween...
5. Haunted Houses
Towns and really cool/slightly creepy neighbors often put on great displays for Halloween. In East Hartford, the Veteran's clubhouse has been completely transformed into a labyrinth of ghouls, werewolves, and demon clowns. The Haunted Graveyard at Lake Compounce started as a Middletown guy's yard display, then grew into the most frightening show this side of Salem. And for kids, what could be better than walking through a spooky house, only strobe lights and dry ice providing ambiance, and scaring a girl you have a crush on with a quick "boo!" just before a vampire jumps out at you, or more likely, a screenwriter pitches another vampire movie.
How adults screw it up: Two ways. One, the zealots who trick kids into coming into Hell Houses, attractions designed not to scare youngsters with ghosts and boogieman, but rather tales of sin and debauchery that only come to those who stray from the divine path. Second, parents who think haunted houses are too scary for their kids... or overestimate how brave their children are in reality. I would have had less sleepless nights if my folks simply understood that I was a major wuss.
4. Scary movies
One of my most vivid Halloween memories came when I was about 12. My Dad and brother decided a scary movie was in order and returned from the video store with a copy of "The Exorcist." Four two hours, I was horrified at Regan spitting the pee soup and saying things about deities that most kids ought not to hear. But that's the fun for a kid, getting to see scary movies filled with blood and sex that would otherwise be taboo any other time of year. Seriously kids, this Christmas, ask your parents to let you watch "Bad Santa," then give a plot synopsis of what you learned. You will not get any presents.
How adults ruin it: We can watch terrible movies any time of the year. Yet at Halloween, we break out the worst of the bunch, namely the "Scary Movie" series and who knows how many Michael Myers sequels, leaving us crabby and proving once again that the Wayans brothers should be banned from making films. "The Exorcist" haunts me to this day. "Scary Movie 2" just makes me feel ill.
3. Trick or Treating
Perhaps the greatest holiday tradition. It combines the two items yet to be revealed on the list, kids get plenty of exercise walking all over the neighborhood, freak out there parents by eating Snickers bars that have yet to be inspected for razor blades, and come home with pillow cases literally overflowing with sugar.
How adults ruin it: Well, the jerks who do the razor blade thing are the obvious. But really, it's parents freaking out about who lives in their neighborhood. When I was a kid, I lived in a neighborhood designed for Trick or Treating. Kids knew to hit the condos for the big candy scores, to avoid the dentist's house out of fear of receiving floss, and that Tootsie Rolls were terrible rewards for climbing long driveways. There would be hundreds of kids around, and aside from a few punks with eggs, it was good, wholesome, slightly nauseating fun. Now, parents accompany their kids everywhere, leaving Halloween as no longer a test of kids' endurance, but Mom and Dad's patience.
And extra negative points to teenagers who don't know when to give up. Here's a hint, if you're old enough that you can grow your own ugly beard instead of having to draw one one, you're too old to Trick or Treat.
2. Costumes
As a kid, Halloween was an excuse not just to overeat, but to buy a fake weapon. As I never let my parents forget, I wasn't allowed to play with fake guns. However, a pirate simply isn't complete without a sword, and so every year (when I didn't go as a pirate), I went as something that would allow me to buy a cheap plastic weapon. I collected an arsenal of swords, axes, and pitchforks, which I'd inevitably lose interest in, but still trumped the rules of the house. Plus, when you're a kid, you can be anything, from Spiderman to a hobo, and no one argues with you. It's your holiday. If you want to go as Pumbaa, go ahead.
How adults screw it up: We all know adults use Halloween costumes as an excuse to be a little naughty. It's not just the women in sexy costumes; just count how many men, particularly tough guys, use Halloween parties as an excuse to wear drag. But there are some costumes that adults shouldn't try to oversexify. Example, if you are going to a party as an American Girl Doll at a Rave, you're tarnishing precious memories of childhood. Not that I played with American Girl dolls, mind you, but I had a little sister.
Then there's the other side of the coin: people trying to pull off costumes they're not built to accommodate. Yes, I've lost some weight in recent months, but I'm not about to go to a party as a Spartan warrior from "300." That's not preparing for glory, but setting yourself up to see the most regrettable digital photos ever.
1. Candy
Butterfinger. Reese's. Nestle Crunch. M&M's. Candy Corn. Three Musketeers. Jolly Ranchers. Kit Kat...... I just drooled on my keyboard. And it's everywhere, starting the beginning of September and lasting all the way until October 31.
How Adults screw it up: Well, for one, there's the people who hand out raisins and granola instead of chocolate. Not cool. Kids are trick or treating for peanut butter cups, not for sale items at Whole Foods.
Also, we now print the calorie information on everything, and sadly I now know exactly how many calories are in each fun size Snickers. I was happier before I knew that. Frankly, I think my stomach bulged for the first time when they started printing nutritional information on bags. There are some things that go better unknown. Halloween candy is one of them.
Happy Halloween, everyone. Excuse me while I step into my Bumble Bee costume.
Ridiculous amounts of candy. Excuses to watch completely pointless, cheesy, and bloody movies. Seeing your classmates wear costumes that are designed for someone at least 10 years older than them.
And oh, the temptation of what is around the corner. Look around your local Target or Walmart. Near all those costumes for Bumble Bee the transformer and actual costumes for "sexy" bumble bees, retailers already have Christmas lights and other decorations just itching to go on sale. And in between is, of course, Thanksgiving, marking October 31 as not just Halloween, but also as the beginning of the overeater's gauntlet. If only kids got a day off of school, Halloween would be the greatest holiday ever (and, by the way, this year kids have it on Saturday).
But things get a little different once kids reach adulthood, and more changes than just the amount of cleavage shown by said bumble bee. So, continuing the theme of weekly lists, and inspired by daily such lists on Cracked.com, here are Five ways Adults Ruin Halloween...
5. Haunted Houses
Towns and really cool/slightly creepy neighbors often put on great displays for Halloween. In East Hartford, the Veteran's clubhouse has been completely transformed into a labyrinth of ghouls, werewolves, and demon clowns. The Haunted Graveyard at Lake Compounce started as a Middletown guy's yard display, then grew into the most frightening show this side of Salem. And for kids, what could be better than walking through a spooky house, only strobe lights and dry ice providing ambiance, and scaring a girl you have a crush on with a quick "boo!" just before a vampire jumps out at you, or more likely, a screenwriter pitches another vampire movie.
How adults screw it up: Two ways. One, the zealots who trick kids into coming into Hell Houses, attractions designed not to scare youngsters with ghosts and boogieman, but rather tales of sin and debauchery that only come to those who stray from the divine path. Second, parents who think haunted houses are too scary for their kids... or overestimate how brave their children are in reality. I would have had less sleepless nights if my folks simply understood that I was a major wuss.
4. Scary movies
One of my most vivid Halloween memories came when I was about 12. My Dad and brother decided a scary movie was in order and returned from the video store with a copy of "The Exorcist." Four two hours, I was horrified at Regan spitting the pee soup and saying things about deities that most kids ought not to hear. But that's the fun for a kid, getting to see scary movies filled with blood and sex that would otherwise be taboo any other time of year. Seriously kids, this Christmas, ask your parents to let you watch "Bad Santa," then give a plot synopsis of what you learned. You will not get any presents.
How adults ruin it: We can watch terrible movies any time of the year. Yet at Halloween, we break out the worst of the bunch, namely the "Scary Movie" series and who knows how many Michael Myers sequels, leaving us crabby and proving once again that the Wayans brothers should be banned from making films. "The Exorcist" haunts me to this day. "Scary Movie 2" just makes me feel ill.
3. Trick or Treating
Perhaps the greatest holiday tradition. It combines the two items yet to be revealed on the list, kids get plenty of exercise walking all over the neighborhood, freak out there parents by eating Snickers bars that have yet to be inspected for razor blades, and come home with pillow cases literally overflowing with sugar.
How adults ruin it: Well, the jerks who do the razor blade thing are the obvious. But really, it's parents freaking out about who lives in their neighborhood. When I was a kid, I lived in a neighborhood designed for Trick or Treating. Kids knew to hit the condos for the big candy scores, to avoid the dentist's house out of fear of receiving floss, and that Tootsie Rolls were terrible rewards for climbing long driveways. There would be hundreds of kids around, and aside from a few punks with eggs, it was good, wholesome, slightly nauseating fun. Now, parents accompany their kids everywhere, leaving Halloween as no longer a test of kids' endurance, but Mom and Dad's patience.
And extra negative points to teenagers who don't know when to give up. Here's a hint, if you're old enough that you can grow your own ugly beard instead of having to draw one one, you're too old to Trick or Treat.
2. Costumes
As a kid, Halloween was an excuse not just to overeat, but to buy a fake weapon. As I never let my parents forget, I wasn't allowed to play with fake guns. However, a pirate simply isn't complete without a sword, and so every year (when I didn't go as a pirate), I went as something that would allow me to buy a cheap plastic weapon. I collected an arsenal of swords, axes, and pitchforks, which I'd inevitably lose interest in, but still trumped the rules of the house. Plus, when you're a kid, you can be anything, from Spiderman to a hobo, and no one argues with you. It's your holiday. If you want to go as Pumbaa, go ahead.
How adults screw it up: We all know adults use Halloween costumes as an excuse to be a little naughty. It's not just the women in sexy costumes; just count how many men, particularly tough guys, use Halloween parties as an excuse to wear drag. But there are some costumes that adults shouldn't try to oversexify. Example, if you are going to a party as an American Girl Doll at a Rave, you're tarnishing precious memories of childhood. Not that I played with American Girl dolls, mind you, but I had a little sister.
Then there's the other side of the coin: people trying to pull off costumes they're not built to accommodate. Yes, I've lost some weight in recent months, but I'm not about to go to a party as a Spartan warrior from "300." That's not preparing for glory, but setting yourself up to see the most regrettable digital photos ever.
1. Candy
Butterfinger. Reese's. Nestle Crunch. M&M's. Candy Corn. Three Musketeers. Jolly Ranchers. Kit Kat...... I just drooled on my keyboard. And it's everywhere, starting the beginning of September and lasting all the way until October 31.
How Adults screw it up: Well, for one, there's the people who hand out raisins and granola instead of chocolate. Not cool. Kids are trick or treating for peanut butter cups, not for sale items at Whole Foods.
Also, we now print the calorie information on everything, and sadly I now know exactly how many calories are in each fun size Snickers. I was happier before I knew that. Frankly, I think my stomach bulged for the first time when they started printing nutritional information on bags. There are some things that go better unknown. Halloween candy is one of them.
Happy Halloween, everyone. Excuse me while I step into my Bumble Bee costume.
Sunday, October 25, 2009
No longer the fat frat guy...
As much as I like to reminisce about my glorious days as a proud band nerd, there's another facet to my college life that brought me just as much fun. And, as much as some people are suprised to find, that part of me was my life in the fraternity.
At UConn, I spent four great years as a brother of Alpha Epsilon Pi. The chapter has grown considerably since I left (I hope that's coincidental), but our house in the Greek Village apparently still features the annual composite shots of the brothers.
In four straight of these composite shots, I loook like quite the rotund dork. The tight tie, the ill-fitting blue blazer... these are images I wish no one ever had access to seeing again. Yet sadly, to the new generations of AEPi, Matthew Engelhardt is the fat frat brother, the guy with the chubbiest face of any of the other brothers, and the one who no one should ever dare take on in a chicken nugget eating contest.
College is supposed to be the time in life when you look and feel your best. As for me, I now find myself a good 50-60 pounds lighter than the last time my photo was taken for the composite. Even my dreaded chins, which I blogged about hating mere weeks ago, are starting to take shape as one. I feel great now, certainly better about myself than I did five or six years ago.
This weekend, I got invited back to campus to speak about my time in the fraternity. I sat in front of 18 pledges, most of whom had only seen my picture from the composite. And of the brothers that were there, I certainly didn't expect them to notice that I was lighter, or at least ask about it. "That's something these guys probably wouldn't do," I told Megan, just before heading off to speak.
And yet, just as I opened up my mouth to speak, the chapter advisor interrupted: "Seriously, Engelhardt, how much weight have you lost?" As I looked in his direction, I heard murmurs throughout the room. Apparently, I had changed quite a bit. Even the current brothers noted, with one not so discrete brother stating something like, "yeah, you were much fatter in the composite." After nearly strangling him on general principle, I realized I might be blushing, told them my current loss, and accepted a round of snaps in recognition of the fact that yes, indeed, there's a little less Buddha to this belly.
It's an odd feeling, one I haven't gotten accustomed to yet. Instead of people silently wondering how much weight I've gained, they're speaking aloud that I look like I'm in better shape. It happens almost everywhere I go where people haven't seen me in a while. My future mother-in-law tells me I look like a different person every time I see her. My own mother is probably wondering how much money I'm going to ask for in buying new clothes.
The truth is, I still see myself as the fat guy in the composite. If things keep at this pace, and the weight continues to fall off, maybe the way I see myself will get better as well. So please, tell me if you think I'm looking slimmer. I may act embarassed on the outside (and feel that way on the inside, too), but honestly, you're helping me keep going.
I just wish I hadn't waited until after college to take on this challenge. Stupid D.P. Dough. Anyone who went to UConn understands what a few of those calzones does to your waistline.
On another note, some of you have already inquired about donating to or joining the JI News Cycle. This week, I intend to work hard at recruiting people to come aboard. I'd love to get a team of 10-15 people together, and if we can all raise $100, that's a hell of a donation to the American Cancer Society. Once again, here's the link....
http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY09National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=16250#
Let's kick cancer in the face.
Back those stats up!
Weeks until wedding: 39
Week 6 pounds lost: .6
Total weight lost: 27
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 45 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 33
Number of subscribers to this blog: 17
Number last week: 14. You guys rock, and by all means, comment!
Pounds I've lost since senior year of college: 55
Fraternal nickname: Big Pun.
Reason I gave for that nickname: I'm clever with words!
Actual reason for nickname: I was a large musician
Shame factor over actual reason for nickname: 985
At UConn, I spent four great years as a brother of Alpha Epsilon Pi. The chapter has grown considerably since I left (I hope that's coincidental), but our house in the Greek Village apparently still features the annual composite shots of the brothers.
In four straight of these composite shots, I loook like quite the rotund dork. The tight tie, the ill-fitting blue blazer... these are images I wish no one ever had access to seeing again. Yet sadly, to the new generations of AEPi, Matthew Engelhardt is the fat frat brother, the guy with the chubbiest face of any of the other brothers, and the one who no one should ever dare take on in a chicken nugget eating contest.
College is supposed to be the time in life when you look and feel your best. As for me, I now find myself a good 50-60 pounds lighter than the last time my photo was taken for the composite. Even my dreaded chins, which I blogged about hating mere weeks ago, are starting to take shape as one. I feel great now, certainly better about myself than I did five or six years ago.
This weekend, I got invited back to campus to speak about my time in the fraternity. I sat in front of 18 pledges, most of whom had only seen my picture from the composite. And of the brothers that were there, I certainly didn't expect them to notice that I was lighter, or at least ask about it. "That's something these guys probably wouldn't do," I told Megan, just before heading off to speak.
And yet, just as I opened up my mouth to speak, the chapter advisor interrupted: "Seriously, Engelhardt, how much weight have you lost?" As I looked in his direction, I heard murmurs throughout the room. Apparently, I had changed quite a bit. Even the current brothers noted, with one not so discrete brother stating something like, "yeah, you were much fatter in the composite." After nearly strangling him on general principle, I realized I might be blushing, told them my current loss, and accepted a round of snaps in recognition of the fact that yes, indeed, there's a little less Buddha to this belly.
It's an odd feeling, one I haven't gotten accustomed to yet. Instead of people silently wondering how much weight I've gained, they're speaking aloud that I look like I'm in better shape. It happens almost everywhere I go where people haven't seen me in a while. My future mother-in-law tells me I look like a different person every time I see her. My own mother is probably wondering how much money I'm going to ask for in buying new clothes.
The truth is, I still see myself as the fat guy in the composite. If things keep at this pace, and the weight continues to fall off, maybe the way I see myself will get better as well. So please, tell me if you think I'm looking slimmer. I may act embarassed on the outside (and feel that way on the inside, too), but honestly, you're helping me keep going.
I just wish I hadn't waited until after college to take on this challenge. Stupid D.P. Dough. Anyone who went to UConn understands what a few of those calzones does to your waistline.
On another note, some of you have already inquired about donating to or joining the JI News Cycle. This week, I intend to work hard at recruiting people to come aboard. I'd love to get a team of 10-15 people together, and if we can all raise $100, that's a hell of a donation to the American Cancer Society. Once again, here's the link....
http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY09National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=16250#
Let's kick cancer in the face.
Back those stats up!
Weeks until wedding: 39
Week 6 pounds lost: .6
Total weight lost: 27
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 45 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 33
Number of subscribers to this blog: 17
Number last week: 14. You guys rock, and by all means, comment!
Pounds I've lost since senior year of college: 55
Fraternal nickname: Big Pun.
Reason I gave for that nickname: I'm clever with words!
Actual reason for nickname: I was a large musician
Shame factor over actual reason for nickname: 985
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
A blog with a cause...
Just as any good older brother would, I had my suspicions about the man my sister fell in love with a few years ago.
Sure, they turned out to be wrong. Katie had met a good man, someone who loved her and treated her with respect. He was as different as on possibly can be from me, in terms of politics, body type, and hair (the poor bloke was always jealous of my mass of fro). Plus, he was British, and as hard as I tried to explain American football to him, he worked just as hard to teach me the wonders of cricket. I still have no idea what he was talking about, but if someone gave me one of those cool cricket bats, I think I could do damage to some intruders.
At first, however, I had my doubts about Richard. For one thing, his very name upset me. Only one person in my life is allowed to be called Richard, and that’s my Dad (note: I don't call my father by his first name, but you understand how this would be an issue). For my sister to love another man with the same name was just perverse. So, half joking and half impishly, I gave Katie’s Richard an American alias: Dicky. A good-natured guy, Dicky accepted his nickname, and to his credit, never showed any offense when I called him that.
Their relationship had been complicated, but intriguing. They met while my sister was abroad in London. Dicky was an Orthodox Jew, and though my sister’s Jewish values are more reformed or conservative, they fell in love. She came home, and with Internet video chats, they stayed in as much contact as one can for two people living on opposite sides of the ocean. He came here for Thanksgiving, she went there on other holidays, and for a while, it worked.
Yet this posting is in the past tense, and while I wish I were merely writing a tale about lovers parting ways, this story has a sad ending.
Eventually, Katie and Dicky did go their separate ways, and he found his niche when he came to the New York area to study. He fell in love again, this time marrying a fellow Orthodox Jew. He had his life together, and now he had the New York Mets, which for some unfathomable reason considering the influence of so many Engelhardts and their Red Sox loyalties, became his favorite team.
Then, one day, a stunning announcement. Katie learned that Dicky had been diagnosed with leukemia. I didn’t know how to react. He was out of her life, true, but he was her first real love. He seemed to be doing okay, getting chemo and dealing with the cancer with high spirits and great strength of faith.
About a year ago, right before Hannukah, the news reached us. He’d had some kind of setback, was rushed to the hospital, and in a moment, Dicky was gone. Richard had been younger than me, and cancer had never taken anyone so close to our family.
It is in Richard’s memory, along with the countless number of cancer victims and survivors I’ve written about as a journalist, that I invite you all to join myself and Journal Inquirer staffers in Relay for Life.
I’ve been pretty blessed in my life. Yes, I’ve been overweight since I was a kid, but now I feel good to the point of wanting to use this blog, as my newfound fitness, to promote a good cause. For those of you not familiar with Relay, it is a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Most events run 24 hours. This event, Nov. 7 at Pratt and Whitney in East Hartford, will go for 12.
It works like this. A team is organized, and at least person has to walk the track for the duration of the event. You switch off team members throughout, and as long as someone is walking, you’re doing well. You raise money through pledges, and the link is here:
http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?pg=entry&fr_id=16250
I hereby invite you to take part or give to the cause. Become a member of “JI News Cycle,” or simply make a pledge to help us kick cancer in the face. Either way, I’ll be at the Pratt and Whitney Hangar Museum from noon to midnight on Saturday, Nov. 7.
I’ll be doing it for Dicky and plenty of others, and I invite you to do the same.
Sure, they turned out to be wrong. Katie had met a good man, someone who loved her and treated her with respect. He was as different as on possibly can be from me, in terms of politics, body type, and hair (the poor bloke was always jealous of my mass of fro). Plus, he was British, and as hard as I tried to explain American football to him, he worked just as hard to teach me the wonders of cricket. I still have no idea what he was talking about, but if someone gave me one of those cool cricket bats, I think I could do damage to some intruders.
At first, however, I had my doubts about Richard. For one thing, his very name upset me. Only one person in my life is allowed to be called Richard, and that’s my Dad (note: I don't call my father by his first name, but you understand how this would be an issue). For my sister to love another man with the same name was just perverse. So, half joking and half impishly, I gave Katie’s Richard an American alias: Dicky. A good-natured guy, Dicky accepted his nickname, and to his credit, never showed any offense when I called him that.
Their relationship had been complicated, but intriguing. They met while my sister was abroad in London. Dicky was an Orthodox Jew, and though my sister’s Jewish values are more reformed or conservative, they fell in love. She came home, and with Internet video chats, they stayed in as much contact as one can for two people living on opposite sides of the ocean. He came here for Thanksgiving, she went there on other holidays, and for a while, it worked.
Yet this posting is in the past tense, and while I wish I were merely writing a tale about lovers parting ways, this story has a sad ending.
Eventually, Katie and Dicky did go their separate ways, and he found his niche when he came to the New York area to study. He fell in love again, this time marrying a fellow Orthodox Jew. He had his life together, and now he had the New York Mets, which for some unfathomable reason considering the influence of so many Engelhardts and their Red Sox loyalties, became his favorite team.
Then, one day, a stunning announcement. Katie learned that Dicky had been diagnosed with leukemia. I didn’t know how to react. He was out of her life, true, but he was her first real love. He seemed to be doing okay, getting chemo and dealing with the cancer with high spirits and great strength of faith.
About a year ago, right before Hannukah, the news reached us. He’d had some kind of setback, was rushed to the hospital, and in a moment, Dicky was gone. Richard had been younger than me, and cancer had never taken anyone so close to our family.
It is in Richard’s memory, along with the countless number of cancer victims and survivors I’ve written about as a journalist, that I invite you all to join myself and Journal Inquirer staffers in Relay for Life.
I’ve been pretty blessed in my life. Yes, I’ve been overweight since I was a kid, but now I feel good to the point of wanting to use this blog, as my newfound fitness, to promote a good cause. For those of you not familiar with Relay, it is a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Most events run 24 hours. This event, Nov. 7 at Pratt and Whitney in East Hartford, will go for 12.
It works like this. A team is organized, and at least person has to walk the track for the duration of the event. You switch off team members throughout, and as long as someone is walking, you’re doing well. You raise money through pledges, and the link is here:
http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?pg=entry&fr_id=16250
I hereby invite you to take part or give to the cause. Become a member of “JI News Cycle,” or simply make a pledge to help us kick cancer in the face. Either way, I’ll be at the Pratt and Whitney Hangar Museum from noon to midnight on Saturday, Nov. 7.
I’ll be doing it for Dicky and plenty of others, and I invite you to do the same.
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