I want one chin...

As much as I notice good changes happening- shirts are looser, belts too big, and so on (been on a Vonnegut kick lately)- I still hate by chins. More accurately, I must admit, I hate my chins. Plural.

In every photo of me, there are two typical looks. The natural look, the one I hate most, appears whenever I'm not aware a photo is being taken. In those cases, I'm laughing hard at something or being genuinely goofy, and in my ecstasy, my chin doesn't stand alone. It's joined by jovial buddies, seeming to smile behind my actual chin. I loathe this look so much that over time, I've come up with a signature pose to make me look a bit thinner, or at least I think it makes me look thinner.

So in every photo where I'm posed, I'm doing what my loved ones commonly refer to as "the chin thing." Looking straight at the camera, I'll pull my lower jaw forward and stick my chin up at an angle. The result: Matt becomes a human barricuda, and all the the years the money my parents spent on by braces to even out my overbite are rendered useless. For football fans, think Bill Cowher. For everyone else, think a bespectacled clown sticking his chin at you.

See this picture as evidence. I even do the scowling chin thing while threatening pirates with golf putters.

It's not a new phenomenon. A few weeks ago, I noticed a 15-year-old me was doing the chin thing in a family photograph taken about a dozen years ago. Yep, it's my "Blue Steel" look (though I hated Zoolander).

I first noticed the presence of multiple chins as a teenager. At that point, I remember thinking, it made me look fat, and so the chin thing was born to override the neck pudge.

The photo of me atop the links to this blog on the Journal Inquirer Web site ist the perfect example. I tried to stick out my chin, the photographer made me laugh, I did the guffaw look, and voila! We have now have a photo on the site where I look like I should be partnered with David Spade.

The fact is, I have a ridiculously proportioned body. My belly doesn't stick out as far as it used to, and my waist is relatively small for a man of my size. But my chest remains broad, and the chubbiest part of me remains my jowls. I hate wearing neck ties for two reasons. First, the only dress shirts where I can fasten the top button are much too big everywhere else, giving me a genuine smock or moomoo look. Second, a tie seems to push my neck up, creating the multiple chin effect I hate so very much.

I've tried to cover my chin in different ways through the years. I'd love to have a nice full beard, or a sleak looking goatee, but unfortunately my facial hair grows in patches that look like someone tried to glue hair under my lip and on my neck. So, rather than look like an oversized teenager afraid to shave, I'll just have deal with the chin problem the only other way. The chub has to go.

I look forward to the day when I can look straight at a photographer and feel comfortable that I only have one chin. I don't know if I'll ever pull off the walnut-cracking chin, a la the George Clooneys of the world, but I'd like my neck to look a little less Farleyesque.

Until then, I'm sure I'll keep sticking out that chin. Frankly, it's your fault, photographer. I told you I hate having my picture taken.

A doofus's good problems...

I am an overreacting doofus.

I'm not saying that with any hesitation or doubt. A week ago, I got on this blog and bemoaned what I thought was a pending weight loss plateau. The good results of the first few weeks, I reasoned, were gone, and more than a few people wrote to let me know that it would be alright. Chief amongst my "told you so" critics was my own fiancee, who was, I hate to admit, completely right.

I entered the Weight Watchers meeting on Thursday confident of a better week. Our faulty electronic scale in our bathroom led me to believe I had dropped 2-3 pounds, totals I worked extremely hard to achieve. Last week was one of long gym sessions, splitting my time between Stairmasters and Tread climbers. I would come home at night tired yet proud, hungry yet satisfied, and I had managed to traverse Rosh Hashanah and an engagement party without any culinary catastrophe.

But I wasn't prepared for the bathroom scale to be so wrong. I stepped on the Weight Watchers scale and watched with interest as the woman recorded my progress. One week, another 5.6 pounds lost. My jaw dropped, Megan beamed at me, and I was rewarded not just with the pounds gone, but also with the desired "bravo" sticker from the leader.

Patience is usually one of my virtues. Optimism is not. I have great faith in other people, but for some reason have always used self-doubt and pessimism as a form of motivation. When I wrote last week, I was only seeing the negative, and it took a few good kicks in the pants for me to put my chin back up. Thank you everyone who has offered their support. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

So now onto the good problems. About two months ago, I got a new suit. It's pretty sharp, a nice charcoal gray, designed to serve me well in weddings and interviews ahead. I've worn it just once, so it still has that new suit look.

Yet tomorrow, I'm bringing back to the store for alterations. I got the suit before my little weight loss quest, and though practically brand new, it's already too big. The pants are ridiculously loose, and even the jacket hangs awkwardly off of shoulders that were a little broader a month ago. Additionally, one of my belts no longer serves my pants-hoisting needs.

My wallet is a little nervous that more clothes will need alterations or replacing. Every other part of me is proud, and with a little more luck, maybe I can remove an "X" from my shirt size. It's been a while since I've had to buy new clothes for my stomach retracting instead of expanding.

I'm feeling really good about my progress. I regret not having gotten serious about losing weight sooner, but at least I'm finally taking some control.

A few notes before we get to the stats. This week, a woman in Indonesia gave birth to a 19.2 pound baby. While I certainly hope she got an epidural, I have to marvel at two things. First, how the hell did she do that, and second, the child's weight matches exactly the pounds I've lost in the first month of Weight Watchers. What's departed from my belly found it's way to Indonesia, I guess.

Now, the really exciting news. The Journal Inquirer is now linking to this blog off its Web site. Unlike most of the JI's web content, since this is my own blog, there is no charge for readers to peruse the Great Wedding Fast. I'm pleased at the thought that more people than just my Facebook friends and family will now be reading along on this process. Yep, it means there's more pressure to succeed, but just like needing suit alterations, a bigger audience is a problem I'll take any day.

Stats away!

Week 4 Totals

Weeks until wedding: 43
Week 4 pounds lost: 5.6
Total weight lost: 19.2 pounds, or one ginormous Indonesian newborn (seriously, the father must have been a Kimodo Dragon)
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 32 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 40.8
What I was doing when I was 19.2 years old: 2nd semester at UConn
GPA that semester: 4.0 (p.s.: not my GPA)
Wait, you wanted my GPA that semester?: not available at press time
Number of calories burnt at the gym last week: 3,600
Number of times the gym played that horrible Pussycat Dolls song during those workouts: 9,560

Attempting to Rogen myself...

However vain or silly it might be, I truly believe that damn near everyone has played the "who would play me in a movie?" game. It's natural, especially for film junkies like myself, to watch the stars and think, "alright, so Hollywood has given the green light to a biopic on me. So who plays the lead?"

I struggled with this question for years until I was introduced to the world of Judd Apatow. More specifically, I saw "Freaks and Geeks" for the first time, a show so fantastic that it dares to show all the awkwardness of the non-pretty high school people. It was honest, poignant, funny, occasionally cringeworthy, and fantastic television. In other words, it was doomed to fail, and sure enough the show got canned after one season. "Undeclared" would follow, this time a funnier version of "Freaks" in a college setting. It too got the axe. Damn you, networks, and your obsession with reality crap.

Of course, now Judd Apatow is the biggest comedy director in the world. And he's been loyal to those that helped get him there. Case in point: Jason Segel played Nick on "Freaks" and is now a major television and movie actor. James Franco went from playing Daniel to being Harry friggin' Osborn in Spiderman.

Yet no one's star has shone quite as brightly, and maybe surprisingly, as Seth Rogen's. I felt a connection with Seth the moment I saw him on screen. He was happy-go-lucky, brooding, goofy, chubby, and sported the most fantastic Jewfro this side of Tel Aviv. He was the best of the second bananas in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," then got cast in the lead in "Knocked Up," giving dorks around the world hope that they too could land a woman about nine times out of their league. Now Seth is in every movie that comes out, and someday, he'll play the lead in the biopic of Matt.

But then, tragedy struck. Seth was no longer content to be the happy fat guy with the ridiculous laugh. No, he had to go for dashing and handsome (that vile traitor). I don't know if he quit the pot or signed a pact with the devil, but seemingly overnight Mr. Rogen went from jolly and chunky to svelte and stylish. Last time he hosted SNL, he joked about his incredible weight loss, saying during his monologue, "it's amazing how different things are since I was here last. Uh, for one thing... I lost about one million pounds. "

Seth got uberskinny. However, the subject of the biopic (that would be me, for those still paying attention) did not. Yeah, I got the hot girl, but while Rogen reels in big part after big part, I found myself in an endless pattern of hard exercise followed by fattening indulgence. I had the gym ethic down, but my diet remained a problem.

So I'm left with two options. I could stay heavy and they could cast someone like Jonah Hill in the part (or, as Adam Sandler calls him in "Funny People," the triple XL version of Seth), or I could make the necessary changes. I'm not taking the easy way. Sorry Jonah, but this part belongs to Seth.

And for those of you wondering if I'm so disillusioned to think there will someday be a movie about me, relax. It's all in good fun. But just in case, I'm maintaining all character rights.

Fear of the plateau...

Five years ago, when I took my brief foray to California, two things told me that this silly Connecticut boy had reached the west. The first, obviously, was the sand. Deserts are a a funny thing, sprawling sand everywhere yet no beach to be found. Rarely does one driving through Manchester worry if his car will overheat or if necessary, or how to field dress and eat a rattlesnake. But damned if those concerns didn't gnaw at me as I drove through New Mexico.

The second sign? Plateaus. Now, these were more evident on my road back to New England, when a buddy of mine took a more northward route through the West instead of heading for wonderland of flat that is Oklahoma. Plateaus are spectacular, rising out of the ground like huge, magnificent stumps. Steep slopes, level top... these were landforms that I had only seen in textbooks.

Now plateaus are on my mind again. However, it's not about geology, but rather the inevitable sense of doom that my pattern of weight loss success is leveling off.

This is a reality I knew I would have to deal with. My success in the first two weeks of Weight Watchers was remarkable. Dropping 12 pounds is like having a bowling ball fall out of your pants (or so I would imagine). If I lost six pounds per week, my challenge to lost 60 total would be over in 10 weeks, and then this blog would be fairly lame.

The scale this week revealed that the plateau is coming. I lost weight again, which I'm delighted about, yet instead of the 3-5 pounds I had hoped to lose, the lady reading the scale scribbled "1.6." The leader lady insists that any loss is a good thing, and though Megan is once again proud, I'm still disappointed.

Dammit, I worked much harder this week to lose weight. That first week, I went to the gym once, did a relatively light workout, tracked my points, and managed to lose 8 pounds. Then this week, I get to the gym 3-4 times, sustaining workouts the likes of which I haven't attempted since my Israel streak. By the time I got off the tread-climber on Wednesday, I'd burned 1,030 calories. If I'm going to work that hard, I want a helluva payoff.

The fact is I should be happier about my week 3 loss. Rounding up to 2 pounds, that's pretty good for seven days. Considering that I could easily gain two pounds through chicken wings on a night at Bidwell Tavern, I should be proud. And I am.

Yet I know the plateau is coming fast. Leader lady says part of weight loss includes weeks where you actually gain weight. I'm dreading that first time I step on the scale and a "plus" goes next to my name instead of a "minus."

This weekend will bring challenges of its own. It's Rosh Hashana, or to the gentiles of the world, one of those days that Jews take off from work. On the Hebrew calendar, the Jewish New Year is ringing in 5770. Like any family, mine's celebrating tomorrow with a smorgasbord of cuisine that laughs in the face of Weight Watchers. Sunday could be even more dangerous, with an engagement party (no, not ours) and the allure of cake in all its fantastic forms (a little Jim Gaffigan there).

My willpower is going to have to be strong. Otherwise that plateau could be very daunting.

Stat Time!
Week 3 Totals

Weeks until wedding: 44 to the day
Week 3 pounds lost: 1.6
Total weight lost: 13.6 pounds
percentage of overall goal: almost 23 percent
Recent culinary delights: Green tea, Skinny Cow ice cream bars, salmon burgers
Former culinary delights: Dr. Pepper, Friendly's Hunka Hunka PB Fudge, bacon cheeseburgers
last time I (purposely) ate beef: two years ago
# of chickens I've eaten instead during those two years: 99,486
Pitching tonight for the Red Sox: Clay Bucholz
Game score at the time of this posting: Red Sox 2, Orioles 1
Red Sox players also celebrating Rosh Hashana- Kevin Youkilis. L'Shana Tova, Youk!

Pizza and beer: Weight Watchers bane

Pizza. The first grad class to feature a snack, and it had to be pizza.

The good news: it's Domino's, which is to pizza as Julio Lugo was to the Red Sox and the annoying blond girl was to the Goonies. The bad news: it's still friggin' pizza, which the gods gave to man to apologize for the Minotaur and Busch beer.

Let me set the scene a little bit better. I'm in my third week of Weight Watchers, and so far things are going well. How well? You'll learn a bit later, but suffice to say (or write) that I got a second sticker from the slightly frightening group leader. It's also my second week of graduate school as I work toward a Masters degree.

The pizzas come at the start of class in a scene right out of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. The boxes are piled in the front of the room. No one stirs, though the gently thrilling scent of cheese and crust begin to waft from student to student.

A half hour into class and my mouth is watering. An hour in, pizza consumes my thoughts much more than the impact of social standing in education. By the time we take a break, an hour and a half has gone by, my stomach has groaned as loudly as the professor can talk, and the piddly 100 calorie pack of miniature coffee cakes has completely crumbled in my book bag.

I do the only thing I can do: I leave the room. When I come back, most of the pizza is gone and I resign myself quietly to consuming the still recognizable parts of the cakes.

I'm scoring this a minor victory. One slice of pizza converts to about 6 points, and I have resisted the temptation.

We all know that nothing goes with pizza quite like a good beer. No, they weren't serving beer in class, but I've developed quite a love for all things brewed. I enjoy a good beer and drink only socially, but if I am drinking, beer is my go-to beverage. A few weeks ago at a party, I polished off a a 64-ounce growler of Cape Cod Beer Summer Ale in about 90 minutes.

Weight Watchers measures regular, non-lite beer at 1 point per 4 ounces of beer. In other words, in an hour and a half, I drank 16 points worth of ale. Good for a party? sure. Good for a person desperate to reduce his Body Mass Index? I would have been better entering a pie eating contest.

In college, during a fraternity event, I drank 8 beers and ate 5 slices of pizza in 60 minutes. I think my waist expanded by 6 sizes that night.

Those days are long behind me. They'd better be if I'm going to follow through and not look like an ass on the Internet.

So pizza and beer, I say begone with you! Visit occasionally, but you two are a package deal no more.

At least until the bachelor's party. All bets are off on that night.

So, here's the skinny: At the second weigh-in, I was down another 4 pounds. That makes 12 in two weeks, 1/5 toward my final goal. I'm determined to lose another 3-5 this week.

I'm feeling good, even if there's no mozzarella swimming in my gut. On second thought, maybe that's why I am feeling so good.

Week 2 totals:

Weeks until wedding: 44
Pounds lost this week: 4
Total pounds lost: 12
NBA Hall of Famer inducted this weekend who wore #12: John Stockton
Career assists for John Stockton: 15,806
On the 12th Day of Xmas: 12 Drummers Drumming
# of episodes planned for Season 3 of Chuck: 12
Year it was when I was 12: 1994
Percentage toward my overall goal: 20 percent
Pounds remaining to go: 48
48 divisible by: 48, 24, 12, 8, 6, 4, 2, 1

A question of motivation...

So how does it happen? How does someone who's been chubby his whole life suddenly decide it's time for major change,and most importantly, how the hell am I supposed to stay motivated?

The overlying reason is simple: to look the best I've ever looked for the wedding. Granted, Megan loves me the way I am, but I'd rather look a little more svelte rather than have the "Jabba with Princess Leia" thing going on under the chupa.

But a lot can happen in ten months. My life is being pulled in different directions right now. I've started taking grad classes as I work toward becoming a teacher, the holidays and their wonderful turkey, stuffing, and pumpkin pie are just around the corner, and the life of a reporter never seems to slow down.

I'm going to need smaller goals along the way if I'm to prove successful. The trick is deciding how.

Two weeks into the Great Wedding Fast, my motivation has been easy: watch the numbers on the scale go down. Truthfully, it hasn't been all that difficult so far. Part of me relishes the idea of jumping into a big Strega Nona vat of pasta and eating my way out, but most of me has found this whole Weight Watchers business a little easy.

Tomorrow is Thursday, which means it's time to weigh in again. I feel a little like a boxer or wrestler (not the oiled up, long-haired, roided out ones) trying to make weight. I'm pretty confident that my cumulative weight loss in two weeks has been in the double digits, but it's supposed to be simple at this point.

Soon the pounds are going to be harder to shed. Once the water weight is gone, I'm going to have to work harder. Less weight means less points too, so I'll have to cut my calories even more if I want to reach the super 60 I've promised myself.

Two years ago, Israel proved the perfect motivation. I don't know what came over me, but there were days when I'd spend 90 minutes at the gym, stepping on the Stairmaster more rapidly than any plushy man in history. The totals were impressive: 900 calories burned one workout, 980 the next, 1020, even 1130. I took quiet pleasure in the failure of skinny people to keep up with me. My proudest moment came when a woman next to me, at least 140 pounds lighter than I was, watched me go for about 45 minutes, saw the number of calories I had burned, looked at me, smiled, and said, "damn!"

Of course, the workout would be ruined the minute I got home and scooped a bowl full of ice cream. Edy's and its Fudge Tracks can go straight to hell.

I need more "damn" moments. That being stated, here's some goals to accompany the wedding target.

1. To be down 30 pounds by New Year's Eve.

2. To see looks of amazement/shock every time I see family or friends I haven't seen in a while.

3. To need to buy new pants for other reasons than getting newspaper ink on them or splitting the seams.

4. To no longer being described as "kind of a big guy" or "on the larger side" to people who haven't met me.

5. To go shirtless on a beach for the first time since the 1990s (sad, but true).

6. To not feel like I'm blocking the sun from everyone else at the beach.

7. To look at a box of Munchkins without romanticizing about sticking them in my cheeks like a chipmunk eating acorns.

8. To go for a physical and not have to worry about the nurse adjusting the scale up another 50 pounds.

9. To get on an airplane, crowded bus, or elevator and not feel like the people next to me are uncomfortable.

10. To not have to worry whether a red shirt makes me look like Kool Aid Man or a purple shirt like Grimace.

Ten seems like a good number. Let's start crossing them off.


PS: I welcome whatever feedback you all might have about this challenge. Hell, it is a blog...

The payoff of the anal retentive

"Alright, let's begin!"

The woman's voice was shrill and frightening. She took the floor with fearlessness: this was her room. Before her sat the many loyal followers, mostly middle-aged women, many seemingly very pissed off and looking for answers.

And among this sea of estrogen straight out of a Julia flick say one timid, quiet man. Yep, it was me, and as the meeting started, there wasn't another Y chromosome to be found.

You'd think this was some kind of support group, and in a way it was. This was my first Weight Watchers meeting. To say I'm not happy to be here is an understatement.

Many of the woman clutch small notebooks and pamphlets. These are their maps to skinnier jeans. Meanwhile, I sat quietly, shocked by the weight recorded when I stepped on the scale. In my mind. I was about to lose everything I love about food. The leader maintained her intensity, and only at the meeting's end did I begin to see that my fears weren't legitimate.

In my first week, I found that Weight Watchers is not a salvation of the overweight, but rather a celebration of all things anal retentive. The key to weight loss is careful tracking. For one week, I wrote down everything I ate, carefully assessing points to every apple or even Twizzler.

I'm lucky, my fiancee told me. Just being a guy grants me 8 extra points per day. The fact that I'm a big guy means I get to eat more. In a way, it's all a game. Use your points, don't go too far over, and see where you stand on the leader board. (note: there is no Weight Watchers leader board, but wouldn't that be fantastic? Imagine the gambling that would follow!)

I didn't even make it to the gym more than once that first week. And yet when I stepped on the scale at the next meeting after seven long days of painstaking tracking, I realized there are some rewards that don't come with frosting on top.

One week. Eight pounds lost. Holy crap.

Now the many woman who a week prior had seemed so angry cheered loudly upon hearing my accomplishment. Even the scary leader has nothing but praise. In addition to her praise, I get a fancy sticker, and the only people who hate stickers are jackasses.

For the rest of the meeting, I sat in a state of puzzled contentment. How the hell did I pull that off?

I'm told it's going to get harder and that at first the weight falls off you. But all good games get tougher as they go on. Especially Scrabble.

I'm considering Week 1 a triple word score.

Stats:

Weeks until wedding: 45
Weight loss goal: 60 pounds
Weight lost: 8 pounds
Pounds til goal: 52 pounds
Point value of a Moons Over My Hammy: I dunno, but that's always funny to order.
Karl "The Mailman" Malone's career points: 36,928
Number of illegitimate children fathered by the Mailman: TBD
Best reason for health care death panels: the idiots screaming at meetings who swear there are going to be death panels.

A bitter(sweet) divorce.. with Hostess

Some shed tears into their beer. For the last 27 years, I've shed mine into ice cream.

Food and I have always had a love-hate relationship. The love part is easy. I remember Ben and Jerry's flavors more easily than I do the names of old friends. Hostess has provided me with two mistresses named Twinkie and Cupcake. And God bless the good folks of Dunkin' Donuts, whose bagels and muffins never cease to work their magic.

The hate part is tough. Indulgence, inevitiably, equals indigestion (isn't alliteration fun?) It also wreaks havoc on the waist line, a battle in which I've become quite the veteran.

I've never minded being a big guy, especially since I've never been anything else. It was around the 2nd grade when I became the fat kid. That's a hard realization, but one your classmates have no problem helping you recognize. Kids are taught not to judge others based on race, religion, or gender, but if someone wears bigger pants, you sure as hell better let Tubby know.

I was chubby in elementary school. Middle school brought a brief reprieve as my baby fat was introduced to puberty, but by my freshman year of high school, the bulge had once again taken hold. By senior year, I was downright corpulent, and by the time I got to college, I was in the first wave of marching band members called in for a uniform fitting, if you catch my drift.

I was practically the mascot of my fraternity, the butt of more jokes about food than any person ought to be in their entire lives. But for whatever reason, I felt my body type was part of my identity, and so I embraced the Farley in me.

But back trouble and eventual surgery brought more weight, and by the time I was ready to move away from my parents (for the third time), corpulent had ballooned into the danger zone.

I got serious for a while. The gym became my second home, and within a year, I'd dropped about 50 pounds. A pending trip to Israel was all the motivation I needed. I'd get fit, make a nice Jewish girl swoon, and all would be well in the world.

I didn't meet a nice Jewish girl. But when I returned, I remet a beautiful gentile lady who thinks I'm pretty swell. She's pretty wonderful herself, and come next summer, we'll be married.

It's been a terrific ride, but sure enough, Hostess has found her way back in through the occasional trip to the vending machine. Same goes for scones at Panera and whatever might look tasty inside a Starbucks display case. The pounds have come back, and something must be done.

I say let my wedding be my new motivation. As I write, I am 10 1/2 months away from saying "I do." By that time, I want to be 60 pounds lighter.

The gym is great, but dieting is what I need. With that, I have submitted myself to something I thought I'd never do... Weight Watchers. And just for the hell of it, I'm going to make effort a public one. Join me over the weeks to come, but please, don't bring any baked goods.

And with that, dear Hostess, I bid you adieu... except your delicious 100 calorie packs.