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.
Friday, November 27, 2009
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":...
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