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.
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