Dear Mr. Trebek-
Please allow me to introduce myself. I'm Matt, and for the last 12 years or so of my life, I've been preparing for your show.
You and I have never met, but I have some of your staff. About 4 1/2 years ago, to be exact. That's when, as a new graduate on a California adventure, I was invited up to Culver City for the chance I'd been waiting to receive. Of all the people who applied to take the Jeopardy! Test, I was one of the lucky ones selected. And, of all places, I got to take the test in your own studio, not far from the men's room where one other gentleman, also taking the exam that day, muttered aloud, "I wonder if Ken Jennings peed here." No, I wasn't that man obviously struck by an odd sense of urinal brotherhood, but I was there on that fateful July 31, 2005.
I'll never forget that experience. In the months between learning I would be taking the test and traveling to the Sony studio, I studied trivial knowledge with far more gusto than I'd ever put into Algebra or History. I drove up to LA the day before the test, locked myself in a shady Super 8 Motel room just down the road from LAX, and I crammed like I was about to take a combination SAT, driver's test, and exam to become one of the Men in Black.
I was 23 years old, by far one of the youngest contestant hopefuls who gathered in that parking garage that morning. We were led to the studio, and there I was- a naive, barely employed newspaper stringer- walking amongst stern doctors, lawyers, and various -ologists.
Your staff sat us in that studio. It was one of those summers when the stage was being renovated, but there were the podiums and the big screen, not to mention to pedestal from which you officiate so many trivia contests. For good measure, as I sat in one of those studio audience seats covered with reddish velvet, the pocket of my pants caught the chair's arm. When I stood up, I heard the telltale "rip." Yup, the biggest test of my life, and I would take it with my boxer shorts poking out of a new hole where the pocket used to be stitched.
Your staff scared the heck out of us with stories of the test, the many people who took the exam so many times and failed. I wasn't phased. As silence set in across the studio and I filled out my questionnaire (yes, I mentioned the UConn Marching Band several times), I was focused. The test flew by, and when it was done, I had a certain confidence that I can't really understand. Somehow, I just knew I had passed.
I was right.
When Sarah, the veteran of your Clue Crew, announced the names of those who passed, mine was the fourth name she read. She even hesitated for a split second as and "En" formed on her lips, giving me just enough time to gather myself before she uttered the final "gelhardt."
The other six people who passed were quiet with their joy. I shouted a jubilant "yes," and though the rest of the moment is foggy, I think I attempted several chest bumps. I learned an important lesson that day: most -ologists are unnerved by the prospect of chest-bumping a delirious nerd.
Your staff kicked everyone else out. The seven remaining got to perform an actual audition, got interviewed as if we were contestants, and even got to hold the electronic buzzers. The words were reassuring: the hard part was over. Now it was just a waiting game, and some of us would get a call to be on the show.
I, naturally, took the opportunity to call everyone I've ever known and tell them that I was going to be on Jeopardy! I prepped madly, watching taped versions of the show twice a day, recording my scores, even buzzing in on a ballpoint pen. Every time my phone rang, and I didn't recognize the number, I would grow short of breath, certain the next voice I'd hear would be yours. Inevitably, it would be Discover Card on the other end, making me a special offer to increase my credit line. I was ready to be the next Jennings, or Bad Rutter, or Frank Spangenberg, or Eddie Timanus, or my personal favorite, Bob Harris. I could care less about whether I'd used my credit card that month.
And while I got ready, so did my friends and family. Fraternity brothers back at UConn designed a Matt Engelhardt Jeopardy drinking game. Few conversations didn't begin or end with "so when are you going to be on the show?" I didn't have a Facebook account back then, but if I did, you can bet the wall would be full of Jeopardy-related questions and taunts.
You never called, Alex.
One full year, and not an email or letter. Contestants came and went, people I soundly beat from the comfort of my own living room. Yet there would be no Jeopardy for Matt, much to the dismay of the city of Middletown, CT and my UConn brethren.
So now, every year, I take the impersonal online test for the chance to be called for an audition. All that prep, and I'm back in the faceless pool. A few hours ago, I once again completed the test. There was no studio, no men's room of cultural significance, and no ripped pants. Just a doofus typing answers on a keyboard, clinging to hope.
Consider this, as your people look through the tests and pick out auditioners: I'm a heckuva lot more photogenic now than I was then. Since that day, I've lost about 60 pounds. Frankly, I no longer care that a camera may add 10 pounds, because I'd still look 50 less than I did that July. I'm still ready to roll, and my fiancee will attest to the fact that the practice routine has not dwindled. If I go to bed without watching and scoring along from home, I'm quite the grouch. In essence, I may take up less space than the Matt your people met years ago, but my trivia brain hasn't lost any weight.
So Alex, lord of all things pop culture and trivial, I continue to wait for your call. If nothing else, do it for Megan. Maybe after I've been on the show, I'll put the nightly routine to rest... but I doubt it.
Truly yours in trivia and hope,
Matthew Engelhardt
PS: I knew the answer to Jennings' last Final Jeopardy was "H&R Block." And, if you do call, I'm hoping to have to patronize that particular firm in the very near future.
Tuesday, January 26, 2010
Friday, January 22, 2010
In Search of Samwise
Author's note: This blog post is written in Nerdish. For interpretations , consult the extended editions of the "Lord of the Rings" film trilogy, a Tolkien reference guide, or just bug your favorite geek.
As the big goal hovers closer, I could really use a Samwise Gamgee right about now.
For the vast majority of my weight loss challenge, I've been able to put up some impressive weekly numbers. I fought through the Holidays and came out skinnier, I've posted weeks of weight loss up to 8 pounds, and I've successfully divorced myself of Little Debbie and broken up with my mistress, Betty Crocker.
But now, as the 60-pound goal is so close, the last two weeks have been met with what amounts to a halt.
Two weeks ago, I posted a 4.8 pound weight-loss. Since then, I've lost .6, despite increasing my workouts to about 90 minutes per session and doing my best to cut down on bad snacking. Of course, there was the matter of birthday cupcakes, ice cream, and other delectables that helped me celebrate my 28th year, and such things are a joy, but nonetheless, the numbers of late haven't been as sweeping.
The pragmatist in me knows it will happen and that any loss is good loss. The ridiculous expectations-having, instant results-demanding side of me (also known as an "American Dieter") wishes that I'd already written the post of having succeeded at losing 60 and moving on to a more impressive number. The realist is happy, the fanatic is not.
I am an unabashed "Lord of the Rings" fan, so I'm choosing to look at this in a different context. After all, if you look at things from a hobbit's perspective, things just make more sense.
Since my weight loss challenge began, I have been Frodo. I got through several obstacles on my way to Mt. Doom, and I've already reached Mordor. I've already been rescued from getting eaten by a giant spider, orcs aren't going to bleed me like a stuck pig, and most pitfalls are well behind me.
But I've still got to get up that darn Mountain. And, much like dear Mr. Baggins at the foot of the volcano, things are starting to move very slowly. Granted, I'm not weighed down by the burden of thousands of years of evil personified by a piece of jewelery, and there is no creepy mutated Hobbit stalking after me (I hope). Still, I feel as if I've reached a precarious position.
What I need now is the real hero of the trilogy: Samwise Gamgee. Without Sam heaving Frodo onto his shoulders and carrying him up the mountain, Frodo never would've made it. I'm not saying I need someone to place me on their shoulders and carry me the rest of the way (after all, it's hard to burn calories when someone else is doing the carrying AND all the climbing). But a push in the right direction wouldn't hurt.
Truthfully, I've had plenty of Sams during this quest. Megan, of course, is the obvious one. So is Katie, the Weight Watchers leader who is so kind to send links of this blog to fellow Weight Watchers members and whose enthusiasm is always contagious. Now, my personal trainer is helping me to work harder (it still feels weird to write "my personal trainer." Who the hell have I become?). I guess in retrospect, I need my Sam to just be a metaphorical push, maybe one really good week to put the goal at my fingertips.
So here's to making the ascent. And, once the Ring has been tossed into the fire, here's to finding more reasons to continue the quest.
As Samwise said, "I can't carry it for you, but I can show you STATS!"
Weeks until wedding: 27
Pounds lost in Week 22: .4
Total weight lost: 51.2 lbs
percentage toward 60-pound goal: 85.333333333333
average weight loss per week: 2.3 pounds
Blog followers: 40. It'd be more, but apparently one of my editors tried to join and it crashed her computer. Oops.
Typical characteristics of a hobbit: chubby, short, bushy haired, big feet, love food. In other words, me (minus the short part) before I started Weight Watchers.
Number of times I've watched the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy: I'm guessing about 12.
Number of times I've read the trilogy, plus "The Hobbit": 4
Number of hours I've spent engaged in nerdy conversations about hobbits: 21,437
Jets and Colts kickoff: 3 p.m. Sunday
Say it with me, everybody: J-E-T-S Jets! Jets! Jets!
As the big goal hovers closer, I could really use a Samwise Gamgee right about now.
For the vast majority of my weight loss challenge, I've been able to put up some impressive weekly numbers. I fought through the Holidays and came out skinnier, I've posted weeks of weight loss up to 8 pounds, and I've successfully divorced myself of Little Debbie and broken up with my mistress, Betty Crocker.
But now, as the 60-pound goal is so close, the last two weeks have been met with what amounts to a halt.
Two weeks ago, I posted a 4.8 pound weight-loss. Since then, I've lost .6, despite increasing my workouts to about 90 minutes per session and doing my best to cut down on bad snacking. Of course, there was the matter of birthday cupcakes, ice cream, and other delectables that helped me celebrate my 28th year, and such things are a joy, but nonetheless, the numbers of late haven't been as sweeping.
The pragmatist in me knows it will happen and that any loss is good loss. The ridiculous expectations-having, instant results-demanding side of me (also known as an "American Dieter") wishes that I'd already written the post of having succeeded at losing 60 and moving on to a more impressive number. The realist is happy, the fanatic is not.
I am an unabashed "Lord of the Rings" fan, so I'm choosing to look at this in a different context. After all, if you look at things from a hobbit's perspective, things just make more sense.
Since my weight loss challenge began, I have been Frodo. I got through several obstacles on my way to Mt. Doom, and I've already reached Mordor. I've already been rescued from getting eaten by a giant spider, orcs aren't going to bleed me like a stuck pig, and most pitfalls are well behind me.
But I've still got to get up that darn Mountain. And, much like dear Mr. Baggins at the foot of the volcano, things are starting to move very slowly. Granted, I'm not weighed down by the burden of thousands of years of evil personified by a piece of jewelery, and there is no creepy mutated Hobbit stalking after me (I hope). Still, I feel as if I've reached a precarious position.
What I need now is the real hero of the trilogy: Samwise Gamgee. Without Sam heaving Frodo onto his shoulders and carrying him up the mountain, Frodo never would've made it. I'm not saying I need someone to place me on their shoulders and carry me the rest of the way (after all, it's hard to burn calories when someone else is doing the carrying AND all the climbing). But a push in the right direction wouldn't hurt.
Truthfully, I've had plenty of Sams during this quest. Megan, of course, is the obvious one. So is Katie, the Weight Watchers leader who is so kind to send links of this blog to fellow Weight Watchers members and whose enthusiasm is always contagious. Now, my personal trainer is helping me to work harder (it still feels weird to write "my personal trainer." Who the hell have I become?). I guess in retrospect, I need my Sam to just be a metaphorical push, maybe one really good week to put the goal at my fingertips.
So here's to making the ascent. And, once the Ring has been tossed into the fire, here's to finding more reasons to continue the quest.
As Samwise said, "I can't carry it for you, but I can show you STATS!"
Weeks until wedding: 27
Pounds lost in Week 22: .4
Total weight lost: 51.2 lbs
percentage toward 60-pound goal: 85.333333333333
average weight loss per week: 2.3 pounds
Blog followers: 40. It'd be more, but apparently one of my editors tried to join and it crashed her computer. Oops.
Typical characteristics of a hobbit: chubby, short, bushy haired, big feet, love food. In other words, me (minus the short part) before I started Weight Watchers.
Number of times I've watched the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy: I'm guessing about 12.
Number of times I've read the trilogy, plus "The Hobbit": 4
Number of hours I've spent engaged in nerdy conversations about hobbits: 21,437
Jets and Colts kickoff: 3 p.m. Sunday
Say it with me, everybody: J-E-T-S Jets! Jets! Jets!
Monday, January 18, 2010
Drawing inspirations from the J-E-T-S
By this point in January, I've usually stopped drawing inspiration from professional football. This year, however, I have more to celebrate than just my birthday.
My football loyalties have always been with the New York Jets. Many people find that unusual, and for two reasons.
1. I am a diehard Red Sox fan who generally says horrible things about the city of New York and all Yankees fans who dwell inside it, including those who also root for the Jets.
2. The Jets have a long and not so glorified history of extreme sucktitude.
But my hatred of New York is really just of the Yankees and revivals of "Grease." In truth, I grew up without geographic loyalties to any specific city, especially living in a place called "Middletown" which straddles the border between New York and Boston. You really want to go crazy? Try figuring out how I became a Utah Jazz fan.
And yes, for the majority of my life, the Jets have been awful. I chose them as a boy because my brother and father liked the Giants, and I wanted to be different. I could have chosen the Patriots, and years later been rewarded with Super Bowl after Super Bowl, but when I was a kid, the Patsies had the stupidest logo in sports. The Jets, meanwhile, were a cool shade of green, and their logo lacked a founding father with a football between his legs. My loyalty was set, despite the years of crappy play, getting my hopes up for a few games, and then having those hopes dashed with Dan Marino's fake spikes or Tom Brady's right arm.
In many ways, and yes, this is a bit of a stretch of a metaphor, the Jets have been a symbol of my own failure to sustain weight loss. A diet or New Year's Resolution starts strong, with plenty of expectations, just as the beginning of a football season. You look past the hindrances that might befall you and only look to the future. You can envision yourself wearing smaller pants, just as you can envision the Jets making a Super Bowl, but you tend to forget about the sacrifices and exercise that goes into success, just as you might discount the Patriots or Colts as being a viable threat.
And, after so many disappointments, you start to dwindle your expectations. Forget the playoffs, it would be nice just to finish above .500. Forget looking beach-fit, it'd be great to just be able to close the top button on your shirt. My hopes for the Jets have gone down every year since 1998, when the team was one quarter away from the Super Bowl before John Elway, Terrell Davis, and the rest of the Broncos put the green and white to rest. Similarly, since high school, I've put less and less on myself to eat better and exercise.
Until this year, of course. Entering the 21st week of Weight Watchers, I'm still on a roll. I didn't have a big loss this week, but once again, there was no gain. I've alternated between big and modest weeks, and though birthday cake might prove a hindrance to a huge loss at this Thursday's weigh-in (as well as surprise breakfasts at IHOP- I love my fiancee, she knows what makes me happy), I'm still feeling good. The Jets, meanwhile, are headed for their first AFC Championship game in 12 years, putting me in a state of football giddiness I haven't felt since scoring touchdowns in gym class.
So here's hoping the Jets can keep it up. Here's also hoping I can keep pace. Here's my promise: If I get to 80 pounds by the wedding, I'll do a dance unlike any touchdown celebration you've ever seen. For you marching band people, it might- just might- be the return of the long retired Bears dance. Cue the Jumbotron...
STATS on 3! Break!
Weeks until wedding: 28.
Pounds lost in Week 21: .2
Total weight lost: 50.8 lbs
percentage toward 60-pound goal: 84.66666666666666666667
average weight loss per week: 2.4 pounds
Blog followers: 39.
Last Super Bowl the Jets played in: Super Bowl III, 1969
Final score of that game: NY Jets 16, Baltimore Colts 7
Jets opponent Sunday: Colts. Symmetry, anyone?
Age I was when the Jets last won the Super Bowl: -11
Age I hope to be when they win it again: 28
Funny classified ad in today's JI: House pig up for adoption. Millie, 10 mths old, intelligent, friendly, vaccinated, used to living with kids and dogs. Non-Kosher. Vegetarians only please! Email inquiries to CharlotteDSpider@zuckermanfarm.com
Portion of that stat that was true: Everything up to the "non-Kosher" part.
My football loyalties have always been with the New York Jets. Many people find that unusual, and for two reasons.
1. I am a diehard Red Sox fan who generally says horrible things about the city of New York and all Yankees fans who dwell inside it, including those who also root for the Jets.
2. The Jets have a long and not so glorified history of extreme sucktitude.
But my hatred of New York is really just of the Yankees and revivals of "Grease." In truth, I grew up without geographic loyalties to any specific city, especially living in a place called "Middletown" which straddles the border between New York and Boston. You really want to go crazy? Try figuring out how I became a Utah Jazz fan.
And yes, for the majority of my life, the Jets have been awful. I chose them as a boy because my brother and father liked the Giants, and I wanted to be different. I could have chosen the Patriots, and years later been rewarded with Super Bowl after Super Bowl, but when I was a kid, the Patsies had the stupidest logo in sports. The Jets, meanwhile, were a cool shade of green, and their logo lacked a founding father with a football between his legs. My loyalty was set, despite the years of crappy play, getting my hopes up for a few games, and then having those hopes dashed with Dan Marino's fake spikes or Tom Brady's right arm.
In many ways, and yes, this is a bit of a stretch of a metaphor, the Jets have been a symbol of my own failure to sustain weight loss. A diet or New Year's Resolution starts strong, with plenty of expectations, just as the beginning of a football season. You look past the hindrances that might befall you and only look to the future. You can envision yourself wearing smaller pants, just as you can envision the Jets making a Super Bowl, but you tend to forget about the sacrifices and exercise that goes into success, just as you might discount the Patriots or Colts as being a viable threat.
And, after so many disappointments, you start to dwindle your expectations. Forget the playoffs, it would be nice just to finish above .500. Forget looking beach-fit, it'd be great to just be able to close the top button on your shirt. My hopes for the Jets have gone down every year since 1998, when the team was one quarter away from the Super Bowl before John Elway, Terrell Davis, and the rest of the Broncos put the green and white to rest. Similarly, since high school, I've put less and less on myself to eat better and exercise.
Until this year, of course. Entering the 21st week of Weight Watchers, I'm still on a roll. I didn't have a big loss this week, but once again, there was no gain. I've alternated between big and modest weeks, and though birthday cake might prove a hindrance to a huge loss at this Thursday's weigh-in (as well as surprise breakfasts at IHOP- I love my fiancee, she knows what makes me happy), I'm still feeling good. The Jets, meanwhile, are headed for their first AFC Championship game in 12 years, putting me in a state of football giddiness I haven't felt since scoring touchdowns in gym class.
So here's hoping the Jets can keep it up. Here's also hoping I can keep pace. Here's my promise: If I get to 80 pounds by the wedding, I'll do a dance unlike any touchdown celebration you've ever seen. For you marching band people, it might- just might- be the return of the long retired Bears dance. Cue the Jumbotron...
STATS on 3! Break!
Weeks until wedding: 28.
Pounds lost in Week 21: .2
Total weight lost: 50.8 lbs
percentage toward 60-pound goal: 84.66666666666666666667
average weight loss per week: 2.4 pounds
Blog followers: 39.
Last Super Bowl the Jets played in: Super Bowl III, 1969
Final score of that game: NY Jets 16, Baltimore Colts 7
Jets opponent Sunday: Colts. Symmetry, anyone?
Age I was when the Jets last won the Super Bowl: -11
Age I hope to be when they win it again: 28
Funny classified ad in today's JI: House pig up for adoption. Millie, 10 mths old, intelligent, friendly, vaccinated, used to living with kids and dogs. Non-Kosher. Vegetarians only please! Email inquiries to CharlotteDSpider@zuckermanfarm.com
Portion of that stat that was true: Everything up to the "non-Kosher" part.
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Eighty pounds... the photographic evidence.
Fifty means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.
Yeah, this is literally the worst photo of me ever taken. I'm not faulting the cameraman by any stretch of the imagination. Clearly, I'm not GQ material. I remember this day too well. I'd gone back to campus to visit some fraternity brothers. I practically lived in that sweater. It was all I wore during that time, because, get this... I thought it was slimming. When we moved in together, Megan made me ditch the sweater. I think a family of badgers is now using it for their den.
For some, it's the age when one becomes truly middle-aged, or, if their kids are wiseguys, 50 is the age when the old jokes really start to fly (sorry, Dad). Fifty is the number of states in the union, half of a hundred, A heckuva scoring game for an NBA player, or a really crappy score on a math test, like the kind I used to pull down in Algebra II. If you're a bowler, and you roll a 50, consider a different recreational activity, or just stick to drinking beer.
For me, 50 has special significance right now. Last week, I officially moved over the 50-pound barrier, a feat that's been quite a battle. Not to sound like the proverbial broken record, but I'm in the best shape of my life, and once, that shape is more eggplant and less watermelon.
In reality, it's 80 pounds. Yes, it's been 50 pounds since I started Weight Watchers, but it's been 80 pounds since I was at my absolute lowest, err, my worst. It hurts a bit to look at some of these pictures... no one likes photographic evidence of them at their most awful. But I have promised photos of my progress, and though it's taken a little while to follow through on that promise, here's a visual retrospective of what's gone away, starting with this wretched photo taken of me back in 2006.
Yeah, this is literally the worst photo of me ever taken. I'm not faulting the cameraman by any stretch of the imagination. Clearly, I'm not GQ material. I remember this day too well. I'd gone back to campus to visit some fraternity brothers. I practically lived in that sweater. It was all I wore during that time, because, get this... I thought it was slimming. When we moved in together, Megan made me ditch the sweater. I think a family of badgers is now using it for their den.
Seeing this photo was motivation for diet, part one. "Diet" isn't really the operative word, to be honest. My eating habits changed for a little while, but then I got sick of salad for lunch every day. I hit the gym for the first time and developed a routine, but sadly ended every workout with a bowl of ice cream. Some advice for dieters: reduced fat ice cream will plump you up just like its full-calorie brethren.
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Exercise overcame the poor diet, and by the time I left for Israel in summer 2007, I was 40 pounds lighter. After the trip, my weight was down even more, and at my peak, I'd lost about 50 pounds.
A few months after Israel, Megan and I remet. Courtship meant many meals out, and since the way to a man's heart (at least this man's) is most definitely through his stomach, I started eating too much again. I don't regret it at all, but the calories overtook the workouts. I was getting to the gym two or three times per week, and for a while maintained a slighter frame.
Better? Certainly. And, in case you were wondering, that suit is now much too big. But the pounds continued to come, and the 50 pounds I'd lost was now down to 30. I had nothing to worry about any more. I got the girl, and this is the part of the movie where the happily ever after begins. For me, though, happily forever after came with baked goods and chicken wings, and the weight was heading north again.
Around the summer 2009, Megan and I decided to start Weight Watchers. I was a stubborn punk, but eventually I'd had enough of being embarrassed to be in a photograph. Here's one of the last pics of me taken before the Weight Watchers plunge really began, and subsequently, the Great Wedding Fast.
After about 30 pounds were gone, I let Megan take some new photos. For your viewing pleasure...
I always considered apple tree to be a great look for me. So, by this point, I'm beyond Israeli Matt. Starting to look good, my chins merging into one. By Thanksgiving, I was up to 40 pounds gone. And, to help show how much weight I'd lost, I found a dinosaur to provide a good contrast.
Like you, I was surprised to find a T Rex wearing a Santa hat. I thought for sure "Tyrannosaurus" was a Jewish name. This sweater also marked an important step for me... horizontal stripes. In my larger days, you wouldn't find a horizontal stripe anywhere remotely close to my torso. Now I wear this sweater on a regular basis.
Which brings us to now. Here I am, 50 (or 80, depending on when you start keeping score) pounds into my weight loss challenge. Actually, it's more than 50, which means there's less than 10 pounds to go before the initial goal is met.
Wait for it...
Any time now...
Oh just post it already, you buffoon!
Why am I looking to the side? I don't know. Probably a cat stuck in something it shouldn't be, like the sink. But there you have it: 80 pounds less of Matt.
Just imagine what the wedding photos are going to look like. Sorry ladies, but that skinnier finger will soon have a band on it.
And with that, I give you the STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 29.
Week 18-19 pounds lost: 4.8 And that's with the Holidays. Take that, Santa!
Total weight lost: 50.6 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.7 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 84.3333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to reach that goal: 9.4. Cue up the Fight Song!
Number of subscribers to this blog: 37.
Can we get to the 60 pound goal by Valentine's Day? Seems like a reasonable goal. If it happens, there will be much rejoicing.
Date when stores began stocking Valentine's candy: Dec. 26
Date when stores began stocking Easter candy: Dec. 27
Date Matt ate his first Cadbury Cream Egg of the season: Dec. 28
Monday, January 4, 2010
A challenge for the resolutioneers...
So it begins.
It starts with drivers sweeping carefully around the lot. One space opens up, and three cars all put on their blinkers. Icy stares are exchanged, and as the parked SUV begins to back up, everyone else prepares to gun the engine as soon as all is clear. All at once, they dart forward, a small sedan sneaking into the space, the two other drivers hitting the horns in frustration and exchanging hand salutes before heading off for another spot.
It would be pointless to remind them they are trying to park for the purpose of exercise. Hell, it's cold out, and parking spaces are serious business for those already dressed in shorts. There's not a parking space to be found within 1,000 feet of the building. The New Year has again brought its resolutions, and suddenly those extra helpings of stuffing don't seem like such a good idea.
In other words, folks, Black Monday has come. And oh, are they out in force this year.
The Monday after the New Year puts Black Friday to shame. You think people are competitive to get a Wii game? Just watch the speed with which gym-goers new and experienced rush for a vacant treadmill. The scorn of the regulars burns holes through the resolutioneers as the latter paw carefully at unfamiliar machines.
Ad the locker room? Oy. Forget privacy. There's not a single locker not surrounding by 17 people, all of whom seem not wholly concerned with their own nudity.
And this is at 12:30 in the afternoon. Just imagine the chaos that occurs after regular work hours end. After 5 p.m., expect your local gym to be a hive, minus the painful stings and with an excess of spandex.
I get it. Trust me, I understand. I've been a resolutioneer myself, sticking my foot in the shallow end of the exercise pool as I consider whether to wade in. New years bring second chances, just like that sleazy woman told Forrest Gump (before he objected to her tasting like cigarettes). From the time I was about 15 til I was 24, I'd make the annual New Year's Resolution to lose weight, go the gym, and take better care of myself. It would last about two weeks, then it was back on the Twinkee and ice cream diet.
I finally got serious in September 2006. That was when I decided I was ready, and then followed through, to the tune where I now consider myself a regular. I see the same faces every day, and while I'm not exactly the most social of rats, I have the feeling a few of the staff members now know my name without having to check the computer screen.
It's a scary transition. The gym is an intimidating place, filled with some people that don't appear to take kindly to strangers. But it's worth it, I promise.
Yet the statistics say that most of the resolutioneers will be gone by March. My trainer (yes, I took the leap) told me that only about 90 percent of the people who sign up in January are gone within two months. They shed enough weight to look good in a bikini or Speedo (which is a lie: Nobody looks good in a Speedo), or they take off what they put on during the holidays, and then it's "well, see you next winter!" Or, they give up. I've been that guy plenty of times, so I don't begrudge anyone for deciding the gym isn't for them.
And yet, since I became a regular, I've been much happier. Endorphins are a delightful thing, and no matter how tired I am when I leave the gym, I always feel better than I did when I got there.
So here's my challenge to the resolutioneers: do it for real this time. True, it wasn't until I combined my routine with Weight Watchers that I started to really see results, but to be able to turn to exercise instead of food as a means of relieving stress is fantastic. I've stuck it out for more than three years now, and I'll continue to push. And I promise I won't smirk or roll my eyes when you ask someone how to use a machine.
That is, as long as you wipe your sweat off the machine when you are done. Forgetting to do that is just lame.
It starts with drivers sweeping carefully around the lot. One space opens up, and three cars all put on their blinkers. Icy stares are exchanged, and as the parked SUV begins to back up, everyone else prepares to gun the engine as soon as all is clear. All at once, they dart forward, a small sedan sneaking into the space, the two other drivers hitting the horns in frustration and exchanging hand salutes before heading off for another spot.
It would be pointless to remind them they are trying to park for the purpose of exercise. Hell, it's cold out, and parking spaces are serious business for those already dressed in shorts. There's not a parking space to be found within 1,000 feet of the building. The New Year has again brought its resolutions, and suddenly those extra helpings of stuffing don't seem like such a good idea.
In other words, folks, Black Monday has come. And oh, are they out in force this year.
The Monday after the New Year puts Black Friday to shame. You think people are competitive to get a Wii game? Just watch the speed with which gym-goers new and experienced rush for a vacant treadmill. The scorn of the regulars burns holes through the resolutioneers as the latter paw carefully at unfamiliar machines.
Ad the locker room? Oy. Forget privacy. There's not a single locker not surrounding by 17 people, all of whom seem not wholly concerned with their own nudity.
And this is at 12:30 in the afternoon. Just imagine the chaos that occurs after regular work hours end. After 5 p.m., expect your local gym to be a hive, minus the painful stings and with an excess of spandex.
I get it. Trust me, I understand. I've been a resolutioneer myself, sticking my foot in the shallow end of the exercise pool as I consider whether to wade in. New years bring second chances, just like that sleazy woman told Forrest Gump (before he objected to her tasting like cigarettes). From the time I was about 15 til I was 24, I'd make the annual New Year's Resolution to lose weight, go the gym, and take better care of myself. It would last about two weeks, then it was back on the Twinkee and ice cream diet.
I finally got serious in September 2006. That was when I decided I was ready, and then followed through, to the tune where I now consider myself a regular. I see the same faces every day, and while I'm not exactly the most social of rats, I have the feeling a few of the staff members now know my name without having to check the computer screen.
It's a scary transition. The gym is an intimidating place, filled with some people that don't appear to take kindly to strangers. But it's worth it, I promise.
Yet the statistics say that most of the resolutioneers will be gone by March. My trainer (yes, I took the leap) told me that only about 90 percent of the people who sign up in January are gone within two months. They shed enough weight to look good in a bikini or Speedo (which is a lie: Nobody looks good in a Speedo), or they take off what they put on during the holidays, and then it's "well, see you next winter!" Or, they give up. I've been that guy plenty of times, so I don't begrudge anyone for deciding the gym isn't for them.
And yet, since I became a regular, I've been much happier. Endorphins are a delightful thing, and no matter how tired I am when I leave the gym, I always feel better than I did when I got there.
So here's my challenge to the resolutioneers: do it for real this time. True, it wasn't until I combined my routine with Weight Watchers that I started to really see results, but to be able to turn to exercise instead of food as a means of relieving stress is fantastic. I've stuck it out for more than three years now, and I'll continue to push. And I promise I won't smirk or roll my eyes when you ask someone how to use a machine.
That is, as long as you wipe your sweat off the machine when you are done. Forgetting to do that is just lame.
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