So here we are. Thursday, Feb. 25, the date when I just might hit my mark.
It's 11:45 a.m. Weight Watchers weigh-in is T-minus five hours and fifteen minutes away (what the heck does T-minus mean, anyway? Someone get NASA on the phone!). My final meal has been consumed, an "amazing chicken" sandwich (my favorite new Megan recipe). From here on it, it's just light snacks, including after the workout, until about 2 hours before the weigh-in occurs.
Yesterday, the gym scale said I was one pound past my goal of 60 pounds lost before my July wedding. In other words, without revealing to you readers (yet) just how much I weigh or what my starting weight was, the gym scale says I have lost about 61 pounds. The home scale-- which we're going to go ahead and call the jerk scale-- said this morning that I've lost 59 pounds. Obsessing a little over these numbers? Why yes, I believe I am.
The streak is intact. I've posted either weight loss or maintained weight for 26 consecutive weeks. That's six months worth of good numbers, heading into what I hope will be the happiest weigh-in of all.
And before I get there, I have one more workout. I'm on a split shift from work today, meaning I'll have plenty of time this afternoon to exercise and get in my "last chance workout," as the hardcore trainers on The Biggest Loser are so fond of saying. I've refilled a 20 oz. water bottle three times today, preparing to sweat out as much water weight as possible at the gym.
This has been a week of hard workouts, especially Tuesday, when I burned a personal record 1525 calories, according to the arc trainer at the gym. I don't know yet how hard I will push myself in the final workout... that's a decision I'll likely make while on the machine. Despite my hard sessions, I am still far from being able to do an unassisted pull-up, but that's a goal for another day.
Today, I'm all about 60. It's the home run mark set by Babe Ruth (who, I now believe, I am skinnier than he ever was during his career peak). This year, my role model turns 60 (no, not Karl Malone). Hopefully, by day's end, I'll have a 60 of my own worth celebrating. My coworkers know today's the day, and to my delight, no one brought in tempting Munchkins in an attempt to derail me. The positive comments continue to come through, and now it's up to me to deliver.
3:50 p.m.: About an hour to go, and my optimism is waning. The nice gym scale had good things to say (61-62 pounds lost). Jerk scale is another story. It says I'm about where I was last week, which if that holds true, I may feel like a bit of an ass after today's weigh-in. Grr.
This is a frustrating feeling. I find myself continually heading to and from jerk scale, eager to see if the weight is going down from when I last had a snack. My stomach is groaning... it really hates this time on Thursday.
Oh, and the workout? I left the gym looking like someone had pushed me in a pool. 1,510 calories. That's a pretty good hour.
Tick, tick, tick....
The After: Missed it by that much...
5:15 p.m.: The fateful weigh-in is over, and now is the time to reflect on that ancient axiom that my 8th grade math teacher always seemed so fond of: close only counts in horseshoes and hand grenades. (Note: it's sad, but that little saying is about the only thing I remember from Algebra I).
Jerk scale wasn't quite accurate, but it was closer than the gym scale. Yes, some more weight has been shed from my figure, but alas, "One Shining Moment" is going to have to wait for at least one more week. Put away the scissors and the step ladder. It's not quite time to cut down the nets.
I needed to hit 1.2 pounds this week to make it happen. I hit 0.4, for a total weight loss of 59.2 pounds. While I'm ecstatic about the total, I feel a little like a twerp. I thought today was the day. I practically got on the roof and yelled it over Colchester and Manchester.
And boy, did I freak out before today's weigh-in.
I knew it was going to be close. How close? Well, here's a confession from someone who, apparently, is quite the archetypal Weight Watcher: Not only did I weigh myself several times before heading off for the meeting, but I weighed myself in different pants. In the end, I didn't even wear full pants. I wore shorts. In driving rain. In February. At a time when all the weatherman (even that hunky Ryan Hanrahan, who I hear all the gals just love) are saying the rain could change to snow.
Why the shorts? Because they weighed about 0.2 pounds less than my usual weigh-in pants. You know who's got two thumbs and is really a doofus? (Matt puts thumbs up, then points them back toward himself). This guy. Now where is that Dunce Cap?
But there's still plenty of reason for optimism. Katie, the meeting leader and a loyal reader (rhyme slightly intended), said that given the big numbers I've posted in recent weeks, my body was bound to slow down a bit. This was just that week. It's not that I overindulged, or didn't work hard enough; weight loss is a science that's pretty difficult to predict.
Plus, Megan bought me ice cream. She is awesome.
So I'll follow the sage wisdom of Charlotte the Spider and keep my chin up. Come next Thursday, hopefully the mark will be met. And if not, heck, I'm still five months ahead of pace anyway.
STATS of the Union:
Weeks until wedding: 22. Groomsman, start practicing your chair lifts!
Pounds lost in Week 27: 0.4
Total weight lost: 59.2 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 98.666666667
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 0.8 lbs. That's a violent sneeze away.
Average weight loss: 21.2
Blog Subscribers: 44. Get to 50, and free soda for all!
Thursday, February 25, 2010
Monday, February 22, 2010
Hoping for One Shining Moment
One year, one pound, one week.
Those are the milestones I am ready to celebrate today. That sequence of ones has great significance to me at this point in my life. They're all connected, and two of them have already come true. The third is quite a distinct possibility.
First and foremost, the one year part. (warning: some nuptial sappiness is about to occur. If this makes you ill, see a physician, or go shear a sheep). This past Saturday, Megan and I celebrated one year of engagement. Last February, under the guise of having to cover a "really long meeting," I drove through a snowstorm to Megan's parents' house. I showed them the engagement ring I'd just purchased, got their blessing, and drove home in a very good mood.
A couple days later, Megan came home from work to find a trail of small presents leading her upstairs, where I was waiting. Some of you might be asking, why didn't he just propose on Valentine's Day? For one, my tax refund didn't come til the week after. Besides, now we have a much better day to celebrate than when Russell Stover first covered a walnut with chocolate, stuck it in a heart-shaped box, then jacked up the price. Anyway, back to the proposal. She came upstairs, where I was wearing a shirt and tie (quick note: if I'm wearing a necktie, something important is happening. Either that, or it has Muppets on it and I just felt like displaying Fozzie). I proposed, she said yes, and here we are, one happy year later.
Now the wedding is quickly approaching. I would never have taken up this weight loss challenge if it weren't for her. She loves me for who I am, and I feel the same way about her. But there is the little matter of the wedding photos, and for as beautiful a bride she is going to be, I want to be pretty proud of those pictures too. Thank you, Megan, for a great year. Here's to many more...
Now that the sap session is complete, onward to the one pound part. That's the rounded total to how much weight I have left to lose before I hit the magic 60. One freakin' pound. Oh, hell yes. In about six months, I've lost 59 pounds.
Here are some things that weigh about 59 pounds: several bowling balls, a second-grader, a bunch of really big candy bars, a golden retriever, a Leprechaun, Barry Bonds' head, and six house cats, depending on how corpulent the cat.
Technically, it's 58.8 pounds, but you get the drift. I'm oh so close now to reaching that arbitrary number, and the results are looking pretty fantastic. Over the weekend, I bought a pair of jeans with a 36 waist. The last time I did that, I was in 8th grade, and they were still tight. Comparatively speaking, one year ago, I was wearing 40s and 42s. They're mostly gone now, so don't expect the Jared pants photo any time soon, but there's still plenty of reason to rejoice.
And now onto one week. In addition to being a fantastic Barenaked Ladies song that doubles as a karaoke super-challenge, one week is when I hope to achieve the 60-pound mark. I guess at this point, the one week is really four days. Four hard workouts, eating right, and quite conceivably, I will have hit my mark. I've already decided to attempt to go further than 60, but the milestone I originally hoped for is within reach.
Doug, the JI's Web site guru, asked me a few weeks ago what that day would be like. My response" It would be my "One Shining Moment." Men's college hoops fans know exactly what I'm getting at here. At the end of the NCAA tournament, CBS puts together a montage of the whole championship, from the opening rounds to the Final Four. At the end of it, the champions are seen celebrating, with their final game footage already edited into the montage, and the team stops their post-game festivities to watch the video.
Through it all, an incredibly cheesy, strangely inspirational song called "One Shining Moment" plays, most recently sung by the late Luther Vandross. I love that song. I loved it the first time UConn got the final edit in 1999. I loved it even more in 2004, when I was not only a happy fan once again, but now a UConn student and member of the women's team pep band. I'll watch the "One Shining Moment" montage every year, regardless of who wins the tournament (Duke may be the only exception. I hate Duke).
So come Thursday, I'm hoping for my own cheesy Luther Vandross moment. And, hopefully, I won't be satisfied to only hear it once.
The penultimate STATS? We'll see....
Weeks until wedding: 23. Oh, so close.
Pounds lost in Week 26: 2.0
Total weight lost: 58.8 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 98.
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 1.2 lbs.
Percent of total weight lost: more than 20. And for that, I got more Weight Watchers bling.
Years UConn went to Final Four: 1999, 2004, 2009
Other teams I don't care for, besides Duke: Pitt, Syracuse, Texas, Oklahoma, Rutgers
UConn's Bubble Status, according to ESPN: outside looking in. Come on, Huskies!
My All-time Huskies lineup: G Ray Allen, G Doron Sheffer, C Emeka Okafor, F Rip Hamilton, F Nadav Henefeld.
Bench: F Cliff Robinson, F Donyell Marshall, F Caron Butler, G Ben Gordon, G Chris Smith, G Khalid El-Amin, C Hasheem Thabeet
Those are the milestones I am ready to celebrate today. That sequence of ones has great significance to me at this point in my life. They're all connected, and two of them have already come true. The third is quite a distinct possibility.
First and foremost, the one year part. (warning: some nuptial sappiness is about to occur. If this makes you ill, see a physician, or go shear a sheep). This past Saturday, Megan and I celebrated one year of engagement. Last February, under the guise of having to cover a "really long meeting," I drove through a snowstorm to Megan's parents' house. I showed them the engagement ring I'd just purchased, got their blessing, and drove home in a very good mood.
A couple days later, Megan came home from work to find a trail of small presents leading her upstairs, where I was waiting. Some of you might be asking, why didn't he just propose on Valentine's Day? For one, my tax refund didn't come til the week after. Besides, now we have a much better day to celebrate than when Russell Stover first covered a walnut with chocolate, stuck it in a heart-shaped box, then jacked up the price. Anyway, back to the proposal. She came upstairs, where I was wearing a shirt and tie (quick note: if I'm wearing a necktie, something important is happening. Either that, or it has Muppets on it and I just felt like displaying Fozzie). I proposed, she said yes, and here we are, one happy year later.
Now the wedding is quickly approaching. I would never have taken up this weight loss challenge if it weren't for her. She loves me for who I am, and I feel the same way about her. But there is the little matter of the wedding photos, and for as beautiful a bride she is going to be, I want to be pretty proud of those pictures too. Thank you, Megan, for a great year. Here's to many more...
Now that the sap session is complete, onward to the one pound part. That's the rounded total to how much weight I have left to lose before I hit the magic 60. One freakin' pound. Oh, hell yes. In about six months, I've lost 59 pounds.
Here are some things that weigh about 59 pounds: several bowling balls, a second-grader, a bunch of really big candy bars, a golden retriever, a Leprechaun, Barry Bonds' head, and six house cats, depending on how corpulent the cat.
Technically, it's 58.8 pounds, but you get the drift. I'm oh so close now to reaching that arbitrary number, and the results are looking pretty fantastic. Over the weekend, I bought a pair of jeans with a 36 waist. The last time I did that, I was in 8th grade, and they were still tight. Comparatively speaking, one year ago, I was wearing 40s and 42s. They're mostly gone now, so don't expect the Jared pants photo any time soon, but there's still plenty of reason to rejoice.
And now onto one week. In addition to being a fantastic Barenaked Ladies song that doubles as a karaoke super-challenge, one week is when I hope to achieve the 60-pound mark. I guess at this point, the one week is really four days. Four hard workouts, eating right, and quite conceivably, I will have hit my mark. I've already decided to attempt to go further than 60, but the milestone I originally hoped for is within reach.
Doug, the JI's Web site guru, asked me a few weeks ago what that day would be like. My response" It would be my "One Shining Moment." Men's college hoops fans know exactly what I'm getting at here. At the end of the NCAA tournament, CBS puts together a montage of the whole championship, from the opening rounds to the Final Four. At the end of it, the champions are seen celebrating, with their final game footage already edited into the montage, and the team stops their post-game festivities to watch the video.
Through it all, an incredibly cheesy, strangely inspirational song called "One Shining Moment" plays, most recently sung by the late Luther Vandross. I love that song. I loved it the first time UConn got the final edit in 1999. I loved it even more in 2004, when I was not only a happy fan once again, but now a UConn student and member of the women's team pep band. I'll watch the "One Shining Moment" montage every year, regardless of who wins the tournament (Duke may be the only exception. I hate Duke).
So come Thursday, I'm hoping for my own cheesy Luther Vandross moment. And, hopefully, I won't be satisfied to only hear it once.
The penultimate STATS? We'll see....
Weeks until wedding: 23. Oh, so close.
Pounds lost in Week 26: 2.0
Total weight lost: 58.8 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 98.
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 1.2 lbs.
Percent of total weight lost: more than 20. And for that, I got more Weight Watchers bling.
Years UConn went to Final Four: 1999, 2004, 2009
Other teams I don't care for, besides Duke: Pitt, Syracuse, Texas, Oklahoma, Rutgers
UConn's Bubble Status, according to ESPN: outside looking in. Come on, Huskies!
My All-time Huskies lineup: G Ray Allen, G Doron Sheffer, C Emeka Okafor, F Rip Hamilton, F Nadav Henefeld.
Bench: F Cliff Robinson, F Donyell Marshall, F Caron Butler, G Ben Gordon, G Chris Smith, G Khalid El-Amin, C Hasheem Thabeet
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
The airplane nightmare
Of all the people in the world struggling with their weight, I fully appreciate what Kevin Smith is going through with all the hullabaloo over Southwest Airlines. True, I wish he would shut up a bit about it instead of continuing the spectacle, but the man is quite literally living one my biggest fears.
I am not afraid to fly. Heights don't really bother me, and though I am not a huge fan of enclosed spaces, I've never suffered any kind of episodes as the result of claustrophobia. Yet airplanes scare me, and it has nothing to do with terrorism or concern of a drunken pilot.
My airplane fear stems from 28 years of being overweight, especially the last 10 or so as an overweight adult. See, there is nothing worse than getting into an airplane seat next to a stranger (especially a coach seat, which are apparently designed with Lilliputians in mind) who is visibly upset to have you as a seatmate. It has nothing to do with who gets possession of the armrest. It has everything to do with size, and I've seen the reaction too many times.
I remember my flight home from Israel with particular dread. Despite the fact that there were 40 people in my group, most of whom I'd developed friendships with, I found myself seated next to a pair of unfamiliar twins. Skinny, bratty, late teenager twins, to be specific, with their IPods plugged firmly into their heads and no sign of friendliness offered by their listless faces. As I approached my aisle seat, the twin sitting in the middle seat quite visibly rolled his eyes at me. He didn't have to say anything to get his message across. He might have thought he revealed nothing with a simple eye roll, but to oversensitive Matt, he was saying "great, a 12-hour flight with fatty."
The feeling is the same as getting onto a crowded elevator. When you're big, you pick up on the subtle glances people make toward the maximum occupancy signs. You hear the snickers, the "oh crap, the cable's gonna snap" whispers exchanged between riders. You enter a state of self-consciousness that is brutally overbearing, like you've suddenly become a monster simply because you're the overweight guy riding up multiple floors.
And when you think it's all in your head, a celebrity has an experience like the one Kevin Smith had on Southwest, and you read the vicious, craven comments left anonymously by people who apparently never made it out of the middle school mentality.
For anyone unfamiliar with Smith's story, here's a brief synopsis: the filmmaker caught a standby flight and was forced to fly coach. Southwest, apparently, has a policy that requires significantly overweight passengers to buy an extra seat on flights, as determined by a person's ability to lower the armrests on their seats. Smith, who is overweight but by no means a late-year Brando, disputes whether he successfully lowered the rests. He says he did, the airline said he didn't, and off the airplane he went. Yes, to use the headline that everyone else has regarding this story, Southwest decided that Kevin Smith was "too fat to fly."
I've always enjoyed Kevin Smith's movies. I love him as Silent Bob, the quiet sidekick to the mouthy Jay who manages to say the most meaningful or blunt thing in every movie he's in. But if it were me in Smith's situation, I think I'd be handling my shame quietly instead of lighting up the Internet with angry rants the way the director has responded. Part of me is pleased that he's sticking it to the airline, but the other part of me is worried he's just breeding more awful comments from the people who love opportunities to make fun of overweight people.
Several months ago, in one of my first postings of this blog, I wrote that one of my goals was to get on an airplane without seeing the eyes roll of my seatmates. Smith's experience is quite literally the epitome of what I feared, and a big part of my motivation for taking on this weight loss challenge.
I'm roughly 40 pounds lighter now than I was on that flight from Israel. Would that twin still have rolled his eyes at this version of me? I don't know. I haven't flown in a few years, and there are no flights scheduled in my immediate future. It's probably one of those situations where I won't know until I'm back on a plane sitting next to a stranger.
But as long as the threat of the feeling of dread remains, I'm going to stick to this plan, if for no other reason just so I never get the Kevin Smith treatment.
I am not afraid to fly. Heights don't really bother me, and though I am not a huge fan of enclosed spaces, I've never suffered any kind of episodes as the result of claustrophobia. Yet airplanes scare me, and it has nothing to do with terrorism or concern of a drunken pilot.
My airplane fear stems from 28 years of being overweight, especially the last 10 or so as an overweight adult. See, there is nothing worse than getting into an airplane seat next to a stranger (especially a coach seat, which are apparently designed with Lilliputians in mind) who is visibly upset to have you as a seatmate. It has nothing to do with who gets possession of the armrest. It has everything to do with size, and I've seen the reaction too many times.
I remember my flight home from Israel with particular dread. Despite the fact that there were 40 people in my group, most of whom I'd developed friendships with, I found myself seated next to a pair of unfamiliar twins. Skinny, bratty, late teenager twins, to be specific, with their IPods plugged firmly into their heads and no sign of friendliness offered by their listless faces. As I approached my aisle seat, the twin sitting in the middle seat quite visibly rolled his eyes at me. He didn't have to say anything to get his message across. He might have thought he revealed nothing with a simple eye roll, but to oversensitive Matt, he was saying "great, a 12-hour flight with fatty."
The feeling is the same as getting onto a crowded elevator. When you're big, you pick up on the subtle glances people make toward the maximum occupancy signs. You hear the snickers, the "oh crap, the cable's gonna snap" whispers exchanged between riders. You enter a state of self-consciousness that is brutally overbearing, like you've suddenly become a monster simply because you're the overweight guy riding up multiple floors.
And when you think it's all in your head, a celebrity has an experience like the one Kevin Smith had on Southwest, and you read the vicious, craven comments left anonymously by people who apparently never made it out of the middle school mentality.
For anyone unfamiliar with Smith's story, here's a brief synopsis: the filmmaker caught a standby flight and was forced to fly coach. Southwest, apparently, has a policy that requires significantly overweight passengers to buy an extra seat on flights, as determined by a person's ability to lower the armrests on their seats. Smith, who is overweight but by no means a late-year Brando, disputes whether he successfully lowered the rests. He says he did, the airline said he didn't, and off the airplane he went. Yes, to use the headline that everyone else has regarding this story, Southwest decided that Kevin Smith was "too fat to fly."
I've always enjoyed Kevin Smith's movies. I love him as Silent Bob, the quiet sidekick to the mouthy Jay who manages to say the most meaningful or blunt thing in every movie he's in. But if it were me in Smith's situation, I think I'd be handling my shame quietly instead of lighting up the Internet with angry rants the way the director has responded. Part of me is pleased that he's sticking it to the airline, but the other part of me is worried he's just breeding more awful comments from the people who love opportunities to make fun of overweight people.
Several months ago, in one of my first postings of this blog, I wrote that one of my goals was to get on an airplane without seeing the eyes roll of my seatmates. Smith's experience is quite literally the epitome of what I feared, and a big part of my motivation for taking on this weight loss challenge.
I'm roughly 40 pounds lighter now than I was on that flight from Israel. Would that twin still have rolled his eyes at this version of me? I don't know. I haven't flown in a few years, and there are no flights scheduled in my immediate future. It's probably one of those situations where I won't know until I'm back on a plane sitting next to a stranger.
But as long as the threat of the feeling of dread remains, I'm going to stick to this plan, if for no other reason just so I never get the Kevin Smith treatment.
Saturday, February 13, 2010
That blasted pull-up bar.
Yup, time to cue that fancy flashback music again. This time, we're headed back to third grade gym class, Wesley Elementary School, circa 1992...
"Just one pull-up and you pass the test!" Yelled my gym teacher, as I dangled hopelessly from the horizontal metal bar.
It's pretty cruel that of all the components of the President's Physical Fitness Test, the pull-ups would come last. As a second grader, it had been the mile run that did me in, along with the sit-and-reach test and the blasted pull-ups. Third grade was more of the same.
Fourth grade, however, saw me in the best shape of my 10 year old life. I'd become quite the little basketball player, and was never the last one picked for recess football. Field day was rewarded with a number of ribbons, not just the purple one for participation. And, as much as any kid hopes to do well on an arbitrary test, I was determined that this would be the year that I finally met the president's challenge.
Week one of the test was the easiest part: the sit-ups. No problem. Someone holds your feet, you lean forward 35 times, hope you don't have to hold the feet of the stinky kid, and you move on with your day. Sure enough, I passed this part of the challenge without breaking a sweat. Yeah, the abs were a little sore, but you know what they say about pain.
On comes the next week, and with it, the sit-and-reach. This one could be trouble. I'm not all that flexible, after all. Can I really push that little lever forward 25 inches? Well, not quite, but thankfully my gym teacher had no problem rounding up from 24.5. Close call, but on we go.
Week 3: the mile run. Well, what passed for a mile run, anyway, in a field with no actual track. The challenge: run around the course three times within 10 minutes. I'd never succeeded before, but by this time in my life, I'd acquired a pair of Reebok Pumps. Yup, those wonderful sneakers with the little basketball on the tongue, which could be pumped to achieve maximum foot traction. With those swift sneakers, I rounded the final turn, took a time to compose myself, than ran like Hades. I sprinted over the line just as the teacher counted off "9:57!" Thank you, Reebok, for your phenomenal Pumps.
But then, week four: the pull-ups. Would this year be different? Would I finally be able to pull myself above the bar, like a power forward showing off after dunking a basketball? It was all that stood between me and my own certificate of fitness was one rep, just one bend of the elbows...
I couldn't do it. Not even a little. Try as I might, there would be no getting my chin above that metal bar. And, as I swung like a doofus, I realized there would be no presidential acknowledgements for me, just the usual jeers from the tormentors of the Wesley playground.
Flash forward 18 years...
I saw the pull-up bar as soon as I walked into that middle school gymnasium. I was there to help Megan with her holiday concert, and yet as the kids performed, I couldn't help but stare at the bar. True, in almost 28 years, I'd never come close to executing a successful pull-up. Then again, I'd never been in shape quite like this before, at least not since my near accomplishment back in fourth grade. Maybe now, with all the exercise I've been doing, all the gym work and weight lifting and fat burning, perhaps I was now at the time in my life when the pull-up would prove possible.
At the end of the concert, as the parents filed their children out of the gym, I went for it. This time, there was no need to jump up to grab the bar. I reached up, grasped the bar firmly in my hands, took a deep breath, and pulled.
Nothing. Just Matt dangling from a bar again. What good was it to lose 40 pounds and still be unable to do a pull-up? Blast!
One last touch of the fast forward button. Now we're at a Manchester gym this past Friday. Cue Matt and the personal trainer...
"Alright, you ever try this machine before?"
I couldn't believe it. The trainer had led me right to the pull up machine. Try this machine? Heck, I've done all I can to avoid it! There's no way, even with the added support the machine provides, that I'm going to do a pull-up that will make you shake your head with approval. I don't care how many push-ups I can do, I'm about to make a fool out of my self on the one piece of equipment I've vowed to avoid like it had scabies.
"Ah, no, I don't think I have."
The girl on the machine (a trainer herself, I might add) made it look so simple. "Watch her form," the trainer said. Chin up, shoulders pinched back, each movement symmetrical. This was no problem for her.
Then it was my turn. My trainer set the support on high, and to my surprise, I could pull myself up a few times. Without the support, however, I once again found myself as a bar dangler. The spirit is willing, but the upper body, it appears, is still too weak.
Frowning, I let myself down from the bar. "Most people are intimidated by the pull-up machine," the trainer says. Yeah, I know how they feel.
I look up, the frown still present on my face. "I've never been able to do a pull-up. I don't think I ever will."
"I think you'll surprise yourself," he smirks. "In fact, I think I'm going to have you try every time you come in."
I looked into his eye, seeking the twinkle of a punchline. He wasn't joking. He actually expected me to repeat this folly in every workout session.
And you know what? I'm game. Perhaps someday, I'll be able to quit dangling and get my chin above that darned bar. Maybe then, my weight loss journey will have officially reached its apex.
For now, though, the pull-up remains ever elusive. And when I do, I'm writing Obama to tell him. I want my certificate, darn it, even if it has to be retroactive to 1992!
And with that, let's pump up some STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 24 (Holy crap, I'm getting married soon!)
Pounds lost in Week 25: 1.2
Total weight lost: 56.8 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 94.6666667 Grading on the curve, I'm practically there!
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 3.2 lbs.
3.2 is exactly 10 percent of what number? 32.
Certain NBA superstar who wore number 32 for most of his career. The Mailman. Yep, another Karl Malone reference. Deal with it!
Blog followers: 43
Congrats to: Janina and Sam on baby #2! Benjamin is quite cute, but when's he getting a job?
"Just one pull-up and you pass the test!" Yelled my gym teacher, as I dangled hopelessly from the horizontal metal bar.
It's pretty cruel that of all the components of the President's Physical Fitness Test, the pull-ups would come last. As a second grader, it had been the mile run that did me in, along with the sit-and-reach test and the blasted pull-ups. Third grade was more of the same.
Fourth grade, however, saw me in the best shape of my 10 year old life. I'd become quite the little basketball player, and was never the last one picked for recess football. Field day was rewarded with a number of ribbons, not just the purple one for participation. And, as much as any kid hopes to do well on an arbitrary test, I was determined that this would be the year that I finally met the president's challenge.
Week one of the test was the easiest part: the sit-ups. No problem. Someone holds your feet, you lean forward 35 times, hope you don't have to hold the feet of the stinky kid, and you move on with your day. Sure enough, I passed this part of the challenge without breaking a sweat. Yeah, the abs were a little sore, but you know what they say about pain.
On comes the next week, and with it, the sit-and-reach. This one could be trouble. I'm not all that flexible, after all. Can I really push that little lever forward 25 inches? Well, not quite, but thankfully my gym teacher had no problem rounding up from 24.5. Close call, but on we go.
Week 3: the mile run. Well, what passed for a mile run, anyway, in a field with no actual track. The challenge: run around the course three times within 10 minutes. I'd never succeeded before, but by this time in my life, I'd acquired a pair of Reebok Pumps. Yup, those wonderful sneakers with the little basketball on the tongue, which could be pumped to achieve maximum foot traction. With those swift sneakers, I rounded the final turn, took a time to compose myself, than ran like Hades. I sprinted over the line just as the teacher counted off "9:57!" Thank you, Reebok, for your phenomenal Pumps.
But then, week four: the pull-ups. Would this year be different? Would I finally be able to pull myself above the bar, like a power forward showing off after dunking a basketball? It was all that stood between me and my own certificate of fitness was one rep, just one bend of the elbows...
I couldn't do it. Not even a little. Try as I might, there would be no getting my chin above that metal bar. And, as I swung like a doofus, I realized there would be no presidential acknowledgements for me, just the usual jeers from the tormentors of the Wesley playground.
Flash forward 18 years...
I saw the pull-up bar as soon as I walked into that middle school gymnasium. I was there to help Megan with her holiday concert, and yet as the kids performed, I couldn't help but stare at the bar. True, in almost 28 years, I'd never come close to executing a successful pull-up. Then again, I'd never been in shape quite like this before, at least not since my near accomplishment back in fourth grade. Maybe now, with all the exercise I've been doing, all the gym work and weight lifting and fat burning, perhaps I was now at the time in my life when the pull-up would prove possible.
At the end of the concert, as the parents filed their children out of the gym, I went for it. This time, there was no need to jump up to grab the bar. I reached up, grasped the bar firmly in my hands, took a deep breath, and pulled.
Nothing. Just Matt dangling from a bar again. What good was it to lose 40 pounds and still be unable to do a pull-up? Blast!
One last touch of the fast forward button. Now we're at a Manchester gym this past Friday. Cue Matt and the personal trainer...
"Alright, you ever try this machine before?"
I couldn't believe it. The trainer had led me right to the pull up machine. Try this machine? Heck, I've done all I can to avoid it! There's no way, even with the added support the machine provides, that I'm going to do a pull-up that will make you shake your head with approval. I don't care how many push-ups I can do, I'm about to make a fool out of my self on the one piece of equipment I've vowed to avoid like it had scabies.
"Ah, no, I don't think I have."
The girl on the machine (a trainer herself, I might add) made it look so simple. "Watch her form," the trainer said. Chin up, shoulders pinched back, each movement symmetrical. This was no problem for her.
Then it was my turn. My trainer set the support on high, and to my surprise, I could pull myself up a few times. Without the support, however, I once again found myself as a bar dangler. The spirit is willing, but the upper body, it appears, is still too weak.
Frowning, I let myself down from the bar. "Most people are intimidated by the pull-up machine," the trainer says. Yeah, I know how they feel.
I look up, the frown still present on my face. "I've never been able to do a pull-up. I don't think I ever will."
"I think you'll surprise yourself," he smirks. "In fact, I think I'm going to have you try every time you come in."
I looked into his eye, seeking the twinkle of a punchline. He wasn't joking. He actually expected me to repeat this folly in every workout session.
And you know what? I'm game. Perhaps someday, I'll be able to quit dangling and get my chin above that darned bar. Maybe then, my weight loss journey will have officially reached its apex.
For now, though, the pull-up remains ever elusive. And when I do, I'm writing Obama to tell him. I want my certificate, darn it, even if it has to be retroactive to 1992!
And with that, let's pump up some STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 24 (Holy crap, I'm getting married soon!)
Pounds lost in Week 25: 1.2
Total weight lost: 56.8 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 94.6666667 Grading on the curve, I'm practically there!
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 3.2 lbs.
3.2 is exactly 10 percent of what number? 32.
Certain NBA superstar who wore number 32 for most of his career. The Mailman. Yep, another Karl Malone reference. Deal with it!
Blog followers: 43
Congrats to: Janina and Sam on baby #2! Benjamin is quite cute, but when's he getting a job?
Friday, February 5, 2010
A groan of betrayal...
I wish I was a little more stealthy. Or, at the very least, that one of my oldest friends wouldn't be so quick with a confession of guilt.
Catlike is not an adjective that one would apply to Matthew Engelhardt. I will never be a master thief capable of pulling off spectacular heists, like the guy who stole the Mona Lisa. The reason is simple: no matter how dishonest may brain may attempt to be, my stomach has a guilt complex, and will always give me away.
Case in point: On Thursday night I was heading home from Windsor after attending a longer than expected meeting. It had been at least four hours since I'd had anything to eat... a long time for a man who snacks regularly as a means of keeping his metabolism working strong. I'd worked out hard already that day, burning over 1,000 calories through cardio in addition to however much I burned through weight training. Weigh-in had already passed, and after another successful week, I was pretty darn hungry.
Channeling a little bit of Mike Birbiglia as I continue with this story, it's important to remind you that you're on my side. I had no foul motives, just got caught in a moment of weakness. That being established, let's continue with our little tale of espionage.
It was at least a 30 mile drive home to Colchester, and I needed gas. As I pulled into a Citgo, I noticed the convenience store was still open. Quickly, I calculated my remaining points in my head, determined I had ample reason for a little bit of diet sinning, and proceeded inside. Had I not stopped for gas, I would have made the trek home without a snack. But, being that I was already here...
I headed to the cooler and grabbed a Diet Dr. Pepper. Zero calories and caffeine, just what I needed. Yet I found myself pulled in the direction of the ice cream case, and sure enough, there it was, my absolute snack weakness.
A Tollhouse Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream Sandwich, and me with the gumption to find it a home. It was a match, and despite any misgivings about Weight Watchers, I made the purchase and headed home, treat and soda in hand.
I'm not going to lie: what I did to that ice cream was not pretty. I devoured it as fast as one can without getting a brainfreeze, delighting in the texture of the cookies and the creaminess of the vanilla. Then, it occurred to me: while what I did felt so good, it was a bit in line of what one would expect from the chubbier, pre-WW Matt. Now, the guilt set in, because I knew in my heart that there was one person I didn't want to discover my little act of trickery.
The problem was, I live with her. And while I lack stealth, Megan is quite the formidable detective.
I panicked, forgetting entirely about the 20 ounces of diet soda. What masks the scent of chocolate? Why, minty gum, of course, the very flavor I had in the center console. I tore open the pack, took out two pieces, and chomped away, now well towards home, where my perfect crime would never be unmasked.
I got home, tossed the treat wrapper in the dumpster, and was about to go inside the apartment when I remembered the soda. Sure, I could leave it in the car, but it's happened before when I've left Dr. Pepper in the car during a cold night and come back the next day to find frozen colaish chunks all over the upholstery. So I took it inside with me.
Megan knows me so very well, much more than anyone has gotten to know me in the past. Two clues were dead giveaways to my misdeeds. First, the soda. What kind of dope would spend $1.39 on a beverage, then forget to drink it? This guy, that's who. Second, my tendency after a long meeting and drive is usually to head straight for the freezer, where a low calorie ice cream treat is my reward. But that night, I made no beeline for a Skinny Cow; I actually said I was content just to go to bed.
She may have had enough evidence to put me on trial, but I wasn't ready to confess. Unfortunately, my dear stomach, who must feel neglected after so many months of denying it the pleasures it's come to know, became too satisfied in its glee.
Grooooooooaaaaaaaannnnnnn.......
"You stopped for ice cream!" Megan deduced. How she knows the language of my digestive system, I have no idea. I guess that when a woman lives with a man who has great fondness for Mexican food, you get accustomed to some unusual noises. But with one groan, she knew that I had not only stopped for a snack, but for ice cream. How the heck did she do that?
I made no attempt at defense. I just started laughing, and the two of us continued to chuckle for several minutes. Was she mad? No. She even admitted that I was entitled to that ice cream. Am I annoyed to have been betrayed by my gut? A little. Sweet revenge, I suppose, for a stomach that no longer gets regular trips to convenience marts.
Sorry to say, dear tummy, we're not where we want to be yet. I hope you enjoyed that ice cream, because it's back to the Weight Watchers variety until after the goal is met.
Or at least until I learn to be a little more lithe.
What else did I get at the store? Why, some STATS, naturally organic, of course.
Weeks until wedding: 25
Pounds lost in Week 24: 1.4
Total weight lost: 55.6 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 92.6666667
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 4.4 lbs. Getting closer, bit by bit. Did I really need that treat?
Blog followers: 42
People I know who read the blog but haven't signed up: many. And I know where you all live. (well, some of you, at least).
Number of calories in a Tollhouse cookie ice cream sandwich: 520 (23 g fat)
Number of points that equals in WW terms: about 11
Amount of time on arc trainer it takes me to burn 520 calories: about 20 minutes
Catlike is not an adjective that one would apply to Matthew Engelhardt. I will never be a master thief capable of pulling off spectacular heists, like the guy who stole the Mona Lisa. The reason is simple: no matter how dishonest may brain may attempt to be, my stomach has a guilt complex, and will always give me away.
Case in point: On Thursday night I was heading home from Windsor after attending a longer than expected meeting. It had been at least four hours since I'd had anything to eat... a long time for a man who snacks regularly as a means of keeping his metabolism working strong. I'd worked out hard already that day, burning over 1,000 calories through cardio in addition to however much I burned through weight training. Weigh-in had already passed, and after another successful week, I was pretty darn hungry.
Channeling a little bit of Mike Birbiglia as I continue with this story, it's important to remind you that you're on my side. I had no foul motives, just got caught in a moment of weakness. That being established, let's continue with our little tale of espionage.
It was at least a 30 mile drive home to Colchester, and I needed gas. As I pulled into a Citgo, I noticed the convenience store was still open. Quickly, I calculated my remaining points in my head, determined I had ample reason for a little bit of diet sinning, and proceeded inside. Had I not stopped for gas, I would have made the trek home without a snack. But, being that I was already here...
I headed to the cooler and grabbed a Diet Dr. Pepper. Zero calories and caffeine, just what I needed. Yet I found myself pulled in the direction of the ice cream case, and sure enough, there it was, my absolute snack weakness.
A Tollhouse Chocolate Chip Cookie Ice Cream Sandwich, and me with the gumption to find it a home. It was a match, and despite any misgivings about Weight Watchers, I made the purchase and headed home, treat and soda in hand.
I'm not going to lie: what I did to that ice cream was not pretty. I devoured it as fast as one can without getting a brainfreeze, delighting in the texture of the cookies and the creaminess of the vanilla. Then, it occurred to me: while what I did felt so good, it was a bit in line of what one would expect from the chubbier, pre-WW Matt. Now, the guilt set in, because I knew in my heart that there was one person I didn't want to discover my little act of trickery.
The problem was, I live with her. And while I lack stealth, Megan is quite the formidable detective.
I panicked, forgetting entirely about the 20 ounces of diet soda. What masks the scent of chocolate? Why, minty gum, of course, the very flavor I had in the center console. I tore open the pack, took out two pieces, and chomped away, now well towards home, where my perfect crime would never be unmasked.
I got home, tossed the treat wrapper in the dumpster, and was about to go inside the apartment when I remembered the soda. Sure, I could leave it in the car, but it's happened before when I've left Dr. Pepper in the car during a cold night and come back the next day to find frozen colaish chunks all over the upholstery. So I took it inside with me.
Megan knows me so very well, much more than anyone has gotten to know me in the past. Two clues were dead giveaways to my misdeeds. First, the soda. What kind of dope would spend $1.39 on a beverage, then forget to drink it? This guy, that's who. Second, my tendency after a long meeting and drive is usually to head straight for the freezer, where a low calorie ice cream treat is my reward. But that night, I made no beeline for a Skinny Cow; I actually said I was content just to go to bed.
She may have had enough evidence to put me on trial, but I wasn't ready to confess. Unfortunately, my dear stomach, who must feel neglected after so many months of denying it the pleasures it's come to know, became too satisfied in its glee.
Grooooooooaaaaaaaannnnnnn.......
"You stopped for ice cream!" Megan deduced. How she knows the language of my digestive system, I have no idea. I guess that when a woman lives with a man who has great fondness for Mexican food, you get accustomed to some unusual noises. But with one groan, she knew that I had not only stopped for a snack, but for ice cream. How the heck did she do that?
I made no attempt at defense. I just started laughing, and the two of us continued to chuckle for several minutes. Was she mad? No. She even admitted that I was entitled to that ice cream. Am I annoyed to have been betrayed by my gut? A little. Sweet revenge, I suppose, for a stomach that no longer gets regular trips to convenience marts.
Sorry to say, dear tummy, we're not where we want to be yet. I hope you enjoyed that ice cream, because it's back to the Weight Watchers variety until after the goal is met.
Or at least until I learn to be a little more lithe.
What else did I get at the store? Why, some STATS, naturally organic, of course.
Weeks until wedding: 25
Pounds lost in Week 24: 1.4
Total weight lost: 55.6 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 92.6666667
Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: 4.4 lbs. Getting closer, bit by bit. Did I really need that treat?
Blog followers: 42
People I know who read the blog but haven't signed up: many. And I know where you all live. (well, some of you, at least).
Number of calories in a Tollhouse cookie ice cream sandwich: 520 (23 g fat)
Number of points that equals in WW terms: about 11
Amount of time on arc trainer it takes me to burn 520 calories: about 20 minutes
Monday, February 1, 2010
If it were my last meal...
There should be support groups for people like me. Naturally, I mean Wikipedia addicts.
My mother loves to tell stories about me and the encyclopedia. We had a 1986 edition of World Book that she would just find stacked on the floor. That was her evidence that her little boy had been up through much of the night skimming article after article in those volumes, looking up everything that crossed his mind as potentially interesting. Switching back to the first person, if people ask me how I can recall facts, the answer is that I spent way too much quality time with my nose stuffed in Volume M.
But Wikipedia offers so much more fun than a regular encyclopedia could even bother. It's the ultimate game of "Six Degrees," the best way to learn stuff about the taboo subjects that would make your Dad turn red, and if you miss a TV show or want to know more about a character history, leave it to Wikipedia. Thus why I can give you a full back story on Chuck Bartowski, the greatest spy nerd this side of Max Smart (coincidentally, I know who Max is as the result of Wikipedia).
One day- don't ask me how I navigated myself here- I started looking at a page of the last meals of infamous death row inmates. Here you have some of the worst people in history (Gacy, Eichmann, Bundy, etc) getting to eat anything they want before taking their final bow. Now, I'm not much for criminal acts, but the idea of eating anything I want--with no worries about what it will do to me tomorrow, or how I'll feel, what I'll have to clean up, or what type of catastrophic effect it would have on my health-- that would be something.
I don't miss much about my pre-Weight Watchers eating habits. I've never been a big fan of red meat, and for about 2.5 years, I haven't eaten mammal on purpose. I terrorize the hell out of chickens, and if you offered me some ostrich or alligator, I'd likely take a bite, but Wilbur need not fear me. Same goes for drinking excess amounts of beer or laying waste to a Chinese buffet. Some things are great for college students, but at some point, you have to grow up and put down the egg rolls.
There are some things I do miss, however. Namely, pub food, real ice cream, and carrot cake. Those are the vices that, should I have a bad week and my weight loss shifts into reverse, you can blame Edy's.
I'm not much for fancy food. Bread and fry something, on the other hand, and I'm screwed. I love all things chicken, and when you dust some tender white meat with flour and salt and let it simmer in oil, my mouth starts to water. Chicken wings, tenders, and mozzarella sticks... I've walked that path before, and while it is delicious, you're bound to slip eventually with all the grease.
I also miss the really bad for you desserts. You can keep your cheesecakes, souffles, and fancy cookies. I'll take the real ice cream, no more of this light stuff. While grocery shopping on Sunday, I saw Ben and Jerry's has a new flavor called "Maple Blondie." Part of me was proud I turned and walked away. The other part of me was desperate to break through the glass, eat an entire pint and run up to the register before Megan caught me with my delicious shame. It would leave me with quite the brain freeze, but I care not.
And then there's carrot cake. Despite it's health sounding name, there's no much nutritious about carrot cake, but oh my, that frosting. The moisture of those layers, the gentle sweetness of the raisins mixing with the cream cheese... I just drooled on the keyboard. A few months ago, Megan surprised me at Rein's deli by ordering a slice of carrot cake to share. No light cake, no 100 calorie pack, just real carrot cake. My surprise was deep, my smile overwhelming, and it was so scrumptious.
So, if I were framed for a crime, screwed over by the legal system, and the governor fell asleep before the pardon could be made, my last meal would consist of about a platter of chicken tenders, next to a basket of Honey BBQ wings, a side of mozzarella sticks, a chocolate shake, and ice cream and carrot cake for dessert. That would be a helluva way to go out, and for once, I wouldn't care about points.
Yet why fall off the wagon now, with some few pounds to go before the big goal. We're getting really close, like, prepare the montage clips and get the band warmed up. If I stay focused, by the end of February (or sooner), 60 pounds will have been gone. That's enough incentive to stick with the Skinny Cow over Ben and Jerry for the time being.
And here's something very fresh and tasty... Deep Fried STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 26
Pounds lost in Week 23: 3
Total weight lost: 54.2 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 90.333333333333. That's an A minus!
Average weight loss per week: 2.4
Blog followers: 42. That's almost one per post. Keep it up, and comment!
arms hurt: really bad. Evil trainer. grrrrr.
Best Ben and Jerry's Flavors, aside from all of them: Americone Dream, Chocolate Covered Pretzel, Chubby Hubby
Best flavor Wings over Storrs: Golden BBQ.
Sad, but true: In college, we held a wing tournament to determine the best.
Pounds gained during that tourney: 537
My mother loves to tell stories about me and the encyclopedia. We had a 1986 edition of World Book that she would just find stacked on the floor. That was her evidence that her little boy had been up through much of the night skimming article after article in those volumes, looking up everything that crossed his mind as potentially interesting. Switching back to the first person, if people ask me how I can recall facts, the answer is that I spent way too much quality time with my nose stuffed in Volume M.
But Wikipedia offers so much more fun than a regular encyclopedia could even bother. It's the ultimate game of "Six Degrees," the best way to learn stuff about the taboo subjects that would make your Dad turn red, and if you miss a TV show or want to know more about a character history, leave it to Wikipedia. Thus why I can give you a full back story on Chuck Bartowski, the greatest spy nerd this side of Max Smart (coincidentally, I know who Max is as the result of Wikipedia).
One day- don't ask me how I navigated myself here- I started looking at a page of the last meals of infamous death row inmates. Here you have some of the worst people in history (Gacy, Eichmann, Bundy, etc) getting to eat anything they want before taking their final bow. Now, I'm not much for criminal acts, but the idea of eating anything I want--with no worries about what it will do to me tomorrow, or how I'll feel, what I'll have to clean up, or what type of catastrophic effect it would have on my health-- that would be something.
I don't miss much about my pre-Weight Watchers eating habits. I've never been a big fan of red meat, and for about 2.5 years, I haven't eaten mammal on purpose. I terrorize the hell out of chickens, and if you offered me some ostrich or alligator, I'd likely take a bite, but Wilbur need not fear me. Same goes for drinking excess amounts of beer or laying waste to a Chinese buffet. Some things are great for college students, but at some point, you have to grow up and put down the egg rolls.
There are some things I do miss, however. Namely, pub food, real ice cream, and carrot cake. Those are the vices that, should I have a bad week and my weight loss shifts into reverse, you can blame Edy's.
I'm not much for fancy food. Bread and fry something, on the other hand, and I'm screwed. I love all things chicken, and when you dust some tender white meat with flour and salt and let it simmer in oil, my mouth starts to water. Chicken wings, tenders, and mozzarella sticks... I've walked that path before, and while it is delicious, you're bound to slip eventually with all the grease.
I also miss the really bad for you desserts. You can keep your cheesecakes, souffles, and fancy cookies. I'll take the real ice cream, no more of this light stuff. While grocery shopping on Sunday, I saw Ben and Jerry's has a new flavor called "Maple Blondie." Part of me was proud I turned and walked away. The other part of me was desperate to break through the glass, eat an entire pint and run up to the register before Megan caught me with my delicious shame. It would leave me with quite the brain freeze, but I care not.
And then there's carrot cake. Despite it's health sounding name, there's no much nutritious about carrot cake, but oh my, that frosting. The moisture of those layers, the gentle sweetness of the raisins mixing with the cream cheese... I just drooled on the keyboard. A few months ago, Megan surprised me at Rein's deli by ordering a slice of carrot cake to share. No light cake, no 100 calorie pack, just real carrot cake. My surprise was deep, my smile overwhelming, and it was so scrumptious.
So, if I were framed for a crime, screwed over by the legal system, and the governor fell asleep before the pardon could be made, my last meal would consist of about a platter of chicken tenders, next to a basket of Honey BBQ wings, a side of mozzarella sticks, a chocolate shake, and ice cream and carrot cake for dessert. That would be a helluva way to go out, and for once, I wouldn't care about points.
Yet why fall off the wagon now, with some few pounds to go before the big goal. We're getting really close, like, prepare the montage clips and get the band warmed up. If I stay focused, by the end of February (or sooner), 60 pounds will have been gone. That's enough incentive to stick with the Skinny Cow over Ben and Jerry for the time being.
And here's something very fresh and tasty... Deep Fried STATS!
Weeks until wedding: 26
Pounds lost in Week 23: 3
Total weight lost: 54.2 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 90.333333333333. That's an A minus!
Average weight loss per week: 2.4
Blog followers: 42. That's almost one per post. Keep it up, and comment!
arms hurt: really bad. Evil trainer. grrrrr.
Best Ben and Jerry's Flavors, aside from all of them: Americone Dream, Chocolate Covered Pretzel, Chubby Hubby
Best flavor Wings over Storrs: Golden BBQ.
Sad, but true: In college, we held a wing tournament to determine the best.
Pounds gained during that tourney: 537
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