For those who follow the old cliche that the "last 10 pounds are hardest..." well, they're right, and boo to that.
I'm starting to fondly remember the big number weigh-ins. The first couple months of Weight Watchers, there was little reason to fret when getting on the scale. I knew I was losing impressive amounts of weight on a weekly basis, and it was never a question of "did I lose any weight?", but rather "how many pounds are gone this week?"
That lasted, literally, about 45 pounds. I was putting up huge numbers every week. Four pounds, 7 pounds, 8 pounds... the chub seemed to be falling off of me-- which, when you think about it, is a bit of a disturbing visual. If it looked easy, quite frankly, it felt that way sometimes. It was mostly about diet back then, following a point system carefully, and exercising moderately. I didn't need to torture myself through 1,500-calorie workouts to ensure a good week.
Now, let's hit the "Live TV" button on the remote (Thank heavens for DVR). Yes, I have reached my initial 60-pound goal, and there have been no relapse weeks. Eighty pounds, however, is starting to feel elusive, like a tall building that is slowly coming closer, but distant enough that you know it's probably too far to walk.
The wedding is now less than three months away. That means about 12 weigh--ins, and 90 days or so to make good on my goal. It's Thursday today, but there won't be a weigh-in for me tonight as the result of a softball game. I'm confident that if I stepped on a scale (following my murderous last chance workout, of course), I would post another loss this week. However, if pushed to guess, I'd say the loss would be in the 0.something range, rather than a figure with a nice crooked number at the front of it.
According to the home jerk scale, I'm about 11 pounds away. That's close enough to consider the "last 10 pounds" cliche. And, if I still had the body fat percentage that I did when I started, those 11 pounds could easily be gone within a month.
Yet my body is changing-- for the better, as opposed to in those weird ways described in by awkward sexual education teachers. I daresay I'm showing some signs of muscle tone. I know longer look at myself and see a double-chin and bulging belly. I am even wearing some brands of shirts without any "extra" to the "large." These are wonderful signs of progress and I have many reasons to be proud of my progress.
But a promise is a promise, even if it is an arbitrary number. I want to hit that 80-pound mark. My workouts, which once were easy-going, are now brutal. On some days, I'm burning as much as 1600 calories in one session. My trainer actually told me I was a bit weak for my size, and that only lit the fire more, to the extent of more arm curls and push-ups than I've ever done before. Heck, a few weekends ago, Megan and I walked/ran (alright, mostly walked) a 4-mile stretch.
I'm eating less as well. Oh, I still pack a wallop during a meal (this is me, after all), but I am carefully counting points. To be more accurate, I'm carefully counting points between Monday and Thursday and allowing myself to indulge a bit too much on the weekends, but I am still relatively focused.
Yet every pound now feels like a major push. I know that if I am to reach my goal, those weekend indulgences will have to be reduced. I also know there are some major hurdles coming up, not too mention a professional change that I'll get into in a posting yet to be written. It's time for me to "hold, or cut bowstrings," as the old saying goes (and what it actually means, I haven't a clue).
One last push. It begins now... well, at least tomorrow, after trivia night at the bar.
You can't handle the STATS! (Yay, forgotten 90s movie reference!)
Days until wedding: 87. I can taste the cake already.
Weight Lost in Week 32: 0.6 lbs
Total weight loss after Week 32: 68 lbs
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 113.3333 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 85 percent
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 32
Scouting report on my softball skills: fly ball pull hitter, weak glove, infield chatterer, prefers pitchers to belly-itchers
More challenging than necessary: Finding a left-handed baseball glove
Weight left to lose: 12 lbs
XXL shirts remaining in closet: handful
Those shirts now look: comically big
Thursday, April 22, 2010
Saturday, April 10, 2010
Way beyond the Figure Eight...
There was no shame quite like that of high school tennis practice. I had a sworn enemy, not a person, but the course we would run almost every day before hitting the courts.
The athletes of the former Middletown High School (now Woodrow Wilson Middle School) know the Figure Eight quite well. The 2.2-mile course winds its way from the school's front and up various side roads, down Ridge Road, then back to the school. Then, the course continues around Pat Kidney Field, down the long trot along Farm Hill Road before coming to a merciful stop somewhere near the football field.
For most, it was a minor annoyance, a leisurely jog to loosen up before practice. For me, it was pure, unfiltered hell, an errand of aggravation that played upon the scariest of asthmatic nightmares.
I never stood a chance running the Figure Eight. Within a tenth of a mile, I'd be walking. By the time I got up the hill, my inhaler would already be spent, and each passing car seemed only to mock my misery. I would trot when I could, but for the most part, I was the token fat kid lagging far behind his teammates, willing painfully toward being the last to finish, if finishing was even a possibility. I was actually a bit relieved on days when I would roll an ankle and wouldn't have to continue. A sprain goes away with a little ice and elevation. Nothing alleviates shame.
The worst part was the stretch in front of the school, down Hunting Hill. It went right by the high school track, where all the best athletes were jumping hurdles, tossing javelins, and flexing their muscles for no apparent reason. By the time I reached that road, my teammates were all well gone, and some had even finished the entire course.
Not me though. I would have to run the stretch all by myself, with the eyes of the entire track team delighting at the slow pace and shamed face lumbering before them. I would run with my inhaler out, in hopes that the students would see the small instrument and put together the pieces themselves that, "oh, he's asthmatic, and that's why he's so slow."
No dice. All the inhaler did was conjure more images of the chubby geek, and not a day went by without the nastiest of catcalls imaginable.
"Hey Fat Boy, why don't you take a cab next time?"
"Why you walking, Engelhardt? Afraid to actually burn a few calories?"
"You know, for a large man, your calf muscles are spectacular!" (note: this might not have been yelled in reality).
The inner argument was always the same, too. Why does a tennis player need to be able to run? Can't I just smash the ball and be done with it? And by the time I'd finish, there'd be the coach, his scowl angry as he watched me, sweaty and pathetic, pretend that I had been running hard the entire way.
By junior year, I was co-captain of the team, a role I held out of experience and for making inspirational speeches rather than talent and endurance. We had a running joke, pardon the pun: if you lose to one captain during the Figure Eight, you have to run harder the next day. If you lose to Engelhardt, you're off the team.
Those practices are awful memories. But that was many, many pounds ago, and if weight loss has taught me anything, it's that all challenges are worth making... and meeting.
Now there's a new challenge to pursue, beyond weight loss and looking good in a suit. I'm upping the ante yet again, foot by foot, as I attempt to do something I always thought to be, in the words of Vizzini, inconceivable.
I am pledging right now that come Thanksgiving 2010, I will earn every piece of pie I consume for dessert, because earlier on that day, I will be running the Manchester Road Race.
And, just as I make the race a new goal, my asthma is starting to sing. You may have fooled me for a while with your fancy treadmills, climbers, and free weights, says Asthma, but once you step out of the gym, I'm back. And just to show you I'm serious, I'm bringing the high school shame back with me...
As I write, I am just returning from a light jog around the block. I figured if I'm going to make good on this new goal... and the 4.75 mile course that comes with it...I'd better get out there and run. I've started to run on the treadmill, but that always has the handles at the ready to aid in the process. Outside, there's nothing to lean on, and what amounts to about 0.7 miles, from one end of my street and back, feels like a trek. My lungs burn, just like back on the Figure Eight. My feet hurt, and the bad karma of tennis practice is swirling in my brain.
The difference? There's no angry coach this time to chastise me for not running hard. It's all on me, and that, in a way, is even more daunting. There is no one harder on myself than, well, myself, and I swear I will make good on this promise.
Care to join me? I'll see you at the starting line come Thanksgiving Day. You may finish before me, and that's okay. I just want to finish. I want to run for a reason other than because some large animal is chasing me, or I'm going to miss a bus, or because it's part of tennis practice. I'm doing this to prove to myself that I can.
The biggest irony? The Road Race course is more than twice as long as the Figure Eight. For good measure, maybe some of the old members of Middletown track team should line the course, so they can see for themselves that I am no longer in awe, and fear, of them and the awful things that come out of their mouths.
I just hope they don't still have those javelins.
Catcall up some STATS!
Days until wedding: 99. One for each bottle of beer on the wall.
Weight Lost in Week 31: 1 lb
Total weight loss after Week 31: 67.4 lbs
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 112.33 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 84.25 percent
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 31
Months until Road Race: 7.5
Hindrances toward successful road races: cruise line buffets, but mmmm, crab legs.
Feelings about Duke basketball: nothing but bitter, bitter hatred
Number of professional sportswriters, journalists, and college basketball nuts involved in recent tourney pool: 10
Person who won second, including defeating me. The 11th person- Megan.
Consecutive years Megan has beat me in the NCAA pool: 3. That's just sad.
The athletes of the former Middletown High School (now Woodrow Wilson Middle School) know the Figure Eight quite well. The 2.2-mile course winds its way from the school's front and up various side roads, down Ridge Road, then back to the school. Then, the course continues around Pat Kidney Field, down the long trot along Farm Hill Road before coming to a merciful stop somewhere near the football field.
For most, it was a minor annoyance, a leisurely jog to loosen up before practice. For me, it was pure, unfiltered hell, an errand of aggravation that played upon the scariest of asthmatic nightmares.
I never stood a chance running the Figure Eight. Within a tenth of a mile, I'd be walking. By the time I got up the hill, my inhaler would already be spent, and each passing car seemed only to mock my misery. I would trot when I could, but for the most part, I was the token fat kid lagging far behind his teammates, willing painfully toward being the last to finish, if finishing was even a possibility. I was actually a bit relieved on days when I would roll an ankle and wouldn't have to continue. A sprain goes away with a little ice and elevation. Nothing alleviates shame.
The worst part was the stretch in front of the school, down Hunting Hill. It went right by the high school track, where all the best athletes were jumping hurdles, tossing javelins, and flexing their muscles for no apparent reason. By the time I reached that road, my teammates were all well gone, and some had even finished the entire course.
Not me though. I would have to run the stretch all by myself, with the eyes of the entire track team delighting at the slow pace and shamed face lumbering before them. I would run with my inhaler out, in hopes that the students would see the small instrument and put together the pieces themselves that, "oh, he's asthmatic, and that's why he's so slow."
No dice. All the inhaler did was conjure more images of the chubby geek, and not a day went by without the nastiest of catcalls imaginable.
"Hey Fat Boy, why don't you take a cab next time?"
"Why you walking, Engelhardt? Afraid to actually burn a few calories?"
"You know, for a large man, your calf muscles are spectacular!" (note: this might not have been yelled in reality).
The inner argument was always the same, too. Why does a tennis player need to be able to run? Can't I just smash the ball and be done with it? And by the time I'd finish, there'd be the coach, his scowl angry as he watched me, sweaty and pathetic, pretend that I had been running hard the entire way.
By junior year, I was co-captain of the team, a role I held out of experience and for making inspirational speeches rather than talent and endurance. We had a running joke, pardon the pun: if you lose to one captain during the Figure Eight, you have to run harder the next day. If you lose to Engelhardt, you're off the team.
Those practices are awful memories. But that was many, many pounds ago, and if weight loss has taught me anything, it's that all challenges are worth making... and meeting.
Now there's a new challenge to pursue, beyond weight loss and looking good in a suit. I'm upping the ante yet again, foot by foot, as I attempt to do something I always thought to be, in the words of Vizzini, inconceivable.
I am pledging right now that come Thanksgiving 2010, I will earn every piece of pie I consume for dessert, because earlier on that day, I will be running the Manchester Road Race.
And, just as I make the race a new goal, my asthma is starting to sing. You may have fooled me for a while with your fancy treadmills, climbers, and free weights, says Asthma, but once you step out of the gym, I'm back. And just to show you I'm serious, I'm bringing the high school shame back with me...
As I write, I am just returning from a light jog around the block. I figured if I'm going to make good on this new goal... and the 4.75 mile course that comes with it...I'd better get out there and run. I've started to run on the treadmill, but that always has the handles at the ready to aid in the process. Outside, there's nothing to lean on, and what amounts to about 0.7 miles, from one end of my street and back, feels like a trek. My lungs burn, just like back on the Figure Eight. My feet hurt, and the bad karma of tennis practice is swirling in my brain.
The difference? There's no angry coach this time to chastise me for not running hard. It's all on me, and that, in a way, is even more daunting. There is no one harder on myself than, well, myself, and I swear I will make good on this promise.
Care to join me? I'll see you at the starting line come Thanksgiving Day. You may finish before me, and that's okay. I just want to finish. I want to run for a reason other than because some large animal is chasing me, or I'm going to miss a bus, or because it's part of tennis practice. I'm doing this to prove to myself that I can.
The biggest irony? The Road Race course is more than twice as long as the Figure Eight. For good measure, maybe some of the old members of Middletown track team should line the course, so they can see for themselves that I am no longer in awe, and fear, of them and the awful things that come out of their mouths.
I just hope they don't still have those javelins.
Catcall up some STATS!
Days until wedding: 99. One for each bottle of beer on the wall.
Weight Lost in Week 31: 1 lb
Total weight loss after Week 31: 67.4 lbs
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 112.33 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 84.25 percent
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 31
Months until Road Race: 7.5
Hindrances toward successful road races: cruise line buffets, but mmmm, crab legs.
Feelings about Duke basketball: nothing but bitter, bitter hatred
Number of professional sportswriters, journalists, and college basketball nuts involved in recent tourney pool: 10
Person who won second, including defeating me. The 11th person- Megan.
Consecutive years Megan has beat me in the NCAA pool: 3. That's just sad.
Friday, April 2, 2010
The Fattening Four
In weeks like this one, the college dining hall was always a source of delectable comfort and indigestion.
As some of you have pointed out (and I do thank you for staying interested), it has been a little while since my last post. It seems that every time I got ready to write over the past 10 days, something has taken precedence, whether it be work (budget season.... egghhhhh), school (back from Spring Break), or calamity (car). I owe two sets of stats, and don't worry, they're coming.
I've been stressed, and in years past, I would have dealt with all this flux in the traditional way: binge eating! Tenseness has always spelled trouble for nearby kitchens, and I've laid waste to my share of packages of EL Fudge cookies and jars of peanut butter in such occasions. Above all, the UConn dining options were the perfect places to execute the binge. One swipe of the card, and I turned into Belushi in Animal House, right down to the careful look-around before snarfing a Jello brick (or to be more accurate, a brownie). Ice cream always calmed the nerves, but I'm hoping those days are behind me.
So now the gym has become my stress outlet. That's bad news for the Keebler company, but good news for my waist line. For the first time in roughly 15 years, I'm wearing a shirt that contains no "X" on the tag. I feel myself getting healthier and happier, a far cry from my days of pouting over a trough of macaroni and cheese.
But that doesn't mean we can't delve back into Belly Bracketology. In our last episode, a field of 16 causes of college weight gain was narrowed down to the fattening four. It was a helluva battle for many participants, who did their best to increase my gut but just not enough to win their regionals.
Before we get to the semifinals, some business: One of my old fraternity brothers made a keen observation that I had forgotten. In addition to all the fried deliciousness offered, Jonathan's used to serve Freihofer's goodies. Had I remembered that, Jonathan's might just have eked out a regional victory over South Dining Hall. However, in any tournament, mitigating factors bite teams in the rear. Consider my forgetfulness a blown knee to Jonathan's. It was a game changer, but hindsight 20/20 doesn't equal advancement. Decision stands!
Also, some people have submitted some questions about establishments not included in the bracket. Kathy John's, for example, was omitted, mainly because I didn't know students who went to the restaurant unless their parents were visiting campus.
The Dairy Bar, in hindsight, should have been included, except I never really went there until after graduation. That's probably a good thing, otherwise I would have waddled more when I walked.
McDonald's and Friendly's also got ignored. Why? Because they're uberchains, and you van get a McFlurry or Conehead darn near anywhere.
So here we go. Lace em' up!
Semifinal #1: Chuck's/Margaritas vs. South Dining Hall
Margaritas goes into this matchup as the decided underdog, and sad to say, it is no Butler. South had Mexican food on its menu (though low quality) and a hamburger bar (ditto). It also had pizza, the Asian fusion station, and the comfort line, not to mention the dessert bars. If I'm headed up to campus now, I'd be glad to stop by Margaritas for a trumpet section reunion. However, South is a juggernaut. Winner: South Dining Hall
Semifinal #2: DP Dough vs. Wings over Storrs
This is the UConn vs. Duke of the tournament. It's a toss-up, and really just a question of who wants it more. Early in college, DP Dough was like that friend who you really never planned to see, but always ran into and hung out. I don't remember many evenings where Dough was a goal, but by midnight, I'd be tipping the delivery driver. Wings emerged over the years and became a staple of my late-night diet. DC-3s were the preferred course, but the fries never failed to be soggy and sucky. Dough, meanwhile, never failed me, from "healthier" varieties like pesto or eggplants to coronary threats like bacon cheeseburger or fried Twinkie and Cinnabon (I might have made that last one up). And since DP Dough did, in fact, make me doughier, it wins and goes on to the championship. Winner: DP Dough
Championship: South Dining Hall vs. DP Dough
If Dick Vitale were calling this matchup, three things would happen. First, he's find some way to praise Coach K, even though he has absolutely nothing to do with a UConn food tournament. Second, Vitale would say something that sounded vaguely inappropriate toward a cheeseburger or calzone, drawing a bewildered look from the play-by-play guy. And third, security would escort Vitale from the building, because I want him far away from my tournament.
Anyway, of all the food options at UConn, these were my most frequent choices. I practically own stock in DP Dough, and I nearly caused dining services to rethink its all-you-can-eat policy through my trips to South. Both of these establishments contributed mightily to my weight gain. And everyday, I miss them both terribly.
South wins for one simple reason: it was free. Well, free to me, anyway, since it was my poor parents who got the meal plan bill. Had DP Dough accepted HuskyBucks, or whatever the heck they were called, I would declare Dough the champion and wish them well as the staff climbed the greasy ladder to cut down the nets. But that wasn't the case then, and so South, it's time for your moment. This is for your soft serve machine, your bottomless tub of stuffing, your waffle fries, your ever-flowing soda fountain, and your dedication to ensuring that the Freshman 15 is part of the UConn experience.
And with that, here's two heaping, delicious spoonfuls... of STATS!
As some of you have pointed out (and I do thank you for staying interested), it has been a little while since my last post. It seems that every time I got ready to write over the past 10 days, something has taken precedence, whether it be work (budget season.... egghhhhh), school (back from Spring Break), or calamity (car). I owe two sets of stats, and don't worry, they're coming.
I've been stressed, and in years past, I would have dealt with all this flux in the traditional way: binge eating! Tenseness has always spelled trouble for nearby kitchens, and I've laid waste to my share of packages of EL Fudge cookies and jars of peanut butter in such occasions. Above all, the UConn dining options were the perfect places to execute the binge. One swipe of the card, and I turned into Belushi in Animal House, right down to the careful look-around before snarfing a Jello brick (or to be more accurate, a brownie). Ice cream always calmed the nerves, but I'm hoping those days are behind me.
So now the gym has become my stress outlet. That's bad news for the Keebler company, but good news for my waist line. For the first time in roughly 15 years, I'm wearing a shirt that contains no "X" on the tag. I feel myself getting healthier and happier, a far cry from my days of pouting over a trough of macaroni and cheese.
But that doesn't mean we can't delve back into Belly Bracketology. In our last episode, a field of 16 causes of college weight gain was narrowed down to the fattening four. It was a helluva battle for many participants, who did their best to increase my gut but just not enough to win their regionals.
Before we get to the semifinals, some business: One of my old fraternity brothers made a keen observation that I had forgotten. In addition to all the fried deliciousness offered, Jonathan's used to serve Freihofer's goodies. Had I remembered that, Jonathan's might just have eked out a regional victory over South Dining Hall. However, in any tournament, mitigating factors bite teams in the rear. Consider my forgetfulness a blown knee to Jonathan's. It was a game changer, but hindsight 20/20 doesn't equal advancement. Decision stands!
Also, some people have submitted some questions about establishments not included in the bracket. Kathy John's, for example, was omitted, mainly because I didn't know students who went to the restaurant unless their parents were visiting campus.
The Dairy Bar, in hindsight, should have been included, except I never really went there until after graduation. That's probably a good thing, otherwise I would have waddled more when I walked.
McDonald's and Friendly's also got ignored. Why? Because they're uberchains, and you van get a McFlurry or Conehead darn near anywhere.
So here we go. Lace em' up!
Semifinal #1: Chuck's/Margaritas vs. South Dining Hall
Margaritas goes into this matchup as the decided underdog, and sad to say, it is no Butler. South had Mexican food on its menu (though low quality) and a hamburger bar (ditto). It also had pizza, the Asian fusion station, and the comfort line, not to mention the dessert bars. If I'm headed up to campus now, I'd be glad to stop by Margaritas for a trumpet section reunion. However, South is a juggernaut. Winner: South Dining Hall
Semifinal #2: DP Dough vs. Wings over Storrs
This is the UConn vs. Duke of the tournament. It's a toss-up, and really just a question of who wants it more. Early in college, DP Dough was like that friend who you really never planned to see, but always ran into and hung out. I don't remember many evenings where Dough was a goal, but by midnight, I'd be tipping the delivery driver. Wings emerged over the years and became a staple of my late-night diet. DC-3s were the preferred course, but the fries never failed to be soggy and sucky. Dough, meanwhile, never failed me, from "healthier" varieties like pesto or eggplants to coronary threats like bacon cheeseburger or fried Twinkie and Cinnabon (I might have made that last one up). And since DP Dough did, in fact, make me doughier, it wins and goes on to the championship. Winner: DP Dough
Championship: South Dining Hall vs. DP Dough
If Dick Vitale were calling this matchup, three things would happen. First, he's find some way to praise Coach K, even though he has absolutely nothing to do with a UConn food tournament. Second, Vitale would say something that sounded vaguely inappropriate toward a cheeseburger or calzone, drawing a bewildered look from the play-by-play guy. And third, security would escort Vitale from the building, because I want him far away from my tournament.
Anyway, of all the food options at UConn, these were my most frequent choices. I practically own stock in DP Dough, and I nearly caused dining services to rethink its all-you-can-eat policy through my trips to South. Both of these establishments contributed mightily to my weight gain. And everyday, I miss them both terribly.
South wins for one simple reason: it was free. Well, free to me, anyway, since it was my poor parents who got the meal plan bill. Had DP Dough accepted HuskyBucks, or whatever the heck they were called, I would declare Dough the champion and wish them well as the staff climbed the greasy ladder to cut down the nets. But that wasn't the case then, and so South, it's time for your moment. This is for your soft serve machine, your bottomless tub of stuffing, your waffle fries, your ever-flowing soda fountain, and your dedication to ensuring that the Freshman 15 is part of the UConn experience.
And with that, here's two heaping, delicious spoonfuls... of STATS!
Days until wedding: 105.
Weight lost in Week 29: 0.8 lbs
Total weight loss after Week 29: 65.4 lbs
Weight Lost in Week 30: 1 lb
Total weight loss after Week 30: 66.4 lbs
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 110.67 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 83 percent
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 30. Take that, UConn Women's Basketball. You thought your streak was impressive?
Sickening thought: The New York Yankees and the Duke Blue Devils might win titles in the same year. I will now cry bitter tears into my Kevin Youkilis replica shirt.
Status of my 1996 Toyota Camry: Dead. And no longer mine, for that matter.
Status of my 2007 Toyota Corolla: Alive and quite peppy.
Afikoman status: hidden.
Easter Eggs status: Also hidden.
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