The Great Wedding Fast: Beating the bulge

So... what now?

2010-08-24T10:35:00.001-07:00

The final photos have been taken. The cake has been cut and smashed in my face accordingly. The glass has been stomped, the champagne toasted, and cards have all been opened.

There was also a splendid honeymoon, nine nights of absolutely no worries or regrets (aside from the mixture of alabaster white skin meeting the sun for the first time in years- ow, ow, ow). Snorkels have been deployed, fish disturbed, contests won, and ports of call pillaged.

So it all begs the questions... what now, and where do I go from here? More specifically, how do I motivate myself now?

First, let's review the blessings of the last month, since I last put words to page. The wedding was spectacular, the bride gorgeous, and aside from oppressive heat, resulting sweat, and dinosaur-sized bees, we had a wonderful ceremony.

The reception was a blur. Yep, my boys lifted me up in the chair whilst our guests danced to Hora around us. The pace seemed dizzying, from the time we got to the site until we ended the night in true UCMB fashion by singing "Piano Man." We arrived back at the hotel to find Megan's car completely covered in streamers, window paint, Vasoline, confetti, balloons, and latex contraceptives.

Two days later, we were in the Caribbean, enjoying the true fruits of our labor as we spent a great deal of time poolside. Throwing aside a lifetime of modesty, the shirt came off. My skin singed, turned red, peeled, then was briefly brown for a day, before it burned again.

Weight-wise, I never quite hit the 80 pounds, but I got pretty darn close. Within two pounds, to be exact. I even managed to do a much coveted pull-up, without aid, and then two more. Mt muscles have genuine definition. I almost felt comfortable with my shirt off.

The year's worth of Weight Watching, ubergyming, and sweets sacrificing was definitely worth it. I am proud to show off these pics, and that's coming from a guy who has spent the better part of 20 years avoiding cameras.

That's right, I got ups! Perhaps this image is NSFW?

But now everything we'd been preparing for, savoring, and stressing about is over. The milestone is behind us. My goal all along had been to lose as much weight as possible before the wedding. At this point, the wedding is well in the rear-view mirror.

I need a new motivator, and if I don't find one, I'm in danger.

The bad thing about a wedding (and then more weddings, birthday parties, and cruise buffets) is that is impossible to eat responsibly. You are surrounded by all things sugary, fattening, and delicious. Throw in open bars and frilly foo-foo umbrella drinks (of which there were several on the cruise), and you have great weight peril.

In the month since the wedding, I've gained eight pounds. Granted, I was unable to go to the gym at my usual frequency, but eight pounds in a month is scary. Imagine five months, or 10. This weight could come back with a vengeance. And that, more than any movie involving carnivorous fish, is terrifying.

I need to recommit. While the wedding is no longer a motivator, there are other things coming up that would behoove me to look slender and jacked. In fact, both occur in the same weekend.

The Manchester Road Race is still a goal. On Thanksgiving, I am steadfast in my quest to run that course. It will be a much easier jog if I am not carrying 30 extra pounds.

Then, the next day, comes an event 10 years in the making. It's my high school reunion, populated by scores of classmates who remember a much rounder, chubbier me. Granted, many of them have read this here blog, so they may know they're getting a different Matt than they can recall. But, there will still be plenty of surprised faces in I walk into the room, gorgeous new wife on my arm, and about 100 pounds lighter than I was the day I got my high school diploma.

Those are events. The true test comes with trying to maintain a healthy lifestyle for the rest of my years, no matter what obstacles present themselves. That marks the most difficult prospect of all, one that begs to question my strength more than any pull-up bar.

In the meantime, it's back to work. I don't know how much longer this blog will continue, but there will still be plenty to chronicle. The Wedding Fast is over. The Reunion Reduction is now underway.

Before I give the final stats, here's a quick plug. This weekend, I am once again participating in Relay for Life, this time as a member of Team Goodwin College. For anyone who would like to support the cause, here's the link:

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY10National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=27536

And now, here's the final stats of the Great Wedding Fast.

Weeks until the wedding: -5

Peak weight loss: 78 lbs

Percentage toward overall 80-lb. goal: 97.5

Reasons to stop now: Can't think of any.

Most inspirational person through the process: Unquestionably, Megan.

Biggest hurdles: Carrot cake, muffins, nacho platters, Ben and his dastardly friend Jerry

Peak percentage of weight loss: 26.5.

Next life milestone: Buying a house?

Four-legged friend that could come with a house: a dog!

Movie quote trivia contests won on the cruise ship: one

Cruise ship record set in said contest: Now belongs to the new Mr. and Mrs. Engelhardt

Matt when he left high school: bitter, confused, timid, obese

Matt on his reunion: To be determined, but I've got a helluva head start!

Toweled Texters, and Other New Characters

2010-07-09T05:49:00.000-07:00

"So there I was, post-workout in the locker room, texting away while wearing nothing but a towel..."

This type of character is the kind of person comedians like Lewis Black would make a living out of mocking. Hell, a year ago, I would have cracked more than a few jokes myself. The perpetrator in the following quote is violating two of the main rules for gym etiquette, at least in terms of the standards I hold dear.

1. Thou shalt not spend more than 60 seconds engaging in text messages whilst in a public setting.
2. Thou shalt do everything possible to reduce the amount of time spent nude or near nude in a public locker room.

So who was this vile offender, so callous in the face of decency? Yep, he'd got two thumbs and is pointing at his own chest tight now.

It was me. Oh, the shame.

It seems in the span of less than a year, I've become one of the characters I once blogged against. Back in October, I wrote about the Five People You meet at the Gym. For those of you who need a refresher, here's the link back to that post.

http://weddingfast.blogspot.com/2009/10/five-people-you-meet-at-gym.html

Now, I'd like to introduce you to some new characters who I've encountered, and sad as it is, appear to have become. This time, I'm going to go into a little more detail about each, with some personal anecdotes mixed in for good measure...

1. The World Cup Obsessive

This character doesn't get to come out very often, typically only once every few years during the World Cup, the Olympics, or any other brief period when America joins the rest of the world in soccer obsession. Lately, the WCOs have been out in force, and nowhere are they more charged up than at the gym. The morning locker room appears to be their favorite stomping ground, a place they can speak ad nauseum about the merits of "real football," the beauty and grace of Lionel Messi's skills, and wonder aloud about whether the Americans are for real. Most of the WCOs aren't particularly interested in Team USA; they're more concerned about how countries of their heritage, especially Italy or England, are faring.

Personally, I enjoy soccer. I grew up in Middletown, a city with a large Italian population and where all kids are weened in youth soccer leagues. I like to play, and had a few seasons where I scored an occasional goal. However, like most overweight kids, coaches were reluctant to put me up front or in the midfield. Chubby translates into fullback, coaches seem to think, and despite my great desire to play as striker and one season when I racked up nine goals, most of the time I was relegated to defense. By middle school, my interest in playing soccer had waned, but i still enjoy watching from time to time. I root for the USA, the English, and the Dutch, and have been known to absolutely dominate FIFA video games, playing as Chelsea out of the English Premier League.

But I am far from obsessive. I get excited for the Cup, and was as delighted as anyone when Landon Donovan sent the USA into the knockout round. I also enjoyed a bit of schadenfraude at failure of the Italians and the French, especially given the superior attitudes of many of the kids I played with as a youth. However, in any locker room right now, you will find plenty of people who don't know where the line is drawn, and insist that soccer will become one of the major professional sports once the Cup is through.

One man especially comes to mind. About a week ago, Greece was set to play Argentina in group play. Fans know that the Greeks had a remote chance to beat the powerful Argentines, about as remote as your typical you know what in a hurricane, or of Greece rising from economic ruin to once again become the center of the world. However, on this particular morning, one overzealous Greece fan was more than confident that his squad could knock off the favorites. So confident, in fact, that ran from bench to bench, yelling "Go Greece!" as if seized by the spirit of Zorba himself.

He's not alone in his obsession. Others I know have been sporting jerseys at the gym, from Portugal to Brazil. It's a bit amusing to see, but sad to think how these folks will have their spirits dashed once the Cup ends and soccer, again, becomes an afterthought until the next Cup is played.

2. The Overdressed Exerciser

Here is an example of another person I've been at one time or another. This person usually overdresses by accident. Some article of clothing is forgotten when packing a gym bag, typically something minor. In my case, it's usually socks. I will remember the shorts, the tee shirt, and the sneakers, but blank about packing athletic socks. The result is either subtle or hilarious. If the work outfit called for black socks, they can be carefully tucked down to give the appearance that they are just block cotton socks, and not the dress variety. Far less subtle, and all the more hilarious, are when the mistake comes when the wearer has chosen brown socks, especially in my case, horizontally striped brown socks in multiple shades. There's no passing them off as anything but dress socks in that situation, and you either live with the public shaming, or you head home without a workout.

Today, however, I saw something very strange. A Musclehead was lifting a 75-pound dumbell with one hand, jumping from a squat position to raise the weight above his head. I might not have noticed if not for the grunting, but once I saw this guy, I was highly amused. While he was wearing shorts and a muscleshirt, his feet were adorned with loafers. Not sneakers of any type, but ridiculous khaki loafers that looked straight out of a JCrew catalog. Perhaps this fellow was a yachter of some kind and was headed for the marina following his workout. Unfortunately for him, he found himself grunting while wearing stupid shoes in front of a blogger in search of material.

3. The Underdresser

She's the exact opposite of the Overdresser. While some wear clothes more appropriate for the office than the gym, the Underdresser has a different characteristic. She is barely dressed at all, especially during the summer, when wearing a shirt over a sports bra is just too damn hot and constricting. She's not dressed for the nightclub, but rather the beach, and to hell with society's views on decency.

Three Underdressers come immediately to mind. The first is a middle-aged woman who comes to work out wearing just a bra and tight shorts. She has a very large belly jewel that she apparently is quite proud to display, and can usually be found doing crunches to emphasize the fact that 40 is just a number.

The other two frequent my gym in Wethersfield. One was a teenybopper of sorts, maybe early 20s at the oldest. She wore a bright pink bra, which isn't unusual, but appeared to be wearing string as a shirt. Then, there's the gothish girl covered from head to toe in tattoos, including one that appears to run from her hip across her stomach and up to her neck.

My opinions of tattoos has changed through the years. I no longer consider them crazy or silly, but I still wouldn't get one, as I fear what might happen as skin gets older and more elastic. At some point, that adorable little dolphin appearing to jump from a girl's belly button can take on the appearance of the baby alien emerging from the guy's stomach. Every time I see this Underdresser, so proud of her tattoos, I wonder if she's considered the long term. Then I remember that not everyone is as anal retentive as I am.

4. The Right-Wing Nudists

These are quite possibly my favorite new characters. They are roughly 70 to 80 years old, fiercely conservative, and like to gather in the early morning locker room to discuss everything Republican. They diss Obama, curse Blumenthal, discuss hunting at length (complete with graphic descriptions of animals they've killed), and chat with great passion about retaking America through the guidance of Glenn Beck.

And, they do all this while being stark naked. Conservatism doesn't extend to locker room dress code. Hell, when it comes to nudity, these fellas are as liberal as they come!

These folks do an amazing amount of activities in the buff: shaving, sitting and talking, looking in the mirror for new and undiscovered moles, and talking about Sarah Palin. As an unabashed Progressive, their topics of conversation makes my skin crawl, but there's no way I'll express my disapproval. There's a time and place for political discourse, and more importantly, there's a dress code (namely, clothes).

I will continue to seek out interesting characters. If nothing else, they make getting up early to work out all the more entertaining.

Sputtering to the finish

2010-07-09T05:05:00.000-07:00

A week can seem like a lifetime, at least when you're trying to get to the finish at 180 steps per minute.

There isn't much time left in this weight loss challenge of mine. The final weigh-in is six days away, which equates to about five more workouts before stepping on the scale. In the last year or so, I've put my body through as much stress as its seen in the previous 27 years together. I've ignored food temptations, "me" time on the couch in favor of sessions on the arc trainer, and have gotten myself in the best shape of my life for what will be the most important day of my life.

In terms of comedian Gabriel Iglesias, I've gone from level four of the "Five Levels of Fatness" to level one. No longer "fluffy", I am now safely in the "big" category. For those of you unfamiliar with the reference, Iglesias, who himself is a very, very large man, defines the five levels as "big," "healthy," "husky," "fluffy," and "damn!", recently adding a new category, "oh hell no!"

So with all these good changes, why does this last week feel like such a challenge?

My body is breaking down. I've pushed it too hard, and now it wants some payback. The 1,600-calories workouts have taken their toll on my muscles, my lungs, and my level of fatigue. Twice in the last week, I've had to stop before the end of a workout and change to an easier machine. Granted, part of this could be heat and humidity related- even in an air conditioned gym, it's still been 100 degrees outside, with humidity up somewhere around 15,000 percent.

More troubling, I still sweat like a 300-pound man. As a kid, I watched plenty of UConn basketball games with my family. UConn-Georgetown games back in the early 90s were especially memorable, and not just because it was a match-up of elite teams at the peak of their talent. Alonzo Mourning was a star center for Georgetown, and every time he took a trip to the foul line, the camera seemed to catch every bead of sweat pouring down his temples and arms as he prepped for a free throw. My mother, always a keen observer of player and fan attributes ("that big guy with the bad sweaters is sitting behind Calhoun again!"), never failed to make a disgusted comment at the volume of Mourning sweat.

Mom, I hate to break this to you, but it's a good thing you never see me at the gym. You would be shamed to learn that your baby boy perspires like Alonzo in a sauna.

The results are gross. The office upstairs, where I store my dirty laundry, consistently smells of sweaty Mattness. The gym clothes are segregated from other dirty clothes, out of fear that they'll soak up the rest of the laundry with moist must. Even after I shower at the gym, my body is still in perspiration mode, so the second the step outside, I find myself sweating again.

And then there's the cravings. I've been eating a ridiculous amount of fruit in recent months, replacing breads and grains as the centerpiece of my snacking routine. Lately, however, my tired body has been begging for a bagel. I've denied it as much as possible, but it's to the point where I no longer want to just fall off the wagon. I want to dive off into a pool of macaroni and cheese.

I am not going to make it to 80 pounds. With less than a week left, my weight loss stands at about 77 pounds. Unless I catch a stomach virus (something I'd rather avoid the week of my wedding, thank you), three more pounds is next to impossible. Even so, I'm very proud of the progress I've made, especially considering that the grand total from my fluffiest stage now stands at about 110 pounds lost.

But I also realize that everything that happens next week, including the wedding, doesn't change the fact that I made a commitment to take better care of myself. Working out six days a week for two hours a session may not be feasible with the responsibilities that I hope will come, and I may even allow myself to relax my routine a little bit. Yet this is a struggle that I will likely fight for the rest of my life, and if I'm not vigilant, the fluff will find its way back to my frame.

That, in turn, will be the bigger challenge, one that reaches far beyond the arbitrary finish line that comes with next Thursday's weigh-in. I feel like I am sputtering right now, and it's time to buck up.

In the meantime, I get married in nine friggin' days. Why does that feel less stressful than the concept of five more workouts?

To the STAT line for two free throws!

Days until wedding: 9 days. Wow.
Weight lost in Week 42-43: 1.6 pounds
Total weight loss after Week 40: 76.8 pounds
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 128 percent. It's just fun to keep calculating this!
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 96 percent. It may not happen by the wedding, but I will hit that A+
Weight left to lose: 3.2 pounds
Looking surprising suave in: tan suits
Favorite memory from the UConn-Georgetown rivalry: Ray Allen's off-balance runner drops, Iverson has no answer, Huskies win the Big East Tourney!
Full name of former Georgetown star center Dikembe Mutombo: Dikembe Mutombo Mpolondo Mukamba Jean-Jacques Wamutombo
Scrabble points awarded for putting down just one of those names on a Triple Word: unable to calculate as the result of game board explosion.

Down the stretch they come!

2010-06-21T17:37:00.000-07:00

This the part of the race when the announcer gets all dramatic and starts forgetting to breathe.

Much of the race has already been run; there's only a handful of horses still in contention. The rest have fallen behind, perhaps daydreaming about going out to stud or worrying about a trip to the glue factory. Hell, I don't even care for horse racing and have no real betting interest, but this is the point when I perk up and get ready for the finish.

Of course, I am not a horse. I am not going to make the obligatory Mr. Ed reference there either. I can't even run very fast (but I'm working on it). In nuptial terms, however, I am very much approaching the finish, and it's a bit exhilarating.

In 28 days- that's one month or a movie title later, whether it be a Sandra Bullock chick flick or a zombie thriller- all the buildup will be over. The months of planning (and, let's face it, most of it by Megan) will have been completed. She and I will be married, and in turn, begin the actual marriage part of the whole shebang. There will be no more bachelor parties or bridal showers, at least not for us. We start (excuse the cliche) the rest of our lives, and it is a cool feeling to be where we are.

Part of me feels like Red at the end of Shawshank, excited to be starting a new adventure. But, at the risk of sounding a bit sappy, I know exactly what I am entering. Megan and I have been together for almost three years, and there are few surprises any more. It's nice to have someone who knows every aspect of me, and who fell in love with me when I was less than happy with the way I looked.

She is a remarkable woman and a beloved teacher. Together, we make a great pair, and we are very much ready for getting married. I'm eager to stomp the glass, and even more eager to embark on the honeymoon cruise. Mostly though, I'm eager to make it all official, and to have her as my wife.

Author's note: The sappy part of the blog ends now.

The pending wedding date also means it's almost time to make good on this little pledge o' mine. With less than a month to go, I am currently more than 75 pounds lighter than I was when I started this blog. I hit that figure last week, following another kamikaze few days at the gym. I am less than five pounds away from 80. I have lost more than 25 percent of my body weight.

In effect, Chubby Matt (or Griff, or Big Pun), is disappearing. He's always going to be lurking, but I no longer live in fear of him taking over my life. He has been replaced with a new, sleeker model. It's like trading in the bulky minivan for something sportier and with better gas mileage. Dear lord, it appears my stomach is having a midlife crisis... and I'm only 28 years old.

Seventy-five pounds also means more Weight Watchers bling, should I ever stay through a meeting. Things have been extremely busy lately, and it's been pretty difficult motivating myself to attend an entire meeting any more. At this point in the program, I feel like I know what I need to do. I am motivated to get this done, and I am winning.

I am going to try like hell to get to 80 pounds. Sometimes, you get some extra help when you didn't necessarily want it, like the day after your bachelor party. Most of the time, though, it is a struggle. I know the real battle will be later, when it is time to maintain this body for the rest of my life and not allow myself to go the way of the Duncan yoyo. I have a set goal, and if there's one thing I've learned about myself during this experiment, it's that those goals are more than empty promises to me. They mean something, and there is genuine satisfaction with setting a high mark and being able to reach it.

The other question is what happens with this blog. By my count, over the last 10 months or so, I've posted almost 60 times, and written the equivalent of a novel or memoir. I know I'm not going to continue the blog forever. There will be other goals and quests, and certainly other things to write about. But I worry about losing this crutch. This blog keeps me honest and puts me under the microscope. What happens when I take that away, and no longer have to hold myself accountable to an audience?

The challenges aren't going to cease. Motivation will have to come in different forms.

This has been so much fun. Writing is cathartic, and especially now that my journalistic days are behind me, it's imperative for me to find an outlet. In the weeks to come, I promise there will be more posts, and when I return from the honeymoon, there will be a conclusion. Perhaps- no promises, but just perhaps- there will be some poolside photos of me taken on the ship that I might just get brave enough to post.

So yes, I am in the final stretch, in so many different ways. Here's to a hell of a finish to what has been a tremendous ride.

And STATS is off to a big lead!

Days until wedding: 28. Really, at this point at night, it's closer to 27, but who's counting?

Weight lost in Week 40-41: 2.6 lbs

Total weight loss after Week 40: 75.2 pounds

Progress toward 60 lb goal: 125.33333 percent

Progress toward 80-pound goal: 94 percent

Weight left to lose: 4.8 pounds. That's 1.2 per week. Photo finish!

Things I know about horse racing: Secretariat was a good horsie?

Current obsession: World Cup Soccer, Wendy's as hangover cure

Cure to obsession: All vuvuzela, all the time.

An ode to Violet Beauregarde....

2010-06-09T14:07:00.000-07:00

"Violet, you're turning Violet, Violet!" What an apt quote from what I consider one of the greatest character downfalls of all time.

For those of you not raised on Roald Dahl or Gene Wilder, Violet Beauregarde was one of the five children lucky enough to find a golden ticket to Willy Wonka's chocolate factory. Like everyone except Charlie Bucket, she does not make it through the tour. Her fatal flaw is her love of chewing gum, and when she chews the wrong piece, she becomes the world's largest blueberry.

Violet's endgame was my favorite part of the classic 1971 film (note: as far as I'm concerned, Gene Wilder is Willy Wonka, and Tim Burton's 2005 film can go straight to hell). Now, when I think about the scene, I get a little hungry.

The world's largest blueberry? If it weren't an act of cannibalism, that would be delicious.

For months now, I've craved all things blueberry. Whether pie, yogurt, or one night when I ate an entire container, those little purplish orbs have delighted me as much as chocolate, and that's coming from a man who enjoys his Kit Kat bars.

My best friend and his wife are the parents of an adorable 2-year-old girl. With her, they pulled off a genius ruse. Instead of serving her dessert in the form of cookies or pudding, they gave their daughter blueberries as an after-dinner treat. The result? The little girl now associates blueberries with dessert, and for much of her young life, has desired the fruit among all other snacks.

Yet every time they feed her the blueberries, I secretly get a little jealous. Hell, I'm plenty cute too. Where are my berries?

This craving has me puzzled. For years, I would satisfy hunger (or boredom) with peanut butter, ice cream, bread, chocolate, or a combination of three or more of those things. There really is nothing like a peanut butter sandwich sundae. Now, I'm Jonesing for blueberries or pineapple, and have been ignoring 100-calorie packs of cookies in favor of fruit or yogurt.

What the hell is wrong with me? When did I, a man who once valued Hostess products as highly as currency, become a healthy eater? Why do I now dream about salad instead of fried chicken? And, above all, when did blueberries become my own personal crack-cocaine?

I've heard that pregnant women will often crave foods rich in nutrients their body needs to help their babies develop. Granted, I don't believe that I am pregnant, given the whole "Matt's a dude" thing, but maybe there's some subconscious biochemistry going on here. Blueberries are rich in antioxidants, are low in calories, and are generally considered to be very healthy for you. Pineapple is loaded with Vitamin C, and my other favorite fruit, the banana, is valued for its potassium.

Lately, I've been testing my body to its absolute limits. It's become my norm to burn 1400+ calories in addition to 30 minutes of weight training on an almost daily basis. I've been waking up at 5:30 in the morning in order to get to the gym by 7 and get full workout before heading to the office. Night owl Matt is gone, for the most part: on weeknights, the lights are usually off by 10:30. I'm pretty serious about my commitment here, and a recent visit to the doctor gave me good reason to stay positive and dedicated.

I know that as soon as I stop my little routine, I risk packing the pounds back onto my frame. Yo-yoing is more than common; according to my doctor, about 99 percent of people who have lost 100 pounds end up gaining it all back. Going back to my worst weight, I've lost about 105 pounds.

I don't want to be among the 99 percent. I've worked too hard, and it would be a shame to revert back to the days of having people tell me I look like Peter Griffin.

So maybe my body is craving fruit for a good reason. I need to get those vitamins and potassium from somewhere, and as nice as Fiber-One bars taste, I'd much rather have a banana. And, hopefully, these new healthy eating habits will continue for a long time.

So bring on the Yoplait. And, if you see Violet Beauregarde around, give her a wink and send her my love.

You know what goes great with blueberry pie? Some STATS a la mode!

Days until wedding: 39. Holy Schnikes.
Weight lost in Week 38: 2.2 lbs
Total weight loss after Week 34: 72.6 pounds
Estimated amount of weight lost since last official weigh-in: 1.4 pounds
Total estimated weight loss, based on gym scale: 74 pounds.
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 123.3333 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 92.5 percent
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 1
Weight left to lose: 6 pounds. I got this!
Favorite foods with blueberries: scones, muffins, yogurt, pie, pie, pie, buckle, cobbler, or just let me dive into a blueberry bucket
Attitude toward strawberries: bah. Gross berry with bad texture. Stay the hell away from my chocolate and vanilla ice cream and get your own damn carton!

A streak shattered

2010-05-21T08:43:00.000-07:00

The streak is over.

The 1972 Dolphins can uncork their champagne. Joe DiMaggio and Cal Ripken have nothing to worry about. Maya Moore and company over at UConn can rest assured that my own personal weight loss streak has come to a close, and while not nearly impressive as the women winning something like 958 consecutive games, I was on a pretty good run.

How good? Since I began Weight Watchers, this blog, and the linking quest to lose 60 pounds by the wedding, I had not experienced a single weigh-in where I actually added pounds to my frame.

There were times when I stayed flat, others where I posted significant losses, and many more weigh-ins where my weight would drop incrementally. I had a system down: be very good about counting points from Monday-Thursday afternoon. Bust my butt at the gym, burning anywhere from 1,000 to 1,500 calories per workout. Get weighed on Thursday, then allow myself to take a few liberties from Thursday night through Sunday. Come Monday (again with the Jimmy Buffett), Indulgent Matt would once again give way to Intense, Obsessive Matt, and any pounds gained over the weekend would be gone within a couple of workouts.

When my body fat percentage was much higher and I had many more pounds to lose, the process worked without fail. But 70 -plus pounds later, there's not as much to lose, my metabolism is catching up with me, and I haven't made all the dietary changes necessary. I accept that, and I know I have to be better, otherwise 80 pounds is never going to happen.

Above all things, weight loss is about self control. I've never been an alcoholic or a drug addict, and thankfully I've never found myself on the business end of an intervention. My understanding is, however, that a person cannot change unless they accept that change is necessary. That philosophy was at the heart of my problems with weight, and likely will continue for the rest of my life.

For years, I was comfortable with being the friendly fat guy. I figured everyone loved having a chubby, funny, and huggable lout around, so in a way, I decided I was serving a role to society. But then you look at all the side effects of obesity, and you realize you are paying a huge price, and not just in terms of health. I was unhappy, and change was necessary. It's taken a great deal of discipline, more than I've ever required for any endeavor I've taken. But it has paid off in spades.

Since 2005, I have lost more than 100 pounds. At the risk of personal shame, I'll state the truth right here. At my worst, I weighed well more than 300 pounds. When I look back at those photos, I feel ill. I never want to look like that and feel like that again, especially given the many blessings in my life. I have plenty that I need and want to be healthy for, so why is temptation creeping back in?

The answer: temptation is natural. Everyone experiences it in some form. Mine comes in food. Megan and I are now less than two months from our wedding date. With the bridal showers and weekends with family come heaps of incredible goodies. Last weekend, red velvet cupcakes were my Waterloo, coupled with too much pizza and cookies consumed merely because they were there.

I overindulged, and for the first time, I wasn't able to make it up at the gym. I tried my best, but on Thursday, I was a pound heavier than I was the previous week.

The defeatist in me wanted to beat me up. However, the defeatist has to compete with a the new optimist that has emerged, and as such, I have a decision to make. Do I scrap my quest and decide I've done all I can? Hell no. There's still bathing suits to consider. Was this a wake-up call? Unquestionably, and unlike many an early morning, I refuse to hit the snooze button.

Then, there's this: gaining the occasional pound is part of the weight loss process (that according to the Weight Watchers leader). People go up and down, week by week, but as long as the overall trend is downward, I should be okay.

The temptations are not going to stop. Let's see how much self control I possess, and by all means, let's start a new streak next week.

Some red velvet STATS!

Days until wedding: 58.
Weight lost in Week 36: 0.4 lbs
Total weight loss after Week 34: 71.4 lbs
Weight lost in Week 37: + 1 lb. Call the Pentagon, we've got an emergency!
Total weight loss after Week 36: 70.4 pounds Cancel the Pentagon, we should have this under control.
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 117.3333 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 88 percent
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 0
Weight left to lose: 9.6 lbs. Look out, elliptical. I'll be kicking your butt regularly.
Interesting nugget of new job: I am in charge of the college's Facebook account. hehehehe.
Number of town meetings sat through this week: not a one. Ah, academia.

More changes than merely measurements

2010-05-07T10:00:00.000-07:00

Let's paint the scene a bit before we begin...

9:16 a.m. on May 6, 2010. Shots are fired at an East Hartford apartment complex. Three people are killed, a fourth is shot. The police department's PIO is meeting with media as investigators try to figure out what happened. Reporters from every television and newspaper outlet in the state is swarming, looking for information. At the JI, second deadline is fast approaching, and breaking the story in time for the afternoon paper is critical.

Had this all happened on May 5, I would have have been one of those reporters on the scene. On Thursday, however, I was watching it all unfold on TV news, checking for updates on the computer, and reading Facebook postings from journalists.

The shooting happened the very next day after I left the Journal Inquirer and five years of reporting, a career that started outside of San Diego, led me home to Middletown, and brought me to the scene of many breaking news events in East Hartford. I've covered homicides, murder trials, the state legislature, feuding ice cream truck drivers, plenty of education matters, ComicCon, renegade emus running amok, and even competitive eating contests. I've also had my image frequently on the second page, announcing the latest results of my weight loss progress and inviting everyone to read along.

Come Monday (ah, Jimmy Buffett), that's all over. I begin work as a communications coordinator for Goodwin College, and I have bid farewell to the JI newsroom. Frankly, it's a weird feeling... I know it's the right move, but alas, five years is five years. I've been a reporter longer than I was a college student or just about anything else. I'm excited too. This is going to be a great change, and I am ready for it.

Of course, it is heaping another big change in my life onto an already tall pile. In 2 and a half months, I'm getting married. I've lost 71 pounds and counting within the last eight months or so. I am working toward a Master's degree in education and certification to teach high school English. Now, in the midst of all of that, I'm changing careers. Might be a good time for me to take a deep breath. But all these changes are for the better. I have absolutely no doubt about that.

And with all these changes, I am determined that my physical measurements will continue to get better. According to my most recent figures, I've lost about eight inches off my waist and chest. My arms are getting slightly bigger, while my shoulders are losing their broadness. My head, however, continues to be massive and the recipient of many a bruise.

The new job is going to mean (gulp) a new routine. Through this personal challenge, the gym has been my destination during every weekday afternoon or mid morning, depending on my work schedule. Now I'll no longer have to worry about night meetings, so goodbye, split shifts. Instead of starting the day around 7, my mornings will now start at 9. As a result, I'm moving my workouts to the morning, meaning that by 7:30 a.m. on week days, I'll be treadmilling away.

A couple things to get used to here. First, getting ready for work in a locker room surrounded by strangers in various stages of undress. High school Matt didn't even like taking off his shirt in the locker room; now he'll be waiting in line for a shower. That definitely could take some time to adapt.

Second, a person's body weight changes throughout the day. Typically, you are lightest after you wake up and your stomach has had nothing to digest for several hours. By the end of the day, I can be seven pounds heavier after three meals, various snacks, and all the liquid that has been consumed. Weight Watcher weigh-ins, meanwhile, are in the late afternoon, usually after I've had my "last chance workout" to burn away whatever breakfast and lunch calories are in my system. This tactic has been effective- I can be as much as five pounds lighter by the time I finish exercising. At the same time, I usually appear as if someone has pushed me in the pool. Oh well.

I'm interested to see whether the routine change will yield new results, positive or negative. Varying routine is supposedly good for weight loss, but I've come to rely on that Thursday afternoon blitzkrieg. I just hope the stats continue to be reasons for celebration.

So farewell to the newsroom, the bylines, and the crime scenes. For a while, you've been all I've known as a professional, and, as crazy as it sometimes made me, I'll miss the scrambling around. It's much harder to say goodbye to the friends, and thankfully, I don't really have to do that. I'll be close enough that a lunch is always a possibility.

And the Great Wedding Fast will continue, though the author will soon have a new business card.

Past deadline, I'm filing some STATS!

Days until wedding: 72. Just about 10 weeks.
Weight lost in Week 33-34: 2.2 lbs
Total weight loss after Week 34: 70.2 lbs
Weight lost in Week 35: 0.8 lbs
Total weight loss after Week 35: 71 pounds
Progress toward 60 lb goal: 118.3333 percent
Progress toward 80-pound goal: 88.75 B+
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 35
Weight left to lose: 9 lbs. That's less than a pound a week. Can it be done?
Towns written about during years as reporter: San Diego, Chula Vista, El Cajon, Lemon Grove, and La Mesa, CA; Middlefield, Durham, Middletown, Cromwell, Portland, East Hampton, East Haddam, Haddam, New Haven, Meriden, North Haven, South Windsor, East Hartford, Manchester, Windsor, Hartford, Storrs, Glastonbury, East Windsor, Bolton, Hebron, Enfield, Windsor Locks, Tolland, CT.
Rough estimate of bylines: 2,300.
Most obscure story: tie between the ice cream truck duel and the emu.

Push for Every Pound

2010-04-22T11:26:00.000-07:00

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

Way beyond the Figure Eight...

2010-04-10T14:02:00.000-07:00

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 Fattening Four

2010-04-02T17:18:00.000-07:00

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!

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.

Belly Bracketology

2010-03-21T11:24:00.000-07:00

Now that my calorie consumption is now under relative control, it's hard not to look back at my college eating habits without wanting to kick myself in the gut.

We all know about the Freshman 15, the weight that college students put on at the start of their post-high school education, when suddenly all-you-can-eat becomes the norm and beer flows from water fountains. For some people-myself, for example- 15 is nothing. In college, I would guess I gained about 45 pounds from the start of my freshman year til the day I got my diploma. Granted, my ruptured disc left me exercise-incapacitated my senior year, but that is still way too much weight.

The beer wasn't my undoing (I actually didn't become a big beer drinker until junior and senior year). No, for me, college weight gain was caused by my meal plan and the number of ordering-out options available on and off and campus.

Given the season, with March madness upon us and the Huskies still alive in the NIT (the "Not Invited Tournament), I thought it would only be appropriate to look back on my college habits the way I got through so many boring classes: Bracketology. I determined many important things, like my favorite comedians and movie characters, simply by seeding them all, placing them in a large bracket, and having them "play" each other until a winner was determined. It begs to reason the same would work to determine not necessarily the best food on campus, but what establishments caused my belly to bust. We'll do four regions, four "teams" per instead of 16 (otherwise this blog would go on forever). Without further ado...

The Wing Region

Matchup: #1 Wings over Storrs vs. #4 Wings Express

Wings over Storrs opened by freshman year and quickly became the source for wings. So much so, my buddy Bill and I once held a wing tournament to determine our favorite flavor. The big winner: Golden BBQ, over Teriyaki in the final. Wings Express, meanwhile, quickly lost favor.

Winner: Wings over Storrs

Matchup: #2 Bidwell Tavern vs. #3 Red Rock

Every UConn or ECSU student knows the legend of Bidwell's wings. Located a few miles off campus, the tavern was a bit of a field trip, but the flavors were fantastic. Dry rub or sauce, Bidwell's wings were the topic of epic poetry. Red Rock had some good wings in its own right, but compared to Bidwell, it didn't stack up. Winner: Bidwell

Regional Final: #1 Wings over Storrs vs. Bidwell Tavern

As great as Bidwell was, it was simply too far away to frequently clog my arteries. Wings, on the other hand, was right off campus and delivered until the wee hours of the morning. Today, I'd choose Bidwell in a heartbeat, but when you're a campus-stuck student, convenience is key.

Winner: Wings over Storrs

The Pizza/Calzone/Grinder Region

Matchup: #1 Willington Pizza vs. #4 Sgt. Pepperoni

Like Bidwell, Willington Pizza was a bit of a hike, but it was pretty darn good. However, it was a bit overseeded, the Duke of this bracket, you might say. Sgt. Pep's didn't have the greatest pizza, but the calzones were fantastic, and again, location counts for something. I'm calling the upset. Winner: Sgt. Pep's

Matchup: #2 DP Dough vs. #3 Ted's Grinders

As chicken cutlets go, I'm still dreaming of Ted's. Whether parmed or merely cheesed, the sandwiches were amazing. But DP Dough is an institution, and over the course of four years, I probably spent more on cheap quality calzones than I did on textbooks (just kidding Mom). Winner: DP Dough

Regional Final: #2 DP Dough vs. #4 Sgt. Pepperoni

Sgt. Pep's made a mean calzone, but you had to get inventive. DP Dough took care of the creativity and got you anything you could possibly imagine. My heart hurts just thinking about it. Winner: DP Dough

The "International" Region

Matchup: #1 Chang's Garden vs. #4 Tin Tsin

I am pretty sure the latter no longer exists, and anyone who ever had the eggroll-related indigestion knows that's not necessarily a bad thing. Chang's Garden made a great sesame chicken and usually had more friendly delivery people. Easy victory here. Winner: Chang's Garden

Matchup: #2 Chuck's/Margaritas vs. #3 Angellino's

Both these were popular places for when the parents came up to visit. I didn't develop my full love for Mexican food until I made it to the West Coast, but Margarita's was always a great place for trumpet section dinners. Winner: Chuck's/Margaritas

Regional Final: #1 Chang's Garden vs. #2 Chuck's Margaritas

As great as Chang's was, cheese is an awkward thing to add to Chinese food. With Mexican, on the other hand, it's one of the three major ingredients. Mmmmm, quesadillas. Winner: Chuck's/Margaritas

The Dining Services Region

Matchup: #1 South Dining Hall vs. #4 Towers Dining Hall

South was the standard for all you-can-gain dining. That place had stuffing every night, a full grill, ice cream, dessert stand, comfort food, pizza, and I think occasionally a violinist would serenade you and your friends while you ate. Towers got points for its Grab and Go (where I worked senior year) and for its kosher dining station, but head-to-head with South, it's like like 2004 Huskies taking on the 2010 Huskies. Winner: South Dining Hall

Matchup: #2 Jonathan's vs. #3 WEBB Site Grab and Go

This is a battle. Both places were great for stocking your dorm room pantry. Tell me if this sounds familiar: two weeks left in the semester, 48 meals left on the plan. Time to hit the grab-and-gos for all the Powerade, chips, and brownies you could bag. I heard Jonathan's might no longer be around, but it wins this battle by merit of onion rings and chicken dippers. Winner: Jonathan's

Regional Final: #1 South Dining Hall vs. #2 Jonathan's

South was the destination for every preseason band meal and many dinners year-round. Jonathan's was the cap to every AEPi chapter meeting. Between the two establishments, my cholesterol frequently threatened to punch me in the face. But Jonathan's didn't have all-you-can-eat stuffing or soft-serve machines. Word of advice: don't mix up the two. I do not recommend a cone full of Stove Top. Winner: South Dining Hall

So the "Fattening Four" stage is set. In one semifinal, we've got Wings over Storrs battling DP Dough. In the other, it's South Dining Hall vs. Chuck's/Margarita's. Who will win? Check back later this week, and maybe you can influence the matchups by voting via the comment section.

One things for sure: it's a miracle my waistline ever survived the UConn calorie gauntlet. In retrospect, I was lucky I only gained 45 pounds.

No great tournament would be complete without STATS!

Days until wedding: 119.
Pounds lost in Week 29: 1.8
Total weight lost: 64.6 lbs
Progress toward 60-pound goal: 107.67 percent
Progress toward new 80-pound goal: 80.75 percent
Weight left to lose before hitting new goal: 15.4 pounds
Body Fat: 21 percent. Apparently, that's within the range of an average adult my height.
Last time my body fat was "average": Week 33 as a fetus
Blog Subscribers: 46.
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 29
My tournament bracket: shredded. Why, oh why, do I keep picking Kansas?

Melon Equilibrium

2010-03-13T20:16:00.000-08:00

I'm not kidding, that boy's head is like Sputnik; spherical but quite pointy at parts! Now that was offside, wasn't it? He'll be crying himself to sleep tonight, on his huge pillow. --"So I Married an Axe Murderer"

If word ever spreads that I'm in some sort of coma, you can bet it has something to do with a self-inflicted head injury.

I've been bumping my head on a regular basis for the past six months. My balance has been off, and for the first time in many years, my equilibrium is in a state of flux.

In truth, Sputnik is a little too small to accurately describe the size of my noggin. I have always had a huge cranium, even before the days when my body mass caught up to me. As a kid, I had that whole Pez dispenser thing going on. While I couldn't deliver candy from my neck, the effect was basically the same.

As I gained weight, my head became more proportional. I still had a massive head, and there were plenty of people who never let me forget it. Case in point: as a high school senior, I took a creative writing class. One day, the lesson focused on metaphors and similes. When asked for an example, one particular wise guy grinned smugly and said "Matt's head is as big as Europe."

Interesting choice of words. I don't know how that geography would work, i.e. if my nose were, say, Switzerland, my left ear Poland, and my right ear Ireland. I just know that my head is large, and for those wishing to buy me a gift, I would suggest not going with a fitted baseball cap.

Yet as a big guy, my head was proportional to the rest of my body. The same goes for my facial features. I had bigger ears than many of my classmates, but they seemed to fit me well. The same goes for the nose; while certainly not to the level of Steve Martin in "Roxanne," it's definitely on the larger side. Yet since the rest of me was also oversized, few people would ever look at me and mutter about the size of my schnoz.

My weight loss is up to about 63 pounds. And as much of me is shrinking in a good way, like my waistline and chest, there are other parts that cannot get smaller. As such, my head is starting to look ginormous again, and I've started to be a little subconscious about my ears.

The proportions, however, aren't the real problem. It's the balance. To put it bluntly, my melon's equilibrium is in a funk, and I'm in danger of getting juiced.

Here are just a few examples, all from within the time period of when I began Weight Watchers...

-Several instances of striking my forehead against the door frame of a car. I'd like to think it would just be misjudging the berth of someone else's vehicle, and certainly many of the bonks have been courtesy of Megan's car, but my own Camry has gotten a few good shots on my skull as well. And I've been driving that car for three years now.

-About a month ago, I was sitting at the dining room table at Megan's parents' house. I got up too quickly and forgot about the chandelier hanging overhead. I bumped my cranium right into one of the lamps, which, and there are witnesses to back me up, actually got brighter after making considerable contact with my head.

-Today, I was bringing a load of groceries in from the car. I opened the screen door to the apartment and nailed myself right between the eyes. My head still hurts, and the welt to prove it.

Am I truly worried? Well, not really, but one of these times, I'm going to knock myself out. A concussion is a respectable injury for a quarterback, but just for some goofball carrying groceries inside the house, it's not something to really brag about.

I'm not done yet with losing weight (at the very least, I'm hopeful to keep up the progress). I just hope I'm not going to have to start wearing a bike helmet everywhere I go.

When he hits his head, Roger Rabbit sees stars. I hit mine, and all I see are STATS!

Weeks until wedding: 21.
Pounds lost in Week 28: 0.6
Total weight lost: 62.8 lbs
Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 104.67 percent
Percentage toward new 80-pound goal: 78.5 percent
Weight left to lose before hitting new goal: 17.2 pounds.
Blog Subscribers: 46. No change from last week.
Consecutive weigh-ins without gaining weight: 28. I'm liking this streak. (just be glad I'm not streaking).
UConn men's NCAA hopes: nil.
And the UConn women: Shouldn't they just get a bye to the final game?
Weight of average person's head: 8 pounds, according to the kid in "Jerry Maguire."
Weight of my head: Guessing about 42 pounds.

Poolside phobia

2010-03-09T13:23:00.000-08:00

It's been quite a while since I allowed the sun to have direct access to my bare chest, outside of the privacy of a fenced backyard.

How long, you might ask? There's a photo of taken circa 1989 that shows me on a beach in Cape Cod. There's little 7-year-old Matt, holding a little pail and a shovel, smiling goofily while wearing a red bathing suit.

And that picture represents the last time I ever let anyone take a photo of me with my shirt off. Hell, come to think of it, that photo might be the last time I've been shirtless in public. Maybe not, but it's been about 15 years since I felt remotely comfortable removing my shirt in front of the prying eyes of strangers, especially girls.

I hate my torso. I have since 9th grade gym class, when I overheard a nasty comment made by a classmate in the locker room. From that day forward, I was the kid who changed for gym class by sneaking into the bathroom stall. I didn't even like bearing my upper arms. In fact, I've had college roommates who have never seen me barechested. I really am that modest.

The worst days of all were gym classes in the swimming pool. Middletown High had a nice Olympic sized pool, a venue where many of my friends have swum for the team and had absolutely no qualms about strutting around in Speedos. To me, however, that pool represented the greatest of my phobias... a place where I would be required to shed my shirt and allow classmates (boys and girls) to see me in my most shameful state.

There were three strategies to employ to overcome this phobia....

1. Change really quickly into the bathing suit and jump into the pool before any of the girls had left their own locker room (worked once or twice before disaster).

2. Wear a shirt into the water and look like the typical fat kid afraid to take off his shirt (hide the skin? Yup, but quite immasculating).

3. Tell Mom that the chlorine in the pool irritated my skin, resulting in a note to the gym teacher (fantastic success rate, but total bull).

Hot summer days were especially tough. By high school, I was not only ashamed of my body's appearance, but also of the way I sweated. As a result, my typical summer wardrobe was a black t-shirt, even on the beach or poolside. Yeah, the black hid the sweat, but oy, the heat and the idiocy of being "that guy."

The farmer's tan, however, was always spectacular.

Swimming pools were so tempting, yet so scary. They offered friends, girls, and chicken fights involving those girls and your friends. Shirts, however, weren't exactly recommended attire. My solution to this problem was to either watch pathetically from the side, or to sit on the edge of the pool with my feet dipped into water, pretending that I didn't want someone to push me in fully clothed.

So now, let's fastforward to the present. I still have some work to do on my body before I feel exactly "beach ready," but the clock is ticking. Why? Well, the honeymoon has been booked, and Megan and I are headed on a Caribbean cruise. It's something I've wanted to do for years. The last time I cruised, it was the Disney variety and I was in 5th grade. I still remember the private island in the Bahamas when I was standing in a lagoon. A large fish swam by my leg. Curious, I turned to my father...

"Dad, what was that?"

"Uh, that was a barricuda."

"... I'm getting out of the water now."

Despite the incident, I've been eager to go again. This time, I'll be a bit older and on my honeymoon (though I still would be happy to see Donald Duck on board). I'll be married, so there won't be any pressure to impress anyone at poolside.

But will the shades of embarassment still be there? Will I still shy away from the sun and hide my torso safely behind a t-shirt and out of view of the fellow cruisers?

Nope.

Look out, Princess Cruises. I'm much lighter, sweating far less than I did in high school, and hopefully by the time we embark, I'll be as cut as I've ever been in my life. And, when I get to the pool, the t-shirt is landing on the deck.

P.S. I have no intention of counting points while on the cruise liner. Diet be damned, I'm laying waste to that buffet...

Super, Svelte Sixty....

2010-03-05T17:25:00.000-08:00

For the first time since I started writing this blog, a cute intro is escaping me. I'm having trouble coming up with a witty one-liner to hook you in, and for someone who writes for a living, being short on words is not something very familiar.

But then again, neither is successful weight loss, at least not a goal that at one time seemed so far away and so difficult.

And now, exactly six months after I first stepped on a Weight Watchers scale and four and a half months before I hoped to approach this mark, perhaps I should leave it to three little words to tell the story.

I did it.

I did it, the guy who has struggled with his weight for so much of his life that the idea of diet and exercise seemed so frightening.

I did it, the guy nicknamed "Griff" in the college marching band due to his resemblance to the Family Guy.

I did it, the guy who still gets upset when he remembers being punched in the stomach by "friends" on the basketball court.

I did it, they guy who regularly hides from cameras, is afraid to remove his shirt at the beach, and who used to wonder whether XXL shirts were too small.

Holy crap, Matthew Engelhardt has officially lost more than 60 pounds.

Indeed, my One Shining Moment is here. And I must say, it feels pretty darn good.

I don't know if I've ever followed through with anything like I did on this little challenge of mine. Then again, I've never had this level of support in my life, nor such a reason to want to lose weight. You can scare people all you want with threats of diabetes, heart disease, and all the other scary terms doctors lob at overweight patients.

I needed some more motivation, and I found it in pending marriage. Then I found even more motivation by keeping this blog and worrying about making a fool of myself. Whatever the motivation was, it worked, and if it can happen to me, it can literally can happen to anyone (sorry for the moment of hokiness).

I'll never forget the feeling from Thursday. Megan and I had some wedding stuff to take care of in the afternoon which made attending the regular Weight Watchers meeting impossible. I found a meeting nearby to work, and after one last gym excursion, I found myself wandering into an unfamiliar building filled with faces who had never seen me before.

Six months ago, it took all sorts of coddling to get me into a Weight Watchers meeting. On Thursday, I went by myself, wearing a pair of nylon shorts in front of a group of total strangers.

There was no fanfare, no buildup, just me waiting in line. I stepped on the scale, the woman wrote down my weight, informed me I'd lost three pounds this week (thanks, food poisoning!), congratulated me, and gave me my twelfth five-pound star. With a smug grin on my face, I headed back to work, stopping to buy a baked good for the first time in months, and felt great.

Fittingly for a movie geek like me, it happened just before the Oscars. Aside from cutting down the nets at the Final Four, I've always thought winning an Academy Award would be the greatest thing imaginable. But while I'll never be able to dunk any basketball made by Nerf, and they don't give out Oscars for most Lord of the Rings references in a single conversation, I do have weight loss bling to show off.

So like an Oscar recipient, here are a few thank yous. To Megan, of course, for the motivation and all that comes next. To my parents for getting behind me and Megan's parents for joining in. To Katie, the group leader, and the trainers at the gym, and my coworkers who gave me a supportive ear.

But the most enjoyable part of it all has been this blog. As much as the exercise has done me well, so has writing, and I've been delighted to hear that some people have taken a bit of inspiration.

And I'm not done yet. Sixty pounds feels super and svelte, but there's much more Matt that needs to disappear. So I'll be back at the game come Monday, on the arc trainer burning away the calories and diligently counting my points. There's no reason to stop, so for now, we'll just push up the bar a little higher. Eighty pounds is the new goal, and we're off to one helluva head start...

And with that, here are the most satisfying STATS I've ever posted:

Weeks until wedding: 22.

Pounds lost in Week 27: 3.0

Total weight lost: 62.2 lbs

Percentage toward 60-pound goal: 104 percent

Percentage toward new 80-pound goal: 78 percent

Weight left to lose before hitting (initial) goal: none

Weight left to lose before hitting new goal: 17.8 pounds. Time for one last piece of carrot cake.

Blog Subscribers: 46. Approaching the half century mark!

UConn's bubble status: not looking so hot.

Matt in a plain white T-shirt: looking much hotter than 6 months ago.

I hate variables

2010-03-02T11:15:00.000-08:00

Don't throw a variable my way. While it may set me off course, it will certainly make me just a wee bit irritable.

By now, some of you might have caught wind that math was never my strongest subject. Algebra especially presented me with more challenge than I could take, and if not for extra help after school and pursuing an enormous amount of pity from goodhearted teachers, I might still be stuck in a hell of augmented matrices and quadratic formulas.

Looking back, I get why I was better at some subjects than others. English was the most natural, with writing as my strength and an inherent love of the printed word. Social Studies? No problem. History is a series of dates and memorable people, geography involves maps (ooooh, pretty colors!), and current events are, well, current. And relevant. Science was a pain, especially chemistry and physics, because they involve math. Give me biology and I'm fine. As long as a frog isn't singing the Rainbow Connection, I have no qualms about performing a dissection.

However, ask me to calculate the velocity of a comet, or to calculate anything more complex than a batting average, and I was screwed.

See, math and all math related subjects try to trick you. They send variables your way in the form of x's and y's and unknowns and aaaahhhhhhhh! They take you out of your comfort zone, and while there may be a definite answer to most mathematical problems, I usually got lost and had a breakdown somewhere on the path to the correct bubble on the answer sheet.

I get it. It's the way that I'm built. I don't like things that throw me out of my comfort zone or take me away from my much cherished routine. There's nothing particularly unique about my own routine, but it's mine and you can't have it. I need sleep, a reasonable amount of production during the day, a hearty laugh or two, a trip to the gym, some time to let my brain decompress, enjoying time with Megan, to watch Jeopardy, and to eat some sort of ice cream derivative. That, to me, is a wonderful day.

But any time something throws me off my course, I get bothered. And right now, my variable comes in the way of a stomach bug. I'll spare you the details, suffice to say I still feel a little bit weak and a whole lot cranky. Actually, cranky is the wrong word. Frazzled describes me at this particular moment.

Having a stomach bug means that I haven't eaten much these past few days. The bonus: if I weighed in right now, I'd have passed the 60 pound goal with room to spare. The downside: I can't go to the gym out of fear that I'll pass out on the treadmill and the belt will keep running, essentially sanding away my face as I lay unconscious in heap (points for dramatic effect!).

I hate this feeling. This morning, despite all logic and the fact that I took a sick day on Monday, I actually packed a gym bag, hopeful that by the end of the work day, my body would be magically ready for some push-ups and crunches. Now, as I feel a little loopy merely from typing at a keyboard, I realize that Megan is right and maybe today isn't the best day to start rock climbing.

I've always been this way, a servant to my routine and frazzled at anything that forces me to do differently. In a way, I'm sure that anal retentiveness to routine is one of the reasons of succeeded in Weight Watchers: you eat something, you write it down, and it gets incorporated into your everyday lifestyle. Makes sense for someone like me.

Yet, here I have a variable, and that familiar algebra class anxiety is seeping in. Maybe I just need a good nap. Maybe it's my body telling me to slow down a bit. And without a doubt, I need to get over being physically sick and mentally unhinged over inability to exercise. I feel like at any second there's going to be a pop quiz and my TI-83 is nowhere to be found.

Maybe by tomorrow afternoon I'll be back on the arc. Or maybe asleep in front of the gym entrance. I'll take all wagers as they come.

Big Day? A Before and After post.

2010-02-25T08:39:00.000-08:00

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!

Hoping for One Shining Moment

2010-02-22T12:16:00.000-08:00

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

The airplane nightmare

2010-02-17T13:36:00.000-08:00

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.

That blasted pull-up bar.

2010-02-13T20:17:00.000-08:00

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?

A groan of betrayal...

2010-02-05T17:43:00.000-08:00

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

If it were my last meal...

2010-02-01T12:19:00.000-08:00

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

A Letter to Alex

2010-01-26T18:34:00.000-08:00

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.

In Search of Samwise

2010-01-22T18:49:00.000-08:00

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!

Drawing inspirations from the J-E-T-S

2010-01-18T09:59:00.000-08:00

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.

Eighty pounds... the photographic evidence.

2010-01-12T18:09:00.000-08:00

Fifty means a lot of different things to a lot of different people.

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

A challenge for the resolutioneers...

2010-01-04T12:17:00.001-08:00

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.

The Fiancee's Perspective: In Megan's Words

2009-12-28T14:40:00.000-08:00

Matt asked me to write a blog, so here it goes…

I’d like to say first how proud I am of Matt. He’s done an amazing job so far – a shadow of the man who picked me up for our first date to the Italian Festival in Norwich, and even more so, the guy the entire marching band (and half of the UConn campus) knew as Griff. Ask him to tell you about that name… perhaps a future blog?

About 8 months into dating, I asked Matt to join Weight Watchers with me. I had done the program successfully several years before and hit my weight goal. I maintained it for quite a while, but some of the weight came back to visit. I was not fat (oops, I dropped the ‘f-bomb’!), but I was not comfortable in my clothes either. I knew that if I had Matt on board with me, it would be easier to stay on plan – it’s hard to eat healthily with small portions if the man you are dating is eating what he wants, whenever he wants, and in whatever portions he wants. Matt declined at the time, so I rejoined myself, hoping to get back down to my weight goal.

Thus, the start of Weight Watchers Round #2. I was inspired by one of my good friends, and attended meetings with her. It worked for a while, but… bad influences overwhelmed me, and I stopped going just in time for my best friend’s wedding in Virginia. I felt good in my bridesmaid dress, so when I came back, I cancelled my membership. I was just 7ish pounds away from my goal.

In Fall 2008, Matt and I moved in together, in the winter, we got engaged…. Then I realized – WEDDING DRESS. I started dress shipping in the spring, and while most of the samples fit me, snuggly, but I didn’t exactly look the way I wanted to. In Fall 2009, I found my dream dress – it’s gorgeous!!!! As we ordered the dress (thanks Mom & Dad!), I struggled. Do I get the dress in the same size as the sample – which fit just perfectly, but with NO wiggle room – or do I get the dress in a size up in case I gain weight from stress eating? I eventually ordered it in the sample size, with the faith that I could get back down to my goal weight and maintain it.

Enter Weight Watchers Round #3 and Matt.

Matt also wanted to get into his dream tux (c’mon, what man doesn’t dream of what he will wear down the aisle?), and I needed to still fit in my dress next summer. I casually mentioned Weight Watchers, and gave him time to think about it.

We all know Matt joined with me, and for my sake, I thank God he did. Losing weight is hard to do, and even harder to do alone. Matt has been a support and inspiration! I am proud to say that I have gotten back to my weight goal, and have even managed to pass it. But without Matt, I would have stopped going to meetings and might have already started to head the wrong way on the scale again.

My suggestion to anyone who is trying to change themselves in some way (health, kicking a bad habit, etc) is to find a partner who has the same goal as you. My hope is that you find a partner who is as inspirational to you as Matt is to me!

Stat time (don’t I get them, too?)

Time till the wedding: I don’t remember. Ask Matt.
How much planning is left: A lot.
Current weight: A woman will never tell…
Total weight lost on Weight Watchers Round #3: 10+ lbs
Total weight lost on Weight Watchers since the beginning: 30+ lbs
Famous singer born on the 30th: Celine Dion (March 30th)
Number of subscribers to the blog: 33
Number last week: 33. BOO! Subscribe, people!

My holiday wish? Keep it up.

2009-12-24T13:36:00.000-08:00

I am almost through the gastronomical gauntlet.

The Holidays are the trip wire that explodes the diet of many a dieter or Weight Watcher. There have certainly been times over the past month where I've found temptation a little too enticing, a cookie just too darn convincing, and a slice of cake just look too delicious to pass up. This week , especially, has been dangerous, what with office parties and platters aplenty. I am a man with his share of weaknesses, among them carrot cake and chocolate covered pretzels, and those weaknesses were tested to extremes.

I'd be a dope of I didn't indulge a little bit. Hell, that's part of what makes the season so darn delightful. But I am proud to say I did not break, and though this weekend promises a few more hurdles, the dollops of danger are starting to dissipate (What is Christmas or Hanukkah without extra alliteration, after all).

I am not a quitter. Call me easy-going or even a pushover at times, but there are few things in my life that I've given up on, at least officially. True, I quit the soccer team in 4th grade, but the stupid coach insisted everyone pass his son the ball at all times. When I get committed to an idea or cause, I tend to stick to it.

The exception, other than that dastardly soccer coach, has been my ongoing battle against my weight. It's the classic yo yo motif that I'm sure many a dieter has experienced. You get motivated to do something about your body, you diet and exercise more, you start to see results, and you find yourself pleased. Then, like a kid with ADD seeing something shiny, you get distracted or worse, overconfident. You start to think that there's no meal you can't handle. Small excuses for avoiding the gym creep into your psyche more and more. You say, "sure, I'll enter the chicken nugget eating contest!" Or, as is the danger now, the Holidays come, and Chocolate Santas become your dietary hit men.

But something has come over me. I give plenty of credit to Weight Watchers, to the motivation of a pending wedding, and to Megan herself, who has never shied from showing her pride in what I am accomplishing. I don't want to lose momentum. Instead of making excuses, I'm going out of my way to get to the gym, and my workouts have become draining and long. On the occasions I do overeat, the guilt I used to feel has been replaced with something else, a desire to overcome any indiscretion with hard work and planning. I'm on a roll, and I'm enjoying it more than any dessert I've ever tasted.

It's been 17 weeks since that first fateful weigh-in, the day I decided to make this a public journey. In all those weeks, all those weigh-ins, I have not had one regression. On two occasions, my weight has remained the same as the previous week, but 15 times now, I've been rewarded with a smile and a smaller number. I'm close to losing 50 pounds, well on my way to 60 pounds and beyond that goal I set. Quite simply, this is the best I've ever felt about myself.

I haven't had many things to ask for this holiday season. I have a good life, a great family and friends, and a wonderful fiancee. So Santa, or Hanukkah Harry, or whatever being may be keeping tabs, here's my wish: let me keep this up. Even my DVD collection doesn't bring me as much satisfaction as getting those little stickers demonstrating more weight has been lost.

Well, that and a GPS. I could really use one of those. A few weeks ago I got lost in my own neighborhood.

Not a creature was stirring, so here come some STATS!

Weeks until wedding: 32. Yep, Karl Malone's number.
Week 17 pounds lost: 1.8
Total weight lost: 45.8 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.7 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 76.33333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to reach that goal: 14.2 Can we do it by February? We shall do our best. (at least I will. You can help by reading and commenting).
Number of subscribers to this blog: 33.
Number last week: 30. This is good.
Days before Xmas: 1.
NORAD currently tracking Santa: somewhere near the Middle East. Careful, Santa. That episode of "South Park" didn't end too well.

The notches slide left

2009-12-21T13:34:00.000-08:00

****In the way back machine we go, circa 1999. Cue funky time traveling music.****

"Matthew?" The nurse announces my name as a question, not a statement.

Why did Mom make me come here, I think to myself. Like no 16-year-old ever had a head cold before. Well, at least it's just a sniffle and I won't have to get on the scale.

"Alright, first things first. Let's get you on the scale."

You've got to be kidding me! "Do we really need my weight if I'm just here with a runny nose?" I ask, pathetically eyeing the device located conveniently in the middle of the hallway, next to where a gorgeous young nurse is standing.

"Doctor needs it for the chart. You haven't been here in quite a while, it seems." She's smirking at the horror that's coming over my face. I know that look she's displaying. Get on the scale, tubby, and stop you're bellyaching.

Oh, crud. She's actually challenging me. I remove my shoes, then my wallet. I take the keys out of my pocket, then my asthma inhaler, and remove the watch from my wrist. Not satisfied, I take the glasses off my face, and hand everything to the nurse. Can't write on your precious chart if your hands are full. But the joke's on me, as usual. She hands the chart to the hot nurse. "Allison, would you take down his weight. Foiled again!

Deep breath, swear inaudibly, and the inevitable small step up. The nurse slides the little metal frame to the right, then further to the right, the 50s adding up. She stops for a second, then starts sliding the smaller measure designated for single pounds.

Right, right, right, right.

And slide the big frame again. Another 50 is added, then she mercifully records a horrible number. The mean nurse hand me back all my things and sends me to a small room. "Dr. Schwartz will be in shortly." She smirks again, places all my possessions on the little table, and leaves.

(Editor's note: His name really wasn't Dr. Schwartz. Names have been changed to protect the cruel and malicious).

Did that number really say that? It couldn't be that high! What the heck! I can't really be that out of shape, can I?

A brief knock, and Dr. Schwartz enters. He is armed with the chart, a disapproving look already on his face as he reads.

"Long time, no see, Mr. Engelhardt. What brings you here today?"

"I've had a cold for about a week," I say through a stuffy nose, bringing a tissue to my face to emphasize my illness.

"The cold we can take care of. What I'm really concerned about is your weight."

You son of an orangutan's mistress! Guilt overcomes me, and I slump into my chair. "What's that got to do with the sniffles?" I mutter, beaten.

"You're going to have a whole lot more to worry about than the sniffles if you don't get your weight under control, Matt." In my head, I have Dean Wormer from "Animal House" giving me a lecture. Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son. Of course, I wasn't drunk. And I wasn't stupid, but the effect was the same.

The rest of the visit passes with me melting into a puddle of shame. There are six doctors in this practice, and I get the one with the bedside manner of a 5th grade bully. He prescribes me something for the cold, hands me the chart, and I walk back to the front. I hand the nurse the folder, which she opens to check Schwartz's notes. I see what he wrote, and the shame continues to melt me down. Preexisting conditions: asthma, obesity. There it was, the "o" word. I was 16, and the one thing the doctor wrote legibly was that I had crappy lungs and a weight problem.

I go home dejected. And, as much pity as I allowed myself to feel, the numbers on the scale would continue to slide right for years to come.

**** Present day, after a hard workout. Cue "Chariots of Fire."****

The scale in the men's room is identical to the one that tormented me as a teenager, the same that has prevented me from returning to the doctor's office unless there's a true emergency, like a cotton swab stuck in my ear canal. It's midday, and the locker room is crowded, but I don't care. I'm getting on that scale. I'm sweaty and tired, but unhindered. Once again, I remove my shoes. My wallet and everything else is locked safely in a locker, so no reason to go through the whole production again. This time, however, the glasses stay on.

Deep breath, and the inevitable step. Out of force of habit, I slide the bigger frame over several sets of 50s, then look up. I've overshot my weight. I begin sliding the smaller frame to the left.

Left, left, LEFT, LEFT, LEFT!

There's nowhere further to slide. With a satisfied "clink," I slide the larger frame left, 50 pounds left, to be exact. At last, the scale is level.

I nearly high five the old, nude man sitting on the bench. Er, maybe not. I haven't been this light since my freshman year of high school, two years before that dreadful visit to Dr. Schwartz. Since then, I've gone out of my way to make sure if I need to visit the doctor, I get someone else in the practice.

Even though I feel perfectly healthy, I'm thinking it's about time to schedule a physical. And I'll make sure I book Dr. Schwartz. Hell, just for good measure, I'll try to see if the nasty nurse is still working there too. Let her slide the scale to the left. It's about time that smirk turned into a smile.

No Weight Watchers for Santa

2009-12-17T15:58:00.000-08:00

Don't do it, Mr. Kringle.

Don't submit yourself to the insults and insinuations of some jerkhead Australian scientist who has the audacity to declare you, the one and only Santa Claus (and all your mall-sitting minions) a bad role model for children.

It's sad, but true. It seems that a scientist in Australia decided that the jolly, merry old image of Santa doesn't quite the fit the mold of what a responsible adult embodies.

SANTA'S A JOLLY BAD ROLE MODEL‎

I guess even Santa can't be hefty any more, at least according to this punk. Santa has his faults- I concede it's a bad image for him to smoke, and he has shown a bit of a tendency to favor Christian children over all others. But to call him a poor role model just because he's the "f" word ("fat" is truly an ugly term), is disheartening. We need Santa to be a jolly old elf. His belly needs shake like a bowl full of jelly. And the reindeer need the aerobic workout of pulling a chubby Santa around the world.

Heck, I'm Jewish, but having grown up in a household where all Judeo-Christian holidays were observed, I still appreciate everything that Santa holds dear: giving, family, cookies, and fantastic facial hair. He is the world's greatest celebrity, never had a sex scandal or other spat with Mrs. Claus, and successfully kept the Miser brothers at bay for at least 40 years.

Seriously, screw that scientist. All he's doing here is confirming the fears I've had all along: no matter what you do, or how good a person you are, if you're overweight, people won't concentrate on anything else.

I've struggled with that reality since I was a little boy still writing annual letters to the North Pole (and to Israel, where Hannukah Harry was busy shopping for socks). My fear was that no matter what I did in life, whether I became some kind of hero or blended into the crowd, people's first word to describe would be any euphemism of fat. We see it all the time. Look at an actor like John Candy. Somewhere in the first three words you use to describe him, I'm guessing his bulk would be included. The same goes for people like William Howard Taft, Marlon Brando, Chris Farley, or Rick Majerus. One was president and chief justice of the Supreme Court, one a temperamental actor, one a comedian, and one a great basketball coach. Yet all of them are best known for the size, diminishing all other attributes they may carry.

I don't want to forever be known as Matt, the funny fat guy or the rotund writer. People tell me they don't see those things, and those people are wonderful, but I still remember the kids (and adults) from my youth who took such great delight in reminding me that I was overweight. I'd love to be known as funny or as a writer, but if people could come up with other adjectives to describe me other than those associated with weight, I'd be delighted.

I'd love to pretend people don't judge others by their size, but try as I might, I've never known anyone who was truly blind to someone's weight. Kids are taught not to judge others by skin color, religion, or ethnicity, but should a fellow child be a few pounds heavier, adults are less inclined step in and tell them to stop teasing.

I'm finally working towards that, and making great progress. Sixteen weeks in, 44 pounds are gone from my frame. I got a new special charm tonight commemorating my commitment to the process. I know that role models come in all shapes, whether skinny or heavy, short or tall. I'd just like to get to a point in my own life when however people see me, they see who I am, not the size of my waistline.

But Santa, that doesn't go for you. People like me need Weight Watchers, but the world would be a much sadder place if there was less jelly to your jolly. Nothing but coal for that Australian scientist. Or may he be condemned to nothing but a diet of Spam and stringy dingo for the rest of his life. Solidarity, my corpulent, merry friend.

And if you see a house with a menorah in the window instead of an Xmas tree, be a pal and stop by. Cookies are delicious and all, but won't keep you going like a nice potato latke.

Here's a nice stocking stuffer.... STATS!

Weeks until wedding: 33. Time to start tux shopping? Let's lose a few more lbs first.
Week 16 pounds lost: 0.4
Total weight lost: 44 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.75 lbs
Progress toward overall 60-pound goal: 73.33333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16
Shirts fitting: very loosely
Pants fitting: Please don't pull on them. I will look silly.
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 30. Rut-roh. Must get 35 by 2010...
Night of Hanukkah: 7.
Days before Xmas: 8. How's your credit card balance looking?
On the eighth day of Christmas, my true love: asked me to start singing a different friggin' song already!

The right kind of pain

2009-12-12T20:54:00.000-08:00

It's the day after a new workout, and my body is very angry with me.

Muscles that I previously had no idea I had are now sore all over. One of the cats walks across my stomach and I let out an "oof." And oy, the hurt that comes with each sneeze...

This is the good kind of pain, the doiscomfort that comes with somthing different. Last week, I tried personal training for the first time, and in addition to feeling pretty silly trying to balance my backside on a fitness orb, I think I picked up a valuable tip or two. And, since I was training muscles that otherwise wouldn't be impacted by a walk on the treadmill or ride on the bike, little bits of muscle tore, which I understand now is supposed to happen as a part of the exercise process.

I shouldn't be this pleased to feel a bit of soreness in my bicep and pectoral. But a few years ago, it wasn't the right kind of pain that was causing me much more than discomfort all hours of the day.

Sometime between my junior and senior of college, I ruptured a disk in my lower back. Between the L4/L5 vertibrae, to be exact. To this day I have no idea how it happened. Gradually I started feeling soreness and tightness at the small of my back, coupled by some unusual pain down my right leg. Eventually, I grew concerned enough to visit the doctor, something I try to avoid at all costs. I'm the classic doctorphobe. Unless something is bleeding profusely or turning colors unknown to Crayola, I'm not going to see a physician.

Yet something was wrong, and I knew it. The doctor diagnosed sciatica. For anyone unfamiliar with the term, the sciatic nerve is the largest in the body, running from your back down the length of your legs. When something pushes on the nerve, it hurts like the Dickens (Bah humbug). The doctor told me to take off some weight, so for the first time in my life, I tried going to the gym in earnest. I screwed something up, and the pain worsened. Soon, the discomfort in my leg was searing agony all the way down to my foot. A return to the doctor and an MRI confirmed suspicions. The disk was herniated, of slipped, or ruptured, or whatever euphemism you want to use. They all mean the same thing: ow, ow, ow, and ow.

Physical therapy, including traction, was useless. The traction was especially awkward: they'd put me on a table, strap some weights around my body, and pull me in two different directions. I don't know how this was supposed to cure my back, or whether they were trying to extract government secrets from me, but it sucked. Basically, I was in the torture rack, and the therapists only got mad when I screamed "Frreeeedddddooooommmm!"

Next came the injections, or as I remember them, spinal scrapings. They started administering cortisone shots in the form of epidurals, a series of three that ranged from slightly painful to holy heck, what are you doing to my back. I went from doctor to doctor as my senior year started. The pain made me lame, and I couldn't walk more than a few hundred feet before having to stop and calm the nerve. While this is mildly annoying walking around a college campus, it's awful when you're a proud member of the marching band. Suddenly, a halftime show becomes an exercise in ouch. I had to sit out shows and basically spent my entire final year of band sitting on the sideline, watching my friends perform at Rentschler Field.

Given my size, I was lucky that I hadn't ruptured a disk prior. It's a common injury for the overweight, a signal of bad posture or extra stress on a spine ill-designed for heavy lifting. But it was getting worse. One more MRI, a new orthopedist, and the decision was made. The ruptured disk had wrapped itself completely around the nerve. I got through the year, then a week after I graduated, I was under the knife.

The surgeon told me later it was a wonder I could walk at all. The injury was bad, causing me to take Vicodin with the frequency of Dr. House. I still have a zipperish scar marking the site of the incision. The surgery did the trick, for the most part. Some residual pain remained, but the rupture was gone.

I never want to go through that again. I lost a valuable part of my last year of college to an injury related to being a big dude. The worst part: when you can hardly move, you can still eat, and of how the pounds increased. It still hurts to think of the time I missed on the band field, or the fact that I had trouble enjoying my best friend's wedding since while I was standing next to him on the altar, I was in some kind of Percocet daydream. Some things you can never get back, but I'm going to do my best to make sure there's no repeat rupture.

So yeah, I'm happy to take the subtle pain of a muscle that's gone unworked for too long. It beats the hell out of sitting in the stands and watching all your friends do something you love.

But enough of the sad memories. This was a good week, and it's starting to show. I know I promised some photos, but the camera's nowhere to be found. My face has definition now. Picture John Candy morphing into George Clooney, and while I look nothing like either of them, I'm starting to feel pretty darn suave.

And what did George Clooney yell frequently on ER? STAT!

(er, Stats).

Weeks until wedding: 34
Week 15 pounds lost: 4. You may now dance in celebration.
Total weight lost: 43.6 pounds
Average weight loss per week: 2.9 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 73 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 16.4
Percent chance I'll increase that goal: about 98
Number of subscribers to this blog: 30
Number last week: 26. I got one new follower for every pound lost. Good thing I didn't gain any weight.
Night of Hanukkah: second
Days before Xmas: 12. Time for those geese to start a-laying.
Greatest holiday gift I ever received: Karl Malone rookie card.
Sad but true Hanukkah gift I once received: underpants stuffed inside a trash can. Oy, Harry, you're killing me!

Don't toast the marshmallow...

2009-12-08T17:12:00.000-08:00

No offense to Mr. Staypuft, but I have always been the true Marshmallow Man.

A statement like that needs plenty of explanation. I've always been a raw nerve kind of guy: sensitive to a fault and easily made to feel guilty. In a high school creative writing class, the teacher noticed me taking all criticism too closely to heart, and all negative comments from my classmates as indications that I was talentless. He dubbed me a "marshmallow," and it had nothing to do with my belly (it really did, with the whole endomorph motif, but that's another blog for another day). I was a big softy, and though I hated feeling like a ball of gooey mush, the teacher later advised me to never stop being a marshmallow, that such folks are needed.

I don't know if he was just full of bunk. It's purely possible. But he was right on the mark with his metaphor, and he should have been, as a creative writing teacher.

The fact is I've never taken well to personal intimidation or insults. I can stand my ground at angry sources upset over an article- I'm fully willing to defend myself on a basis of intellect and principle- but get in my face about something personal, and this marshmallow gets toasted. My parents realized that about me from a young age, and only years later shared with me their reasoning for keeping me out of certain activities.

Namely, as a kid, I wanted to play football. I had excellent hand-eye coordination, loved the feeling of making a big hit, and liked the down by down format. Run a play, gain some yards, catch your breath. It's the perfect formula for an out-of-shape athlete, thus the reason some NFL linemen look like they broke off from a glacier. I enjoyed playing football almost as much as basketball, and I daresay as much as watching "Saved by the Bell" repeats.

But organized football, like ice hockey and watching professional wrestling, playing with GI Joes, or microwaving my sister's Barbies, was strictly forbidden. For years, my parents told me they were worried I would get hurt, despite the fact that by the time I was approaching high school, I was bigger than most kids and the ideal size for a nose tackle or offensive lineman. I still found my way onto the football field, albeit in a marching band uniform instead of helmets and pads, but dreams of sacking quarterbacks weren't to be realized.

Years later, my father finally told the whole truth. Yes, he was worried about me getting hurt, or perhaps just as damaging to my own psyche, me injuring someone else. But the real reason was football coaches, the kind that grab players by the face mask, scream and spray spittle all over the place, then make them run laps. The thought of me on the other end of that face mask makes me cringe. My parents are smart people. They knew their son was a marshmallow, and they weren't going to let me become some angry coach's s'more.

I'd like to think things have changed, that my exterior is a little tougher. Yet whenever I watch "The Biggest Loser," (the season finale of which is playing in the background even as I type), I get angry whenever I see Jillian screaming at a contestant. If I was on the show- and a few years ago I was big enough for consideration- I'd melt under those screams and icy stares, and not in a lovelorn kind of way.

A showdown with Jillian would go one of three ways:

1. I'd get upset, beat myself up, quit the show, and suck down a carton of Americone Dream to cheer myself up.
2. I'd get upset, beat myself up, take out my guilt on myself through pushing myself too hard and launching into a pile of tears and asthma.
3. I'd get upset, beat myself up, not speak to anyone for several months, than appear at a reunion with a long beard and tendency to mutter uncontrollably to myself.

Tomorrow, I'm trying something I've never done before: personal training. No, I won't be training anyone (first thing to remember... always bring a clean rag to defog your glasses. No one likes steamy lenses!). A trainer is going to work with me for an hour or so, hopefully teaching me to do correctly all the exercises I've been doing wrong. Will I be sore on Thursday? Fair bet. Will I be better for the experience? I certainly hope so. Either way, it should be educational.

Let's just hope the trainer is less a Jillian and more someone non-intimidating and nurturing, like Raffi. Otherwise, and much to the chagrin on Baby Beluga, this marshmallow could once again get smushed.

Succeed or fail, it's all on me

2009-12-04T17:23:00.000-08:00

Whenever things don't work out they way we expect or hope, it's always easy to find a myriad of excuses as to why.

In terms of weight loss, that rings true as the Silver Bells playing on the radio during the holiday season. If pounds add up, so do the excuses.

"Maybe if people hadn't brought all that junk food into work, I wouldn't have to eat it!"

"It's not my fault. There shouldn't have been so much pie to get me off track!"

"Look, I'm stressed, and there's no light beer in the fridge. Spike some eggnog and help me relax!"

"Maybe if Oreos would come out with a better tasting reduced fat cookie, I wouldn't have to fill my mouth with all these double-stuffs!"

"Well, maybe if Santa wasn't so darn jolly, there wouldn't be so many expectations for the chubby to get chubbier and spread holiday cheer!"

I'm sure you can think of hundred of your own excuses that you've heard... or made yourself... about why a diet didn't work, or how the holidays got your goat. And I could too, but regardless of how many people I can find to blame or how many pumpkin pies were waved in my face, it's not someone else who has to carry the gut.

To hell with excuses.

When I began this challenge, I knew that there would be plenty of temptation. Two weeks ago, I did my best to laugh in the face of it, to the point of taunting poor defenseless-yet-delicious turkeys. I knew full well that I could screw up, and perhaps by talking (or writing) tough, I'd pump myself up to defeat the bird.

It was hard. Good lord, was it hard, and I'd love to say that I made it through Thanksgiving without trips for seconds. But then I'd be lying, and honesty is a good policy, so I'll be truthful. I wasn't as focused as I should have been. I didn't glutton myself, but I didn't exactly refrain or carefully portion out my food. I also figured, again foolishly, that Herculean efforts at the gym would make up for a day or two of indulgence.

Unfortunately, Thanksgiving doesn't actually last one day. It lasts for several, and every time you think you've poured your last gravy, there are a few more leftovers still left in the fridge. When you're surrounded by stuffing and sweet potato casserole, the last thing you want to do is track your points. So as much big game as I talked, I was a little too lax, despite putting in hours at the gym.

The good news: I didn't gain any weight over the last two weeks. The bad news: I didn't lose anything either, and now we're in December. If I was a bear (and if there is such a thing as reincarnation, I think I'd make a swell grizzly), this is the time when I'd be fattening up to hibernate. While my hair quotient might lead someone to suspect I'm at least part bear, I have no reason to pack on the pounds or to sleep for months at a time. Hanukkah starts next week, Christmas soon after that, and there will be plenty of goodies and parties just begging for me to misstep. Hershey, Nabisco, Nestle, Baconnaise... if I'm not careful, they'll find a way to make me submit.

And if I do, I'll have to accept it and only blame myself. Excuses are easy. It's facing yourself that's the hardest part.

Stat Boy!

Weeks until wedding: 35
Week 13-14 pounds lost: 0. At least there was nothing gained.
Total weight lost: 39.6
Average weight loss per week: 2.8
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 66 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 20.4
Number of subscribers to this blog: 26. Can we hit 35 by the New Year? What if I promise more candy?
Number last week: 24.
Cool things about Hanukkah: Maccabees, latkes, Hannukah Harry sketch on SNL, menorahs
Sucky things about Hanukkah: Adam Sandler's stupid song. Ya, we get it: these people are Jewish! Now shut up!
Places that have grizzly bears: Yellowstone, Alaska, zoos
Not smart: taunting grizzlies.

Away with the desk overflow...

2009-12-01T18:42:00.000-08:00

Whoever designed desks for the classroom under the premise that"one size fits all" is either a jerk or a sadist.

We've all sat in those bland-colored desks, those little units with the chair connected to the writing surface by a thick metal bar. The kinds where it's impossible to create any more room between one's gut and the manila edge of the desk. Sure, they may be purchased all at the same size, but whoever does the ordering fails to take the seating requirements of the larger bodied folks in mind.

At UConn, when I was at my largest, I faced two problems with the desks every time I went to class (about once a week... just kidding, Mom!). First is the lefty factor. Schools always order about 24 righty desks for a classroom, and if they're feeling charitable, they'll stick one lefty desk in the seat closest to the door. Yes, it is really just a minor inconvenience, but it's still nice to be able to rest your writing arm on a hard surface instead of having to lean across your body.

But then there's the size factor, or the second problem, and by far the most embarrassing and annoying. It was humiliating to have to sit in those desks with the edge of my belly pushing firmly against the edge. From 45 minutes to an hour and a half, I'd be forced to sit in that uncomfortable position, sometimes adjusting my stomach so that I wasn't so obviously overflowing. And if you're single and want to impress the ladies, forget it. Once they've seen you get stuck in a desk, it really doesn't matter how charming or funny you are.

A few months ago, I found myself back in the classroom for the first time since UConn, this time as a part-time grad student at ECSU. Sure enough, I walked into the room only to find those same dreaded desks... and, as an extra kick in the rear, not a lefty model anywhere to be found. My first class took place just as I started this little weight loss adventure of mine, when I wasn't as heavy as I was as an undergraduate, but still big enough to feel ashamed of stuffing myself into a desk that looked like a prop in a Chris Farley movie. During my introduction, I felt like saying, "Hi, I'm Matt. I'm a journalist, I like the Red Sox, and does anyone have any WD-40?"

Yet weight loss brings signs of success that differ from just the numbers on the scale. Clothes fit better and eventually become too big (check.). Loved ones marvel at the smallest changes, even if you don't feel all that lighter (check.). Stairs and long walks through parking lots no longer feel like an endurance challenge (check.).

And yes, even an undersized desk starts to become more forgiving.

Week by week, I've gone back to class, and with each lecture, I'm finding myself feeling more comfortable in my seat. It's no longer necessary for me to push my belly down. There's room to breathe, and getting out of the desk in the middle of the class no longer feels like setting myself up for ridicule.

I'm getting thinner, both in terms of the scale and the desk, and it's a wonderful feeling. So Eastern, I've done my part to make myself more comfortable in your classroom furniture. Now how about you do your part and put a few more lefty desks into the rooms?

In other news, Thursday marks the first meeting in the last two weeks. That means it will have been 14 days since my last official weigh-in, during which I've been served (or purchased) about five turkey dinners. Have I overeaten? Not grossly. It's hard not to, after all, around Thanksgiving. Have I set myself off course? I'm confident that come 5:30 p.m. on Thursday, I'll still feel good about myself.

On Black Friday, I'm with the Grinch

2009-11-27T10:32:00.001-08:00

Twas the day after Thanksgiving, and all through this town,
Parents were fighting and beating each other down.
For Elmos, and Wiis, and Xhu Xhu Pets by the score,
Even though kids should love real hamster a whole lot more.
All the stores were brimming with dollars and green,
With no real meaning of the holidays anywhere to be seen.
So on this Black Friday, finding me is a cinch,
I'll be up on Mount Crumpet, frowning down with the Grinch.

Do not misunderstand me. I truly believe the Holidays, especially those that come in December, are a wonderful time of the year. I have no problems with the music, or people who say "Merry Christmas" instead of "Happy Holidays." I love the volunteer spirit that neighbors show to each other, and the smells of the season are the most delicious of the entire year.

But despite all that, I have absolutely no love for Black Friday. This is a miserable day, and not just this year, with the air chilly and a cold rain bearing down. Working in Manchester, perhaps the retail capital of Connecticut, I've had to interview many a shopper during my time, and inevitably there's always a story about something bad happening as parents rush the stores for the best deals.

Last year, a Walmart employee got trampled to death. As of this moment, I haven't heard anything about anyone getting seriously injured this year, but it hasn't been for lack of trying. Police from several different departments were called to the Toys R Us in Manchester to calm tensions early this a.m., as 1,000 people were lined up outside before the store opened and a few had the audacity to cut in line. If I'm up at 4 a.m. to get in line with a thousand other people for first crack at a toy store, there better be an honest to goodness live giraffe walking through the aisles.

What makes it especially hard to stomach is the proximity so close to Thanksgiving, the greatest holiday of them all. No sooner had I finished my last bite of pie last night when I learned that family members were planning a midnight excursion to an outlet mall. I don't get it. I never read about Squanto or Miles Standish leaving the first Thanksgiving in order to get in line to shop for Christmas presents at the Colonial Gap.

I understand this is a short shopping season. I also understand that the economy has sucked, and Christmas usually brings a much needed shot in the arm. But some days should be sacred, and Thanksgiving is one of them. Someone told me today that when I'm a father to young kids, I'll understand the hubbub, but for now, I feel strictly humbug.

I know, this blog is supposed to be about weight loss, so let's get to that. In a few minutes, I'm headed off to the gym, where no doubt there will be many people fighting for machines to work off their holiday feasts. I was no dietary angel at either of the Thanksgivings I attended on Thursday (stops in Groton and Middletown make it difficult to stay on a plan), but I didn't go too crazy. Still, there's no doubt that I should probably spend a few extra minutes on the tread-climber and do some crunches today.

In a way, today's session will be practice for early January, when the Resolutioneers make their annual trek to the gym. There truly is nothing like a fitness center on Jan. 2. You have to park roughly three miles from the gym, and you see so many folks with the deer-in-the-headlights, oh-my-lord-how-do-I-use-this-machine? looks. Plus, many of them got designer outfits for the experience. Ah, spandex.

Yet I'm already cranky over hearing the stories about toy store fights. How grumpy will I get if someone spends 15 minutes on a treadmill doing nothing but complaining on the cell phone?

So yeah, I guess I am a Black Friday Grinch, but I'm okay with that. Come next week, hell, come Saturday, I'll be in the holiday spirit and ready to fail in attempts to build gingerbread houses. But no, I'm not likely to join you today for trips Best Buy, Borders, or Barnes and Noble (wow, I didn't realize my favorite stores were all so alliterative!) I've got too much love for Squanto, Santa, and Hanukkah Harry to see my holiday cheer spoiled before it starts.

Turkey Tauntin' and Trash Talkin'

2009-11-22T15:48:00.003-08:00

This year, I have no fear of you, or your delicious legs...

You better bring your A game if you think this year is going to be the same as the last, well, 26, Mr. Turkey.

You've had a good run. Really, you have, you and all your deliciously fattening friends. I'm not just directing this smack at you, but to your buddies like stuffing/dressing, potatoes both sweet and mashed, and whatever other butter-soaked vegetables you want to bring my way.

And, just for good measure, your girlfriend Pumpkin Pie and your mistress Apple Pie don't stand a chance of knocking me down this year either.

I'm on a roll right now. Aside from crystal meth addicts and Biggest Loser contestants, it's hard for people to lose more weight than I did this past week. I don't know what the formula was: could have been my body burning calories to beat my cold, or diversifying my workout, or simply cutting and counting points, but suddenly I'm within about 20 pounds of my ultimate goal. And then, perhaps, it will be time for me to consider just how far I can go.

But I'm not entirely new to weight loss. Always one to say "I've got to lose a few pounds," every once in a while, I'd actually get focused and *gulp* diet. Sometimes I'd find some success, build a little steam, and get the compliments from those I hadn't seen in a while. And then, without fail, Thanksgiving would come along, and the allure of Dad's turkey on the grill and whatever wonderful baked goods Lyman Orchards would have to offer would be the end of the diet. "I'll get back on the wagon tomorrow," I'd tell myself. Tomorrow would come, and the wagon would be filled with leftovers, and by the end of that week, I would have not only eaten the leftovers, but most of the wagon as well.

Yet here's the thing: I've never been on a roll like this before. Even a few years ago, when I was on my Israel quest and lost 50 pounds, it was a drawn out process that saw me stagger during the Holidays. It would be a shame for me to throw this year's progress on a couple of meals, even if turkey and stuffing is in my top 5 favorite foods of all time.

I'm not expecting to get through this week without a challenge. And trust me, come Thursday, I will eat and eat well. But this time, I'm working off whatever I put in, and I won't allow myself to spiral into a losing battle with the Gravy Gauntlet.

After Thanksgiving, there will be other holidays that will tempt me. I broke even on Halloween. Hanukkah begins on sundown on Dec. 11, and there will, naturally, be potato latkes and my mother's dreidle-shaped sugar cookies to threaten my efforts. Christmas brings chocolates of every shape and theme, from Santa to Frosty to the largest and most dangerous chocolate of all, the Abominable-Snowman-from-Rudolph-life sized-peanut butter cup (note: this might not be an actual holiday candy, but maybe just the best dream Augustus Gloop or Matt Engelhardt ever had). New Year's brings dangers in liquid form. And for me, the holidays don't quite end until mid-January, when I celebrate my birthday usually through the courtesy of my sister's amazing chocolate cake.

So yes, the hurdles are out there for me to trip, fall, and devour. But the focus is there, too, and it starts by not getting gobbled by the turkey. So bring it on, Butterball. For the first time in 27 years, you are entering a world of pain.

A priest and a rabbi walk into a bar. Bartender says, "what'll it be?" The priest and rabbi exchange glances, high five, and simultaneously yell "STATS!"

Weeks until wedding: 35
Week 12 pounds lost: 7.2. Seriously. And no Mom, I'm not on meth.
Total weight lost: 39.6
Average weight loss per week: 3.3
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 66 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 20.4
Number of subscribers to this blog: 24
Number last week: 21. I never should have promised free candy to every subscriber.
Things that way 7.2 pounds: infants, an almost full-gallon of milk, several bags of Hershey's Kisses
Weeks until Xmas: not sure, but I should really start shopping
Last time I weighed this much: freshman year of high school
Graduated from high school in: 2000. Yep, that's 10 years. Go Blue Dragons!
Practicality of a mascot called the Blue Dragons: high, if you're a knight.

The Way Back Machine, Part I: The Tryout

2009-11-18T16:42:00.001-08:00

"Everybody on the baseline!"

Suicides. The end of my first real tryout for a basketball team, and I'd have to prove myself through suicides.

That's not dramatic as it sounds. At least, not now, as I understand the literal translation of the name of the drill. To all the non-hoops players out there, here's a brief synopsis of suicides: All the members of a team line up on the end line at one end of the court. At the coach's whistle, everyone takes off in a sprint, touches the foul line, comes back and touches the baseline, then sprints to half court, touches the line, repeat back to the baseline, then to the far foul line and back, before one last sprint from baseline to baseline.

Fast players get it done quickly. The drill ends, they take a second to take a deep breath and watch as the slowpokes make their way back, then step up to the line in anticipation of the next whistle and a repeat of the exercise.

For an overweight, asthmatic, and slow-footed 7th grader, however, it takes much more than a deep breath to compose yourself. I remember slowing to a jog by half court, then trudging along slowly for the last few touches before wheezing to the finish, sometimes falling to the court at the last dash. Time to go again already? I was doomed. The drill was perfectly named. I thought I was going to die.

So here it was, the end of the first tryout for the Woodrow Wilson Middle School boys basketball team. At that point in my life, I was all about basketball. It was all I wanted to do, go outside, shoot baskets, practice free throws, and daydream about a time when someone would pay me lots of money to do so(when I wasn't watching "Saved by the Bell," at least). I wanted to play for the Huskies, then the Jazz, ultimately ending my career on a high note on my way to the Hall of Fame.

But before the glory, there was the small matter of making the middle school team.

The odds were against me. The coach was going to select fifteen 8th graders and ten 7th graders. Everyone else would be cut, something I'd never experienced before. For those 25 spots, about 50 boys were on the court for the two-day tryout. And, sad as it is to realize, I was the fattest kid there. Athletes were supposed to thrive on a run, not grab their inhalers at the first sign of heavy breath.

But I could shoot. I was a good passer, could box out and rebound, and I was determined that the coach would see that. Knowing my disadvantage, I dove for loose balls, set firm picks, and always looked for an open teammate.

And yet, at the end of the night, the suicides were going to kill me.

I ran hard on night one, pushing myself to the point of becoming ill. The ride home, as my friend Tyler's mother drove, I talked little, clutching my stomach and trying hard not to vomit. All I could think of was the running drill, the horrible feeling of finishing last, and I couldn't escape the feeling that my asthma and belly were too much to overcome.

I pushed myself harder on day 2. More diving for the ball. Practicing fundamentals, working for a good shot for a teammate instead of forcing one myself, and always boxing out.

"Everyone on the line!"

Another night, another last place finish, more nausea. I tried talking to the coach, a truly nice man who would next year be my social studies teacher. He gave me a nod of encouragement, but I took no comfort.

We would learn our fate the next day. Before dressing for practice, all tryout players were to meet in the locker rooms, first the 7th graders and then the 8th graders. We sat on benches, waiting for the coach to speak. He looked at his clipboard and began reading names, alphabetically.

Cardinal. D'Aquila. Eagleson. Estabrook. There was no Engelhardt on his list. Many of my friends had made it, kids I'd grown up with playing basketball, but I was not among them now.

The coach attempted to calm the cut players, then left us alone in the locker room. There were about 15 of us who now realized our dreams had fallen short. The word "Wilson" would not be on our chests, at least not on a basketball jersey. Some of the boys began to cry. Sniffles filled the room, followed by profanity.

I took a deep breath, finding strength somewhere. I guess subconsciously, I had already prepared myself for the worst. "It's going to be okay, guys," I said, then smiled.

Alone, I walked downstairs to the pay phone to call my Mom. She was waiting on standby, either to come pick me up immediately or hear some good news. I put the quarter in the phone, picked up the receiver, and dialed. By the time my mother said "hello," I was already choking on tears. So much for being strong.

But there was always next year....

So, as an 8th grader, I went for another tryout. Show energy, I told myself. Show passion. You must be confident.

Two days later, it was once again time to discover my fate. This time, there would be no coach reading names. We'd find out what happened by reading the list for ourselves.

Mr. Smee, Hook's first mate................ Matt Engelhardt

There were no tears this time around. I'd done it, gotten exactly what I wanted. No, I wouldn't be charging to the hoop as a star power forward. Instead, I found something better: the comic relief in a school play, and a pirate, no less! All the other swashbucklers cast in Peter Pan were 8th graders!

That was when it all changed. The sports dream faded, and a love for the humanities emerged. I was happy. There were no suicides on the stage, only applause and (intended) laughter.

Still, it's hard not to imagine what might of been if I'd just been in a little better shape at the time of that basketball tryout, now 15 years in my past. I wonder, given the weight that I've lost now, if I'd still finish in last place and be in the consolation locker room.

But there's no point in torturing myself. Someday, there will be other tests. And this time, my asthma isn't going to stand in my way.

Deflecting the monkey wrenches

2009-11-14T10:52:00.000-08:00

Going gung ho can only last you for so long.

I guess that given the hectic pace of my life over the last few months, my immune system was due for a crash. This weight loss challenge has kept me focused on taking care of myself like never before. Free time has been spent at the gym or driving from place to place. Work has been killer lately, especially with the election. When I haven't been at work, I've spent much of my time doing homework. If that weren't enough, I took on Relay for Life, recruiting team members and hassling friends for donations (thanks again, all who helped). Plus, there's that small wedding manner that keeps coming closer week by week.

But the semester was wrapping up. The election was over, and Relay for Life came to a successful close. Surely, now was the best time to rededicate myself to exercise, helping out more at home, and taking a moment to catch my breath.

Enter the cold season. I should have expected this. Almost like clockwork, every November I seem to get sick. Not clutching myself into a ball, praying to deities for relief, and filling out a last will and testament sick, but ill enough to put me on the shelf for a couple of days. No, it's not the dreaded swine flu, just a seasonal cold, but nonetheless, I've spent many moments this week feeling sorry for anyone who's had to listen to me cough. (oh, there's my lung!)

My reaction to getting sick has been much different this year, however. Instead of worrying about having to take a sick day, whether I should call or doctor, or trying to protect loved ones from contracting whatever is ailing me, my biggest annoyance has been my inability to get to the gym. I've woken up in the morning feeling well enough to say, "alright, I'm not wheezing, if I still feel this good by the end of the day, it's to the stair machine!" Three hours later, as I eat my 34th cough drop of the day (how many points for mentholyptus? Is that even a word?), I'm still holding out hope for a brief workout. By the end of the work day, I'm too tired to think about anything but a nap, and it's only when I steer my car toward the route home and instead of toward the gym that I start to get mad.

I had intended for this to be a great week. I mean, fantastic progress, like another five-pound star and perhaps a contract to start training contestants on The Biggest Loser. It was set up perfectly, and with all the walking I did at Relay on Saturday, I would make sure my flat status of last week wouldn't happen again. But when you're body is too weak, you have to listen, and this I spent most of me free time in bed or being tended to by my beautiful live-in nurse.

I guess that's the thing about trying to lose weight. There are always going to be monkey wrenches thrown your way, factors you can't see in advance. This week, it was a cold. Maybe in a few weeks it'll be something else. You have to be able to improvise and take what comes at you. I'm learning that now. So, instead of busting my rear, I was anal retentive about counting my points and staying on plan.

My reward: a good week after all. Perhaps not interview with Oprah- worthy, but I still dropped a few pounds this week. And, with any luck and some more chicken soup, maybe this cold will pass and I'll be back amongst the gym rats within a few days.

At least chicken soup is low in calories. It's a good thing that New England Clam Chowder isn't considered a good cold remedy.

STATS!

Weeks until wedding: 36
Week 11 pounds lost: 2.2
Total weight lost: 32.4
32.4 rounds to: 32
Famous athletes who wore #32: Karl Malone, Magic Johnson, Rip Hamilton, The Mailman, Sandy Koufax, Jim Brown, Karl the Mailman Malone, Shaq, Karl Malone, and Matt Engelhardt, during his summers at Fundamental Basketball Camp that he attended in elementary school. The name on the back of his shirt: the Mailman. Ya, I need help.
Average weight loss per week: 2.9
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 54 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 27.6
Number of subscribers to this blog: 21
Number last week: 20. Still willing to accept dares.
Things that impede typing: cats in lap
Evidence that I should stop filling my pockets with tuna fish: frequency of cats in lap. Seriously. this freakin' cat won't leave me alone.
Pictures of progress: coming soon. I promise.

How to succeed in weight loss without really trying...

2009-11-08T19:14:00.001-08:00

In response to the title of this entry, the truth is that it's impossible.

No, it's not impossible to pull off losing weight. However, after what was my first "flat" week. I know now that I have to devote all myself to making this happen. Short cuts won't work, and I must stay focused.

And like all important lessons in life, it makes the most sense when you learn from experience. Of course, it would have been much easier to have learned from the musical from which this entry title owes its thanks.

When I was 14, the middle school drama club took a trip to the Bushnell to see a traveling performance of the revival of "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." Matthew Broderick had thrived in the revival, but since this was the traveling tour, we were treated to a true master thespian in the lead role of J. Pierrepont Finch. Forget Ferris Bueller, we had Daniel LaRusso. That's right. Ralph friggin' Macchio was singing and dancing. Thankfully, I avoided the urge to yell "Wax on, wax off" or launch crane kicks from the balcony.

Here's a brief synopsis: Finch-san (it is Macchio, after all) starts as a window washer and gets his hands on a book conveniently also titled "How to Succeed in Business Without Really Trying." It's basically a self help guide that he follows carefully, and before long, his overalls have been traded for a suit, and instead of a scaffold, he's in the board room.

But things aren't all peanut butter cups and llama races. He finds himself as VP of advertising, a dead-end for all who dare take on the position. He screws up badly, all the advice in the book is rendered useless, and if not for a happy ending, Finch would have been fired. All is well in the end, of course, and everyone is better for their experiences. Now let's go watch those llamas race.

So let's rewrite the story to apply to my little weight loss quest. Macchio is now playing me (ha ha, YES!). I'm trying to lose 60 pounds, and Weight Watchers has become my little guide. But at some point, I decide I can succeed without help from the program, and I stop counting my points. My reasoning: I've been working out so much and burning so many calories that it doesn't matter if my eating habits are a little off.

Except last week they were more than a little off. Halloween happened, and with it came fun-sized Snickers. Even more dangerous was Election Night, where in return for working til 2:30 a.m., the newspaper sprang for pizza. Plus, fellow staffers brought in chocolate cake and apple pie. It was a trifecta of temptation, and one I thought I could breeze through.

So at weigh-in on Thursday, I was expecting another good week. And yet, nothing. No loss. No gain either, but the pessimist in me can only find disappointment.

The leader is encouraging. She's said before that there will be difficult weeks and plateaus, but my momentum was such that I didn't think it applied to me. Now I realize I've become a typical Weight Watcher: obsessed with the scale, concerned over mere decimal points, and eager for quick results.

It's not going to be that easy. I can't just rely on treadmills and stair machines, especially considering that the gauntlet of Thanksgiving and the December holidays are upon us. The group leader tells us to refine our goals, to keep counting points as much as we can bear, and do our best to stay focused. By Thanksgiving dinner, I want to have some more results. And, if possible, by the time 2010 rolls in and the Resolutes hit the Weight Watchers and crowd the gym locker rooms, I want to be able to say I made it through with my waste intact, if not a little smaller.

It's going to get harder. Continuing on the Karate Kid theme, the holidays are the Cobra Kai. That makes Santa Claus Johnny Lawrence, and though I wouldn't like to have to kick Santa in the face, I should be prepared to defend myself from all chocolates shaped like him.

Before stats, I just wanted to thank everyone who supported the JI News Cycle at Relay for Life. We had more walkers than I expected, and we exceeded our $1,200 goal. Great thanks to everyone who came out on Saturday, and I was delighted with what we accomplished.

I'm starting the stat machine.... NOW!

Weeks until wedding: 37
Week 10 pounds lost: 0 (none gained, though. Yep, grasping at straws here)
Total weight lost: 30.2
Average weight loss per week: 3.02 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 50.333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 29.666666666667
Number of subscribers to this blog: 20
Number last week: 18. If we get to 50 by the New Year, I'll take on some dares. Write them in the comment section.
Number of time Ralph Macchio played Daniel LaRusso: 3 (4 if you count the video for "Sweep the Leg")
Sad but true: They're doing a Karate Kid remake, called "Kung Fu Kid," starring Will Smith's son. The Fresh Prince himself is producing. I wish I were joking.
Other notable parts played by Ralph Macchio: Billy in "My Cousin Vinny," and that's pretty much it.
Miles walked at Relay for Life: about 4
Amount of junk food consumed that offsets walking all those miles: uh, back on the program today!

Sweatin' to the funny

2009-11-04T17:55:00.001-08:00

"Raviolis and a nap! Raviolis and a nap! Raviolis and a nap!"

Sound like a great afternoon? Well, if you're comedian John Pinette, that is your weight loss mantra and promise of reward for surviving 45 minutes on the elliptical machine.

As entertaining as I find the gym, the music they blast over the speakers is, quite plainly, awful. Yes, Pussycat Dolls, I also "hate this part right here," so by all means, stop singing it. Britney, we know he's a womanizer. How about laying off the nicotine so you're voice doesn't sound like a 60-year-old smoker?

The iPod holds the antidote to such terrible "music." And while I love the irony of listening to show tunes while sweating through a mesh shirt (nothing inspires a hard workout quite like "The Rainbow Connection"), comedians often provide the best motivation for keeping moving. Since the inception of stand-up, comics have rattled off about fat people, being fat themselves, and how much it sucks to have to lose that fat.

So who are my go-to comics while at the gym? I'm glad you asked! In fact, here are five....

5. Lewis Black, "The White Album" or "Rules of Enragement"

The world's great rage comic has some great things to say about weight loss. Granted, Lew may be getting older, but he's far from chubby. Still, he sums up well how much he hates health clubs, preferring much more to spend his time at his own health club... the International House of Pancakes, where Black rationalizes that there's always someone there who weighs 150 more pounds than you ever will ("It's on the menu, read it some time!")

Lew's best weight-related routine: "Rules of Enragement," Health Clubs

He muses on Speedos, the idiocy of watching people watch themselves work out, and the stupidity of New Yorkers paying money to use fancy stairs.

"If you're actually spending a portion of your week watching your muscle grow, your ego's reached a point where it's eating itself."

4. Mike Birbliglia, "Two Drink Mike"

My favorite comedian, but someone who also doesn't fall into the chubby category, Mike expounds on how he's not fat, but he's definitely the kind of guy who could "really out the breaks on" naughty group activity and how hard it is to impress women at the gym when you're a scrawny white guy, and the awkwardness of water aerobics.

Mike's best weight related routine: Two Drink Mike

He jokes about worrying that participating in naughty group activity (yep, trying to keep this family friendly) would be like playing pickup basketball, where no one passes him the ball and everyone asks him to put his shirt back on. Oh, and then there's the challenge of attracting the opposite sex while at the gym...

"Check out the guy in the dress socks. I saw him do one chin-up and then fall on the ground. That is hot!"

3. Jim Gaffigan, "Beyond the Pale" or "King Baby"

Jim's a bit on the pudgy guy, but not someone you'd necessarily call fat. However, when most of your routine revolves around your love of food ("when you're hungry, the Food Network's like porn."), and you bowling proves to be an overwhelming exercise, you qualify for this list. Gaffigan gets more points for being relatively clean in his act, but still undeniably funny.

Jim's best weight-related routine: "Beyond the Pale," Eat Healthy

This could go to any of Jim's bits, but I think this one best sums up how difficult it is to lay off the junk food.

"I mean I eat kind of healthy, compared to some of the Eskimos. Up in Alaska, they're eating blubber up there. I'm practically starving myself on my Cinnabon. I mean whale blubber, that's like eating a fat guy, isn't it?"

2. Patton Oswalt, "My Weakness is Strong"

A newer edition to my list, Patton has gradually gained weight through the years, culminating with his recent special where he bemoaned what's happening to his body, traveling back in time to warn his past self not to eat fried rice for breakfast, and taking pictures of his body to be published in Discover Magazine.

Patton's best weight-related routine: Fat

He worries about the standard he is setting for his unborn daughter ("I am a walking terrible example, that's all I am"), as well as being on the border of "B-word fat," where people can tell you're overweight without even looking at you based on your pronunciation of any words starting with B.

"This year, I have to commit to losing weight or I have to become fascinated with what's happening to me, like Jeff Goldblum in "The Fly."

1. John Pinette, "I'm Starvin!"

John has personal significance to me. He was the first big name act I saw live, when I was 15 during a trip to Caroline's in New York. He was, frankly, massive, joking about getting kicked out of Chinese buffets, how skinny people ruin buffets, and how dangerous water parks are for fat people. He had me in tears/in an asthma attack as I laughed, and he has remained one of my all time favorites.

Always a talented singer, John got cast a few years ago as Edna Turnblad in the Broadway production of "Hairspray." Despite the fact that he would be playing drag, more specifically an overweight woman popularized by Harvey Fierstein's take on the part, John was instructed to shed pounds in preparation for the role.

So John found himself on diets and at the gym. What transpires is the funniest routine ever on what it's like to be the fat guy at the gym for the first time. Nothing I could possibly describe or quote can do this routine justice.

John's best weight-related routine: Getting into Shape

Where to start: how he lost 100 pounds and people responded "I can really see it in your face." Or how about wearing a black Sean John sweatsuit and realizes he looked like a panda ("I didn't know you could get this close to them)? Or his fights with personal trainers, reasoning they should reward him for lifting weights with a cheese danish? His ability to "quit the gym cold turkey then eat the cold turkey?" Looking like a giant baby while working with a fitness orb? "Raviolis and a nap," as I led this blog with? It could be any, but here's a truly great quote about a trainer's repeated asking of "how do you feel."

"I feel like God is punishing me, and if I'm a better person he'll send an angel down with a chicken pot pie and a cupcake. Now don't ask me again!"

As I close this post, I once again bring up Relay for Life. The event is coming up this weekend, and the JI is sending a team. Any donation would be very much appreciated as we take part, so here's the link again.

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY09National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=16250

We need your support! Whether it's a dollar or $100, every donation counts.

The 11th Hour Kamikaze

2009-11-01T19:32:00.001-08:00

Thursdays have become my day of reckoning.

Friday is a happy day. The weigh-in is past, and the next meeting is six days away. Sure, I'll have a piece of cake! I'll just make up for it by being really good this weekend!

Saturday and Sunday are a blur. The gym is far away, so really it's on me to watch my points. But the allure of the calorific concoctions are hard to resist, especially during a season like this, when fun-sized Snickers and M&Ms offer such a small but satisfying reward. "Just a taste" turns into "hey, look how many I can fit into my mouth!", and then shame.

Monday brings the first wave of "oh, crap." The scale shows vengeance for my weekend shenanigans. Suddenly that small square of brownie doesn't seem like such a good idea.

By Tuesday, I'm convinced my week is lost. My streak is over, I think. In front of all these people, I'm going to fail. The thought is irksome and gnawing, and thus my 11th hour kamikaze begins in earnest.

The premise is simple: with mere days before the weigh-in, I will exercise to the point of killing myself. Every second at the gym seems so valuable, every deep breath important, every bead of sweat a sign that the week might not be lost. Lately, my workouts have been uberintense. Last Tuesday, I burned 1,030 calories in one workout. And I felt I should of done more.

On Wednesday, it's back on the scale. What!!!! You've got to be kidding me! I've GAINED a pound! This scale blows! ARGGGGGGHHHH! The afternoon workout is no longer to reduce stress and to stay on the plan. It's life and death. I must lose weight. I cannot lose face in front of so many people. Last Wednesday, my workout went from intense to borderline psychotic. By the time I stepped off the machine, 1,155 calories had been burned. I was winded, sweaty, and exasperated. But dammit, I could not fail.

And so Thursday comes. The scale routine, which I promised myself weeks ago that I would end, has continued. The allure is too much to avoid. I cannot be surprised. Noooo! I worked too hard! Rage proceeds. At work, all I can think about is one more workout, just 30 more minutes before it's time to face the music. I hit the gym one more time, pumping my legs as fast as I can take, urging myself in a state of asthmatic paranoia.

By the time I get home, it's not a matter of hours any more, but minutes. Did I drink enough water? Why did I eat that slice of pizza? Which pair of pants weighs less? Why, oh why, can't we just weight ourselves in our underwear and deal with that awkwardness in our way, perhaps by breaking into discussion groups? Why I am I thinking in italics?

Then we arrive at the meeting. The line seems endless. The group leader greets everyone as the members await their turn on the electronic scales. My fingernails were much longer before I got here. Oh well, so what if it is a bad habit. A little less weight with each nail I bite off!
I take the fateful step, and weight. The recorder seems to take forever to read the number. My breath is drawn in. I'm afraid to move.

"Congratulations. Another 3.2 pounds lost."

I'm all smiles now. The 11th hour kamikaze, stupid as it may be, has worked. I'm at a milestone now, more than 30 pounds down, and more than two months ahead of the goal I set to lose that much. I know I must not continue the routine like this. I must stick to the plan, count my points, and resist the Halloween candy.

But something is working. I have to be proud of what I have already accomplished. It's not time to get off-track, not with all this pressure I've put on myself. But now I have six stars on my little bookmark, a special keyring denoting I've passed the 10 percent mark of body weight lost, and pants with a smaller waist.

I have passed the halfway mark. I'd be lame to turn back or stop now. I will make this happen.

Knock, knock? Who's There? STATS!

Weeks until wedding: 38
Week 9 pounds lost: 3.2
Total weight lost: 30.2
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 50.333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 29.666666666667
Number of subscribers to this blog: 18
Number last week: 17. Spread the joy!
Last time I weighed this little: sophomore year... of high school.
Part in school play during that year: Dr. Gibbs, Our Town
Dream part in any play: Tevye, Fiddler on the Roof. Tradition!
Other parts I've played: anatomically confused baby, Free to be You and Me; Werewolf Mack, Rock On!; Mr. Smee, Peter Pan; Mark Twain, Tom Sawyer; Marsellis Washburn, The Music Man; Nick Bottom, A Midsummer Night's Dream; Zebulun, Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat
Solo sung as Marsellis Washburn: "Shipoopi."
Respectable things about singing a song called "Shipoopi":...

Five ways adults ruin Halloween

2009-10-28T17:48:00.000-07:00

With all due respect to Christmas, Hannukah, and every other holiday designed for children, there is no time of year quite like Halloween.

Ridiculous amounts of candy. Excuses to watch completely pointless, cheesy, and bloody movies. Seeing your classmates wear costumes that are designed for someone at least 10 years older than them.
And oh, the temptation of what is around the corner. Look around your local Target or Walmart. Near all those costumes for Bumble Bee the transformer and actual costumes for "sexy" bumble bees, retailers already have Christmas lights and other decorations just itching to go on sale. And in between is, of course, Thanksgiving, marking October 31 as not just Halloween, but also as the beginning of the overeater's gauntlet. If only kids got a day off of school, Halloween would be the greatest holiday ever (and, by the way, this year kids have it on Saturday).

But things get a little different once kids reach adulthood, and more changes than just the amount of cleavage shown by said bumble bee. So, continuing the theme of weekly lists, and inspired by daily such lists on Cracked.com, here are Five ways Adults Ruin Halloween...

5. Haunted Houses

Towns and really cool/slightly creepy neighbors often put on great displays for Halloween. In East Hartford, the Veteran's clubhouse has been completely transformed into a labyrinth of ghouls, werewolves, and demon clowns. The Haunted Graveyard at Lake Compounce started as a Middletown guy's yard display, then grew into the most frightening show this side of Salem. And for kids, what could be better than walking through a spooky house, only strobe lights and dry ice providing ambiance, and scaring a girl you have a crush on with a quick "boo!" just before a vampire jumps out at you, or more likely, a screenwriter pitches another vampire movie.

How adults screw it up: Two ways. One, the zealots who trick kids into coming into Hell Houses, attractions designed not to scare youngsters with ghosts and boogieman, but rather tales of sin and debauchery that only come to those who stray from the divine path. Second, parents who think haunted houses are too scary for their kids... or overestimate how brave their children are in reality. I would have had less sleepless nights if my folks simply understood that I was a major wuss.

4. Scary movies

One of my most vivid Halloween memories came when I was about 12. My Dad and brother decided a scary movie was in order and returned from the video store with a copy of "The Exorcist." Four two hours, I was horrified at Regan spitting the pee soup and saying things about deities that most kids ought not to hear. But that's the fun for a kid, getting to see scary movies filled with blood and sex that would otherwise be taboo any other time of year. Seriously kids, this Christmas, ask your parents to let you watch "Bad Santa," then give a plot synopsis of what you learned. You will not get any presents.

How adults ruin it: We can watch terrible movies any time of the year. Yet at Halloween, we break out the worst of the bunch, namely the "Scary Movie" series and who knows how many Michael Myers sequels, leaving us crabby and proving once again that the Wayans brothers should be banned from making films. "The Exorcist" haunts me to this day. "Scary Movie 2" just makes me feel ill.

3. Trick or Treating

Perhaps the greatest holiday tradition. It combines the two items yet to be revealed on the list, kids get plenty of exercise walking all over the neighborhood, freak out there parents by eating Snickers bars that have yet to be inspected for razor blades, and come home with pillow cases literally overflowing with sugar.

How adults ruin it: Well, the jerks who do the razor blade thing are the obvious. But really, it's parents freaking out about who lives in their neighborhood. When I was a kid, I lived in a neighborhood designed for Trick or Treating. Kids knew to hit the condos for the big candy scores, to avoid the dentist's house out of fear of receiving floss, and that Tootsie Rolls were terrible rewards for climbing long driveways. There would be hundreds of kids around, and aside from a few punks with eggs, it was good, wholesome, slightly nauseating fun. Now, parents accompany their kids everywhere, leaving Halloween as no longer a test of kids' endurance, but Mom and Dad's patience.

And extra negative points to teenagers who don't know when to give up. Here's a hint, if you're old enough that you can grow your own ugly beard instead of having to draw one one, you're too old to Trick or Treat.

2. Costumes

As a kid, Halloween was an excuse not just to overeat, but to buy a fake weapon. As I never let my parents forget, I wasn't allowed to play with fake guns. However, a pirate simply isn't complete without a sword, and so every year (when I didn't go as a pirate), I went as something that would allow me to buy a cheap plastic weapon. I collected an arsenal of swords, axes, and pitchforks, which I'd inevitably lose interest in, but still trumped the rules of the house. Plus, when you're a kid, you can be anything, from Spiderman to a hobo, and no one argues with you. It's your holiday. If you want to go as Pumbaa, go ahead.

How adults screw it up: We all know adults use Halloween costumes as an excuse to be a little naughty. It's not just the women in sexy costumes; just count how many men, particularly tough guys, use Halloween parties as an excuse to wear drag. But there are some costumes that adults shouldn't try to oversexify. Example, if you are going to a party as an American Girl Doll at a Rave, you're tarnishing precious memories of childhood. Not that I played with American Girl dolls, mind you, but I had a little sister.

Then there's the other side of the coin: people trying to pull off costumes they're not built to accommodate. Yes, I've lost some weight in recent months, but I'm not about to go to a party as a Spartan warrior from "300." That's not preparing for glory, but setting yourself up to see the most regrettable digital photos ever.

1. Candy

Butterfinger. Reese's. Nestle Crunch. M&M's. Candy Corn. Three Musketeers. Jolly Ranchers. Kit Kat...... I just drooled on my keyboard. And it's everywhere, starting the beginning of September and lasting all the way until October 31.

How Adults screw it up: Well, for one, there's the people who hand out raisins and granola instead of chocolate. Not cool. Kids are trick or treating for peanut butter cups, not for sale items at Whole Foods.

Also, we now print the calorie information on everything, and sadly I now know exactly how many calories are in each fun size Snickers. I was happier before I knew that. Frankly, I think my stomach bulged for the first time when they started printing nutritional information on bags. There are some things that go better unknown. Halloween candy is one of them.

Happy Halloween, everyone. Excuse me while I step into my Bumble Bee costume.

No longer the fat frat guy...

2009-10-25T16:31:00.000-07:00

As much as I like to reminisce about my glorious days as a proud band nerd, there's another facet to my college life that brought me just as much fun. And, as much as some people are suprised to find, that part of me was my life in the fraternity.

At UConn, I spent four great years as a brother of Alpha Epsilon Pi. The chapter has grown considerably since I left (I hope that's coincidental), but our house in the Greek Village apparently still features the annual composite shots of the brothers.

In four straight of these composite shots, I loook like quite the rotund dork. The tight tie, the ill-fitting blue blazer... these are images I wish no one ever had access to seeing again. Yet sadly, to the new generations of AEPi, Matthew Engelhardt is the fat frat brother, the guy with the chubbiest face of any of the other brothers, and the one who no one should ever dare take on in a chicken nugget eating contest.

College is supposed to be the time in life when you look and feel your best. As for me, I now find myself a good 50-60 pounds lighter than the last time my photo was taken for the composite. Even my dreaded chins, which I blogged about hating mere weeks ago, are starting to take shape as one. I feel great now, certainly better about myself than I did five or six years ago.

This weekend, I got invited back to campus to speak about my time in the fraternity. I sat in front of 18 pledges, most of whom had only seen my picture from the composite. And of the brothers that were there, I certainly didn't expect them to notice that I was lighter, or at least ask about it. "That's something these guys probably wouldn't do," I told Megan, just before heading off to speak.

And yet, just as I opened up my mouth to speak, the chapter advisor interrupted: "Seriously, Engelhardt, how much weight have you lost?" As I looked in his direction, I heard murmurs throughout the room. Apparently, I had changed quite a bit. Even the current brothers noted, with one not so discrete brother stating something like, "yeah, you were much fatter in the composite." After nearly strangling him on general principle, I realized I might be blushing, told them my current loss, and accepted a round of snaps in recognition of the fact that yes, indeed, there's a little less Buddha to this belly.

It's an odd feeling, one I haven't gotten accustomed to yet. Instead of people silently wondering how much weight I've gained, they're speaking aloud that I look like I'm in better shape. It happens almost everywhere I go where people haven't seen me in a while. My future mother-in-law tells me I look like a different person every time I see her. My own mother is probably wondering how much money I'm going to ask for in buying new clothes.

The truth is, I still see myself as the fat guy in the composite. If things keep at this pace, and the weight continues to fall off, maybe the way I see myself will get better as well. So please, tell me if you think I'm looking slimmer. I may act embarassed on the outside (and feel that way on the inside, too), but honestly, you're helping me keep going.

I just wish I hadn't waited until after college to take on this challenge. Stupid D.P. Dough. Anyone who went to UConn understands what a few of those calzones does to your waistline.

On another note, some of you have already inquired about donating to or joining the JI News Cycle. This week, I intend to work hard at recruiting people to come aboard. I'd love to get a team of 10-15 people together, and if we can all raise $100, that's a hell of a donation to the American Cancer Society. Once again, here's the link....

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR/RelayForLife/RFLFY09National?px=13455107&pg=personal&fr_id=16250#

Let's kick cancer in the face.

Back those stats up!

Weeks until wedding: 39
Week 6 pounds lost: .6
Total weight lost: 27
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 45 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 33
Number of subscribers to this blog: 17
Number last week: 14. You guys rock, and by all means, comment!
Pounds I've lost since senior year of college: 55
Fraternal nickname: Big Pun.
Reason I gave for that nickname: I'm clever with words!
Actual reason for nickname: I was a large musician
Shame factor over actual reason for nickname: 985

A blog with a cause...

2009-10-21T18:31:00.000-07:00

Just as any good older brother would, I had my suspicions about the man my sister fell in love with a few years ago.

Sure, they turned out to be wrong. Katie had met a good man, someone who loved her and treated her with respect. He was as different as on possibly can be from me, in terms of politics, body type, and hair (the poor bloke was always jealous of my mass of fro). Plus, he was British, and as hard as I tried to explain American football to him, he worked just as hard to teach me the wonders of cricket. I still have no idea what he was talking about, but if someone gave me one of those cool cricket bats, I think I could do damage to some intruders.

At first, however, I had my doubts about Richard. For one thing, his very name upset me. Only one person in my life is allowed to be called Richard, and that’s my Dad (note: I don't call my father by his first name, but you understand how this would be an issue). For my sister to love another man with the same name was just perverse. So, half joking and half impishly, I gave Katie’s Richard an American alias: Dicky. A good-natured guy, Dicky accepted his nickname, and to his credit, never showed any offense when I called him that.

Their relationship had been complicated, but intriguing. They met while my sister was abroad in London. Dicky was an Orthodox Jew, and though my sister’s Jewish values are more reformed or conservative, they fell in love. She came home, and with Internet video chats, they stayed in as much contact as one can for two people living on opposite sides of the ocean. He came here for Thanksgiving, she went there on other holidays, and for a while, it worked.

Yet this posting is in the past tense, and while I wish I were merely writing a tale about lovers parting ways, this story has a sad ending.

Eventually, Katie and Dicky did go their separate ways, and he found his niche when he came to the New York area to study. He fell in love again, this time marrying a fellow Orthodox Jew. He had his life together, and now he had the New York Mets, which for some unfathomable reason considering the influence of so many Engelhardts and their Red Sox loyalties, became his favorite team.

Then, one day, a stunning announcement. Katie learned that Dicky had been diagnosed with leukemia. I didn’t know how to react. He was out of her life, true, but he was her first real love. He seemed to be doing okay, getting chemo and dealing with the cancer with high spirits and great strength of faith.

About a year ago, right before Hannukah, the news reached us. He’d had some kind of setback, was rushed to the hospital, and in a moment, Dicky was gone. Richard had been younger than me, and cancer had never taken anyone so close to our family.

It is in Richard’s memory, along with the countless number of cancer victims and survivors I’ve written about as a journalist, that I invite you all to join myself and Journal Inquirer staffers in Relay for Life.

I’ve been pretty blessed in my life. Yes, I’ve been overweight since I was a kid, but now I feel good to the point of wanting to use this blog, as my newfound fitness, to promote a good cause. For those of you not familiar with Relay, it is a fundraiser for the American Cancer Society. Most events run 24 hours. This event, Nov. 7 at Pratt and Whitney in East Hartford, will go for 12.

It works like this. A team is organized, and at least person has to walk the track for the duration of the event. You switch off team members throughout, and as long as someone is walking, you’re doing well. You raise money through pledges, and the link is here:

http://main.acsevents.org/site/TR?pg=entry&fr_id=16250

I hereby invite you to take part or give to the cause. Become a member of “JI News Cycle,” or simply make a pledge to help us kick cancer in the face. Either way, I’ll be at the Pratt and Whitney Hangar Museum from noon to midnight on Saturday, Nov. 7.

I’ll be doing it for Dicky and plenty of others, and I invite you to do the same.

Hey groomsmen, lift with your legs!

2009-10-16T20:46:00.000-07:00

Are big men light on their feet? And, more importantly for my groomsmen, are we light in the chair?

Both of these questions have been pressing on my mind of late. Megan and I are now about nine months from our nuptials, and while the current October air chills the bone, soon it will be summer and time for me to hope whatever tux I rent will hide sweat.

We were invited to two weddings last weekend, one in Massachusetts and one in California. Alas, we couldn't make it out west, but we had a helluva time at Megan's cousin's wedding. (When it comes down to it, apostrophes can be annoying). After vows were exchanged and the couple had their moment on the dance floor, it was time for everyone else to get up and shake it.

Now, shaking it is nothing new for me. Anyone who attended a UCoinn football game from 2000-2004 might share a story about a band dork dancing on camera like Chris Farley saluting the Chicago Bears. But dancing with style, grace, and dare I say finesse? That's never been my strong suit. I'm more than willing to make an ass of myself to the delight of all, but as far as actual dance moves go, I can't do much more than shuffle my feet, twirl my partner repeatedly, dip her at the wrong moments, and get distracted by dessert and leave the floor.

Yet I was feeling very good at this wedding, even svelte. Weight Watchers is working. Just wait til' you see this week's stats. Plus, instead of my usual wallflower look, I donned a purple shirt and striped tie to go with my recently tailored suit. Hell, I was downright dapper, and my dance moves would have to be on par with more confident Matt.

I hate most line types of line dancing. There have been few occasions when I've attempted the "Electric Slide" without someone ending up in the hospital. The Cha Cha Slide, though, is almost foolproof, and it has become a highlight at every recent wedding I've attended. The lyrics tell you what to do. Can't get much easier than that, right? Unfortunately, the lyrics don't spell out exactly how far to slide, how to properly cha cha, and to the chagrin of those around me, how hard to stomp to the left or right. Megan almost left with a fracture when I got a little too into the dance, bringing my shoe down with gusto right on top of her foot. Oops.

We had things down by the end of the night. I've seen "Swingers" enough times to understand the basic tenants of swing dancing, and in a style of unlimited twirls, I can handle my business. Come nine months, though, all eyes will be on Megan and me, and I need to do my part to make the dancing memorable. I've promised her we could take at least three ballroom dancing lessons. However many it takes, we will own that dance floor, or more accurately, rent it for a few hours.

Meanwhile, I hope my groomsmen have been exercising. It's inevitable that Hava Nagila will play sometime during the reception, and in addition to dancing the Horah, that means the bride and groom get lifted in the air. The tradition goes that in days of yore, when men and women danced on separate sides of the room, the bride and groom were raised in chairs above the rest of the guests, giving them a glimpse of their beloved. Aww.

Now, the chair lift is more an opportunity to bring a sense of danger to the reception. I'm fully aware that if I get lifted, my mother's amount of worry could amount to a coronary. Still, it would be fun (the lift, not Mom's coronary), and I'm starting to feel like I might be light enough by the wedding that lifting me in my chair won't pose significant risks to the groomsmen.

Months ago, when I was feeling quite butterbally, I vowed not to be lifted. I've been in the air before, and it's never a good idea. I did a keg stand at a college party many years ago, and the experience of being both in the air and upside down still makes me feel unsettled. Large men, I rationalized, aren't meant for gravity defiance.

But if these results continue, I won't be such a big man come July. I'm upbeat, excited, and even chipper at the thought. So groomsmen, hit the free weights. There's a good chance I'll be expecting you to send me skyward.

Cha Cha stats!

Weeks until wedding: 40 (Clap your hands)
Week 6 pounds lost: 4.8. (slide to the right)
Total weight lost: 26.4 (slide to the left)
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 44 percent (right stomp two times)
Pounds remaining to lose: 33.6 (left stomp five times- sorry about the foot!)
Times I've successfully completed the Cha Cha Slide: 0
Number of subscribers to this blog: 14
Number last week: 9. Keep spreading the word, please.
Daily point allowance at start of Weight Watchers: 42
Current daily point allowance: 39
Number of points in one Chicken Bordurrito from on the Border (with side salad): 34.5
Number of hours I cried when I learned that: 34.5

The five people you meet at the gym...

2009-10-13T17:32:00.000-07:00

Sorry, Mitch Albom. I don't know much about the people you meet in heaven, but having been a gym rat in disguise for the last three years or so, I have learned plenty about the characters you meet at the gym.

The best thing about the people on this list? They all think they're unique, yet every gym I've been to, whether a YMCA or fitness center, always has these stock characters. They're like background characters in a movie: sometimes I don't know if they're actual people, or just spies planted by the gym management (or perhaps the government) to make sure no unauthorized exercise is being performed. Examples: handstands on the treadmill or Communist pushups.

So with the help of a drumroll (yes, you sitting at your desk. We can wait.... Alright, fine!), here are the 5 people you meet at every gym.

1. Mr. Musclehorn

We all know this guy. He spends all his time by the free weights, except for those few moments where he's behind you in the line for the water fountain scoffing at your physique. He's generally a mountain of muscle, and though I'm sure there are plenty of smart people who fall into this category, Mr. Musclehorn comes off as dumb as a rock.

Age range: 18-40
Visible tattoos: barbed wire around biceps, sword across back, misspelled name of girlfriend/wife/mother across forearm.
Strengths: Can flex anything, including fingernails; muscles in neck actually have miniature muscles of their own, and even their mini muscles are bigger than biceps.
Weaknesses: doors (hard to walk through without turning sideways), patience for lesser creatures
Typical outfit: tanktop, muscle shirt, spandex shorts
Typical show to watch while working out: anything on ESPN.

2. The Know-it-all

Another classic character. The Know-it-all has two typical characteristics. First, he thinks he knows everyone at the gym, but while he considers himself a Zack Morris, everyone else sees him as Screech. Second, he has watched you work out and not only knows what you've been doing wrong, but has no qualms about helping you fix it.

Age Range: 16-30
Visible tattoos: not usually. Depends on what fraternity he pledged (or hopes to pledge).
Strengths: overwhelmingly gregarious, always greets everyone he meets; uncanny ability to appear next to whatever machine you are using
Weaknesses: taking criticism; too willing to give you a congratulatory pat; offers to spot you even on workouts that don't require lifting
Typical outfit: designer T-shirt or fraternity letters, tearaway track pants
Typical show: non-major sports like biking, climbing, or volleyball

3. The Belle of the (fitness) Ball

She treats the health club like it was night club. Secretly, she's more interested in who's watching her work out than actually working out, and she spent way too much time and money shopping for a sports bra that shows just the right amount of cleavage.

Age Range: 16-49
Visible tattoos: lower back or hip, usually a butterfly, flower, or Chinese symbol they themselves cannot interpret
Strengths: texting while jogging; pretending not to notice slobbery blogger watching out of corner of his eye; flirting with the staff
Weaknesses: not getting attention
Typical outfit: designer form-fitting tank top, short shorts with "PINK" written across the rear
Typical Show: Cribs, My Super Sweet 16, Room Raiders... basically MTV

4. The Retiree

Inspiring men and women who no longer work and instead spend the better part of their days at the gym. They typically rule both the locker room and the workout floor between the hours of 8 a.m. and 3:30 p.m., leaving just before the post-work crew arrives. They're very friendly, often talking to you about just about anything... sometimes uncomfortably.

Age range: 60-80
Visible tattoos: None. And if they see one on you, prepare for questions.
Strengths: ability to run miles farther than other gym-goers half their age; knowledge that age is nothing but a number
Weaknesses: people who forget to wipe off the machine
Typical outfit: T-shirt bearing name of grandson or daughter's college, sweat pants
Typical show: CNBC, Fox News, MSNBC, CNN

5. Retired Musclehorn

This might be my favorite of all. Retired Musclehorn isn't as young as he used to be, but dammit, he's showing off his physique, sometimes at his own detriment. He is more than happy to stretch out audibly, letting everyone at the gym know that he's here to kick butt and show the world his powerlifting days aren't over yet.

Age Range: 45-68
Visible tattoos: maybe one on the forearm, just to show that he's still "with it."
Strengths: using entire boundary of the gym to do squat walks and thrusts
Weaknesses: no patience for the moron who's still on the rowing machine and should have been done 10 minutes ago!
Typical outfit: shaved head, loose-fitting tanktop, mesh shorts
Typical show: None necessary. His routine and focus are all the show he, or you, will ever need!

and one extra...

6. The goofy blogger

He looks innocent, but don't be fooled: he's watching everyone and taking mental notes, just so he can update his blog later with descriptions of everyone he's seen.

Age Range: 27
Visible Tattoos: Mom would not approve, but if she did, Fozzie Bear across the left calf
Strengths: motivation; recognizing his fellow gym-goers
Weaknesses: Holy crap, he's sweating and all he's done is change into his shorts; too motivated by the idea of a snack later.
Typical outfit: old T-shirt, socks with holes that should have been thrown away, mesh shorts
Typical show: A movie he's seen a dozren times already. Don't worry, he doesn't need the sound on . This goofball can quote all of "Ferris Bueller" by heart.

Anyone to add? This space is mine to share....

Time to shed the scale?

2009-10-09T20:12:00.000-07:00

If insanity is truly doing the same thing over and over again while expecting a different result, well, it appears I am going insane.

Since I began this little weight loss quest of mine, it's been the same routine almost every time I go to the bathroom. Our electronic scale, which I used to avoid like it was covered with Steinbrenner snot, calls to me from its spot. I step on, wait a few seconds for the numbers to flash, get annoyed when the scale says "lo batt," step off, step back on, get downright pissed if it reads "err," then do the whole routine again until a reasonable figure flashes.

Whether it says I'm three pounds lighter on eight pounds heavier, the scale just always seems to be a little off. Once, I stepped on and it registered that I had lost about 135 pounds, which made me really happy until I realized the measurement had been switched to kilograms. Stupid metric system. Back to Europe with you, and your simplistic measurements!

As mentioned above with the not-so-subtle knock against the New York Yankees (I really, really hate Teixeira and ARod right now), the scale used to be a source of great dread to me. I avoided going to the doctor simply because I hated facing the nurse and the constant sliding to the right of that little knob. No, not another 50! Aw, bloody hell! At home, if I did step on the scale, it was usually by accident, preceeded by me stubbing my toe against the machine and stammering around in pain across the bathroom floor.

And now I torture myself by stepping on the scale too much. Weight Watchers wants you to weigh yourself once a week at the support groups known as meetings, with an employee registering your progress in your little chart and either giving a congratulatory nod or a conciliatory smirk. But since I'm obsessed with preparing for the worst, I normally weigh myself at least twice a day during most days, and roughly 97 times before heading off to the weekly meeting. Now I even weigh myself in the men's locker room at the gym, which is good because it's one of those doctor's office scales, but strange because there's usually a guy standing naked behind you waiting for his turn.

Last week, the fickle scale had me go through an entire spectrum of emotions. From Friday through Tuesday, I was elated, believing I was in store for a week of losing 4 to 5 pounds. By Wednesday, I was frustrated that the scale didn't seem as friendly as the past few days. By Thursday morning, I was ready to throw the scale out the window. Come Thursday afternoon, when the vindictive instrument told me I had gained a pound, I tried to flush it down the toilet. Now the building manager is mad about the plumbing being backed up, and insists we pay for it.
Sometimes I would even suck in my gut, like the scale was not only measuring my weight, but also fitting me for pants.

By the time we headed for the meeting on Thursday, I had resigned myself that it was going to be a flat week at best, and at worst that I had gained a metric ton. Once again, the overreacting gremlin inside of me had gotten the best of dear Matt, and when I finally weighed in (again sucking in my belly), I got the congratulatory nod. Almost two more pounds lost. That's six weeks in a row of weight loss, success that I share with my beautiful fiancee.

So now Megan is ready to hide the scale, and maybe I should let her. After all, I do have bouts of insanity, and as long as that scale remains in the bathroom, I'm likely to continue my quixotic routine. (note: If you can ever use the word "quixotic" in a game of Scrabble, stop the game and consider playing professionally).

I'm really only kidding myself. If she hides the scale, I'll just find it, like a pig sniffing out truffles or a pre-Weight Watchers Matt catching a whiff of Oreos somewhere in the house. Maybe at least she'll switch it to kilograms again, just to teach me a lesson.

On your mark, get set, stats!

Weeks until wedding: 41
Week 6 pounds lost: 1.6
Total weight lost: 21.6 pounds
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 36 percent. Calculators are wonderful things.
Pounds remaining to lose: 38.4
Record number of matzoh balls I've downed in one sitting: 38.4
Number of subscribers to this blog: nine
Number last week: six. Thank you!
Possible Halloween costumes: Skanky Ghostbuster, skanky Lando Calrissian, skanky Mt. Rushmore
More appropriate Halloween costume: Sully from Monsters Inc., Shrek, slightly skanky Ghostbuster

Heroism in plus sizes...

2009-10-07T12:26:00.000-07:00

There's a little Samwise Gamgee in all of us.

While I take steps to lose my roundness, I retain my love for all those great characters of the screen who prove it's okay to be on the larger side. There are some wonderful folks in film who I've been proud to watch, characters who begin the movie at the butt of the joke but overcome their innate plushness (and sometimes asthma) to beat the villain, win the girl, or just make us feel good in general.

So taking a break from my own progress for one blog (just one, I hear you all saying), here's my top 10 plus-sized movie characters of all time. Note: These choices are based on my own opinion, but I'll tell you right now, if you believe Eddie Murphy in a fat suit belongs on this list, well, I'll meet you outside with my dukes up.

Play Ball!!!!!!

10. Hamilton Porter, "The Sandlot", 1993, played by Patrick Renna

How others see him: "It's easy when you play with rejects and a fat kid, Rodriguez."

How he sees himself: Strutting by the pool, waving to the ladies, "I remember you! Ooh, sexy!.... Cannonball!"

Why Ham rocks: Yes, he is comic relief, and while he doesn't get the girl, Ham is the second best hitter at the Sandlot and after Benny, one of the first to welcome Smalls into the club. He also figures big in two pivotal scenes: the insult-off with Phillips ("You play ball like a GIRL!") and teaching Scotty to make s'mores ("You're killing me, Smalls!")

9. Marla Hooch, "A League of Their Own," 1992, played by Megan Cavanagh

How other see her: "How about Marla Hooch... What a hitter!"

How she sees herself: "I singing to Nelson! Ain't I, baby?"

Why Marla rocks: Yep, continuing the baseball theme. Marla gets the nod over the other chubby girl on the Peaches, Doris, because Marla has more to overcome than just a few extra pounds. She's the ugliest girl in the league, drawing comparisons to Gen. Omar Bradley, but she's the best hitter on the Peaches and finds true happiness with her knight in nerdy armor, Nelson.

8. Walter Sobchak, "The Big Lebowski," 1998, played by John Goodman

How others see Walter: "Of course the car made it home, you're calling me at home. No, Walter, it did NOT look like Larry was about to crack!"

How Walter sees himself: "I'm as Jewish as (friggin') Tevye."

Why Walter rocks: He's brash, opinionated, short-tempered, dresses ridiculously, fixated on 'Nam, and honestly, on the scale of things off kilter about Walter, his weight problem is way down the list. Still, he's faithful to his converted religion (He definitely doesn't roll on Shabbos), he eulogizes dear Donny well before the ashes blow into the Dude's face, and he has no fear of nihilists. Let's go bowling, indeed.

7. Paul Blart, "Paul Blart, Mall Cop," 2009, played by Kevin James

How others see Paul: "I wish I had a bat. I would bust you open, see how much candy fell out."

How Paul sees himself: "I took a solemn oath to protect this mall."

Why Paul rocks: Given, this isn't a movie that will win many awards, but Blart is the archetype of big guy overcoming the odds. He goes from Segway riding security guard to a hero, winning the girl from "Glee" and ridding his beloved shopping mall of skateboarding terrorists. John McClane, he is not, but a worthy protagonist? Definitely.

6. Ben Stone, "Knocked Up," 2007, played by Seth Rogen

How others see Ben: "He's got man-boobs. Where does that end?"

How Ben sees himself: "You're going to be embarrassed when you realize I'm Wilmer Valderama."

Why Ben rocks: At the start of Knocked Up, Ben has two things going for him: his sense of humor and a fantastic Jewfro. By the end, he's kicked the weed, rounded himself into fatherhood, and proven to Katherine Heigl that he's more than just a drunken mistake. Plus, yes, he's played by Seth Rogen, and that kicks him up a few pegs in my book.

5. Buck Russell, "Uncle Buck," 1989, played by John Candy

How others see Buck: "You have much more hair in your nose than my Dad. "

How Buck sees himself: " I don't have a college degree. I don't even have a job. But I know a good kid when I see one. Because they're ALL good kids, until dried-out, brain-dead skags like you drag them down and convince them they're no good."

Why Buck rocks: Five people on this list could have been characters played by the late Mr. Candy, but this was his most heartwarming role. Buck is unemployed and overweight, but at the same time, he domesticates himself, saves his niece from a sex predator, rekindles romance with his girl, punches out a drunk clown, makes pancakes the size of laundry baskets, and tells a nasty principal to go downtown and have a rat gnaw the mole off her face.

4. Vern Tessio, "Stand by Me," 1986, played by Jerry O'Connell (yes, that Jerry O'Connell)

How others see Vern: "Oh, great! You brought the comb! What did you bring a comb for? You don't even have any hair!"

How Vern sees himself: "If I could only have one food for the rest of my life? That's easy-Pez. Cherry-flavored Pez. No question about it."

Why Vern rocks: Well, dear Vern is never going to win a Nobel Prize. Some types of rocks are smarter than Vern, he lacks common sense, is gullible as all heck, and almost gets run over by a train. But his discovery led to the action in the movie, and as the boys make their journey to the body, it's clear that Vern is more than just a token member of the group. Plus, he knows his role, and provides good support for the other guys.

3. Flounder, "Animal House," 1979, played by Stephen Furst

How others see Flounder, a.k.a. Kent Dorfman: "Fat, drunk, and stupid is no way to go through life, son."

How Flounder sees himself: "May I have ten thousand marbles, please?"

Why Flounder rocks: He is the worst pledge to rush Delta, not for being chubby, but for being completely naive and stupid. As the movie goes on, Flounder develops his own personality within the house, and while he never quite gets over being the butt of the joke (or sucker, for that matter), Kent carves out his niche as the nice guy who didn't finish first, but he didn't finish last, either. Plus, he had a pretty hot girlfriend before Otter took her away.

2. Po, "Kung Fu Panda," 2008, voiced by Jack Black

How others see Po: "You can't defeat me! You... you're just a big... fat... panda! "

How Po sees himself: "There is no charge for awesomeness... or attractiveness."

Why Po rocks: What doesn't rock about Po? He starts the movie as a waiter, ends up turning his girth into his own unique style of Kung Fu, becomes the greatest warrior in ancient China, and masters the Wu Xu finger hold. In other words, he's THE Big, Fat Panda, and he's pretty proud of it.

1. Samwise Gamgee, "The Lord of the Rings", 2001-2003, played by Sean Astin

How others see Sam: "Stupid, fat Hobbit!"

How Sam sees himself: "I can't carry it for you, but I can carry you!"

Why Sam rocks: No surprise that he lands at the top of the list. Sam is the most unlikely hero ever, starting as a gardener and ending up saving the world. Frodo said it himself: without Sam, Mr. Baggins doesn't get very far. Ignoring the jokes about Sam and Frodo's relationship, in Gamgee, you have a character who starts as a sidekick, then grows a spine and learns to kill orcs. He climbs up to Cirith Ungol, defeats Shelob, rescues Frodo from the tower, trudges to Mt. Doom, carries Frodo up the whole darn mountain, and keeps Gollum at bay for most of the last two movies. Plus, when he gets home, he marries the hottest Hobbit ever, eventually has about a dozen kids, and becomes mayor of Hobbiton for 49 years.

Honorable mentions: Tommy Callahan (Tommy Boy), Barf (Spaceballs), Fozzie Bear (The Muppet Movie), Shrek (duh)

Dishonorable mentions: Sherman Klump (Nutty Professor), Norbit's wife (Norbit), Big Mama (Big Mama's House), and virtually every other skinny actor to don a fat suit. Except for Robin Williams in Mrs. Doubtfire, it's usually just a terrible idea.

So there's the list. Did I leave anyone off? Post your thoughts.

The four stars of pressure

2009-10-04T19:21:00.000-07:00

Among my many nerdities, and there are several, I am a movie buff.

Don't play Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon or any other actor with me. You're likely to lose. That's not a boast, but just the reality of the fact that during my life, I've spent an inordinate amount of time watching movies. My DVD shelf is beginning to collapse, and some time I'll get around to making my own list of my favorite films of all time.

One of my 37 majors while at UConn was, in fact, film studies. Technically, it would have been an independent study since UConn didn't offer a film major, but I wanted to be a screenwriter. I still do. My favorite movies aren't necessarily the ones with the best plots, but they do have excellent characters and great dialogue. I love the Coen brothers, classic Billy Wilder films, and comedies that rely more on just fart gags to make me laugh. I wanted to write one of those movies, and someday, read a four star-review of something I had helped create.

Well, last week, I got my first four star-review. But it didn't come from the academy of anything, but rather Weight Watchers. For every five pounds you lose, you earn a little star. For those of you at home doing the math, that means I've now lost 20 pounds. A milestone? Most definitely. Worth celebrating? Yep. Complete sentences? Not here. Heh heh. Time to get complacent? I'd better not.

It would be easy to look at this first month and go on cruise control. After all, I've lost one-third of my goal, or 33.33333333333 (and a whole lot more threes) percent, and the number 20 just happens to be the number of my favorite baseball player of all time, Mr. Kevin Yoooooouuuuukilis. In a strange way, Youk helped me celebrate the weight loss. On a trip to Fenway on Saturday, after the Sox beat the Indians, I got a Yoooouuuuuuuuk shirt from a street vendor. The only size they had was an XL, not my usual 2X, but Megan encouraged me to get it. Sure enough, the shirt fits. Another milestone. Thanks Youk!

But complacency would be a very bad thing. I've been complacent many times during my life, and it never leads to weight loss or anything productive. I have to keep working, getting to the gym, bearing the terrible music pumped by the staff, and I have to keep tracking my points. I've been a little too lax about that of late, taking the entire weekend off, and I must be more diligent. After all, it's not Youkilis's number that's the final goal. It's the number on the back on Daniel Bard's jersey that I want to reach.

And after this week, it's become clear that some folks are paying attention. At a recent event in East Hartford, several people came up to wish me luck on this quest and to tell me they've been reading. That's quite flattering, really, and I'd hate to let everyone down. Others have called me crazy for making something as personal as a diet and weight loss a public event, open for the reading delight of any person with a keyboard.

When I started, I had no intention of a public event. In fact, all my life my weight has been a source of shame, and not one that I've wanted to share with anyone, let alone strangers. But I'm trying something different here, an experiment. Give me the pressure. Don't let me fail. No, if I look like I may be slacking, don't call me a fatty or anything like that, but tell me you're in my corner. Words of support mean so much, and if in the process you find some enjoyment from my experience, all the better.

So while the four stars are nice, I want to have 12 by the time Megan walks down the aisle in a beautiful gown (which I have no idea what it looks like- guessing white?). As far as I know, there's never been a 12-star movie. Not even the entire Lord of the Rings trilogy or even Howard the Duck (kidding). Here's hoping for great reviews in my own endeavor, and if at the end of it Ebert wants to write about me, he's more than welcome.

Stat Attack!

Weeks until wedding: 42 (only 40 before I have to look at tuxes)
Week 5 pounds lost: .8
Total weight lost: 20 pounds on the nose. Wait, does weight have a nose?
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 33.3333333333333333333333 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 40
Things I hear are unpleasant about turning 40: prostate exams, ear hair, people who tell you what sucks about turning 40.
New feature!
Percent body fat: 25.5. Which, I learned this week, is actually within normal range of an adult my age. (I was expecting about 45 percent. Sweet.)
Number of subscribers to this blog: six
Number I hope will subscribe by next week: more than six.
Sad that I can't attend: Aaron and Karina's wedding. Mazel tov!

I want one chin...

2009-09-30T17:51:00.001-07:00

As much as I notice good changes happening- shirts are looser, belts too big, and so on (been on a Vonnegut kick lately)- I still hate by chins. More accurately, I must admit, I hate my chins. Plural.

In every photo of me, there are two typical looks. The natural look, the one I hate most, appears whenever I'm not aware a photo is being taken. In those cases, I'm laughing hard at something or being genuinely goofy, and in my ecstasy, my chin doesn't stand alone. It's joined by jovial buddies, seeming to smile behind my actual chin. I loathe this look so much that over time, I've come up with a signature pose to make me look a bit thinner, or at least I think it makes me look thinner.

So in every photo where I'm posed, I'm doing what my loved ones commonly refer to as "the chin thing." Looking straight at the camera, I'll pull my lower jaw forward and stick my chin up at an angle. The result: Matt becomes a human barricuda, and all the the years the money my parents spent on by braces to even out my overbite are rendered useless. For football fans, think Bill Cowher. For everyone else, think a bespectacled clown sticking his chin at you.

See this picture as evidence. I even do the scowling chin thing while threatening pirates with golf putters.

It's not a new phenomenon. A few weeks ago, I noticed a 15-year-old me was doing the chin thing in a family photograph taken about a dozen years ago. Yep, it's my "Blue Steel" look (though I hated Zoolander).

I first noticed the presence of multiple chins as a teenager. At that point, I remember thinking, it made me look fat, and so the chin thing was born to override the neck pudge.

The photo of me atop the links to this blog on the Journal Inquirer Web site ist the perfect example. I tried to stick out my chin, the photographer made me laugh, I did the guffaw look, and voila! We have now have a photo on the site where I look like I should be partnered with David Spade.

The fact is, I have a ridiculously proportioned body. My belly doesn't stick out as far as it used to, and my waist is relatively small for a man of my size. But my chest remains broad, and the chubbiest part of me remains my jowls. I hate wearing neck ties for two reasons. First, the only dress shirts where I can fasten the top button are much too big everywhere else, giving me a genuine smock or moomoo look. Second, a tie seems to push my neck up, creating the multiple chin effect I hate so very much.

I've tried to cover my chin in different ways through the years. I'd love to have a nice full beard, or a sleak looking goatee, but unfortunately my facial hair grows in patches that look like someone tried to glue hair under my lip and on my neck. So, rather than look like an oversized teenager afraid to shave, I'll just have deal with the chin problem the only other way. The chub has to go.

I look forward to the day when I can look straight at a photographer and feel comfortable that I only have one chin. I don't know if I'll ever pull off the walnut-cracking chin, a la the George Clooneys of the world, but I'd like my neck to look a little less Farleyesque.

Until then, I'm sure I'll keep sticking out that chin. Frankly, it's your fault, photographer. I told you I hate having my picture taken.

A doofus's good problems...

2009-09-26T21:57:00.000-07:00

I am an overreacting doofus.

I'm not saying that with any hesitation or doubt. A week ago, I got on this blog and bemoaned what I thought was a pending weight loss plateau. The good results of the first few weeks, I reasoned, were gone, and more than a few people wrote to let me know that it would be alright. Chief amongst my "told you so" critics was my own fiancee, who was, I hate to admit, completely right.

I entered the Weight Watchers meeting on Thursday confident of a better week. Our faulty electronic scale in our bathroom led me to believe I had dropped 2-3 pounds, totals I worked extremely hard to achieve. Last week was one of long gym sessions, splitting my time between Stairmasters and Tread climbers. I would come home at night tired yet proud, hungry yet satisfied, and I had managed to traverse Rosh Hashanah and an engagement party without any culinary catastrophe.

But I wasn't prepared for the bathroom scale to be so wrong. I stepped on the Weight Watchers scale and watched with interest as the woman recorded my progress. One week, another 5.6 pounds lost. My jaw dropped, Megan beamed at me, and I was rewarded not just with the pounds gone, but also with the desired "bravo" sticker from the leader.

Patience is usually one of my virtues. Optimism is not. I have great faith in other people, but for some reason have always used self-doubt and pessimism as a form of motivation. When I wrote last week, I was only seeing the negative, and it took a few good kicks in the pants for me to put my chin back up. Thank you everyone who has offered their support. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it.

So now onto the good problems. About two months ago, I got a new suit. It's pretty sharp, a nice charcoal gray, designed to serve me well in weddings and interviews ahead. I've worn it just once, so it still has that new suit look.

Yet tomorrow, I'm bringing back to the store for alterations. I got the suit before my little weight loss quest, and though practically brand new, it's already too big. The pants are ridiculously loose, and even the jacket hangs awkwardly off of shoulders that were a little broader a month ago. Additionally, one of my belts no longer serves my pants-hoisting needs.

My wallet is a little nervous that more clothes will need alterations or replacing. Every other part of me is proud, and with a little more luck, maybe I can remove an "X" from my shirt size. It's been a while since I've had to buy new clothes for my stomach retracting instead of expanding.

I'm feeling really good about my progress. I regret not having gotten serious about losing weight sooner, but at least I'm finally taking some control.

A few notes before we get to the stats. This week, a woman in Indonesia gave birth to a 19.2 pound baby. While I certainly hope she got an epidural, I have to marvel at two things. First, how the hell did she do that, and second, the child's weight matches exactly the pounds I've lost in the first month of Weight Watchers. What's departed from my belly found it's way to Indonesia, I guess.

Now, the really exciting news. The Journal Inquirer is now linking to this blog off its Web site. Unlike most of the JI's web content, since this is my own blog, there is no charge for readers to peruse the Great Wedding Fast. I'm pleased at the thought that more people than just my Facebook friends and family will now be reading along on this process. Yep, it means there's more pressure to succeed, but just like needing suit alterations, a bigger audience is a problem I'll take any day.

Stats away!

Week 4 Totals

Weeks until wedding: 43
Week 4 pounds lost: 5.6
Total weight lost: 19.2 pounds, or one ginormous Indonesian newborn (seriously, the father must have been a Kimodo Dragon)
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 32 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 40.8
What I was doing when I was 19.2 years old: 2nd semester at UConn
GPA that semester: 4.0 (p.s.: not my GPA)
Wait, you wanted my GPA that semester?: not available at press time
Number of calories burnt at the gym last week: 3,600
Number of times the gym played that horrible Pussycat Dolls song during those workouts: 9,560

Attempting to Rogen myself...

2009-09-22T15:56:00.000-07:00

However vain or silly it might be, I truly believe that damn near everyone has played the "who would play me in a movie?" game. It's natural, especially for film junkies like myself, to watch the stars and think, "alright, so Hollywood has given the green light to a biopic on me. So who plays the lead?"

I struggled with this question for years until I was introduced to the world of Judd Apatow. More specifically, I saw "Freaks and Geeks" for the first time, a show so fantastic that it dares to show all the awkwardness of the non-pretty high school people. It was honest, poignant, funny, occasionally cringeworthy, and fantastic television. In other words, it was doomed to fail, and sure enough the show got canned after one season. "Undeclared" would follow, this time a funnier version of "Freaks" in a college setting. It too got the axe. Damn you, networks, and your obsession with reality crap.

Of course, now Judd Apatow is the biggest comedy director in the world. And he's been loyal to those that helped get him there. Case in point: Jason Segel played Nick on "Freaks" and is now a major television and movie actor. James Franco went from playing Daniel to being Harry friggin' Osborn in Spiderman.

Yet no one's star has shone quite as brightly, and maybe surprisingly, as Seth Rogen's. I felt a connection with Seth the moment I saw him on screen. He was happy-go-lucky, brooding, goofy, chubby, and sported the most fantastic Jewfro this side of Tel Aviv. He was the best of the second bananas in "The 40-Year-Old Virgin," then got cast in the lead in "Knocked Up," giving dorks around the world hope that they too could land a woman about nine times out of their league. Now Seth is in every movie that comes out, and someday, he'll play the lead in the biopic of Matt.

But then, tragedy struck. Seth was no longer content to be the happy fat guy with the ridiculous laugh. No, he had to go for dashing and handsome (that vile traitor). I don't know if he quit the pot or signed a pact with the devil, but seemingly overnight Mr. Rogen went from jolly and chunky to svelte and stylish. Last time he hosted SNL, he joked about his incredible weight loss, saying during his monologue, "it's amazing how different things are since I was here last. Uh, for one thing... I lost about one million pounds. "

Seth got uberskinny. However, the subject of the biopic (that would be me, for those still paying attention) did not. Yeah, I got the hot girl, but while Rogen reels in big part after big part, I found myself in an endless pattern of hard exercise followed by fattening indulgence. I had the gym ethic down, but my diet remained a problem.

So I'm left with two options. I could stay heavy and they could cast someone like Jonah Hill in the part (or, as Adam Sandler calls him in "Funny People," the triple XL version of Seth), or I could make the necessary changes. I'm not taking the easy way. Sorry Jonah, but this part belongs to Seth.

And for those of you wondering if I'm so disillusioned to think there will someday be a movie about me, relax. It's all in good fun. But just in case, I'm maintaining all character rights.

Fear of the plateau...

2009-09-18T16:45:00.000-07:00

Five years ago, when I took my brief foray to California, two things told me that this silly Connecticut boy had reached the west. The first, obviously, was the sand. Deserts are a a funny thing, sprawling sand everywhere yet no beach to be found. Rarely does one driving through Manchester worry if his car will overheat or if necessary, or how to field dress and eat a rattlesnake. But damned if those concerns didn't gnaw at me as I drove through New Mexico.

The second sign? Plateaus. Now, these were more evident on my road back to New England, when a buddy of mine took a more northward route through the West instead of heading for wonderland of flat that is Oklahoma. Plateaus are spectacular, rising out of the ground like huge, magnificent stumps. Steep slopes, level top... these were landforms that I had only seen in textbooks.

Now plateaus are on my mind again. However, it's not about geology, but rather the inevitable sense of doom that my pattern of weight loss success is leveling off.

This is a reality I knew I would have to deal with. My success in the first two weeks of Weight Watchers was remarkable. Dropping 12 pounds is like having a bowling ball fall out of your pants (or so I would imagine). If I lost six pounds per week, my challenge to lost 60 total would be over in 10 weeks, and then this blog would be fairly lame.

The scale this week revealed that the plateau is coming. I lost weight again, which I'm delighted about, yet instead of the 3-5 pounds I had hoped to lose, the lady reading the scale scribbled "1.6." The leader lady insists that any loss is a good thing, and though Megan is once again proud, I'm still disappointed.

Dammit, I worked much harder this week to lose weight. That first week, I went to the gym once, did a relatively light workout, tracked my points, and managed to lose 8 pounds. Then this week, I get to the gym 3-4 times, sustaining workouts the likes of which I haven't attempted since my Israel streak. By the time I got off the tread-climber on Wednesday, I'd burned 1,030 calories. If I'm going to work that hard, I want a helluva payoff.

The fact is I should be happier about my week 3 loss. Rounding up to 2 pounds, that's pretty good for seven days. Considering that I could easily gain two pounds through chicken wings on a night at Bidwell Tavern, I should be proud. And I am.

Yet I know the plateau is coming fast. Leader lady says part of weight loss includes weeks where you actually gain weight. I'm dreading that first time I step on the scale and a "plus" goes next to my name instead of a "minus."

This weekend will bring challenges of its own. It's Rosh Hashana, or to the gentiles of the world, one of those days that Jews take off from work. On the Hebrew calendar, the Jewish New Year is ringing in 5770. Like any family, mine's celebrating tomorrow with a smorgasbord of cuisine that laughs in the face of Weight Watchers. Sunday could be even more dangerous, with an engagement party (no, not ours) and the allure of cake in all its fantastic forms (a little Jim Gaffigan there).

My willpower is going to have to be strong. Otherwise that plateau could be very daunting.

Stat Time!
Week 3 Totals

Weeks until wedding: 44 to the day
Week 3 pounds lost: 1.6
Total weight lost: 13.6 pounds
percentage of overall goal: almost 23 percent
Recent culinary delights: Green tea, Skinny Cow ice cream bars, salmon burgers
Former culinary delights: Dr. Pepper, Friendly's Hunka Hunka PB Fudge, bacon cheeseburgers
last time I (purposely) ate beef: two years ago
# of chickens I've eaten instead during those two years: 99,486
Pitching tonight for the Red Sox: Clay Bucholz
Game score at the time of this posting: Red Sox 2, Orioles 1
Red Sox players also celebrating Rosh Hashana- Kevin Youkilis. L'Shana Tova, Youk!

Pizza and beer: Weight Watchers bane

2009-09-14T18:18:00.000-07:00

Pizza. The first grad class to feature a snack, and it had to be pizza.

The good news: it's Domino's, which is to pizza as Julio Lugo was to the Red Sox and the annoying blond girl was to the Goonies. The bad news: it's still friggin' pizza, which the gods gave to man to apologize for the Minotaur and Busch beer.

Let me set the scene a little bit better. I'm in my third week of Weight Watchers, and so far things are going well. How well? You'll learn a bit later, but suffice to say (or write) that I got a second sticker from the slightly frightening group leader. It's also my second week of graduate school as I work toward a Masters degree.

The pizzas come at the start of class in a scene right out of Fast Times at Ridgemont High. The boxes are piled in the front of the room. No one stirs, though the gently thrilling scent of cheese and crust begin to waft from student to student.

A half hour into class and my mouth is watering. An hour in, pizza consumes my thoughts much more than the impact of social standing in education. By the time we take a break, an hour and a half has gone by, my stomach has groaned as loudly as the professor can talk, and the piddly 100 calorie pack of miniature coffee cakes has completely crumbled in my book bag.

I do the only thing I can do: I leave the room. When I come back, most of the pizza is gone and I resign myself quietly to consuming the still recognizable parts of the cakes.

I'm scoring this a minor victory. One slice of pizza converts to about 6 points, and I have resisted the temptation.

We all know that nothing goes with pizza quite like a good beer. No, they weren't serving beer in class, but I've developed quite a love for all things brewed. I enjoy a good beer and drink only socially, but if I am drinking, beer is my go-to beverage. A few weeks ago at a party, I polished off a a 64-ounce growler of Cape Cod Beer Summer Ale in about 90 minutes.

Weight Watchers measures regular, non-lite beer at 1 point per 4 ounces of beer. In other words, in an hour and a half, I drank 16 points worth of ale. Good for a party? sure. Good for a person desperate to reduce his Body Mass Index? I would have been better entering a pie eating contest.

In college, during a fraternity event, I drank 8 beers and ate 5 slices of pizza in 60 minutes. I think my waist expanded by 6 sizes that night.

Those days are long behind me. They'd better be if I'm going to follow through and not look like an ass on the Internet.

So pizza and beer, I say begone with you! Visit occasionally, but you two are a package deal no more.

At least until the bachelor's party. All bets are off on that night.

So, here's the skinny: At the second weigh-in, I was down another 4 pounds. That makes 12 in two weeks, 1/5 toward my final goal. I'm determined to lose another 3-5 this week.

I'm feeling good, even if there's no mozzarella swimming in my gut. On second thought, maybe that's why I am feeling so good.

Week 2 totals:

Weeks until wedding: 44
Pounds lost this week: 4
Total pounds lost: 12
NBA Hall of Famer inducted this weekend who wore #12: John Stockton
Career assists for John Stockton: 15,806
On the 12th Day of Xmas: 12 Drummers Drumming
# of episodes planned for Season 3 of Chuck: 12
Year it was when I was 12: 1994
Percentage toward my overall goal: 20 percent
Pounds remaining to go: 48
48 divisible by: 48, 24, 12, 8, 6, 4, 2, 1

A question of motivation...

2009-09-09T13:04:00.000-07:00

So how does it happen? How does someone who's been chubby his whole life suddenly decide it's time for major change,and most importantly, how the hell am I supposed to stay motivated?

The overlying reason is simple: to look the best I've ever looked for the wedding. Granted, Megan loves me the way I am, but I'd rather look a little more svelte rather than have the "Jabba with Princess Leia" thing going on under the chupa.

But a lot can happen in ten months. My life is being pulled in different directions right now. I've started taking grad classes as I work toward becoming a teacher, the holidays and their wonderful turkey, stuffing, and pumpkin pie are just around the corner, and the life of a reporter never seems to slow down.

I'm going to need smaller goals along the way if I'm to prove successful. The trick is deciding how.

Two weeks into the Great Wedding Fast, my motivation has been easy: watch the numbers on the scale go down. Truthfully, it hasn't been all that difficult so far. Part of me relishes the idea of jumping into a big Strega Nona vat of pasta and eating my way out, but most of me has found this whole Weight Watchers business a little easy.

Tomorrow is Thursday, which means it's time to weigh in again. I feel a little like a boxer or wrestler (not the oiled up, long-haired, roided out ones) trying to make weight. I'm pretty confident that my cumulative weight loss in two weeks has been in the double digits, but it's supposed to be simple at this point.

Soon the pounds are going to be harder to shed. Once the water weight is gone, I'm going to have to work harder. Less weight means less points too, so I'll have to cut my calories even more if I want to reach the super 60 I've promised myself.

Two years ago, Israel proved the perfect motivation. I don't know what came over me, but there were days when I'd spend 90 minutes at the gym, stepping on the Stairmaster more rapidly than any plushy man in history. The totals were impressive: 900 calories burned one workout, 980 the next, 1020, even 1130. I took quiet pleasure in the failure of skinny people to keep up with me. My proudest moment came when a woman next to me, at least 140 pounds lighter than I was, watched me go for about 45 minutes, saw the number of calories I had burned, looked at me, smiled, and said, "damn!"

Of course, the workout would be ruined the minute I got home and scooped a bowl full of ice cream. Edy's and its Fudge Tracks can go straight to hell.

I need more "damn" moments. That being stated, here's some goals to accompany the wedding target.

1. To be down 30 pounds by New Year's Eve.

2. To see looks of amazement/shock every time I see family or friends I haven't seen in a while.

3. To need to buy new pants for other reasons than getting newspaper ink on them or splitting the seams.

4. To no longer being described as "kind of a big guy" or "on the larger side" to people who haven't met me.

5. To go shirtless on a beach for the first time since the 1990s (sad, but true).

6. To not feel like I'm blocking the sun from everyone else at the beach.

7. To look at a box of Munchkins without romanticizing about sticking them in my cheeks like a chipmunk eating acorns.

8. To go for a physical and not have to worry about the nurse adjusting the scale up another 50 pounds.

9. To get on an airplane, crowded bus, or elevator and not feel like the people next to me are uncomfortable.

10. To not have to worry whether a red shirt makes me look like Kool Aid Man or a purple shirt like Grimace.

Ten seems like a good number. Let's start crossing them off.

PS: I welcome whatever feedback you all might have about this challenge. Hell, it is a blog...

The payoff of the anal retentive

2009-09-06T21:10:00.002-07:00

"Alright, let's begin!"

The woman's voice was shrill and frightening. She took the floor with fearlessness: this was her room. Before her sat the many loyal followers, mostly middle-aged women, many seemingly very pissed off and looking for answers.

And among this sea of estrogen straight out of a Julia flick say one timid, quiet man. Yep, it was me, and as the meeting started, there wasn't another Y chromosome to be found.

You'd think this was some kind of support group, and in a way it was. This was my first Weight Watchers meeting. To say I'm not happy to be here is an understatement.

Many of the woman clutch small notebooks and pamphlets. These are their maps to skinnier jeans. Meanwhile, I sat quietly, shocked by the weight recorded when I stepped on the scale. In my mind. I was about to lose everything I love about food. The leader maintained her intensity, and only at the meeting's end did I begin to see that my fears weren't legitimate.

In my first week, I found that Weight Watchers is not a salvation of the overweight, but rather a celebration of all things anal retentive. The key to weight loss is careful tracking. For one week, I wrote down everything I ate, carefully assessing points to every apple or even Twizzler.

I'm lucky, my fiancee told me. Just being a guy grants me 8 extra points per day. The fact that I'm a big guy means I get to eat more. In a way, it's all a game. Use your points, don't go too far over, and see where you stand on the leader board. (note: there is no Weight Watchers leader board, but wouldn't that be fantastic? Imagine the gambling that would follow!)

I didn't even make it to the gym more than once that first week. And yet when I stepped on the scale at the next meeting after seven long days of painstaking tracking, I realized there are some rewards that don't come with frosting on top.

One week. Eight pounds lost. Holy crap.

Now the many woman who a week prior had seemed so angry cheered loudly upon hearing my accomplishment. Even the scary leader has nothing but praise. In addition to her praise, I get a fancy sticker, and the only people who hate stickers are jackasses.

For the rest of the meeting, I sat in a state of puzzled contentment. How the hell did I pull that off?

I'm told it's going to get harder and that at first the weight falls off you. But all good games get tougher as they go on. Especially Scrabble.

I'm considering Week 1 a triple word score.

Stats:

Weeks until wedding: 45
Weight loss goal: 60 pounds
Weight lost: 8 pounds
Pounds til goal: 52 pounds
Point value of a Moons Over My Hammy: I dunno, but that's always funny to order.
Karl "The Mailman" Malone's career points: 36,928
Number of illegitimate children fathered by the Mailman: TBD
Best reason for health care death panels: the idiots screaming at meetings who swear there are going to be death panels.

2009-09-06T21:10:00.001-07:00

A bitter(sweet) divorce.. with Hostess

2009-09-03T17:12:00.000-07:00

Some shed tears into their beer. For the last 27 years, I've shed mine into ice cream.

Food and I have always had a love-hate relationship. The love part is easy. I remember Ben and Jerry's flavors more easily than I do the names of old friends. Hostess has provided me with two mistresses named Twinkie and Cupcake. And God bless the good folks of Dunkin' Donuts, whose bagels and muffins never cease to work their magic.

The hate part is tough. Indulgence, inevitiably, equals indigestion (isn't alliteration fun?) It also wreaks havoc on the waist line, a battle in which I've become quite the veteran.

I've never minded being a big guy, especially since I've never been anything else. It was around the 2nd grade when I became the fat kid. That's a hard realization, but one your classmates have no problem helping you recognize. Kids are taught not to judge others based on race, religion, or gender, but if someone wears bigger pants, you sure as hell better let Tubby know.

I was chubby in elementary school. Middle school brought a brief reprieve as my baby fat was introduced to puberty, but by my freshman year of high school, the bulge had once again taken hold. By senior year, I was downright corpulent, and by the time I got to college, I was in the first wave of marching band members called in for a uniform fitting, if you catch my drift.

I was practically the mascot of my fraternity, the butt of more jokes about food than any person ought to be in their entire lives. But for whatever reason, I felt my body type was part of my identity, and so I embraced the Farley in me.

But back trouble and eventual surgery brought more weight, and by the time I was ready to move away from my parents (for the third time), corpulent had ballooned into the danger zone.

I got serious for a while. The gym became my second home, and within a year, I'd dropped about 50 pounds. A pending trip to Israel was all the motivation I needed. I'd get fit, make a nice Jewish girl swoon, and all would be well in the world.

I didn't meet a nice Jewish girl. But when I returned, I remet a beautiful gentile lady who thinks I'm pretty swell. She's pretty wonderful herself, and come next summer, we'll be married.

It's been a terrific ride, but sure enough, Hostess has found her way back in through the occasional trip to the vending machine. Same goes for scones at Panera and whatever might look tasty inside a Starbucks display case. The pounds have come back, and something must be done.

I say let my wedding be my new motivation. As I write, I am 10 1/2 months away from saying "I do." By that time, I want to be 60 pounds lighter.

The gym is great, but dieting is what I need. With that, I have submitted myself to something I thought I'd never do... Weight Watchers. And just for the hell of it, I'm going to make effort a public one. Join me over the weeks to come, but please, don't bring any baked goods.

And with that, dear Hostess, I bid you adieu... except your delicious 100 calorie packs.