Less to Love

Weekly weigh-in: 223.5
Loss: -1.5
Total loss: 68 lbs.
Emotion: Steady as she goes

Yesterday was an OMG day.

I had to meet with a group of folks that I haven’t seen since Spring, and had to spend the first twenty minutes or so detailing my “Summer of Loss”. After trotting out my pat answer (“I’m on a hunger strike until they get this health care business straightened out”), I was pressed into giving up my secrets. One young woman literally got out a pad and pen and was ready to jot down my secret recipe for success.

Was it eating nothing but Fuji apples for three months? Only eating while hanging upside down? Drinking six glasses of water with every meal? Only eat foods beginning with the letter “W”?

“Well,” I said. “I’ve been eating a lot less and exercising a lot more.”

The young woman capped her pen and put her pad away. “Oh,” she smiled in mock indignation. “I don’t want to hear that.”

Later in the day, I ran into a couple I know that I hadn’t seen in quite a few months. They went on and on and on about the weight loss.

“I can’t believe how good you look,” she told me, but quickly tacked on the standard qualifier: “You didn’t look bad before, but you look great now.”

Sorry, lady. You can lie all you want, but the camera never did. Looking at myself in the bathroom mirror back when I was at my heaviest, I could find angles that helped convince me that I looked kinda-sorta okay. I wore my shirts untucked a lot, thinking that it helped disguise the love handles. I wore the same couple of pairs of pants a lot, conveniently ignoring the fact that there were several other pairs in my closet that had gotten uncomfortably snug.

But then I’d see a snapshot, and that house of cards would come tumbling down.

This is what people see when they look at me, I thought, staring at the photograph. It took my breath away.

I remember picking up photographs that had been developed (remember when photographs were developed?) and tossing out pictures of myself that were particularly unflattering.

People lie; photographs rarely do.

I’m proud of this week. The compliments were over-the-top nice, but this week felt like something that I could sustain for a long time, a routine that I could live with. I took my daughter Pisa and a buddy to the fair in the middle of the day in the middle of the week. I took my family out for soup and sushi last night.

I ate slowly and with patience. I exercised intensely and with passion.

My muscles ached this week as I added lifting weights to the mix, but the rest of me?

The rest of me is feeling fine.

Sh*tlock Holmes and the Case of the Lost Pounds

“Fatson, come here.”

“What is it, Holmes,” answered the chubby assistant, sporting a tweed suit and meaty porkchop sideburns.

“I believe it’s a clue,” rejoined Sh*tlock Holmes, who was dressed in a Sherlock Holmes outfit, complete with magnifying glass.

“It appears to be a rice cake with peanut butter smeared on it,” observed Fatson.

“Almond butter,” corrected Sh*tlock.

“How can you know that?” asked Fatson, perplexed.

“Smellamentary, my dear Fatson. And did you take a look in the pantry?”

“It seems perfectly ordinary to me…” bemused Fatson

“Take a closer look,” said Sh*tlock.

“Good heavens…”

“That’s right,” continued the detective. “No corn chips, toritilla chips, potato chips, pretzel chips, pita chips, Sun chips, cheese nibs, Cheez-Its, Cheese Whiz, Chex mix, cheese-and-crackers, crackers-and-cheese, peanut butter-and-crackers, peanut butter cookies, pretzels, Pringles, Pop-Tarts, pork rinds, Fritos, Cheetos, Doritos…

“Unbelievable! Perhaps they refrigerate their snacks,” suggested Fatson. “For freshness.”

Sh*tlock swung open the refrigerator door, and his assistant peered over his shoulder.

“I don’t understand it,” blubbered Fatson. “There’s nothing in here but fresh fruits and vegetables. No one eats like this. It’s impossible.”

Sh*tlock shook his head as he held a red plum to his face to examine it more closely. “How often have I said to you that when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth?”

Sh*tlock sniffed at the air, then moved toward the laundry room.

“Fatson,” said Sh*tlock. “Take a big whiff in that laundry hamper.”

Fatson obliged, but reeled backwards after sticking his face down to smell.

“Good God, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “That’s utterly horrible.

“Just as I suspected,” hmmmmmm’ed Sh*tlock. “Exercise.”

Fatson shook his head, “Have you figured the mystery out yet, Sh*tlock?”

“I believe I have, Fatson,” he said, pacing back and forth in the hallway. “The lack of junk food, the abundance of healthy nutritional items and the sweat-soaked workout clothes indicate a successful weight loss journey is underway.”

“That’s it, Sh*tlock,” exclaimed Fatson. “But you haven’t solved the mystery of where the missing pounds went. Do you have the answer to that, Holmes?”

“I believe I have, my good man,” said Sh*tlock. “Look over your shoulder.”

“What?” asked Fatson.

“Lower,” suggested Sh*tlock.

“There?” croaked Fatson.

“Yes, my good fellow,” said Sh*tlock. “Right there on your ass.”

“Ahh, yes,” frowned Watson, sucking his gut in a bit. “Mystery solved.”

Swimming Back

I really thought I was going to drown.

I don’t know how old I was, 11 or 12 maybe. My little league baseball team was celebrating the end of the season with a boating trip out on the lake with the coaches. The boat was anchored in a quiet spot and the kids were all shooed off the deck to swim.

One of the kids pointed out a rocky island off in the distance and everyone decided that it would be a super-smart idea to swim for it. I don’t know how far it was from the boat, but I would conservatively estimate that it was fifty miles. At least that’s what it felt like as I was furiously splashing towards it. I was a pretty good athlete, but swimming wasn’t my strong suit. My arms and legs were longer than almost all my teammates, but my swimming stroke seemed to have a hole in it. I was going nowhere fast.

While I was struggling to make my way, some of the kids had already made it to the rocks and were jumping around on them, egging on the others to hurry. It wasn’t a huge surprise that Mark Sh*tz was bringing up the rear, even slower than the special-needs kid that played right field.

About the time I got fifty yards or so from the rocks, I started feeling a little better since it looked like I was finally going to make it. However, I guess the coaches ran out of beer at that point and noticed that the tadpoles had gotten out of the bucket. They started hollering like crazy, and let me tell you something: our crazy coaches could holler. Our team won first place in the league for two basic reasons (1) our coaches were especially proficient at hollering and (2) our pitcher was already shaving at 13 years old.

So all the guys jumped back in the water and started swimming, porpoise-like as I recall, back to the boat. They all shot past me and I looked longingly at the rocks; I wanted to go grab a quick rest, but I was conditioned to move when coaches holler. So I turned and started… well, I can’t technically call what I was doing “swimming”… but I continued doing whatever it was I was doing, except now I was doing it a little slower and a little more panicky than before.

It seemed endless, and I remember the hot sun beating down on me and the ill-fitting vest slipping around on me with virtually every stroke. I tried to swim on my back, but wound up going in tiny circles. A couple of my teammates finally swam back to help and the coaches continued with their enthusiastic hollering. To this day, I don’t really like it when people yell at me.

I have a greater appreciation for waterways these days, as well as a better sense of my own limitations. I guess what got me reminiscing about this story was that I was thinking about how I’ve always had some kind of internal clockwork that triggers a panicked burst of weight-loss energy if I get within spitting distance of 300 pounds.

For me, that mark has some kind of deep voodoo power, and going over it would mean perhaps swimming too far from the shore to ever safely make it back. I know in the rational part of my brain that that's simply not true, but it's probably a good thing that I believe it.

I follow a lot of weight loss bloggers who have crossed that border and several more beyond. They've drifted almost beyond sight, and I know that for some of them, the situation seems beyond hopeless, like a child adrift in a lonely lake. Some of these folks are treading water still, some seem to be lost at sea and some are busy swimming back for all they’re worth.

I feel for anyone who finds him or herself in that situation… dazed, disoriented and not quite sure they have the strength to make that long, long swim to safety.

I’ll tell you this though: blogging about your situation–being honest about what you’re doing and where you’re headed–that’s your safety vest, my friend. The lifeline that can sustain you when your limbs are weary and your will is weak.

And we’ll help you, those folks who have moved into more manageable waters. After all, I can tell you from personal experience that a helping hand is more welcome in this situation than any amount of hollering will ever be.

I’m Sorry, John, Paul and George (but not Ringo)

Less I weigh.
Now health troubles seem so far away.
I like exercise more than I do the buffet.
The better I do, the less I weigh.

Suddenly,
I feel like half the man I used to be.
Choosing health has really been the key.
Then losing weight came naturally.

Why I
Had to grow, I don't know–I couldn't say.
But now
I won’t do wrong, won’t go back to yesterday.

The less I weigh,
The more I have to give, the more I play.
I don’t feel the need to hide away.
The more I believe, the less I weigh.

Now I
Have to blog, I have to do it every day.
Posting
Something new,
The more I blog, the less I weigh.

Less I weigh.
Losing weight’s an easy game to play.
Won’t you come and do it right away?
If you do, then less you’ll weigh.

Mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm-mm.

What I Learned When I Started Lifting Weights Again

• Apparently it’s “improper form” to crap your pants during a bench press.
• Muscle dudes don’t like it when you ask to borrow “a cup of testosterone.”
• Weights are heavier now then they used to be; I think it may have something to do with the metric system.
• Apparently, I was the only one who thought it was awesome to name my biceps “Thing One” and “Thing Two.”
• There’s always some dude that wants to stand there and impatiently wait for the machine you just got on; for your information, I am that dude.
• No, I can’t squat thrust as much weight as you can, but you can’t yodel as loudly as I can. I’d say we’re even.
• Not everybody wants to be your workout buddy, even if you ask them over and over and over.
• Working out in a wool turtleneck sweater isn’t so much of a good idea.
• They’re not “girl pushups,” dumbass; they’re “lady pushups.”
• Apparently, you’re not supposed to have your feet on the ground when doing a chin-up (and I was going for the all-time record, dammit!).
• Quit singing along with your iPod (apparently somebody’s not a big Sound of Music fan).
• Working until your triceps burn: good. Asking dude to blow on your burning triceps: not so good.
• “Gluteus Maximus!” is not a synonym for “Good Morning!”
• Don’t make the mistake of using a fire extinguisher to hose off sweat from the machines after use. Excuse me for cleaning the equipment!
• Steroid-water leaves a nasty aftertaste.
• IcyHot + spandex rash = Ai yah yaiiiiii!
• If you accept the responsibility of “spotting” someone, you really need to not let the weights drop on their neck because then everybody’s gonna shoot you dirty looks the rest of your workout.

A League of Their Own

“Damn, but I hate flying!” boomed the voice in the foyer.

“Yes we all know it’s one of your ‘not-so-private hells,’ but I appreciate you coming, Fat Daddy,” said Jack Sh*t, leading the larger-than-life blogger towards a set of oak double doors. “I know this is a long way from your home at Fat Daddy Rants, but this is a grave emergency.”

“This,” said Jack, swinging the doors open wide, “is the League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen.”

“Oh my God,” exclaimed Fat Daddy. “I’d always assumed that there was some sort of alliance of male weight loss bloggers…”

“We’re it,” remarked Tony “The Anti-Jared” Posnanski, sitting at a large conference room table and curling a 90-lb barbell as he spoke. “The Leauge of…”

“Yeah, I got it the first time,” said Fat Daddy. “How’d they get you down here, Carlos?”

“I came for strippers and barbecue,” replied Carlos of You’re Gonna Need a Bigger Boat. “They told me it was Tony’s bachelor party.”

“I’m married, dumbass,” snapped the Anti-Jared, on his 175th rep.

“The other Tony,” said Carlos.

“I’m gay, dumbass,” piped up Tony from I Don't Want to Die of a Heart Attack When I'm 25.

“Hey,” said Jack, rapping on the surface of the long table. “What’s going on back there in the back?”

“Oh,” said Stephen from Who Ate My Blog? “Sean is interviewing me for his audio widget on his blog.”

“This is Sean Anderson from The Daily Diary of a Winning Loser,” said Sean Anderson from The Daily Diary of a Winner Loser, “and I’m talking to one of the most fascinating weight loss bloggers out there…”

“Stop that!” commanded Jack. “We’ve got serious business here.”

“Serious business?” said gay Tony. “Since when are you ever serious?”

“Yeah,” said Sean, clicking off his tape recorder. “And how come you’re even in this group? What have you contributed to the weight loss community?”

“Are you kidding me?” asked Jack, shaking his head incredulously. “Who named this group ‘The League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen’ anyway? You guys used to be called ‘Who Gives a Big Fat Flying F*ck!’.”

“I liked that name,” smiled Carlos.

“That’s because you came up with it,” argued Jack. “Look, this petty infighting is getting us nowhere. Somebody wants to do in all of us male weight loss bloggers. I got this email saying we’re all in danger.”

“He may be my arch-nemesis,” said not-gay Tony, “but Mister Sh*t does have a point.”

“What do you suggest we do, Jack?” asked Sean. “Interview everyone in the blogging world? I’ll take on that assignment…”

“Give it a rest, Sean,” snapped Jack. “Stephen, you’re good with computers. Can you hack into the CIA’s mainframe and trace the source of the email I got?”

“I could, but I don’t have to,” said Stephen, studying the printout.

“Why not?” asked Jack.

“Well, it says who it’s from right there on the email.”

“Where?” asked Jack, a confused expression on his face.

“Right there,” pointed Stephen. “In the ‘From’ box.”

“Blogher?” said Jack.

“Blogher?” repeated both Tonys in unison.

“Blogher?” echoed Carlos, Sean, Stephen and Fat Daddy.

The double doors swung open, and a large woman entered the room, laughing. She had the face of a million female weight loss bloggers morphed together and the body of… well, let’s just say she wasn’t shopping in “Petites”…

“That’s right,” she bellowed ferociously. “Blogher!”

“I don’t get it,” said Fat Daddy. “I thought Blogher was a group blog and online community.

“It’s also an annual blogging conference for women,” explained Sean. “You know, I’d really love to interview you, Blogher.”

“I’m here to destroy your little band of blubbers,” laughed Blogher with extreme menace in her voice. “Your big losses demoralize the legion of female bloggers.”

“Obviously you haven’t read my blog,” remarked Carlos.

“Band of blubbers,” chuckled Jack. “That’s pretty good. Can I use that?”

“I harness the power of every female weight loss blogger in the entire blogosphere,” she boomed. She raised her arms and hurricane-force winds began tearing through the room. “There is nothing that can stop me.”

“Could this be the end of the League of Extraordinarily Fat Gentlemen?” exclaimed Jack dramatically. The rest gripped the handles of their chairs and braced themselves for whatever would come next.

Suddenly, the door cracked open and a lone figure walked in.

Blogher turned and looked at the newcomer, then screamed in horror.

“No, it can’t be,” she wailed. “Not YOU, you bloody bastard!!”

“Am I late?” asked TOM.

“No, you’re right on schedule,” smiled Jack, as Blogher fled the scene, wailing and crying.

“You’re right on time.”

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