Fucking people.

I would like to keep this blog about weight loss, so here you go: I went to the gym twice this week, and will be getting a softball workout on saturday morning.

In other news, I have deleted my facebook account. Accidentally keeping in touch with someone because of social networking is way different than having friends. Life was simpler when friends were just people you hung out with or had things in common with, not faces in a book. People are not things to be collected, and when they stop being the friends you thought they might be (based on 12 or 13 years of being the same person), maybe it's time to walk away.

Social networking might be the wave of the future. I never was a surfer. It can pass me right on by.

I'd like to leave this town. Anything that is not directly involved in either making that happen or distracting me from the fact that it hasn't happened yet can go suck a fucking dick.

Confession.

It's time to face facts. I have a few issues.

Writing it down does not make me feel better.

I am up and down and down and up and it's the dumbest fucking things that set it off. I simultaneously want to disappear to somewhere new without looking back and embrace my life here and never let go. I hate the skanky bitches at the bar, but bum out when I'm not getting their attention. I want so much to have a lifelong connection with someone, but shy away from the great women I date. I want to lose this fucking weight, but cannot stop thinking about food. Cannot. Stop.

Maybe I cover it up with humor. I love to make people laugh, but do I do that because I need to fill some void? I don't fucking know. Do I want to see every pair of tits I ever met shaking in my face because I just like tits, or is it because I need attention? I don't know. Do I wait to sing at Karaoke until everyone is a little buzzed and ready for a singer because I like to perform or because I want their eyes on me? I'm pretty sure it's the latter. I have no idea where I get attention issues. And they don't always arise...but when it happens I spin right the fuck out.

A hard ass workout in the morning will cure this, I hope.

What a weekend. Packed Friday, moved Saturday, unpacked Sunday, put off ALL schoolwork until today, which leaves me now with a paper due in 5 hours that I have no inspiration for whatsoever. Gym this morning though, for a good hour of resistance training. If I wasn't so time starved to get all this crap done, I would have stayed for some cardio. I feel fucking amazing. Competition aside, just getting up and working out is enough to change my mood for the entire day. I feel like a real human being again, like I can do things without hurting myself.

Let's see how long that lasts.

And BTW, more distraction from schoolwork is coming tonight...Red Dead Redemption midnight release. Bang.

Progress

It's been a month since this contest began, and my first weigh in was at 240 pounds and 31% body fat. Since then, I have been to the gym about once a week, played flag football, been to the batting cages, used my exercise bike three times, and watched what I ate...for the most part. I have worked out until I thought I was going to puke, pulled a muscle in my arm, and as of today, found a new threshold for pain via my lower body workout. I have gotten up before 9am for most of the month, and that has been the hardest thing. Propping open my bleary eyes with toothpicks like a Tom and Jerry cartoon, I have stumbled through the first hours of my day for most of the month.

It looks like I'm doing something right. I avoided the scale all month because I didn't want to be obsessed with the results I was getting (or not getting). Ultimately, what is important is just being healthy, not what the scale says. So I've been doing my best. A few slips here and there, like finding a few patches of ice on the sidewalk, but I kept moving. Kept going. Kept working.

Who am I kidding? It was hard as hell to go to the gym all 6 times I went. I hated waking up early, and I grumbled and complained the whole way through. I cut short two of my three paid training sessions because I thought I was going to vomit, then die, then vomit again.

But I have results:

227lbs

28.6 % Body Fat.

Food day is gonna be fun.

Inertia

An object at rest tends to stay at rest. Repeating that now makes me feel like an asteroid. A big, craggy and pointy mass of rock that moves through space uncontrollably, and the only way it gets any smaller is violent collision with another more large and craggy and pointy rock. I am not an immovable force. My weight is not an unstoppable object. I am not my fucking khakis. And that's what I get for mixing my metaphors.

I love the idea of going to the gym. I love it right until I fall asleep. When I wake up, all of that changes. I wake up stiff and sore and sure that there is no way in hell I can get a workout in.

Time to be Rocky, I guess. No pain no gain. Cut me, Mick. Gonna fly now. There aint gonna be no rematch.

I watched GI Jane last night for some ungodly reason and it made me as a question: How often are our limits tested? When was the last time any of us was truly brought to our threshold for pain? How deep can we dig?

Those tests are painful reminders of our mortality. Or, they can be life affirming journeys o self discovery. Imma go dig deep.

One Day At A Time.

So in the quest to shrink the body fat percentage and lose the weight, I have discovered a few things.

First, the athlete's body I once had is buried deeper than I thought. I played a bit of flag football on Sunday morning. Threw two interceptions, one pass in the dirt, and dropped a first down pass. Not my most shining pigskin moment. I promise, I played when I was a kid and I was much better than that. The worst part, though, is that it is now Wednesday and I am still walking like I got raped by a buffalo. I am shuffling around everywhere, and having a really hard time picking my feet up off the ground. My lower back is kinked, and both of my shoulders are tight and sore. In short, I am in pain. I even have sore muscles in my foot, oddly enough, and my right pinky feels bruised. Like deep bone bruised. That little bastard hurts.

Because of all this pain, I had to reschedule my last paid meeting with my trainer. This brings up the second thing that I have discovered: The depth of my procrastination was hereto unknown. Sure, I have a good excuse this time, but the entire week before that I was healthy and could have gone to the gym. But didn't. I could have logged all of my food. But didn't. I have been putting it all off again and again, so I think it might be time to approach this in a 12 step fashion. One day at a time.

Which brings me to my third discovery: I am addicted to lazy. Yes, folks, my name is Eli and I am a sit-on-my-fat-ass-aholic. I have been eating clean, though a bit too much, so that isn't nearly the worry I have with this competition. My worry is that I am constantly proving that a body at rest tends to stay at rest. I do this even while knowing that I feel good after a workout (that isn't designed to scare me skinny), and knowing that my body responds very quickly to increased levels of activity. For some reason, I still would rather sit on my ass than go to the gym. Or even move three feet to my own recumbent bike. So one day at a time it is.

I will eat healthy today, while not "sneaking" anything crappy in to appease the emotions. I will not start that guilt cycle today.

I will move around today. If I had not destroyed my legs on Sunday, this would have been "I will go to the gym today!" Unfortunately, I need to heal first. I hurt.

I will feel good about myself today. I will feel good about myself today. I will feel good about myself today.

Who invented mornings??

The night before, it's always a good idea to get up and be at the gym at 6. Then 5am comes. My body rebels in every imaginable physical manner, from headaches to foot aches, from nausea to exhaustion. My body gets angry.

I'm sorry. What was I thinking?

This is a pretty heavy indicator of the toll not eating perfectly can take- the right nutrition provides energy and fuels your body's systems so that these moments are few and far between. I should get on that bandwagon. Speaking of bandwagons, I'm sure the drinking is not helping. Time to scale back again.

But whatever will I do on Thursdays? I guess sing sober.

You're right, I'm sorry. What was I thinking?

I am either three months or many years away from feeling good about myself, from being strong and athletic again, from swimming without a shirt again.

Make that two months. It's two months. It has to be two months.

My head hurts so bad I am squinting at the computer screen.

I'm going back to bed. The gym will be there when I wake up. And so will this incessant challenge.

Cheapest Good Time In Vegas. (No, it's no one's mother.)

Here's the rules:

This game is for four or more players. Each participant has their own flask and reserve pint bottle of their preferred liquor. Mixers and chasers beyond water are too cumbersome for this adventure, so make sure that you have something that you enjoy. One player is deemed the "Wrangler," and is responsible for both documenting the adventure and ensuring that the imbibing characters do not fall into the street. This player should wear a cowboy hat AND should probably be sober.

At a predetermined time in the early to late evening not to be later than 10:00pm but not to be earlier than full dark, the playing group will begin to walk up one side of the strip and down the other. Players may begin at any location, but should realize that the longer they spend on one side of the strip without crossing to the other, the more likely they are to achieve the desired result.

One drink shall be taken by each imbibing player upon the discovery of each of the following:

Sunglasses being worn on the face (not on top of the head or hanging from a collar)

Stumbling Pedestrians

Angry pedestrians or drivers (This can be determined by either observing an argument or a general consensus of the playing group as to the demeanor of the subject)

Fanny Packs

Bonus Drinks shall be taken by the group in the event of:

Spontaneous Stranger Singalongs and/or a member of the imbibing party borrowing a street musician's instrument in order to play a song in its entirety. In both cases, the instigating player is exempt from the bonus drink.

Taking a picture with a stranger whose nationality matches the casino in the background. For example, a picture with a French stranger while the Eiffel Tower looms in the background, or an English stranger in front of Excalibur. In the case of New York, New York, the stranger must be a New Yorker. Simply being American is not good enough. *Two bonus drinks are taken if the stranger takes a picture for himself as well. Again, the instigating player is exempt.

The game is over AND MUST IMMEDIATELY END when any one of the following things occurs:

Alcohol induced injury (including injuries sustained due to violence)

One player's reserve bottle is empty

Any player vomits

Intervention by law enforcement

The Wrangler calls the game for any reason

Any imbibing player becomes separated from the group or lost

A winner will only be declared via reviewing the documentation provided by the Wrangler. Photographic and Video evidence works best for this review, and bonus points should be added for interesting photo opportunities. But really, all who play are winners.

By the way, we managed to achieve ALL of the game ending criteria in about four hours. We began at about midnight, and I was separated from the group and back at my room by four. The vomiting (not me) did not occur until around 6:30 in the morning, so I guess it took somewhere along the lines of 6 hours. Efficient groups could conceivably play this game twice in that time.

I figured that the weekend's drinking would cover some pretty heavy calorie intake, so I only ate on Saturday. Egg white omelette with spinach and mushrooms, sliced tomatoes on the side, tuna poke to nosh, and a glass of fresh squeezed orange juice. Killer breakfast. For dinner: a double bacon cheeseburger with onion rings from Johnny Rockets. There went that clean eating. I made up for that today by not being able to find anything appealing till we got back home, and then it was only three carne asada tacos from Los Toritos.

And now here we are. Two hours of sleep, grabbed when I got home, and a 7 AM appt with the gym. 11:23 at night and I'm wide awake. Perhaps I should go get some A&D for my arm.

I want a breakfast burrito with eggs and sausage and cheese.

Lift.

With every exhale, every lift of the barbell, some of that stress escapes.

Lift.

Every stretch of the band is an ounce of regret expelled into the world like carbon dioxide vapor.

Lift.

There goes that slice of pizza from Sunday. That chocolate covered blueberry you snuck and didn't log.

Lift.

The harsh words you had for the old woman who tried to lay some guilt on you for applying for the house she was applying for. The joke that may have gone too far. The girl you didn't approach. And then the one you did.

Lift.

You feel tension disappearing. Like the disappointment you feel in that friend who acted like a total lecherous ass last time you saw him drunk. Like the pain of being somewhere you don't want to be.

Lift.

Like knowing that dropping that class will keep you here another six months - that's gone. The frustration of knowing that you might not get home for Christmas this year. Not getting to watch the nephews and niece grow up. Your dwindling bank account. Your obviously faltering braking system on the car that you've already spent twice its worth repairing. Not knowing what you're going to do when you grow up, or where you're going to be. All gone.

Lift.

Each drop of sweat is infested with pain and suffering and regret and remorse, and as your shoulders burn and your abs cramp and your lungs fail you see each drop fall, knowing that you will not be able to lift your books today because you just couldn't stop manufacturing catharsis. Arms shaking, you take a breath. You think of your body 15 years ago and how you couldn't find its threshold for exertion. You think about all the things you did to get to this point, and all the years off your life each cigarette and gravy boat took. You think about how you were told you were brave for posting the side shot, as though there was something wrong with it that you had to hide. And then you feel guilty for thinking that way, because the comment was meant as a compliment and came from someone who is quite obviously rooting for you in every way. Your breath returns and while the sweat is still dripping, it is now somehow void of all the filth and ugliness you are trying to purge. You move on to the next machine.

Lift.

It's On!!!

Who:

Three food lovers whose culinary indulgences have compounded into pounds and pounds of burdensome flesh, gained over years of sedentary enjoyment of the finer things in life. You know, like bacon and donuts and stuff.

What:

A bet- whosoever that falls furthest from their body fat percentage goal on June 15 shall pay for a day of excellent eating in Los Angeles, starting at breakfast and ending with dessert after dinner. This is the most logical way to conclude an effort to become healthy: by gorging ourselves on crap.

When:

Now to June 15. 60 days in which to transform our lives from exercises in food ruled imprisonment to flat stomached freedom. Two months of workouts and salads and calorie counting and portioning. 8 weeks of feeling lighter and faster every day, of noticing the energy increases brought by becoming stronger, and realizing that it might just be possible to bring sexy back. Or at least uncover it somewhat from the blanket of pie and cake and mashed potatoes it has been hiding under.

Why:

Well duh. For the ladies. I guess for the two women in this little competition there might be some different reasoning. For me, it’s all about the chicks. And getting back into my 34 inch waist. And looking like the mannequin did in that shirt I just bought instead of looking like a marshmallow trying not to bulge out of it.

This contest is really an answer to a problem I have been having for a few years now. Every time I look in the mirror, I see two people. I see the athlete that I was, the confident and strong young man that spent hours every day thoroughly enjoying the physical demands of cardio-heavy sports. I also see the fatsuit he is wearing, the older sagbag that hides behind humor the growing disgust generated by his girth. The truth is, neither of these people exist any more. That athlete died with my first cigarette, and Mr. Cheeseburger McCupcake in the Michelin man suit is really just a creation based on weight related self-esteem.

The real dude in the mirror might just be strong and dedicated. He might be determined and brave and willing to sacrifice in order to achieve a goal. We shall see.

He may also just not let himself be beaten by anyone in any contest. Not Kristal or Katie, and most certainly not himself.

Enough third person. Imma go pick up a donut just so I can put it down and then feel better about myself for my willpower. The bet is on!!

Has anyone seen my toes?

It kinda looks like a pig swallowed

a watermelon.