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.