4/3/03
Last night I bottomed out.
I've been dieting. Actually, it's more of a "lifestyle change".
Uh. Okay.
So I've been "changing my lifestyle" since Monday. The thing I can't understand is why I've felt the need to pretend that I'm not altering my eating habits. I tell my coworkers that I'm forgoing my usual plateful of deep fried butter covered with cheese for a bowl of vegetable soup because I didn't see anything I liked on the menu. So far they've been very charitable and have let me eat my lunch under the pretense that they have actually accepted my explanation. I'm sure it won't last and soon they'll begin to taunt me and throw bits of white chocolate macadamia nut cookies at me in the cafeteria. I'll become "Diet Boy" and they'll pin a sign on my back that reads, "Will Work for Muffins".
That's an exaggeration. My coworkers are actually nice people and would probably be very supportive. That's the problem. I'm sure everyone will/would be very supportive. And that means that I'll be forced to stick with this "lifestyle change"; at least in front of them.
Last night I bottomed out.
I came home and sat on the couch. I was hungry and cranky. I watched Allie as she played on the floor and she kept turning into a big, roasted turkey, like something out of Tex Avery cartoon. Deb came home and suggested that we go out to dinner. I suggested that they go without me. I sat on the couch, crossed my arms and glared at an electrical outlet as if it had just cut me off in traffic. Then I realized Deb had just suggested we go out for food and I got my coat.
I was relatively good at the restaurant. In fact, I've been good all week. I'll spare you the details, but I think that I'll at least give this a go for a couple of weeks. The hard part is, I know I need to throw some exercise into the mix.
I am a gifted athlete.
I'm a pretty good athlete.
I'm an average athlete but I've got a lot of Moxy.
Okay, I don't completely suck as an athlete and I'm usually only enthusiastic if I'm winning. There, are you happy now?
I plan to start running again. I remember the best shape I've ever been in was a result of a Nazi of a gym teacher I had in high school. From the moment the bell rang signaling the start of P.E. until it rang a second time this man had us running. Each day, for 40 minutes, I ran around a grass covered lot with all of my classmates. It wasn't long until we had eliminated the grass with our feet creating a huge, tan oval just inside the perimeter of the lot.
That season, my legs had never been more sore. I could barely make it up the stairs at school. In retrospect, I wonder if I would have been that sore if only Nazi Gym Teacher Guy had stretched us out a bit before we hit the lot. He never did, though. We just changed into our red and white reversible tank tops (that truly smelled like hot death by the end of the week) and started running. I wonder what this man's lesson plan must have looked like.
You can guess the rest of the story. By the end of the semester I could run like Forest Gump and I had legs that looked and felt like the anchor chains on a cruise liner. My runner's body served me well. I could play tennis from dawn 'til dusk (and I did) plus I could go all night long in the sack... that is if I had actually had the opportunity to have sex during that time.
As much as I loathe running, it seems to be my best choice for returning my body to its former self in a short amount of time.
The only problem is I live in neighborhood filled with runners. You look out our living room windows and you see a constant parade of Lycra clad bodies gliding effortlessly by. I'm not exaggerating, either. If you've been to visit, you know I'm completely on the level. You'd think we lived in some kind of mystical Olympic village where everyone, including the children and pets, are in a perpetual state of peak physical condition.
I try to stay inside during daylight hours. I don't want to find myself surrounded by my ultra-fit neighbors being stared at like I'm John Merrick or something.
'Tis true my form is something odd,
But blaming me is blaming God;
Could I create myself anew
I would not fail in pleasing you.
If I could reach from pole to pole
Or grasp the ocean with a span,
I would be measured by the soul;
The mind's the standard of the man.
A bigger crock of shit I never heard.