Diet, Day 9 - New Goal

263!! Disaster! Yesterday all I had to eat were 2 apples and an omelet. My workout today was great, and now I find that I’ve gained 2 lbs. What the hell is going on? I’ve no idea but have a possible solution -- I’m just not going to weigh myself anymore. This occurred to me during my shower this morning, when I looked down and discovered that I couldn’t see my dick. My line of sight was completely obstructed by a protruding abdomen. So forget about weighing myself every day, my new goal is to see my dick. No scale necessary – just look down and that’s all you need to know about the progress of your diet. Now, I recognize there is more than one factor involved with my problem. I could try more vigorous exercise of the dick while showering in the hope of enlarging it, but I’ve been doing that for quite some time with no apparent effect. So I’m pretty much convinced there’s nothing to be done on the dick side of things. Guess I'll stick with the diet. Of course, I’d be happy to achieve my goal either way, so let me know if there are any suggestions. Honestly, I’d accept the protruding gut, if someone can offer guidance on how to get the dick big enough to be visible. Peggy would probably be happier, too.

Diet, Day 8 - 1st Week Recap

Yesterday I ate eggs scrambled with cheese, ham and sausage for brunch, had chicken chili for dinner, and an apple for a late night snack. This a.m. I had a great workout, increasing the resistance on the bike, doing core and leg exercises on the weight machines and doing some crunches and stretching. Incidentally, I’ve got a tip for using the weight machines. First thing you do is drape your towel over the weights, so bystanders have difficulty seeing how ridiculously weak you’ve become. Then, when you’re finished, you either take out the pin thingy altogether or surreptitiously move it to a higher weight. Personally, I opt to take the pin out altogether. It just seems fraudulent to do reps at 40 lbs. and then move the pin to 120 after getting your fat ass off the machine. To recap my first week, I started last Monday at 277; but I had scale issues, so I’ll throw out that weight and start with last Tuesday instead -- 271. Tuesday was the first day my scale didn’t rebel against all the fucking poundage by giving me an “ERR” message. That means I’ve dropped 10 lbs. in a week (261 was my weight today). The best news – no more “ERR” messages. I figure an “ERR” message on the scale is kind of like the absence of a yardage marker on the golf course. When you check the sprinkler head nearest your ball and find that it says nothing other than “Rain Bird,” you know it’s really saying, “You are a weak ass sonuvabitch and not even John Daly could reach the green from here.” When your scale says “ERR” it’s a similar message – you are a fat fuck and health and happiness are out of reach. Anyway, I’m still a fat fuck, but now I look more like Charles Barkley than Jabba the Hutt. Guess that’s somewhat encouraging.

Diet, Day 7 - Don't look for me at the World Series of Poker

Yesterday I weighed 261. Same today. No workout today (c’mon, it’s Sunday) but did 35 min. of cardio yesterday. This weekend has been tough. Haven’t screwed up the diet but have been tempted. I’m not a religious man, but I could use some external help with my will power. Last week I tried no limit Texas Hold ‘Em for the first time. It was only a bar league (I drank nothing but water) with no real money at stake but it seemed like the real deal for a rookie. And basically, I sucked. It’s no wonder that when the guys have a poker night, they send a limo for me. Jeezuz Christ, I think my cards must have been visible on some hidden camera. Every time I bluffed, the other guy (or actually, the fat girl) not only called me but went all in. So I’d fold. Then the fat bitch would show her cards – queen high nothing. Every time I had a decent hand, they backed off and I’d only win diddly squat. Of course, Karl and Michael, the guys who lured me there, did okay, making my debut on the poker tour even harder to swallow. Good news is … well, there really isn’t any on the poker front. On the other hand, it’s been a week on the diet, and I’m hangin’ in.

Diet, Day 5 - Metal is the Key

Too busy to write anything yesterday (4th day), but worked out and stuck with diet. Weighed in at 266, and today I’m 265. However, I almost skipped my workout today. I got to the club and discovered that I’d forgotten the earbuds for my phone/music player. Pretty marginal excuse, but the way I felt it was excuse enough. But then guilt set in, so I went home to retrieve my equipment. Got the earbuds untangled with great difficulty. How is it that no matter how carefully you wind them up and put them away, when you take them out again, the cord is a goddamn Gordian Knot? We put a guy on the moon for crissakes; can’t someone invent a cord that doesn’t foul itself. Anyway, after that minor trauma, I made a discovery -- the secret to a successful training session is nothing more than music selection. You see, I’d been listening to some of my faves but they were just too slow. Mel Carter is okay while you’re reading a book, but doo-woppers from the 60’s don’t cut it for a workout. Hey, I know I’m social security age, but I still got a pulse; so today, I programmed my Pandora app to play songs like “Jump.” It’s not surprising that I just now figured this out, as my last workout was when Elvis was still alive; but 70’s & 80’s Metal is the answer! I just sailed through my time on the bike, and my cadence was at all-time high levels. I can’t say that I’ve reached a spot where I actually enjoy being out-of-breath and sweating like a fucking pig in an overheated sauna, but this made it bearable. Trust me, if you want a good workout, try listening to Van Halen (“Dreams” or “Jump”), Def Leppard (“Photograph”), and Survivor (“Eye of the Tiger”). Aerosmith and Bon Jovi ain’t bad either.

Diet, Day 3 - NFL's

Remember Dr. Vaughn who started me on this thing? Thought I might mention that he also is putting me through some distress on another front. You see, when I had that physical a couple of weeks ago, I reported to him that I’d recently experienced some “NFL’s.” The good doc was unfamiliar with this term, so I explained that it had nothing to do with football but was an acronym for “non-fart leakage.” Don’t they teach these doctors anything? Unfortunately, the doc’s a young guy, so he doesn’t always relate to some of the ignominious afflictions of those who are a bit older. He seemed to think my NFL’s might be an important medical issue when really it’s nothing more than an extra brown spot on my underwear. He required that I undergo an “occult blood guaiac screening.” I always thought “occult” had something to do with the supernatural; but after going to the lab and picking up the packet they provided, I discovered this is a “shit test.” Incidentally, if you’re a Scrabble player, you might store “guaiac” away for future use. You’d also be well advised to not play Scrabble with people in the medical profession. Anyway, the test requires that for 3 consecutive days I have to carefully float a piece of paper in the stool, shit on it, then use a little wooden stick to take 2 samples and paste them in a folder that is provided. The directions dictate that each sample must be from a different part of the turd (are you kidding?) and caution me not to contaminate the turd with the stool water. Is it really possible to further contaminate a turd? To my way of thinking, with the exception of radioactive waste and blood samples from an AIDS testing clinic, things don’t get much more contaminated than turds. So, I made my first sample collection yesterday and quickly discovered there are two problems not covered by the directions. First, it’s nearly impossible to accomplish the shit collection process without getting the stuff on your hands. Second, waddya do with the shit stick when you’re done? That was a bad start to the day. On the other hand, things went well on the diet and fitness front. Had grapes for lunch yesterday and a steak and Caesar salad for dinner. Now I’m at 269 and no longer get the “ERR” message on my digital scale. That’s good news; because apparently if I stay below 270, I can weigh myself in the privacy of my home, instead of using the scale at the club while contorting my body to shield the results from bystanders.

Diet, Day 2 - Scale Malfunction

271?! Obviously, a scale malfunction. At this rate, I’ll be under 200 within 2 weeks and can get back to cheeseburgers, chips, potatoes and gravy. Worked out again this morning, but maybe “working out” is not an apt description. I think of my eldest, Chris, running up 14,000 foot mountains or the conditioning drills we used to put basketball players through (I used to coach b-ball), and it’s really unfair to them to call what I did a workout. It amounted to pedaling 30 minutes on a bike that doesn’t move, kind of a metaphor for my fitness progress. Then I tried a few of the Cybex machines. They’re actually pretty comfortable to sit on, but less relaxing when you use them. And they’re downright torturous when you insert that little pin thingy in the stack of weights. I also did some stretching. God was that depressing. I used to touch my toes with ease. Now, it’s as if they’re in another county. But the worst thing was the mirrors. Mirrors on damn near every wall forced me to watch myself and try to avoid retching in the process. It didn’t look like me, but since no one else was in the room, I deduced that it had to be. It was like watching a sweating, quivering Chris Farley having a seizure. So far, no food today, but yesterday I dined sumptuously on an apple for lunch and a 5 egg omelet for dinner. That’s it, no post-dinner chips or snacks, no candy or sweets. It wasn’t as if there was no temptation. Not knowing I’d embarked upon this venture, Peggy felt bad about the dog sitter’s plundering and brought home a box of See’s chocolates to replace the pilfered ones. I held firm, though, and didn’t touch them. You might ask about the 5 eggs, which in retrospect seems a bit excessive. But gimme a break. I’d had only 1 apple all day and was fucking starving.

Diet, Day 1 - Fat Fucker

This whole idea had its genesis a couple of weeks ago when I had a physical exam. Dr. Vaughn walked in the room, looked at his assistant’s notes, raised his eyebrows and said, “So, you’ve gained a little weight?” Those were the first words out of his mouth -- not “Hi, how ya doin’;” no pleasantries; just, and I’m reading between the lines here, “You fat fuck! How can you do this to yourself?” I decided maybe I should do something about it. I say “maybe”, because I needed a little time to gear up. You see, my birthday was coming up, along with my 39th anniversary of wedded bliss to long-suffering Peggy. My plan was to get by the celebratory dinners before beginning the regimen.  My birthday came and went, as did our anniversary. The latter was Saturday, 2 days ago, and I figured the time had finally come. But when I arose on Sunday, I thought it made sense to start the following day. After all, Monday’s the first day of the week, and that’s when you start things. If God rests on Sunday, then I would too. Moreover, on Sunday I had a modest hangover from Saturday’s anniversary celebration. There was also the problem that our pantry was filled with nutritionally evil, tempting shit. The practical approach would be to wait just one more day and use Sunday to clean out the crap in the pantry. I don’t mean throw it away. What I meant was I intended to eat it all. I ate two bags of potato chips, finished a bag of licorice and would have polished off a box of See’s candy, except that our dog sitter – the bitch – had eaten it all while we were off celebrating our anniversary. I finished the day with a sausage pizza – that’s good old country pork sausage, not that turkey crap. Anyway, Sunday came and went, and D-Day has arrived. I’m writing this because I’d read somewhere that it’s best to keep track of one’s progress on a diet, something I’d never done before. In fact, I’ve rarely weighed myself, not seeing the point.  I know when I’m fat and when I’m okay. Now I’m fat. No question, and a scale is not really necessary to confirm it. When you look in the mirror and see Jabba the fuckin’ Hutt looking back, you know. But, sticking with the plan, I weighed myself. Or, to be accurate, I tried to weigh myself. I stepped on our digital scale, and it said “ERR.” Are you fuckin’ kidding me? Does “ERR” mean I’m too fuckin’ fat for the scale? That was depressing, but I was not deterred. I went to the club to work out. Did 30 minutes on the Lifecycle and got through it okay. Afterward, I tried the scale at the club. Unfortunately, it didn’t work either, as it said I weighed 277. My God, that’s NFL lineman territory. Jeezus!  I’ll update my nutritional intake in tomorrow’s notes. Wish me luck.