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.