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.