Shedding for the Wedding – The War on Fat Continues

My first goal – Getting back to this weight

In my previous post, appropriately titled You Fat Fuck, I discussed the feelings I have every time I would look in the mirror. As you can tell by the title, they weren’t very positive feelings.

Once proud of the hard work I put in to developing muscles, my passion for food and the happiness I felt being in a six-plus year relationship with my fiance, made me miserable, as I went from a respectable 180 pounds to a grotesque 230+ pounds.  I gave up looking once I hit 230 pounds, but did not give up eating.  And so I wrote that blog last month to describe the hatred I felt inside for having let myself go.

Unable to look myself in the mirror and fully knowing that I have a wedding coming in September, I decided it was time I took control of the situation.  First, I needed to understand why I got there in the first place.  Once upon a time, I was actually trying to gain weight.  So skinny, you could see my rib cage, I used to drink milk, because that’s what the muscular guys did in the commercials; lift weights and eat healthy portions of food – never seeing any results at all.  My metabolism was too fast and the amount of basketball I played didn’t allow me to gain the weight I had hoped.

But then I got older.  Being an adult meant I could eat a sleeve of Oreo cookies without asking permission.  I had watched my father do it and I was jealous of his freedom – never realizing the man’s weight told a story of bad genetics and served as a warning I totally ignored.  Drinking 40′s in the park; working at Carvel for six years and thoroughly enjoying the free ice cream that came with the job; drinking beer in the bowling alley every week; drinking Muscle Milk without any cardio in my exercise routine; meeting the love of my life and thoroughly enjoying takeout every night – these things led to a slow, but steady destruction of my body.

Towards the end of September, I will be getting married and I do not want to see the pictures of a handsome groom with a very noticeable belly popping out of his suit ruining a perfectly good memory.  And so, when I looked in the mirror, I promised myself I would change – not the change that lasts one week, but real change.  I wasn’t working on some false hope many out-of-shape people cling to every New Year’s Day when they pop hard earned money on a gym membership they will never use.  When I said change, I meant it and I still do.

And so, I hit the elliptical hard, even running for an hour and burning 700 calories on a cheat day (calories in the bank my friend). I hit the weights harder, looking to regain the muscle I had lost from my college days (yep…that incredibly sexy picture of myself working out in the last blog is from my junior year).  I force myself to get up at 5:30 a.m. and push myself to exercise. At times, I meet friends for an evening or weekend workout.  Combined with an awesome diet that is low on carbs, but not boring enough to quit when a hamburger comes my way, and I am finally making an impact.

Yesterday, I weighed myself and was happy to see that I had dropped weight.  Now, 217 pounds, I am feeling better about myself.  I am wearing clothes that did not fit me five months ago.  I’m flexing those muscles again (which means my weight loss is misleading if you realize I replaced fat with additional muscle) and I getting closer to my goals.

I still get angry when I look in the mirror, but I cut myself some slack.  Fat Fuck is too harsh. I now call myself an Overweight Bastard.  Hopefully, I can start calling myself a Little Shit in time for the wedding.

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You Fat Fuck

Before

What the hell happened to you?

I cannot get my eyes off this horrible excuse of a human staring back at me.  I remember when you would work out religiously, boasting about how big your muscles were, while flexing for anyone who would pay you any attention.

Now, you stand there like a man clinging to his past, holding on to the biceps, which remain strong, while your stomach just becomes grossly disproportionate to the rest of your once skinny frame.

They used to tease you for being too skinny…called you a beanpole, because you could literally see you rib cage sticking out through your skin.

I remember how scared you were to take your shirt off during those demeaning shirts vs. skins basketball games; afraid to reveal your boney frame to the class.  It didn’t matter to you that at least three of your classmates had more legitimate concerns…afraid to unveil their abundance of skin to an incredibly uncaring group of students who didn’t even have the consideration to mock the fat kids behind their back.

After

Now, older, you wish you maintained your skinny frame, as your once proud ribcage plays hide-and-seek behind an ever expanding wall of fat. You built muscle, but allowed flab to win a war and commandeer your body.

Now, people tease you differently, rubbing and patting your stomach, thinking they are funny when they offer words of discouragement like, ” whoa…what happened here?”

Now, you fear taking your shirt off at the beach in front of complete strangers.

Love handles? How can people call it that? You didn’t love yourself enough to put that burger down; to stop scooping ice cream down your gullet; or stop drinking one beer after another just to get your buzz on.  Love handles? What does that make the rest of your stomach – just an orgy of disgusting – ice cream mixed with potato chips, candy bars and pasta?

What the hell happened to you? You’re not flexing much these days, huh? You look sad, angry…tired. You’re a mess. Time took a hold of you and left you a shell of your former self -in longing for the past, unable to the the future and just unwilling to address the present. You disgust me.  I cannot even look at you anymore.

I turn away from the mirror in my bathroom, walk toward the elliptical in my living room (the one I hang my clothes on) and look at the old weights sitting on the floor, longing to be held once more.  I pick them up, embarking on a daily routine, hoping that with each day, I can be a little less hard on myself for what I’ve become.

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