2012: Never Getting Back Together; Like Ever

“Listen, I’ve given this a lot of thought and I have come to the conclusion that things are just not working out,” I said, looking tenderly into the strangely shaped eyes of my current companion.  “It’s not you…it’s me.  I just don’t think I am able to commit anymore to this relationship and it’s better to just end it now than drag it out.”

With that, my year-long relationship was over. Me and 2012 were through. I had to say goodbye. And although I could tell it hurt, 2012 stormed off into the next room, packed its bags and walked out of my life. There was that last blast of alcohol fueled sex on December 31, but come midnight, I found a new year to embrace. There are still some remnants of the past. 2012 and I are sorting through this breakup, deciding on a number of issues. For instance, what will we do about our mutual friends?  I have decided to let 2012 keep racial bias, horrible shooting deaths and natural disasters while I will keep marriage, travel, and hard work, determination and never-quit – “friends” I hope will take me to new heights in 2013.

It’s a shame, because 2012 was actually a great year for me. I got married to the love of my life, celebrated some great friendships in some of the coolest places, happily joined the best new family that anyone could ask for, strengthened bonds with members of my own immediate family, and I traveled all over the world. What more can you ask for, but for every silver, there is a bit of a cloud lining we must endure.

In February, we spent two amazing weeks with friends in India, where I witnessed a beautiful wedding, rode an elephant and saw the Taj Mahal, among other things.  Funny enough, towards the end of the trip, I fell into a hole.  It seems funny, but at the moment, having traveled up the Himalayan Mountains, stepping out of a cab into the pitch black and falling right into a hole, felt like I was taking my last step ever.  It was a strange metaphor for a strange year.  No matter how much fun I could have, there was always a hole around to fall into.I would travel to Montreal for my future brother-in-law’s bachelor party.  It was very cool to see just how many friends would make the trip to Canada.

No obstacle would get in the way of sharing these special moments with their friend.  Even the need for gall bladder surgery didn’t stop one friend from leaving the hospital to be a part of the actual wedding several months later.  When you get older, you assume friendships will change and people will grow apart. Learning that isn’t always true for everyone is a hard pill to swallow when it forces you to re-examine your own life.

I did enjoy my bachelor party in Atlantic City.  It was strange though.  I was celebrating “my last days as a single man,” but I also felt like I was ending a past I had held on to a little too long and starting to open a new chapter of my life. There was a definite shift in the air.  My bachelor party was truly a defining moment in my life.  It was where my past and future met and actually realizing that there was a difference was something I didn’t think would happen on “a night of debauchery.”Getting married is exciting, but no great wedding comes without months of stress. Planning a wedding in Italy was one of the most stressful things I have ever experienced in my life. Going in, I might have also been a little depressed. The lack of fanfare was a stark contrast from the excitement I expressed to those getting married before me as they approached their big day. I guess when you aren’t the first, you are the forgotten, and so, I spent a lot of time a little sadder this year than I wanted to be.

The wedding itself was amazing. Spent in Italy, I couldn’t pick a better place to share my love in front of family and friends. I have to say that September 22, 2012 was the greatest day of my life. It’s strange to say good riddance to a year that contained the most lasting and perfect memory you will ever look upon as fondly as I will September 22, 2012, but there was that strange energy this year.  The wedding in Italy and the honeymoon in Morocco (I rode a camel, too) were absolutely amazing experiences, but there is something to be said about the year everyone thought would be our last.

Upon our return, people began counting down the days until the so-called end of the world on December 21. It didn’t happen, but something did.  In 2012, we all showed our true selves. As an election campaign raged on, Americans showed how much we haven’t moved forward when so many decided that they wanted Mitt Romney to win an election…simply because he was not Barack Obama. Many of these people don’t want to admit it, but race played a major issue in this election. I have never seen a presidential candidate attacked so maliciously as I did Obama. Questioning is faith, his allegiance to America, questions about his birthplace, and yet not one wavering notion away from the last “Great White Hope,” no matter how many new revelations were made about his shady business practices. Justice prevailed, but I still have a bad taste in my mouth, watching as very old school GOP members try just a little hard to make sure “this experiment” fails.Hurricane Sandy hit and people expressed how great it was to see so many people sacrifice to help others in need, but ignored a very big problem. I think the hurricane showed a very greedy underbelly marked by complaints about lack of power, the inability to get gas, and the difficulties driving to work while other people had it so much harder and completely lost their homes in the disaster. My lights didn’t go out, but I would have been fine in the candlelight, just happy knowing that I still had a home to go to. Despite not having homes, the real victims of the Hurricane still had access to social media and I know I would have been hurt to see such petty complaints made while I was suffering from a real tragedy.People then took arms against a Marathon, deciding that this was their way to show support to the victims of Sandy. They forgot that the Marathon was trying to raise money for the victims of the Hurricane and was also one of the only ways runners from other countries could support their families.  In fact, the runners themselves always raise money for different charities going into the race. It sickened me to see people dismiss other people’s dreams while that same week, posting messages in favor of the Knicks and the Giants who were still playing games in New York and pulling away some of the same resources the “horrible” Marathon was going to take away if it went on as scheduled.America also took victims of the Sandy Hook shooting and turned them into pawns to express their support for gun control laws while others turned those victims into reasons why guns are necessary. I think victims should never become tools for a cause. It was like both sides didn’t even remember that innocent people were killed; they just had an agenda to push. Two weeks later, teachers were being trained on how to shoot guns. It was a reaction to such a horrific tragedy. They were there to make sure none of their students became victims.  So, why were they laughing, as if shooting guns was a funny thing you do on a Friday morning?  Perspective people.There was definitely a doom and gloom energy that swept through 2012, but you learn a lot more from the difficult moments in life – those that happen and even those you create for yourself.  You open your eyes and learn about the things you like and the things you can do without.  So, even though 2012 and I decided to part ways, rather than kick her out the door and forget about her, we decided to remain friends.  I go to her when I have troubles and need to remember how to overcome the odds.  And I look forward to my relationship with 2013.  We are getting to know each other and are taking it slow.  She’s a little older and a bit wiser.  I think our relationship might be a little better.  I am taking what I learned from 2012 and applying it to something new.  Big things are going to happen this year.

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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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It’s Five O’clock in the Morning

I love going to sleep. Getting up is a whole different story.

Five o’clock in the morning.

If I can get up at 5 a.m., my day is set.  I can go to the gym, get back home in time to take a shower, get dressed and head to work in good spirits after a grueling, but rewarding workout.

Eleven o’clock at night.

If I can just get to bed at 11 p.m., I can get the required six hours of sleep I normally need to get up in the morning at 5 a.m. and enjoy my day.

But that is never how it works out anymore.

One of the first signs of getting older, for me, was when I started struggling with sleep. While I can work with six hours, I am learning that five hours and fifty-nine minutes of sleep will almost always result in me re-setting my alarm – not for the additional minute I lost, but for an additional 30 minutes.  And if I wake up at 4:45 a.m., it’s a guarantee that I will become so angry at the interruption, I will re-set the alarm for much later.

Needless to say, I haven’t been going to the gym much in the last few months.  Why not?

11 p.m. hits and I am usually delayed – whether I realize I need to finish a project or get stuck watching TV – it doesn’t seem like I ever hit the bed at 11 p.m.  And if I do, my mind races with thoughts about what happened that day and what needs to be done the following morning.

I usually bargain with myself.  “I can manage with five hours of sleep,” or “I can wake up at 5:15 and just rush a little,” or “I can skip cardio today.”  That’s what I say before I go to sleep at night.

When 5 a.m. hits, I completely forget I was supposed to get up and just marvel at how much longer I can sleep before having to go to work.  “Ooh, I can get up at 6:30 and still have an hour to catch the train.” When I wake up at 6:30 a.m., I realize my gaffe and become so pissed at myself.

There are times I do know exactly what’s up and just can’t get out of bed.  The body is not willing anymore.  “5 a.m.?  Fuck that!”  Either I won’t bother working out at all, or I will get up at 6 a.m. with a plan to jump on the elliptical in my house only to watch that plan go up in smoke when I get stuck watching Pat Kiernan on NY1 and his engrossing “In the Papers” segment. It’s a constant struggle.

And sometimes, I don’t even have a choice in the matter. My cell phone doesn’t always cooperate. The alarm clock app is supposed to work, but hey Verizon – Droid doesn’t always do it. I will wake up, realize it is 6:30 a.m., pick up my phone and see the alarm going off without sound.  This new-fangled technology the kids are using today.  Somebody get me a damn rooster.

I know what you’re thinking – why not go to the gym at night?  Are you serious?  Have you not seen the gym at 6 p.m.?  Evening workouts are the worst workouts. The gym is packed and you squeeze in what you can.  You walk in with a mission to do biceps and triceps and you find yourself doing one bicep exercise, a shoulder workout, a quick leg curl, and then, because it is free, the super-industrial Thigh Master (no man should ever do this workout).  You even throw in the step master, because it is the only cardio machine available.  Your ass and thighs look great, but you never get to work out what you wanted to work out in the first place.

In the morning, the gym is virtually empty. You can grab whatever machine you want, finish your routine without any interruptions, and get out with enough time to get yourself together for work.  The workout tires you out a bit, but it puts you in a good mood for the rest of the day.  At 7 a.m., you’ve already accomplished the hardest part of your day and it’s a boost to your health, your ego and your attitude.  A good workout makes it easy to get through a tough day at the office.

If I don’t get up at 5 a.m., I go to work already feeling defeated.  I know that I am just going to go home and relax, eat food and get fat.  I go through every motion just feeling guilty.  I eat and feel horrible about myself.  I look at people in good shape and I want to hit them.  I’m serious.  You better be reading this with a Hostess Cupcake in your mouth!!!  Either way, missing the gym leads to disappointment and a promise that come 5 a.m., you’ll be pumped and ready to hit the weights in the morning.

Six o’clock in the morning the next day.  DAMMIT!!!

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I Don’t Want to be “That Guy”

Ken Minks was over 70-years-old and played against 18-year-old kids as a member of a community college basketball team. This guy is my role model.

“Will there be anyone there around my age,” I asked, knowing deep down that the answer would be no.  I didn’t expect a slight chuckle when I got the answer, but I wasn’t really all that shocked.

I’m turning 36 later this year and I fully realize that I can no longer do the things I used to do as a kid.  But later tonight, I might have to try and do exactly that when I step on the basketball court for the first time in about five years.

I’ve been finding excuses to avoid this moment for several weeks now.  My close friend Brian has asked me to come back to Loreto Park – the old stomping grounds as old people like to say – to play basketball with the guys.  But I have made other plans; my ride got sick and it will take me too long to get there by train; I have a meeting in the City; it’s too cold.  These were the legit excuses I used for why I haven’t been able to make it, but I have no more left, because now it’s my future brother-in-law who has asked me to play ball.  I have no other plans; they are playing until 9 p.m.; I have no meetings; and they are going to play in an indoor gym.  Despite there being no excuses, I still initially balked at the idea when my fiance passed the message on to me.  My trepidation was met with disappointing eyes.  You know how that feels.

But it’s not that i don’t want to hang out with my friend or my future brother-in-law.  That has nothing to do with it at all.  The real fact of the matter is, I just don’t want to be “that guy” – the one who “used to be good”, but looks pathetic and out-of-shape today.  I’m a strong believer in karma, and because I used to make fun of those guys, I can only assume others will do the same when I step on the court and look bad in my feeble attempts and recapturing my past glory.

Back in the day, I was pretty damn good playing basketball.  I even remember my old high-school gym teacher Ms. Greene warning classmates not to allow me to shoot a jumper from the outside. I didn’t have any ball handle and I never even bothered to learn, because I could drain a jumper from anywhere.  Why bother learning a dribble.

When I met my friends, Chris and Brian, at Loreto Park, all they played was basketball, so I did the same.  We became a regular team and the everyday play, from morning to night, allowed my game to evolve.  I perfected the tip-in off the rebound from almost anywhere on the court, studied Patrick Ewing’s drop step to make me unstoppable in the paint, and “gripping the archive for great sky hook” (that’s a Heavy D. and Notorious B.I.G. lyric not a grammar mistake).  I could also shut the opposing offense down with a stifling defense.

The three of us began complementing each other so well, we went from losing every game to beating everyone on the court so bad, we drove them to play roller hockey (The Rangers winning the Stanley Cup in 1994 might have also had a hand in that).  It became almost laughable how good we became and was especially true when we went up against these two older Italian guys who tried to relive their glory – one we would affectionately call Chess Master, because he literally challenged us to play chess after he realized basketball wasn’t his thing anymore.  They both showed signs of what had once made them good, but they always end up looking worn out and beat up as we got to the end of the game.  Their shirts became soaked with sweat and as they seemed to be doubling over in pain and trying to catch their breath, I turned to Brian and said, “I never want to be one of those guys who can’t let go,” and now here I am.

I know…it’s just a game of basketball, but it doesn’t feel that way to me.  For me, it’s almost a test of my age and I am definitely feeling old.  My jump shot has lost some of its arc; I’ve lost a lot of height on my jump; and I’m not expecting passes when I am on the inside with two defenders on me, because no one knows if I can handle a battle in the paint.  If they play a full-court game, I’m expecting to become extremely out of breath.  It’s not pretty -  the cramps, the struggle to regain my breath – someone is going to joke that I need an oxygen mask (Why?  Because that’s a joke I have literally used on others).

So, while the young kid inside of me is excited about getting my hands on the ball, the realist in me is dreading tonight like I dread blood tests and public speaking engagements.  Tonight, I may discover just how old I really am.

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