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.