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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