Mission: XL Shirt by June—Sans Dunlop

Dunlop—noun
The portion of one’s midsection that spills out and hangs over the waistline of one’s pants; e.g.—the belly fat which “Dunlop” over your belt.

******************************************

My name is William Michael Selwyn Harris Mickey St. Pee McBeardo McLardo McPadden.

I am now and have been, for the majority of my 41 years amongst ye, a Fat Bastard.

But I wasn’t always.

In 1986, at age 17, I lost 100 pounds in the course of about six months.

That March (while employed at the Kings Plaza Baskin-Robbins), I stepped on a scale, saw the needle whiz past 260, and hurled myself off it in abject horror.

College loomed that fall and, with it, the prospect of transitioning from mere chronic masturbator to chronic masturbator who might also possibly get laid once in a while

So I created a somewhat sensible food plan, got into a state of unstoppable determination and, by September, I clocked in at an impressive 163 lbs.

For most of the next decade, I kept almost all of  that bulk off (although I never actually toned up) but, in time, my strategy evolved into reducing my daily food intake to near zero while supplanting the absent calories with alcohol and narcotics.

It worked for a while, too. Until absolutely nothing else worked in my life and the specifics of that diet plan had to be properly assaulted, contained, and kept under constant surveillance.

That took years of trying.

Alas, for me, arresting one or, indeed, several dozen specific addictions, seems to prompt some new compulsion to automatically erupt all over every aspect of my being.

Thus I began 1995 tucking shirts into 32-inch waistband jeans and by February ’96, I was perusing Gap shelves in shame for 40-waist cargo pants, which most of their  outlets didn’t even carry at that point (unfortunately, most such easy-access chain retailers  have since adjusted to America’s following my horribly expansive example).

The second half of the ’90s consisted of my battling boozey-druggy demons until I indulged in what I hope will be my last-ever Jägermeister-and-Coca-Cola-cocktail/stolen-cocaine binge at decade’s end.

The ten-plus years since then have seen me ease into being sober, which is cool, but I also came to “accept” my fate as a Fat Bastard as a simple fact of what it means to live without forever getting loaded.

And that’s not only NOT cool, it’s hog wash (pun completely intended).

At times, I’ve dropped buckets of Dunlop via the Atkins Diet, only to then chew on half a bagel and have it instantaneously reappear, bigger and blubberier and harder to shed with each successive attempt.

(Also, I’m sorry, dear dead Dr. Atkins, but using salami as bread on a salami-pepperoni-prosciutto-mozzarella-and-more-salami sandwich any time your stomach rumbles, day or night, simply cannot sustain happy, long-term, high-functioning vitality.)

What it comes down to is that I lost 100 pounds once by eating small portions of healthy food throughout the day, and trying to squeeze in a bit of exercise (tougher to do in 1986 than in today’s 24-hour-gym-next-to-every-Starbuck’s world).

However, I also drank a case of Diet Coke each and every day.

That’s six 6-packs—36 cans!—every day, seven days a week, 365 days a year (leap years meant 24 extra hours and, therefore, 36 extra cans of Diet Coke).

I sucked down Diet Coke first thing in the morning, continually while I was awake, and as the last thing before I went to bed each night. I’d even get up mid-slumber just to gulp more.

And I did this for 24 years.

For real.

Ask anyone who’s been around me.

I drank that much Diet Coke before my active alcoholic/druggo period, after it, and I drank that much Diet Coke every day until about two months ago when, miraculously, I just stopped.

Make no mistake, it took a few weeks of hardship, but I put it down and it’s stayed down.

Yet it’s not like the all-or-nothing absolute banishment of beer—I’ve had a Diet Coke with my popcorn at the movies a few times but, after the initial sips, I don’t even really enjoy it.

What happens is that the carbonation hurts my throat, which makes sense, because Diet Coke eroded an ulcer in my esophagus.

Read that again, please, and fully comprehend this madness.

I drank so much Diet Coke that it burned a hole in my throat—a hole that food would get trapped in and severely choke me, prompting several hospital visits and even, one time, the surgical removal of Cornish Game Hen.

And, despite that, I kept drinking Diet Coke anyway.

But I don’t now.

These days, I also exercise like a maniac. Well, like a sane maniac in his 40s. I do what I can, but I do it consistently and I strive always to improve how I sweat.

So I began this year determined to not just lose weight but to actually attain strong, health-exuding awesomeness.

In January, I wore 40-waist pants and had to stretch out XXXL shirts to fit into them (that’s three X’s, if you don’t feel like counting).

I don’t know what I weigh, because I live in girlish terror of a discouraging number.

In addition, my doctor told me that it’s not weight that matters as much as does waist size, particularly when genetics have graced one with a Perfect Heart Attack Physique, as have mine.

Still, he told me that given my ape-like frame, I should weigh 188 pounds and sport a 32-inch waist.

So those two figures serve as goals for my overall figure in this Year of Our Lard 2010.

At present, after months now of intense work, I wear 38-inch pants and can slip easily into XXL shirts.

My immediate aim, before returning to Brooklyn for a visit in June, is to comfortably fit into an XL shirt (that’s just one X), with no slop that Dunlop over my belt.

The photos accompanying these words showcase me wearing a freshly-purchased, straight-outta-Target XL shirt (you can even see where the tag is still attached).

So these are the “Before” shots (note the requisite “frownie” face).

Each Saturday, I’ll post photographic evidence of how I’m filling out this magically delicious XL garment.

This blog will chronicle my efforts to make that thing loosen up and hang properly and complement my emerging gorgeousness.

And then I’ll write about wherever this Incredible Melting McLardo ambition takes me from there.

Please be my witness en route to the victory whoop:

“FAT BASTARD NO MORE!”

2 Comments

Comments RSS TrackBack Identifier URI