It’s May 8th and, by scrolling down the page, I see that I started this blog on April 17th, so 
I’m—what?—20 days in here?
(Today is also the 34th anniversary of my First Holy Communion. If only I had stuck to solely consuming the Body of Christ since then.)
The shirt I must fit into by June 3 is starting to fit … almost. Which is another way of saying, of course, that it still doesn’t.
Yet I remain confident that it will. Which is another way of saying, of course, that I fear it won’t.
Next week, when I hit the one-moth-ish mark, I’ll put up side-by-side photos from the maiden post next to wherever I am at that point.
Until then, simply gaze upon these latest editions in drooling rapture.
Right now, I stand (none too) firmly between XXL and XL, shirt size-wise, and I should remind myself that I was maniacally stretching out 3XLs as recently as late March just to fit into them, so … Whoop. Pee.
In the course of my life, I can’t fathom how much weight I’ve lost and then gained back. It’s got to be one of those numbers that, if converted into fuel-burning energy, could propel a can of chimpanzees to the moon and back 400 times a day for 4,000 years.
As I’ve noted, over the past decade, I’ve shed boatloads of blubber by fitfully Atkins dieting. The truth is that exclusively eating butter sandwiches on bread made of steak for a healthy (?) spell will, indeed, diminish your girth but, even when that happens, something doesn’t feel right about it.
I always knew Atkins-enabled reduction was a temporary state of faux fitness. And, sure enough post-Atkins, passing contact with mere fumes emanating from a bagel shop would invariably result in volcanic reinflation of my fatty deposits, sizable blubber bags that stretched across approximately two yards of my six-foot frame.
The oddest aspect of this Incredible Melting McLardo effort, then, is that as I am losing fat, I am gaining what I think might be stomach muscles.
That, or there’s some kind of muffin-baking pan buried under a few inches of the results of ongoing orgiastic muffin consumption.
Regardless, this is a first.
In 1986, I starved off 100 pounds, but never followed up with anything resembling exercise. And even in the early ’90s, when my all-alcohol/all-narcotics all-the-time diet kept my waist below 30 inches, my naked torso remained a gloppy horror fitless show.
But now there’s, like … hard stuff coming in.
And it’s FREAKIN’ ME OUT, man!
I must thank the divinely gracious Lady McBeardo and her quinoa magic, plus the addition of two Target-brand exercise balls to our home, upon which I perform crunches and dumbbell flyes each night while pretending I can smell Jillian Michaels’ American Spirits Light breath being barked in my grimacing kisser.
There’s also the gym. After working up to 90 minute elliptical sessions three times a week, I cut back to 60 minutes for a while, but then I missed the giddy adrenaline delirium after three half-hours on three different machines.
That’s all I get wasted-wise anymore so you can be “s”-sure I’m going to take it.
Plus there are the music videos, which is what got me to join the Logan Square Xsport.
In fact, Everything I Know about Modern Music Comes From the Gym. And that’s the exact title of a piece I wrote on this topic over at McBeardo.com.
One learning experience came this week on the Dance Channel when I heard the opening strains of what I thought was just a supremely agreeable Coca-Cola commercial jingle.
It turned out to be an effervescent concoction called “Starry Eyed Surprise” by DJ Paul Oakenfold and hamster-happy VH1 Celebrity Rehab perennial Shifty (best known previously for the irresistible idiocy of “Come Muh Lady, come come muh lady…” by Crazytown).
The song itself made for a top-notch running soundtrack, but G-damn it to H-E-2-Sticks, it made me ache immediately for a Coke Zero—something that hasn’t happened since I put down the carbonated death a couple of months ago.
The lesson: Pavlov rules. Just be aware of it. Then act as an educated consumer. Make Sy and Marcy Syms proud.
That stated, and acknowledging that, in any context, “Bad Romance” and “Pokerface” are, respectively, my #1 and #2 jams of all time, here are my top five (other) cardio jams in the Xsport video channel rotation (although, in high irritato fashion, I can’t embed a couple of the official flippin’ videos here, but, whatevs…):
1. “Hung Up” by Madonna
2. “Everybody Wants You” by Billy Squier
3. “Bulletproof” by La Roux
4. “Maneater” by Nelly Furtata
5. “Dreams” by Van Hagar
Brothers and Sisters of the Workout Jam Persuasion, what are yours?
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I have a treadmill rule: if TV on the Radio’s “Wolf Like Me” comes on my iPod at the end of my run, I have to keep running until the song’s over, no matter how exhausted I am.