Those Were the Freakin Days
It used to be so easy. I think I said last week, and some of you who follow the blog can testify, that when I was a kid I used to look like a severely malnourished kid with twigs for arms and legs and most of my ribs could be counted if my shirt was off. I was FAR from starvation, though. Mom and Dad used to call me the 'garbage disposal'. Yep, like the one in your sink. You can pretty much shove anything down the gullet of your garbage disposal that isn't that random spoon that gets away and it will be gone in a matter of seconds. That was me. There were seldom leftovers that would make it to the fridge to be devoured at a later time. If there was anything left after everyone else pushed back from the table, it was MINE!
It's a wonder there was anything left after the mealtime mayhem subsided. Dad had been a Marine in his early days after high school; a drill instructor to be exact. Then he had spent years as a captain on the fire department. Neither of these jobs foster a leisurely mealtime. If you don't eat at light speed, you may not get to eat at all. The male of the species is known to have a love for food. The teenage male of the species is known to have a ravenous affection for anything food...and an unending void at the end of the gullet which seems to never be able to be filled. So with my dad and two brothers, mealtimes were spent competing for a limited food supply set before us that mom had diligently spent so much time lovingly preparing for her men, it's a wonder there was anything left after the dust settled at the dinner table.
Mom didn't like to throw food away. Yes, we heard about those poor starving Chinese kids that don't have the privilege of having meals every day. I wonder now if somewhere over in China today, there is some Asian mom who is shaking her finger while prodding her finicky little kid to eat saying, "You know there are starving kids in Kansas that would LOVE to be able to eat this for dinner! Now EAT!!!" So when there were some scraps left after the Dougherty boy tornado went through, she'd say, "Let's give it to Mark...he'll eat anything!" I still didn't like tuna, salmon patties, or brussle sprouts, Mom! Nine times out of ten, I'd slide the surviving main dish or sides and hammer away at them like a trooper.
One would think that I would have soon been an 18 year old candidate for "My 600 Pound Life", but ironically my ribs still protruded as if I hadn't had a meal in weeks and I graduated from high school at a whopping 120 pounds (that may have been soaking wet weight). Yeah, I was involved in sports, and worked on the farm, and was pretty active most of the time, but I wouldn't say I was anything more than average for a kid back then. Thank God it was before the days of video games, cable TV, the internet and smart phones. Maybe the outcome would have been a smidge different.
Things began to change a little bit when I was in college. It was a more sedintary lifestyle than I'd had before. There was a large amount of classroom and study time. I still worked jobs to pay my way through school (yes, it's possible to go to a private college and come out with no student debt), but my weight started to become more average. I worked at the Y as a program director, so I had the perfect opportunity to work out. Weight was never an issue.
As the years progressed, I still had a fairly average weight for my 5'11" frame. I could miss workouts or work out once a week and be ok. Genetics was always my friend. I could lift weights one day a week and be able to see results without any any artificial help outside of protein shakes and the like. If my weight started to creep up into the danger zone, I could simply modify my diet a tad, walk or run a little and my weight would go back into the acceptable levels. I could see decent results in as little as a week. But, as Archie and Edith used to sing, "...those...were...the....daaaaaayyyyysssss!"
Now I find myself in a place where these abs have had too many 6-packs, and I know my ribs are in there someplace because I've never had them removed, but that "seeing them" ship sailed a long time ago. The only way I'm going to have 6-pack abs is if I paint them on. The same pants size I've worn for years, when wearing them, make me feel like I'm being sawn in two. My bonus daughter likes to sit next to me (usually leaning against me) when we watch TV some evenings, and she'll sweetly turn to me, poke me under the chin and says, "Your neck jiggles." Ass.
Ok, so I've gained a few pounds. Ok, so I'm not 25 anymore. What's the problem, right?? Just modify your diet a tad, I said. Walk or run a little, I said. Then your weight will go back to acceptable levels, I said. I never have new year's resolutions, but I do reevaluate some of my goals at the first of the year. After the holidays, the photos I saw of myself screamed, "you need to do something, you're starting to look like a sumo wrestler." I was worried that people were going to start asking me about the due date. I don't want to be that guy who's embarrassed to be asked when he's not really pregnant.
We have a wellness coach on staff at work who happens to office on my floor. There are a couple of different types of scales he has provided there. One is simply for weight. The other measures water intake, muscle mass, body mass index, etc. I used the fancy one to kind of set a benchmark. Short of stripping down, which noone on the third floor needs or wants to see, I took off my boots (knowing I'd lose my breath bending over the buddha belly to put them back on), I emptied my pockets, put my cell phone down, took off my watch, glasses, and anything else that might add to the damage indicated on the readout. I waited for the blue disply to lock in, and I had my number. It wasn't pretty, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. There aren't many times in my life when I've ventured over that 200 lb threshold, but this was definitely one of those times. I didn't just venture over, I seemed to have started a little town there. So I followed my tried and true protocol and I modified my diet, started walking, and may have even accidentally run a little bit. I figured I'd do a weekly weigh-in and measure against my ugly benchmark. The end of the first week, I was feeling pretty good. Since I typically see results fairly fast, I was excited for the encouragement I'd get from the progress report. The anticipation was certainly built up. The scales weren't working. Ok. That's alright. I wasn't worried. I was on the right track. that would make next weeks weigh in that much sweeter. I anticipated being a lot closer to breaking back through the 200 barrier and seeing my blessed 190's again. The following Friday found me again at the scales. Keys, cell phone, card wallet, watch, glasses, and anything else that would increase my weight even an ounce was coming off. Here it was. The moment of truth.
It was like the scene from "Christmas Vacation" when Clark brought the whole family out on to the snowy lawn to show off his Christmas light wonderland he had created on their home, the "drumrolls" started and quickly fizzled as he plugged in the master plug....nothing. For me, it wasn't nothing. It was better than nothing. ONE freakin pound. One. Not one and a half. One. I had been so diligent, had been so faithful, and just like my bonus daughter, the scales just sat there mocking me. The dejection was palpable. It was almost as if overnight, my body stopped responding and went on strike saying, "I've given you years and years of easy fitness, now you have to work for it." "Screw that!" was almost my first reply. But even though I know Jesus is going to take me home eventually, I'm not going to accelerate the time frame until he's ready for me to make it. I realized that my glory days of easy weight loss are behind me (with that chubby butt), and I'd actually have to be like the rest of the normal people on the planet and actually have to WORK for it. I had developed some very unrealistic expectations throughout the years.
It used to be easy. It's not so easy anymore. I'm thinking I'll probably have more of a "dad bod" than a "beach bod" for our upcoming cruise to Cozumel, but I'll at least be able to look in the mirror at my pasty white rolls knowing I'll eventually break through that 200 barrier again with some hard work and determination. Mmmmmmm white rolls....butter....honey....I'm hungry! Later dudes! FG
It's a wonder there was anything left after the mealtime mayhem subsided. Dad had been a Marine in his early days after high school; a drill instructor to be exact. Then he had spent years as a captain on the fire department. Neither of these jobs foster a leisurely mealtime. If you don't eat at light speed, you may not get to eat at all. The male of the species is known to have a love for food. The teenage male of the species is known to have a ravenous affection for anything food...and an unending void at the end of the gullet which seems to never be able to be filled. So with my dad and two brothers, mealtimes were spent competing for a limited food supply set before us that mom had diligently spent so much time lovingly preparing for her men, it's a wonder there was anything left after the dust settled at the dinner table.
Mom didn't like to throw food away. Yes, we heard about those poor starving Chinese kids that don't have the privilege of having meals every day. I wonder now if somewhere over in China today, there is some Asian mom who is shaking her finger while prodding her finicky little kid to eat saying, "You know there are starving kids in Kansas that would LOVE to be able to eat this for dinner! Now EAT!!!" So when there were some scraps left after the Dougherty boy tornado went through, she'd say, "Let's give it to Mark...he'll eat anything!" I still didn't like tuna, salmon patties, or brussle sprouts, Mom! Nine times out of ten, I'd slide the surviving main dish or sides and hammer away at them like a trooper.
One would think that I would have soon been an 18 year old candidate for "My 600 Pound Life", but ironically my ribs still protruded as if I hadn't had a meal in weeks and I graduated from high school at a whopping 120 pounds (that may have been soaking wet weight). Yeah, I was involved in sports, and worked on the farm, and was pretty active most of the time, but I wouldn't say I was anything more than average for a kid back then. Thank God it was before the days of video games, cable TV, the internet and smart phones. Maybe the outcome would have been a smidge different.
Things began to change a little bit when I was in college. It was a more sedintary lifestyle than I'd had before. There was a large amount of classroom and study time. I still worked jobs to pay my way through school (yes, it's possible to go to a private college and come out with no student debt), but my weight started to become more average. I worked at the Y as a program director, so I had the perfect opportunity to work out. Weight was never an issue.
As the years progressed, I still had a fairly average weight for my 5'11" frame. I could miss workouts or work out once a week and be ok. Genetics was always my friend. I could lift weights one day a week and be able to see results without any any artificial help outside of protein shakes and the like. If my weight started to creep up into the danger zone, I could simply modify my diet a tad, walk or run a little and my weight would go back into the acceptable levels. I could see decent results in as little as a week. But, as Archie and Edith used to sing, "...those...were...the....daaaaaayyyyysssss!"
Now I find myself in a place where these abs have had too many 6-packs, and I know my ribs are in there someplace because I've never had them removed, but that "seeing them" ship sailed a long time ago. The only way I'm going to have 6-pack abs is if I paint them on. The same pants size I've worn for years, when wearing them, make me feel like I'm being sawn in two. My bonus daughter likes to sit next to me (usually leaning against me) when we watch TV some evenings, and she'll sweetly turn to me, poke me under the chin and says, "Your neck jiggles." Ass.
Ok, so I've gained a few pounds. Ok, so I'm not 25 anymore. What's the problem, right?? Just modify your diet a tad, I said. Walk or run a little, I said. Then your weight will go back to acceptable levels, I said. I never have new year's resolutions, but I do reevaluate some of my goals at the first of the year. After the holidays, the photos I saw of myself screamed, "you need to do something, you're starting to look like a sumo wrestler." I was worried that people were going to start asking me about the due date. I don't want to be that guy who's embarrassed to be asked when he's not really pregnant.
We have a wellness coach on staff at work who happens to office on my floor. There are a couple of different types of scales he has provided there. One is simply for weight. The other measures water intake, muscle mass, body mass index, etc. I used the fancy one to kind of set a benchmark. Short of stripping down, which noone on the third floor needs or wants to see, I took off my boots (knowing I'd lose my breath bending over the buddha belly to put them back on), I emptied my pockets, put my cell phone down, took off my watch, glasses, and anything else that might add to the damage indicated on the readout. I waited for the blue disply to lock in, and I had my number. It wasn't pretty, but it wasn't as bad as I thought it was going to be. There aren't many times in my life when I've ventured over that 200 lb threshold, but this was definitely one of those times. I didn't just venture over, I seemed to have started a little town there. So I followed my tried and true protocol and I modified my diet, started walking, and may have even accidentally run a little bit. I figured I'd do a weekly weigh-in and measure against my ugly benchmark. The end of the first week, I was feeling pretty good. Since I typically see results fairly fast, I was excited for the encouragement I'd get from the progress report. The anticipation was certainly built up. The scales weren't working. Ok. That's alright. I wasn't worried. I was on the right track. that would make next weeks weigh in that much sweeter. I anticipated being a lot closer to breaking back through the 200 barrier and seeing my blessed 190's again. The following Friday found me again at the scales. Keys, cell phone, card wallet, watch, glasses, and anything else that would increase my weight even an ounce was coming off. Here it was. The moment of truth.
It was like the scene from "Christmas Vacation" when Clark brought the whole family out on to the snowy lawn to show off his Christmas light wonderland he had created on their home, the "drumrolls" started and quickly fizzled as he plugged in the master plug....nothing. For me, it wasn't nothing. It was better than nothing. ONE freakin pound. One. Not one and a half. One. I had been so diligent, had been so faithful, and just like my bonus daughter, the scales just sat there mocking me. The dejection was palpable. It was almost as if overnight, my body stopped responding and went on strike saying, "I've given you years and years of easy fitness, now you have to work for it." "Screw that!" was almost my first reply. But even though I know Jesus is going to take me home eventually, I'm not going to accelerate the time frame until he's ready for me to make it. I realized that my glory days of easy weight loss are behind me (with that chubby butt), and I'd actually have to be like the rest of the normal people on the planet and actually have to WORK for it. I had developed some very unrealistic expectations throughout the years.
It used to be easy. It's not so easy anymore. I'm thinking I'll probably have more of a "dad bod" than a "beach bod" for our upcoming cruise to Cozumel, but I'll at least be able to look in the mirror at my pasty white rolls knowing I'll eventually break through that 200 barrier again with some hard work and determination. Mmmmmmm white rolls....butter....honey....I'm hungry! Later dudes! FG
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