Garfield on Fitness

186 lbs. You know, I’ve lived in this weight neighborhood long enough.

There is an old (like, 1970s) Garfield poster where he’s sitting there in all his stripey body-by-lasagne wearing a pair of sneakers and saying, “I’m already in a bad mood. I might as well exercise.”

Welcome to today’s frame of mind. If this was “Office Space,” some annoying, chirpy, chubby broad would pull a cutesy face and announce, “Uh oh, looks like someone has a bad case of the Mondays.” And we would find out if it’s possible to give an atomic wedgie with pantyhose (I’m thinking you really have to focus the motion of the upward yank).

I’m in a rut. I don’t like ruts. I grew up in Rutland, Vermont and could not wait to get the hell out of there; the name was suitable. Still is, apparently.

Okay, to be honest, I’m better off than I was 3 months ago: I’m working and earning money (Hey, it is possible to work and not get paid. Ask a stay at home parent). I have medical insurance again and Dr. Best is doing great things with the right knee (still no Rotating Staircase of Death, but it can handle an easy hour on the elliptical. Emphasis on the “easy” part).

What’s bugging me is that I’ve been bouncing around the same weight for nearly 2 months. When God decided to wipe out the Earth with the Great Flood, it didn’t take Him this long to get the job done. Christ spent 40 days in the desert before beginning His ministry (what is it with the Bible and the obsession with the number 40? 40 days and 40 nights of rain? 40 days fasting in the desert? Wandering in the desert for 40 years? Should this be a given as a lottery number?). Again, it’s taking me longer to get back on the weight loss track. To think that the Almighty took His time and got bigger things done sooner is not a comforting thought. My weight to lose is of Biblical proportions? Yikes.

The self-discipline that has kept me out of the sugar and starch has faltered, much in the same way the Red Sox have faltered lately, although I don’t believe the two situations are linked (There is the legend of the Fisher King out of the Arthurian legends: as the king fell ill and suffered, so did his lands. You see this in the 1982 flick “Excalibur.” You also get to see Helen Mirren buck naked and a knight getting his freak on in full armor. Some mental images etch pretty deeply on one view). I do not think my health and that of Boston’s playoff hopes have some metaphysical link; as my pounds whittle down, so does the magic number. Yeah, no. One has nothing to do with the other.

I got a free issue of “Self” magazine and it was pretty much cover to cover how and why you should lose weight NOW. “The #1 Way to Erase 8 Pounds”, it screams next to Jennifer Hudson’s head (Since this IS a “women’s” magazine cover, the correct answer is “airbrushing.”). Butt blasting exercises, cute workout clothes, EAT EGG WHITES (that ain’t happening in this house).

My life must suck. Actually, today’s frame of mind, it kind of does, but not because I don’t have cute workout clothes.

As soon as I finished my workload today (and, thank you, Mortgage Gods, for giving me relatively easy loans today). I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck and hauled off to the gym.

And burned 1200 calories. Yeah. An hour of weight training and an hour on the elliptical adds up.

There was a mild endorphin rush afterwards that lifted my mood somewhat. The Sox just beat the crap out of the Orioles within the past hour (after I had done my workout. Again, not necessarily linked, but…) and that lifted my mood a bit. So, we’ll see what the scale says in the morning.

Are My Tights and Cape Back from the Cleaners?

183.4 lbs. OH, YOU ARE FUCKING KIDDING ME. 6 LBS. UP IN A WEEK? ALMOST 3 OVERNIGHT????

(If you under 18 and reading this, please stop. While vulgarities are not the best way to express oneself, they are preferable to beating the ever-loving shit out of the first person you come across)

MOTHER FUCKING SON OF A BITCH! What the hell happened? I don’t get it, I do NOT understand this. As my grandmother (who NEVER swore except for once in her life and you are about to hear that) said when something unexpected and absolutely unwanted turned up in her life (namely, my great-grandmother), “Jesus hell shit and damn.”

Was this my fault? Must be: no evidence of ninjas breaking into my home, stuffing a funnel down my pie hole and force-feeding me like a goose (this is how we get foie gras, Kids. Appetizing, isn’t it?). What’s that? “Ninjas don’t leave evidence.” Okay, stop geeking on me and focus.

This is on me: not only because of the highly personal nature of the setback, but also because it is completely on my shoulders to solve. Look, I’ve said this before about victims: they have no power. If you do not take responsibility for your failures and setbacks, you have no right to take credit for your successes. “It’s not my fault because…” gives power to the source you’re blaming. If that or they or he or she (whatever it is outside of you) can control you like that and you allow it to continue, you’re not going to have a wonderful life, especially if that or they or he or she finds out and exploits that weakness. You don’t want to live your life on the end of a chain.

You may have guessed there was an explosion of anger and frustration when I read 183 on the scale (which, yes, is still intact. I’m not killing the messenger on this one). The energy it created could have gone in one of two potential directions, as I see it. I could have 1) screamed “FUCK IT!” and just started stuffing my face. This is a time-honored reaction which has been deployed many, many times in the past and part of the reason I got up to 225 lbs. However, since the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting a different result, I doubted this would have cleared the decks of the excess tonnage. Option 2) take that energy and put it to good use on the Rotating Staircase of Death. I grabbed my gym bag and hit the road.

As I was entering the last 8 minutes on the RSoD (Rotating Staircase of Death) and watching the sweat drip off of my nose onto the treads and comparing it to the better curveballs thrown in the major leagues (Seriously, without trying, I can get a truly filthy break on a sweat drop and it will land about a foot away from the drop point), I was still puzzling over the “Okay, so what have I done wrong here?” question. I began making plans to order HCG from my former acupuncturist in St. Louis and hitting Round 2, but I wasn’t enthusiastic about that plan. I think noticed that not only had I completed my workout (45 minutes), but had maintained a faster pace than I had ever done.  Oh, I still look like I’m about to keel over, but I survive to tell the tale. I moved over to the elliptical machine (Remember in
“Stripes” how every time Bill Murray shot off his mouth to the Sergeant, the whole platoon got punished? Same principle). When you’ve got forward momentum, use it, Baby, use it.

While on the elliptical, mentally grumbling and snarling (and actually flipping off Alex Rodriguez every time ESPN shows his smug mug. Both hands. I don’t like the guy), the grumbling and snarling included such entries “My sinuses have been congested for over a week” and “Why is my GD face breaking out?” and “How the fuck am I going to get back on track?” as well “Thanks a lot, GOD! Way to pull the string when I’m on the brink of 50 down!” (Okay, so I wasn’t in my “I Am Woman, Hear Me Roar” mode at that moment. Hey, everybody goes to the zoo now and then). The TVs were showing Comic Con coverage and  John Mayer’s cover of “Route 66” (“Cars” soundtrack and a FINE rendition. I highly recommend it for your cardio mix) popped on the headphones. The feet kicked in, the tempo kicked up and I was distracted from the problem to solve…Freeze frame (another good song, but this is not the context): I do the New York Times Sunday crossword puzzle and find that when stuck, if I put the puzzle down and do something else for a while, when I return to the puzzle, suddenly, the answer I seek just pops into my head. This is problem-solving. Okay, back to the machine….So, I am lip-synching Route 66 and pedaling away like crazy on the machine when it hit me…

My old arch-enemy. Sugar. And his evil henchman, Starch.  (I can’t decide if we’re talking tights and capes or more of a black fedora and trench coat, but this is what Comic Con images will do to an oxygen-depleted mind)

Suddenly, it became clear: the inability to eat just a measured amount of wasabi almonds (they contain sugar), the constant, compulsive grazing that was getting worse, the bloated feeling, the sinus congestion (with slightly bloody nose, low grade fever and annoyingly crappy feeling. No, there is no better way to describe not actually sick. You feel CRAPPY). The emotional downturn. Oh yeah. Sugar had invaded my Fortress of Solitude/Bat Cave/League of Justice Headquarters (Comic Con, remember) and had begun to use my tools and weapons against me.

Here’s the thing with sugar and me: it starts and perpetuates an eating cycle. The more I have, the more I want. Sound like an addiction? It does to me.

I had allowed some sugar back into the diet, isolated intake, but not made it a part of the everyday meal. The coconut I had been craving: all of it was sweetened and I had started eating it regularly about the same time my metabolism had been thrown into reverse. And the zits had started. And the eating had gotten out of control. And those jeans I’d worked so damned hard to get back into didn’t fit. And I was feeling crappy because SUGAR IS INFLAMMATORY TO YOUR ORGANS. Bastard tricked me again.

Upon returning home, I rounded up all of the coconut products I had left as well as any brown rice or granola (even the gluten-free stuff. Gluten free, yes. Starch free, no) and gave them to some friends who think I’m somewhat nuts, but they also like pina coladas, so it’s win win.

We’ll see what the scale says tomorrow morning and for a few days after that (I don’t know how long it’ll take for it to work its way out of my system). 6 lbs., I’ll give it 2 weeks to self-correct, sticking to protein, vegetables, fruits and nuts in the interim.

And in the meantime, Sugar and Starch have jumped into their evil motorcycle and sidecar (with a sugar molecule painted on the side) and driven off in search of an actual victim.

Take that, you little molecular mother fuckers. You won’t destroy MY world.