The Pleasant Sound of a Growling Stomach

I’ve struggled with this entry.

Why, you ask? Was it because the title is remarkably insensitive to those who don’t have enough to eat? Well, yes, a little – I can’t help that I’m a bleeding-heart liberal, in whom higher education has instilled a constant awareness of “the other,” and with it an unrelenting sense of empathy. But, to be truthful, this was not my primary concern, regardless of how terrible that sounds. No, I was more worried about just how psychotic the title of this entry was going to make me sound.

I’ve already touched on the obsessive tendencies that I believe need to be cultivated, in some degree, in order to achieve significant, life-changing weight loss. But, these tendencies have done more than just propel me to the gym five times a week, rain or shine. They’ve forced me to fall in love with the effects of my own hunger. I’m not kidding.

I’m mortified that I’m about to describe these tendencies in detail, but I guess that’s what this weblog is for: I derive a sick and twisted pleasure from 1) feeling ravenously, uncomfortably hungry, and 2) listening to my stomach growl angrily, as I push it to this point of discomfort. It was worst in the winter of 2005. This was when I encountered my most rapid weight loss, immediately following my “Strip Poker” revelation; I was exercising fiendishly, and making sure to count my calories judiciously, and I was hungry as hell while I did it. This is probably why I grew to enjoy these feelings. If I hadn’t, I would have killed myself, or (more likely) my boss. Here’s an exercise: eat a piece of 40-calorie, low carbohydrate toast. (Note: this toast tastes like cardboard, if cardboard were blander). Oh! I almost forgot: you can jazz up the low calorie toast with a spoonful of low calorie strawberry jam. Then, go to the gym, and run for forty-five minutes. If you’re 240 pounds (my weight at the time), you’ll probably burn around 750 to 800 calories. Finally, go to work, and refrain from eating anything until noon. Do this for a couple of days, and you will come close to losing your mind. Eventually, something like the following conversation will occur:

My Boss: (Appears at the doorway to my office) Hey Andy?
Me: (At my desk, seething, while looking at the clock, which has been frozen at 10:05 AM for what feels like several hours) What?
My Boss: Yeah, this calendar you added to the website… (trails off)
Me: Yeah!?
My Boss: Well, it doesn’t work. The colors are off. It’s missing the Sunday column. And it says January has thirty-two days.
Me: FUCK YOU! WHERE IS MY GODDAMN BAGEL!?

Okay, I may have exaggerated that conversation for the sake of humor, but if you work with children, the elderly or the otherwise infirm you will definitely want to monitor yourself while you modify your diet in this fashion.

And, you know what the really awful thing is? I don’t want to discourage you, but it really won’t ever get any easier, unfortunately. Yeah, you’ll get used to it, of course, and as you come to enjoy the pain, and the strange squeaks and zips and urps and squawks that emanate with increasing volume from your lower mid-section, you will enter what I can only assume is a zen-like state. But you’ll still have to be ever mindful of maintaining that state. And you’ll have to almost enjoy it, or you’ll rip the head off a small dog.

Be warned, though. Even though I have mostly achieved my goals, I have a hard time letting go of this behavior. There are times when I find myself laying on the couch, watching a movie or just resting peacefully, and my hand will gravitate to my stomach, without thought or premeditation, so that I can feel the rumbles of my insides desperately consuming themselves, while my stomach sounds like the hull of a nuclear submarine. And I’ll think to myself, “You know, you really shouldn’t engage in this behavior. It’s mentally and physically unhealthy. Furthermore, if you ever tell anyone about it, you’re going to sound like a complete lunatic.” My brain makes good points, but how does my body respond?

“FUCK YOU! I NEED PASTRIES!”

Old habits die hard.

Weight Loss and the Weekend Bender: Five Rules for Coexistence

As you will come to realize, when it comes to weight loss, I am a firm believer in the cutting of caloric intake: it doesn’t matter whether you eat 1,600 calories of sugar cookies, bacon strips, frozen pizzas or energy bars; if you can do this while working out like a lunatic, you will lose weight. You have to be honest with yourself, though: if you eat a handful of nuts, you need to tally it, otherwise the whole exercise is pointless.

There is one area, however, in which I am lax, and regarding which I felt little need to modify my behavior: drinking. I enjoy drinking. I enjoy a nice glass of beer – after all, I live in Portland, so it would be a travesty if I didn’t. I like a good martini – gin, only, of course; please don’t insult me by offering me anything else. (I’ll leave the brand to your discretion.) I find drinking quite beneficial in social situations: it aids in the mingling process; it can convert two left feet into an adequate pair; it helps dampen the noise of a particularly loud concert or party; and it can even turn the most timid of us into a Streisand or Stewart at the local karaoke bar (whether this is a good thing is a subject for another discussion). I will even go so far as to say that I occasionally enjoy getting – hmm, how do I put this – shitfaced, when it strikes my fancy, I have nothing to do the next day, and I’m out with a group of friends.

Now, there are some amongst you who are probably shaking your heads, whispering, “I think he has a problem.” I do have a problem: the fact that I’m writing this without a cup of coffee next to me is a problem. That I have a splitting headache, brought about by this very activity, is a problem. But moreover, my biggest problem – aside from the minor but irreparable damage such an activity causes my liver – is this: how can my enjoyment of alcohol coexist with both my generally obsessive approach to weight loss, and my specific stance against calories? Most alcoholic beverages are not exactly light in the calorie department.

Simple. I have created a wholly unscientific, somewhat arbitrary system that has obviously served me well.

1. If you enjoy going out and getting loaded on weekends, then you must refrain from any mid-week, lackadaisical drinking, or otherwise its calories must be stringently counted, like anything else. I used to enjoy a beer every couple of days, just as a way to unwind. Now, I try to steer clear of that activity. If you’re going to do it – make it count.

2. Stick with beer, basic cocktails, and shots. I used to be a big fan of the White Russian, a delicious drink comprised of vodka, Kahlua, and whole cream. You know what those White Russians did? They built their capital city on my ass and named it Fatingrad. Those things give out merciless headaches, anyway; instead, hang out with Tanqueray and grapefruit all night, and you won’t feel like death the next day. Plus, its a great way to cute a cold!

3. Avoid a late night restaurant run. I used to be a fairly staunch supporter of the late night restaurant run, whether it was fast food, or one of those 24-hour pseudo-diners like Denny’s or Shari’s. Note: I’m not explicitly banning the consumption of food while on the bender *itself*, but when you leave wherever you are to go someplace explicitly for food, then you may have a problem. A few 3 AM Grand Slam breakfasts and pretty soon you’ll find they’ve turned your gut into a baseball stadium named Jiggly Field.

4. On the day after, you *must exercise*. Sorry, this is non-negotiable. When you drink to excess, what you’re doing is mortgaging the present: the next day, you have to pay. Additionally, it helps combat that hangover: there have been occasions where I’m fairly positive my sweat carries a proof of no less than fifty.

5. Have fun with it. That’s why you’re adhering to the rest of these rules, so that you can relax when you’re out, and you don’t *have* to meticulously count your calories. That’s right, I said it: if you follow these rules, you can enjoy your excessive drinking without obsessing over the exact number of beers you’ve had. Although, keep in mind that your slim, finely chiseled body really won’t look as impressive if its curled up on the bathroom floor, or passed out on the toilet, so a bit of moderation might not be completely out of the question.

I’m not saying its a perfect system, and you know what? You’ll probably have *even better* results more quickly if you cut out drinking entirely. But that’s not the point of this post. My point is that it’s not required. If you make some adjustments, you can have your booze, and drink it too.

“The OC” Disorder

Note: The following post is neither parody nor satire, in a strict sense, but nevertheless it should be taken as tongue-in-cheek, and certainly not as advocacy for any unhealthy activities.

Before I get started, I need to explain something: the title to this post comes from the television show Arrested Development, which everyone should be watching, but – sadly – few people are.

The particular affliction to which I’m alluding is, of course, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, which should not be taken lightly. Of course, what am I about to do? I’m about to take that shit most lightly.

Not really – actually, I have great respect for OCD, from which I believe I suffer (albeit a fairly mild case.) Why do I have great respect for it? Because, without it, I’m not sure I would be here, weighing what I weigh and posting about it on the internet. My particularly helpful version of OCD manifests itself thusly: when I am convinced I need to do something, in order to reach a goal that I have deemed important, I will perform this activity with great resilience and without fail.

Nowhere is this more evident than in my experience with the gym. For years, I was dead set against the gym: “Why do I need a gym membership?” I scoffed at my wife, Amy. “I walk four times a week, rain or shine. Look at my shoes!” At which point I would produce muddy, disheveled pair of New Balance running shoes.

To her credit, my wife is as stubborn as I am obsessive, and several days after this particular conversation, in the fall of 2003, I found myself taking a tour of Bally Total Fitness, which I later joined (that day). And, upon joining, I saw the light, and the OC (I really shouldn’t call it that) stuck its boot up my ass, and I found myself at the gym no fewer than five times a week. I began to plan my days around going to the gym, and if I didn’t get to go, I would become sullen, then angry. No, this isn’t particularly healthy or well-adjusted behavior, but it’s been effective.

This tendency I’m describing extends beyond the gym, as well. When I hit a set point, described here, it was a modification in diet that made all the difference, and a little bit of obsession that made it happen. See, when you work out five times a week, you begin to build up a rather aggressive metabolism. Then, when you resolve to consume no more than 1,500 to 1,600 calories daily (not including alcohol, on the weekends), your stomach is going to start making furious sounds, and you’re going to get uncomfortable. And when you’re uncomfortable, you’re going to need something pushing you forward, in spite of the discomfort. For some, this is God, for others, family; for me, it was a constant, unrelenting pressure to just do it (sorry, NIKE), and do it right.

Okay, that last bit was over the top, and tongue-in-cheek, but I think my point stands: if you’re going to change your life, you’re going to need to change your mindset toward a lot of things. To put it succinctly: to get physically healthy, you might just have to get a little mentally unhealthy.