Losing Weight is Turning Me Gay

I’m worried about this entry. It has me chewing on my pencil, staring off into space, and not at my notebook (which is resting in my lap, on my stylish Kenneth Cole pants.) Shit. I’m doing it again.

Why am I worried about this entry? Well, read the title. I’m facing a multitude of problems. I have to tell my wife. Will my friends treat me the same way? Are my teeth even white enough for me to be gay?

Ok, I’m lying. I still totally dig on hot chicks (Note: if we were in the same room together, you would see me with my righthand up in the area, expecting a kick-ass high five coming from you, bro!) but weight loss has definitely started me on a confusing and dubious path toward sexual ambiguity.

Let’s start with the gym, since I talk it so frequently. “What’s wrong with the gym?” you ask. Yeah, sure, at the downtown Bally Total Fitness you’ve got lots of ladies in skimpy workout attire hanging around the aerobics room – but is that where I am? No, I’m either on the elliptical – a tortuous contraption the sole purpose of which is the slamming and building of glutes – or I’m wandering around the free weights, where dudes in muscle shirts flex constantly and perform squat thrusts.

“Yeah, but you’re not talking with them, right? You’re in a zone, listening to headphones and concentrating.”
This is true, but it only underscores what I’m talking about. I really, really enjoy my iPod. If it were socially acceptable to tune out everyone during all parts of my day, that’s probably what I’d be doing. And even though it isn’t, it’s still a vital part of making sure that exercising isn’t sheer drudgery. I’ve loaded hundreds of albums onto my iPod, ensuring that there’s no shortage of kickass rock and metal with which to power through my marathon workout sessions. But, with all this musical freedom at my disposal, what album do you think I have listened to most actively, while working out, during the last couple months?

Michelle Branch: The Spirit Room.

Yeah, I’m not kidding. There’s a running joke in the movie “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” which involves the two dufus-y supporting actors riffing on what makes the other “gay.” Well, let me toss my own into the ring.
“You know how I know you’re gay? You work out to Michelle Branch.”

That’s a pretty good one.

Fashion is another component of this discussion, and one that I will revisit in greater detail at a later date (Have you ever been inside a men’s “Big & Tall Store?” Yikes.) Suffice it to say – I now find myself shopping in places I use to disdain, like the Gap. I even find myself occasionally interested in shirts sold to Buffalo Exchange by waiflike Emo boys.

There’s more. Grooming is a good one. You know, in the seven years between 1998 – by which point my most grievous cases of teenage acne were no longer a problem – and 2005 I probably washed my face a total of zero times. That’s right! Now we’re into the dailies. And karaoke! You know the total number of times I’d karaoked – in my life – before December 2005? Zero. Number of times having visited the Boiler Room last week? Three.

THREE. I’m there more than some of the employees.

The list goes on, and on, and on.

Ok, perhaps I should take a step back, breathe deeply, and evaluate this situation critically. At best, this evidence is merely circumstantial. I’m never going to be confused with someone who has strong fashion sense. I still don’t understand the importance or appeal of a proper set of shoes. I do karaoke because I’m your typical class clown dumbass. Finally – with the amount of material on my iPod that comes from the bands Genesis, Rush, Queensryche, Dream Theater, Yes and Asia, it’s clear that I’m far too nerdy to be gay. Whew. Well, that’s a relief. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find someone who TIVOed American Idol.

Control Freak

I’ve taken a week-long break from writing anything fitness-related. I wanted inspiration to strike. It has.
Yesterday, I received a nice comment from my mother-in-law. She told my wife that I had a very soothing voice, such that would be perfect for meditative or relaxation audio, like those CDs that instruct you to “Lay back in your chair,” and “Begin by tensing and releasing the muscles of the neck. There. That’s it.” My response to this was outright laughter. No, it’s not that I wasn’t pleased with the compliment (I do, in fact, have quite the voice), but has this woman ever been around me for any prolonged length of time? Honestly. I’m the most wound-up person I know. I will illustrate this with an example, which was also what made me start laughing in the first place. This example concerns a recent bout of time playing SimCity 4. It went something like this (for the sake of hilarity, I will present this dialogue to you from my wife’s perspective; she was in the other room.)

Me (Nonplussed): What the fuck.
(Time passes)
Me (More aggravated): What the fuck?!
(Time passes)
Me: WHAT THE FUCK?!?
(More time passes)
Me: Fine. I’ll lay some pipe. Great.
(More time passes)
Me: You already have water. I GAVE YOU WATER?! Why are you moving out?
(More time passes)
Me: Fine. Fuckin’ fine. Just go. I build the fucking stadium and it doesn’t even matter. Goddammit.

To someone in another apartment, it probably sounded like we were having the weirdest one-sided domestic dispute in history.

Do these sound like the words of someone who is capable of relaxing anyone else? This type of behavior isn’t limited to engrossing, simulation-style computer or console entertainment, either. You should hear the constant stream of excited expletives that come from my office while working. And don’t get me started about driving.

Why do I get like this, around things as stupid as computers, games or traffic? Simple. I’m a control freak. It’s not all bad, though – and here’s the part where I relate fitness to my hilarious-but-not-totally-on-topic introduction: you need that impulse, if you’re going to lose 165 pounds. That’s like, a person; hell, that’s almost me, now. The point is, to reach that state, a person typically has to lack at least a portion of their self-control; conversely, you’re going to have to gain some (control), if you want to lose some (poundage).
Perhaps I’ve had success at losing weight, precisely because I’m a control freak. At the end of the day, if something is really important to me, I’m going to do it, even if it makes me physically uncomfortable. When I’m feeling uncomfortable, that’s really when I’m at my best, because it’s when I have to exert the most control over myself to achieve results.

Yeah, okay; that’s somewhat screwed up. It’s why, while I’ve had some pretty good results, I don’t think I could ever be a personal trainer: a typical session might start out this way, with my calm and mellifluous voice intoning:

“Please. Feel free to step onto the elliptical. Prior to doing so, begin by stretching the muscles of your legs and lower back. There. That’s it.”
but it wouldn’t be too long before it lapsed into something like this:
“*What?!* You don’t want to step up to 250 RPMs? Fine. FUCK YOU!”

It works for me. Find something that works for you. Report back.

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.