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.

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.

“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.

Strip Poker

In the autumn of 2004, I was 240 pounds. Not a very provocative way to begin, I know, but trust me – it gets better. Now, I know what you’re thinking: “5′10″? 240? Wow, he has a weight problem.” (Of course, you’d probably only be thinking that particular thought if you knew how tall I was, but I digress.) You would be correct in your reaction, however, but I didn’t have nearly as negative a response to my situation. Why? Because – at one point – I was 340 pounds.

(And I was a bit shorter then, too.)

So, as you might imagine, most of the time I was generally thrilled to be 240 pounds. Granted, I fluctuated between 235 and 250, but all I had to do was think about how far I had come, with just a bit of exercise.

Most of the time, that is. On this particular evening, however, this knowledge was insufficient. On this particular evening, we were playing strip poker.

(Incidentally – you’re going to learn a lot about me, as you read this blog. Probably much more than you’d ever really wanted to know about anyone. Trust me, this is just the tip of the iceberg, and it’s generally as painful for me to tell as it is for you to read. Oh, and sorry for the aside – you’ll probably grow to hate these, but that’s the price you pay for such a non-linear method of storytelling/journalism.)

The details of how we decided on such a pastime are unimportant – in fact, to the best of my admittedly hazy recollection, there was only one girl playing, so I’m not sure why we were engaging in the activity in the first place. (I’m not in any way suggesting that me playing a game of strip poker was anything seedier than jovial, stupid fun. I mean, if you think about it, what could be less sexy than sitting around on wooden chairs with a group comprised mostly of guys, sporting beer guts and cans of PBR, in various states of undress? Bah – you could be playing with the cast of Charlie’s Angels and it wouldn’t be enough to make that scenario titillating.)

I apologize again for the digression; there I sat, playing a 2 AM game of strip poker desperately not to lose, lest I be required to show to my friends my great detail of mass. Well, if you know anything about gambling, you’ll know that usually, the more desperate you are correlates inversely with how well you do. Tonight was no exception. It didn’t take long before I was faced with a choice: do I remove my shirt, or my pants?

It’s funny, too; for a heavy guy like myself to even consider strip poker, I would have had to be in some sort of heavily inebriated state. Yet, I could have had a thousand gin and tonics and still been yanked back to clarity when faced with such a decision. Perhaps I should spell out the ramifications of this choice: do I pull off my shirt, and expose my gut, which was more like an innertube than a spare tire? Or do I remove the pants, and chill in the briefs I wore because boxers were so goddamn uncomfortable and awkward?

I actually chose a third option. I slinked off, quitting the game and finding somewhere to lay my head – which actually turned out to be my bed, since this entire ludicrous adventure took place at our home. No one seemed to mind that I was quitting without honoring my final bet; perhaps they knew that I was ashamed or uncomfortable (although I imagine it’s probably more likely that I just wasn’t the object of everyone’s attention – which was fine by me.)

Next morning, most of the remnants of the previous night’s activities were expunged: floors were swept, cards put away, glasses (and, perhaps, vomit) were cleaned. But the game of strip poker weighed heavily on my mind, and by the end of the day I had come to a fundamental realization: although at that time I had probably lost around 100 pounds since my heaviest point in high school, it wasn’t enough. I still wasn’t happy with myself. I exercised frequently, but had stalled on my progress. I needed to do something. I’m going to show you what I did.

In the coming weeks and months, if you’d like, you’ll learn what it’s like to weigh 340 pounds when you’re 16, 260 when you’re 20, 295 when you’re 23, 240 when you’re 25, and, as of December 27th, 2005, 177 when you’re 26. I’ve done it without drastically altering my diet, or getting stomach stapling surgery – although, if you have a fear of exercise you should probably stop reading right now. It isn’t easy, but it can be done. Let’s talk about how.