CONTINUED FROM YESTERDAY’S POST (HI, I’M FAT).
Hi. I’m fat.
That’s all I am.
I’m not Dan. Not really. I’m also not Dad. I’m not Lover. I’m not Son or Brother or Friend.
I’m just fat.
And I’m tired. I’ve been running for a very long time.
Toward something. Away from something. I don’t really know. I only know that I’ve been running.
And I’m tired. Tired of running. Tired of why I’m running. And more than anything, tired of caring so much that I feel like I have to run.
Of course, I am speaking in metaphors. I actually hate running for real, so I almost never do it. My hips hate it. My back hates it. My knees hate it. My lungs hate it.
If a bear started coming after me in the woods, I probably wouldn’t run. Being eaten by that bear seems like it would be far less painful and arduous to me than running from it would.
But that isn’t to say that I don’t move my body.
On Mondays, you can now usually find me getting jiggy with it in a dance class at my gym. You know that look of a fish flopping, trying to survive in an environment that leaves him unable to breathe? Yes, that’s me on Mondays.
On Tuesdays you can usually find me pumping some mad iron with all the guys at my gym whose necks and heads are somehow one and the same. I’m pretty sure they laugh at me as I go, but I’m too busy trying not to be defeated by the 30 lb. dumbbells to notice.
On Wednesdays I can usually be found at circuit class, running from Nazi station to Nazi station, doing things like gorilla crawls, mountain climbers, and plank lifts. If you look through the windows into the class, you’ll easily find me. Just look for the giant puddle of sweat on the floor, then shift your eyes to whatever lump of a man is heaving and huffing directly above it. That’s me.
Thursdays, I like to go for a long walk. People honk at me and whistle sometimes. I have never figured out why. They must like my booty.
Fridays I rest.
But only because Saturdays or Sundays I try to hike. And by hike, I mean that I constantly beg my hiking companions to slow the **** down so that the vultures stop circling.
Oh, and the Farmer’s Daughter and I recently threw racquetball into the weekly mix, too. So yeah, there’s that too.
This is my (physical) life.
A life that does not include running. At least not very often.
What it does include is a lot of good feelings.
When I’m drenched in sweat after a circuit class, I hurt like hell but I feel good.
When I reach the top of a mountain, I may be praying for the angel of death to come release me from my pain, but I feel good.
In fact, any time I exercise, or accomplish some huge physical feat, or do something that simply gets my body moving, I feel good.
You’ve all exercised. You all know that feeling.
But let me tell you what doesn’t feel good.
You see, I’m still fat. And the healthier I get, and the skinnier I get, and the more in shape I get, the fatter I get.
I know, it doesn’t make sense, so let me explain.
When I started this major trek toward being in the best shape of my life, I also had an idea of exactly what I wanted my body to eventually look like.
For the first time in my life, I wanted a six pack. I wanted big shoulders and huge arms. I wanted my flabby lats gone, my love handles obliterated, and the rest of my body to be toned and beautiful. I wanted to finally be that sexy underwear model of a man that I knew I could be with serious dedication and hard work.
I hired a trainer. I jumped in head first. And… I started to see a little bit of progress.
And then a little more.
And then a little more.
And something interesting started to happen.
Continued on next page