bruce lee

Despite being 67 and fat, I’ve been doing pretty good of late in terms of exercise and portion control.

I bicycle 15+ miles 3 – 4 times a week.

I swim regularly, in my HOA’s pool or in the ocean, despite the sharks along the shoreline.

I lift weights.

I do Tai Chi and yoga.

I try not to knowingly eat or drink anything with sugar in it, going so far as to cook very boring low carb, low fat, low salt meals every night just to make sure.

And I keep the portions of what I do eat moderate to small.

As a result, in the last three weeks of this tedious regimen, I went from 270 lbs to 260.

I was feeling pretty good about myself, and moving around a lot better.

Then I went to Tai Chi class yesterday evening.

This after riding 10 7 miles on US1 in what seemed like a wind tunnel (it has been very gusty where I live in Florida these last few days).

After doing a 45 minute moobs and abs workout at the gym.

Then class started.

I usually avoid standing in front of the mirror, because I tell the teacher that I like the ceiling vent that blows cold air on me during my workout — which places me away from being in front of the mirror.

The truth is I don’t like to look at myself.

Towards the end of the class, they went into the sword exercises bit.  That’s when it happened.

Moving left, I was suddenly in front of the mirror and saw my reflection.

I saw myself as others do.

It was a side view of me in my brand new yoga training outfit, and it came as a shock.

While I don’t picture myself as having the physique of a ripped Shaolin master, I was absolutely repulsed at what I saw.

Some old dude with chipmunk cheeks, moobs, an enormous gut and a vomit-fat ass.

It was disgusting.

I was thin most of my life, before I contracted Graves’ Disease and was prescribed pills (including Methimazole) that made me gain 60 lbs.

I was me.

Now I was looking this grotesque version of myself in the mirror, and I immediately stopped doing the sword thing and went and sat down in a far corner — away from the mirror.

Dejected.

Aghast.

Pissed.

No, not just pissed: Really angry.

Angry that I don’t have any metabolism anymore (after they took out my thyroid), and have to take Synthroid every day to stay alive.

What is it going to take to go from this

scales
me, this morning

 

to this?

ripped

I thought about it.

If I keep on like this, I am going to get Type 2 diabetes.

If I’m feeling bad about myself now, how I will feel when they start having to mutilate me?

When is this going to stop?

It takes about 3,000 calories per day to keep me at this disgusting weight.

Thus, I have to go on a 1,200 cal. restricted diet, if I am ever going to make any progress in this lifetime toward looking like the 15% body fat guy in the picture.

This means losing 1 lb every 3 days or so, or 10-12 lbs a month.

At that rate, it would take at least 7 months to get to around 195 lbs.

That’s not until November.

November.

Can I endure 7 months of hanger?

Am I willing to do what few men my age are willing to do: push myself every day, day after day, week after week, month after month, and coping with the increasingly boiling rage inside my head?

To what end?

Revenge?

I think you need some edge if you are going to lose 80 lbs or so at age 67.

But revenge against whom?

It’s not like anyone gives a fuck any more. It’s like an online taxi service is going to offer me a programming yob that will turn me into a multi-millionaire after 4 years.

Think of what they see.

I’m a geezer irrelevancy now, who drives an 8-year-old car that constantly needs repairs.  If I did work for Uber, I’d be the fool getting in hock to lease out a sedan to earn minimum wage working 12 hours a day with no bennies.

So if not bitter revenge, then what?

What’s going to get me to lose 80 lbs in well under a year?

It’s probably not world peace and serenity and the Sweet Love of Jesus or the tranquility of the Buddha that is going to get me there.

Maybe only sustained, relentless inner rage is what it takes to weigh 195 again.

Nothing else seems remotely capable of conquering the mountain of lard on my stomach, each ounce of which represents some past failure, some past moment when victory was at hand, before someone else got the prize.

All I have to do is look at this.

The post-Gouna me (i year ago)

What’s going to make the moobs and basketball stomach go away?

Hanger, mined from the unadulterated vein of pure, rattlesnake rage.

One day, I may forgive myself for what I did to myself.

The inside job is on.

The philosophy of 12 step programs is off the mark in at least one crucial respect.

It isn’t some Higher Power that stops you from taking that first drink or eating that 1/2 Gallon of Bryer’s.

No matter what they may tell you, it’s always you — though going to Tai Chi and yoga classes and the gym are tremendous motivators, if you are serious.

Notice others, stick to it, work the hanger, and they might notice you back one day.

Maybe that’s one way to gauge progress.

leaving america

 

 

 

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2 thoughts on “Getting Hangry

    1. Hi yogibattle. I planted milkweed in my garden a couple of months ago. Then the baby caterpillars were born. Some were attacked by red wasps. Others were eaten by lizards. But some made it to my house, where they are not chrysalis pods hanging off a sofit by the back porch. Soon they will be glorious monarch butterflies. All it takes is patience and avoidance of bad luck and negativity. Thanks for reading my site!

      Liked by 1 person

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