Tag Archives: running

Addicted!

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Exercise has never really been my cup of tea. In the past, there may have been activities I enjoyed that happened to be good exercise. The dance floor at Johnny Angel’s kept me thin through my early twenties. Trust me, my interest in dancing had nothing to do with exercise.

With each passing year, the activities I enjoyed burned fewer and fewer calories. After a bunch of health problems hit all at once in my late forties, I vowed to do better. I started riding my bicycle, weather permitting, and when conditions were right, even enjoyed it. I lost some weight, felt good about myself, and over the winter, gained two pounds back for every one I’d lost.

Nearly two years ago, I found Zumba. The only thing that would make this more enjoyable for me would be to mix in some of my old dance favorites from the seventies and eighties. As in the disco, mirrored walls where Zumba is held add to my enjoyment. I was hooked. Paying per class got to be a little pricey, so I joined a gym.

Because I’m cheap, I bought the most expensive membership I could get. The logic is uniquely my own. With the cheapest plan, I wouldn’t feel guilty if I didn’t go. The gold package came with a weekly thirty-minute session with a trainer, and unlimited access to the gym and most classes. I was determined to get my money’s worth.

Right after I joined thy gym, I used the Couch to 5K app on my phone and, for the first time in my life, took up running. In September, after a year of mostly stalling during my time with the trainer and skipping half my assigned workouts, my trainer took my measurements. I was shocked by how much my body had changed — in the right direction. If a half-assed effort got this kind of results, what would happen if I really applied myself?

My trainer punched up my routines, and I got serious about following his instructions. Though I sweat like crazy, I don’t consider Zumba two or three times a week to be exercise because it’s so much fun. Thanks to the mild winter, I’ve also been able to run almost every week. For the first time ever, I managed to lose weight over the winter, and was within three of the 200 pound goal I set for myself two years ago next month.

Then my doctor said I needed hernia repair surgery. I imagined days in bed, with someone helping me back and forth to the bathroom, followed by weeks of pain as I slowly worked back up to where I was before the operation. My biggest fear? That I’d gain back the fifty pounds I’ve lost over the last two years.

I quit exercising about a week before my March 14th surgery. Anxiety was a factor, along with working ahead as far as I could with my day job. Since the surgery, I’ve been prohibited from lifting more than ten pounds or doing more than walking. I didn’t realize just how addicted I’d become to exercise until I had to stop.

About two weeks ago, I noticed I was feeling blue. I’d gained ten pounds since the surgery. Instead of Mr. Sunshine — the guy who can always find the silver lining — I saw only dark clouds everywhere I looked. Then it hit me. I was jonesing for exercise.

That’s right. I was suffering from exercise withdrawal. EW!

Working in the yard this past weekend helped. For this week’s weigh-in on Monday, I’d lost almost three pounds since last week, and am within ten of my 200 pound goal. I’m going to reach it here in the next month or two, and when I do, will set another for 190.

Tuesday, after the surgeon told me to resume normal activity, I went home and ran four miles. The first mile, as always, was rough, as evidenced by my time of nearly 15 minutes. But halfway into that second mile, I was flying high with an ear-to-ear grin on my face, listening to Sylvester on my iPhone as I ran down the sidewalk. I  stopped, only because I felt like I should.

I’ll need to ease back into the weight-lifting. I see my trainer tomorrow for a new program. Sunday afternoon at three, you’ll find me on the front row at the gym, getting my Zumba on.

The Longest Night

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Winter is my least favorite time of year. I hate cold weather, and the shorter days trigger my Seasonal Affective Disorder. Throw in all the holidays that revolve around food and a tendency to carb-load, and the biggest gift I get every year is an extra twenty pounds–or more–that I spend the next twelve months trying to shed.

Moving to Georgia helped. Mild winters make it possible to get out in the sun more, and that really makes a difference with the SAD. But I’d still gain too much weight over the winter. Something had to change. And since winter and shorter days weren’t going anywhere (absent climate change), it was up to me.

Last year, after losing a lot of weight over the summer, I had a serious conversation with my doctor about my fear of gaining it all back. She put me on an antidepressant for the SAD. When the solstice came last year–the longest night of the year–I’d only gained a few pounds. With longer days coming, I thought I was out of the woods.

Yes, I did lose a few pounds after the solstice, but by the first of May, I’d gained back half the weight I’d lost the year before. I didn’t get back to my pre-winter weight until August. (Information courtesy of Weight Watchers Online, where I’ve recorded my weight every week since May 2011.) I cussed myself all summer long for having to work so hard to get back to where I started and vowed to do better this year.

My doctor decided that starting the antidepressant a few weeks earlier would make a difference. Unseasonably warm weather has helped, too. The week before Christmas I ran three miles without a shirt. It’s been so warm I’ve been been able to run shirtless quite a few times since the time change–enough to keep my summer tan and to suppress the SAD.

Instead of a spike at solstice, my weight today is the lowest its been in at least ten years and perhaps as many as twenty. Instead of thinking longer days mean the fight is over, I’m redoubling my efforts. I’m determined to make it to spring without the customary weight gain. I can do this.

That my time at the gym is paying off motivates me to stick with the program. None of my clothes fit–even the recent additions are loose. I’m running out of holes on all my belts. Punching new ones isn’t an option because the extra length already wraps halfway around my waist. I’d buy new ones, but something about a belt being too big feels too good to let go.

For more than a year I’ve been working out more or less kinda religiously, running as often as possible, and hitting Zumba classes two or three times a week. The layer of fat around my midsection is shrinking, little by little. I’m in much better shape so it looks like I’ve lost more weight than I have. Fine by me.

Now that the weightlifting is paying off, I’m really getting into it–so much so that I think maybe I hurt this adorable young man’s feelings. I’d seen him on one of the telephone “dating” apps and sent him a message that I sometimes saw him working out. He found me at the gym and said hello, and we ended up having dinner together. Nice guy, way too young, and cocky in a way that makes me want to pinch his cheeks and tell him how cute he is.

The next time I saw him at the gym, he wanted to chit chat. I’d already been there for an hour and was about done–close enough to the end that I didn’t want to stop. He seemed surprised when I told him we’d have to chat later. Yeah. Me. I haven’t seen or heard from him since, either, though that may be a function of the holiday.

My gym has several mirrored walls, allegedly so people can check their form while they lift. But the mirrors are really there to make it easier to watch someone without getting caught. And of course, because watching yourself get pumped up is hot. Seriously. And it’s not just lifting. Some of the ladies in my Zumba class love to watch themselves, too, but I ain’t judging.

Remember, my vision isn’t exactly 20-20. In fact, they don’t ask me to read the chart any more at the retina specialist’s office–they ask me how many fingers they’re holding up. Keep this in mind as I relate what happened the other day.

I’m watching myself doing dumbbell presses when, out of the corner of my eye, in the mirror on the far wall I see the backside of a very attractive older guy. A few seconds later, I realize the sexy dude is none other than yours truly. I’ve had similar “who’s that?” moments glimpsing mirrors at home. Each one is a reminder that I’m fighting a battle where defeat is not an option.

Don’t tell anyone, but I go to the gym thirty minutes early for Zumba so I can lift enough to get pumped up. For the ladies. It just goes with being the Zumba King.

Oh, who am I kidding.

Want to know why I’m always on the front row in my Zumba cargo pants and tank top?  So nobody blocks my view. I’ve got moves to perfect! Besides, I’m looking pretty damn good.  It’s enough to make me think about mirroring a wall here in…

My Glass House

I Gotta New Attitude

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When I joined the gym last fall, I really didn’t think I’d stick with it. Nothing about my track record gave me reason to think otherwise. After a few weeks of sporadic and half-hearted use, any home exercise equipment I ever purchased went unused. I don’t know what made me think I’d go to the trouble of hitting the gym.

But I did. Not only did I stick with it, but I’ve signed up for another year. I hate to admit it, but I’m getting kinda into it.

If they offered a class that worked with my schedule, I’d go to Zumba every day. I hit two classes just about every week and sometimes make it to as many as four, along with the occasional Zumbathon or Zumba After Dark. I know almost all the music well enough to add my own embellishments and throw myself into my favorites with reckless abandon. You wouldn’t believe the range of motion in my hips and shoulders. Ricky Martin and William Levy ain’t got a thing on me, except for maybe pecs and washboard abs.

And believe it or not, I do have pecs and washboard abs. I can feel them beneath the layer of fat that still blankets my chest and belly. In another year or two, if I keep going to the gym consistently, my abs and pecs might become visible to the naked eye. Did I mention I’m single?

From the start, I hated the strength training sessions. I learned a hundred different stalling techniques to keep my trainer talking about what I needed to be doing instead of making me do anything. I’d show up a few minutes late and take frequent breaks–to get my breath, a drink of water–anything to keep from having to do more exercises. At my best I got it down to about ten minutes of actual exercise in my thirty minute session.

When I came in on my own, I’d knock out my full routine in about twenty minutes. Instead of pushing myself, the objective was to just get ‘er done. There were plenty of weeks that I only got in one session either on my own or with the trainer. The good news is that there were very few weeks when I missed both, and quite a few weeks when I got in an extra session on my own.

My attitude changed about a month ago. I weigh less than I have in at least five years and maybe as many as fifteen or twenty. My skinny clothes are hanging on me, and I can’t wear my fat clothes any longer.  I’ve got big hard muscles in my arms, shoulders, and chest that are totally new and unfamiliar to me. If my half-assed strength training program got results like this, what would happen if I really applied myself?

So now I’m early for my training sessions. When Armand tells me to do twelve reps, I push myself to do fifteen. Instead of going with lower weights, I keep pushing myself to try heavier weights–even if I end up dropping down to something lighter before I’m done. At least I tried.

But the biggest change has come in the workouts I do on my own. Here, too, I’m really pushing myself. Instead of finishing in a half hour or less, my weight-lifting routine takes more like ninety minutes. Instead of skipping a round of sit-ups, leg lifts, and planks at the end of my workout, I’m doing two and three times as many and visualizing the fat melting away.

On the few days I don’t go to the gym, I usually run. Here, too, I’ve really been pushing myself to get in at least two runs a week–three if I can, and four is great–and to pick up the pace. The MapMyRun app is great–letting me know my pace with every mile. I’ve noticed that around the fourth mile, any pain in my shins or knees has disappeared and I’m able to pick up the pace by better than a minute a mile. Thanks to the app, I also found out that the runs I thought were barely two miles were closer to three, and my normal run covers more than five miles.

Seeing results has made it easier for me to avoid stuff I know I shouldn’t be eating. It’s the time of year when I tend to carb load. The time change just makes it worse. But this year I’m prepared. I started the antidepressant I take every winter for Seasonal Affective Disorder a few weeks earlier than usual to hopefully avoid the big weight gain I experienced about this time last year. I’ve come too far to backtrack now.

I’ve lost forty pounds in the last year and a half, a pound or two at a time, with a lot of backsliding. Now I’m beginning to see the results from more than a year of working out, and I like it. I like it a lot. By the time I’m sixty, you’re going to find most amazing me, here in…

My Glass House

Success!

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In early 2011, I got within spitting distance of 250 pounds. That’s about sixty pounds more than I should weigh. My Body Mass Index fell solidly in the obese range.  To tell you the truth, I’d given up.

For exercise, I rode my bike–weather permitting, which ended up being a pretty subjective decision. Too hot. Too cold. Too windy. Looks like rain. You can see the trend. I didn’t ride a lot more than I rode.

I joined Weight Watchers in May 2011. My starting weight was 238. Counting points was a real education for me. I found out the healthy salad I had for lunch every day (with fried onion rings, cheese, grilled chicken, a butter-logged slice of Texas Toast, and two packs of Honey Mustard dressing) cost me sixty percent of my daily points allowance. Who knew? Okay, I should have known. But I didn’t.

This time last year I joined a gym. I’ve seen a trainer almost every week for thirty minutes, hit the gym for weight training once or twice a week, attended Zumba classes several times every week, and started running. Of those, the one I’m most proud of is running. Now I run three to five miles once or twice a week and am hoping to increase that as the weather cools. I might even try a 10K at the end of this month.

By the end of the summer last year, I was down to 224. Since then, I’ve stayed between 220 and 230.  I’ve lost that ten pounds 15 or 20 times in the last year. Still fat by any measure, though my BMI has fallen into the “overweight” category rather than obese.

Before we left for our vacation earlier this month, my weight FINALLY dropped below 220. Great. No way I was going to keep it off on vacation–not the way I love ice cream and fried seafood. Okay. I like broiled or grilled seafood, too, but I was on vacation, dammit, and I’m a grown-ass man so I’ll eat whatever the hell I want.

The first thing I did when we got home was step on the scale. Well, I guess the first thing I did was strip down to my birthday suit. Then I stepped on the scale and, even though it was late in the day when I tend to be my heaviest, the scale said 219. Could it be that I’ve finally broke through the plateau I’ve been on for the last year?

So yesterday was my weigh-in day. I looked down and the number between my toes was 217.5!  This morning it was 216. With this progress has come a renewed commitment to my fitness program. Success breeds success.

Of course, winter and my tendency to gain ten or twenty pounds is just around the corner. The good news is that though I didn’t lose any weight last winter, I didn’t gain any either. So I’m hoping that ten pounds I’ve been wrestling with for the last year won’t be turning up again here in…

My Glass House

Seriously, Venting is Not Whining

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The pace sure has picked up for me here in the last month. Seems like there just isn’t enough time for everything I need to do. Even after a week off from my day job, I’m feeling stressed.

Don’t get me wrong–I’m not complaining. I’m grateful for each and every item on my over-full plate. But until I adjust to the additional weight, keeping the plate balanced so nothing falls off the side is going to be a challenge.

As is often the case, it’s not so much one thing as the many. Again, I’m not complaining. My busy would still be a welcome and relaxing change of pace for any mother with children still at home. I’m fully aware that being me is really not that hard. I’m spoiled. But it’s my blog so I’m going to continue to vent. It’s not whining. There’s a difference.

I’m working under a new dean and associate dean at my day job (both of whom I really like), and will have a new department head in January. The transition has meant changes to the normal ebb and flow of work routines I’d settled into over the last fifteen years. Change is good, but requires a lot of adjusting. I have new responsibilities for twenty percent of my time, am wrapping up a big grant project, and just launched a two-year program for middle-school youth all on top of the normal day-to-day stuff.

Figuring out the demands of my role as a soon-to-be-published author has also been a challenge. There’s a lot more to it than I thought! I need to keep making progress on my next book, stay on top of deadlines for the release of Until Thanksgiving, and network with other writers to get my name out there. No doubt I’ll add to this list once my book is released. Figuring out how much time to allocate to these different tasks is going to take a while.

Until a few weeks ago, managing this blog meant sitting down a few times a week for an hour or so to crank something out. There were no real deadlines, so no big deal if I missed a post or two here and there. Not anymore. The new “Meet the Author” feature for Mondays has been expanded to include Thursdays and is booked through this month and into November. And for every guest post you see here, I’ve written one to appear somewhere else. Now that I’m booked so far out, the pressure has eased a bit.

If I’m going to keep writing (and I am), then my participation in the Athens Writers Group is no longer just for fun. I need the feedback. That means I need to read and critique the work of the other writers, too. They all write really well so it’s not a chore–just another thing to squeeze into my routine.

In the last few weeks, It’s been a pleasure to meet writers from the U.K., New Zealand, and numerous states here in the U.S. via email, Facebook, Twitter and the Dreamspinner Press message board. They’ve welcomed me into the family with open arms and been generous with their advice. Having met them, I can’t wait to read the novels they’ve written, but at this point, still haven’t figured out a way to make that happen. But I will.

I didn’t gain any weight over our vacation which means (fingers crossed), I’ve finally vanquished the ten pounds I’ve been wrestling since May of last year. The accomplishment and that it took so long has made saying no and pushing away from the table a little easier.

My exercise program hasn’t completely gone over the cliff. I’ve been hitting the gym for strength training at least once a week–shy of the three I need but better than nothing. I run once or twice a week, and hope to run more now that the weather is starting to cool down some. And with the addition of a new Tuesday class, I’ll get an hour of Zumba in at least three times a week now instead of just twice.

Right now, I need to get up from here and mow. We’ve needed to mow for three weeks but couldn’t because it was raining every time we had the chance. Mowing knee-high bermuda grass is going to keep me busy for the rest of the day, here at…

My Glass House

At the Family Compound

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Vacations mean different things to different people. My favorite getaway is the beach. Relaxing by the water, getting too much sun, and eating seafood every day make for a nice change from normal routines. Nothing else comes close for me.

My partner grew up vacationing in Panama City Beach. His grandmother lives there. Eventually, they added a second story apartment to her home, bought the place next door, and put a swimming pool between them with privacy fence on either end. I call it the family compound. Portions are owned by different people and have changed hands several times without ever leaving the family, the most recent being last year when my partner’s dad made the second building his permanent home. He lives upstairs and uses the downstairs apartment as a guest bedroom.

I came down for the first time in May and couldn’t wait to go back. The weather was perfect–sunny every day but with the breeze, pleasant enough to stay out in the shade all day. Which I did–beneath a big umbrella beside the pool with my MacBook Air in front of me and my dogs at my feet. Yeah. We can bring the dogs which spares all four of us a tremendous amount of anxiety.

Well, maybe not Tico. He’s not a fan of the beach. I suspect his black fur has a lot to do with it–and that he’s perhaps an ounce or two overweight. Toodles loves to travel. She sleeps in the car, does her duty without wasting any time when we stop, and insists on being wherever I am. She’d ride around in the pool on a float with me if I’d let her, but it would make for a really odd tan line.

We piled into the car the last week of July for a week at the compound. Less than 24 hours after we arrived, the phone call came letting me know Dad had passed away. We headed back to Athens first thing the next morning. Part of me was glad. Oppressive heat and humidity had replaced the pleasant weather I remembered from May. Sitting around the pool was miserable. Walking to the beach, impossible.

Labor Day weekend we tried again. Except for Grandma, we’d have the compound to ourselves. Rain, complements of Isaac, accompanied us all the way to PCB and showed no signs of leaving. Oh well, at least we weren’t at home.

I couldn’t get the television to work–something was wrong with the dish. We have cable so I didn’t have the first clue what to do. That’s okay. God must want me to write.

Tired from the drive, I went to bed. No matter how I shifted or positioned myself, I couldn’t get comfortable. It was hot, too. At midnight the thermostat said 78. Something was wrong. We pushed buttons randomly and in different patterns, hoping something would happen. It just kept getting hotter. Tico and Toodles were panting beside me.

Most my thoughts that night revolved around the idea that I was somehow cursed. A vacation was not in the cards. No. For some reason, I was meant to suffer and sweat and be miserable. Not that I’m whiney or anything.

The next morning we figured out that opening the windows would help. It did. My partner figured out how to re-set the dish (he’s still young enough to understand how these things work), and except for local channels, television became an option. By noon, the A/C repairmen had come and gone. The apartment was cooling off, but it still poured the rain.

We went out to eat. I won’t name the place because I’m not going to say nice things about it and I’m really afraid of the ladies who work there. A rougher collection of women you’d be hard-pressed to find outside of bars I’ve always been afraid to enter. I’m pretty sure they moonlight as a roller derby team when the place is closed. I had the house special scallops, no two of which had the same consistency but was afraid to say anything.

The following morning we woke up to clear skies, pleasant temperatures, and a delightful ocean breeze. Aside from a five mile run, a walk on the beach, and trips around the block with the dogs, I’ve been parked beside the pool. And that’s where I’ll stay until it’s time to return to the daily grind back at…

My Glass House

Stop the World!

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Swapping the vacation my partner and I had been looking forward to for Dad’s funeral ended up being a good thing. We were already off work, and since we were driving anyway and had a free place to stay at the beach, changing our plans at the last minute didn’t cost anything. Any other time would have caused problems and posed challenges. All this to say I’m not unhappy that we gave up a relaxing week at the beach. Things have a way of working out for the best.

Already exhausted from the previous weeks activities, I spent the weekend catching up on laundry, mowing, and other chores. My writers group met Saturday, and I managed to squeeze in a few hours of editing on Sunday to address the issues and concerns they raised about chapters nine through twelve of After Christmas Eve. I had to work through the revisions and write 2000 more words by Wednesday’s submission deadline.

Monday morning I had an appointment with my regular doctor at 8:45 for a check-up. There wasn’t as much traffic as I’d expected so I arrived at 8:30. No problem. I took a seat and picked up a magazine to read. At 9:15, I returned to the receptionist and pointed out that I’d been waiting for a full thirty minutes beyond the time of my appointment. She consulted her records and informed me that my appointment was at 9:15. My calendar said 8:45. That’s the time the recorded reminder call gave me, too. WTF?

They call me back and after getting my weight and blood pressure, put me in an exam room to wait for the doctor. Normally, I don’t mind waiting for my doctor because she always takes as much time as I need when it’s my turn. I know she does this with others, and that it causes her to run late. I’m cool with that. But don’t tell me to get here thirty minutes before my appointment–especially when I’ve been away from my office for more than a week and have a hectic week ahead of me.

I wait another thirty minutes before poking my head out into the empty hall. After looking both ways, I head to the right and run into my doctor, tapping away on a laptop in a small office. She assures me she’ll be right in, but it was fifteen minutes later. I got out just in time to make it back to the office for an all-day faculty meeting.

Tuesday I drove down to Tifton, did a one-hour training for about 60 educators, and drove back to Athens. Eight hours on the road pretty much shot the day. I tried to work on After Christmas Eve but didn’t get much done because I was just too tired to concentrate.

Yesterday I had my monthly eye appointment which meant I had to miss our departmental faculty retreat to develop a strategic plan. Damn. I hate when that happens. My retina scan was essentially unchanged from my last visit.  Results seem to show up every-other-visit so I’m keeping my fingers crossed for a better scan next time. Normally I’m out of commission on eye injection day, but yesterday I was able to knock out the 2000 words I needed to have chapters 13-15 ready to submit for critique. I barely finished by the deadline.

I left the house at six o’clock this morning and drove down to Statesboro, just north of Savannah. I repeated my one-hour training for a group of 75 educators then jumped in my car and drove west for three hours to Perry, Georgia for a conference. There’s a reception in another half hour. We’re supposed to wrap up tomorrow by noon.

It’s been a crazy, crazy week. My food choices have been quite a lot less than optimal. I haven’t had time to run or get to the gym. Just as well–all our Zumba instructors are at a big convention in Orlando. That’s okay. I’ll get back on track over the weekend. The second this conference ends, I’m hopping in my PT Cruiser convertible and heading back to…

My Glass House

Keep on Keeping On

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A bunch of age-related health issues hit me around my fiftieth birthday. My BMI (Body Mass Index) was well over 30 (obese), my activity level was zero, and the scale had drifted close to 250 pounds. Even my dress pants had elastic waistbands. Middle-age had caught up with me, taken up residence around my waist, and given me brand new man boobs that jiggled when I walked.

A close call with cancer and a simultaneous brush with adult-onset diabetes were a wake up call. My lifestyle was killing me. Unless I wanted to go on disability, wear a shirt for the rest of my life, and ride around in one of those motorized carts at Walmart, things had to change.

Changing everything about my life has been an ongoing process. It hasn’t been easy, and I’ve often quit. But I’ve never given up. Within a day or two–a week at the most–I’m back on the program. I keep on keeping on because I know what will happen if I don’t.

I’ve stuck with my diet and exercise plan for more than a year now. That’s a record for me. Winter usually throws me way off my game. This year, instead of carb-loading and hibernating, I went to the gym. The gym membership enabled me to maintain a high level of activity that kept me from putting on any weight for the first time in at least 30 winters.

Sticking with the program is easy when I’m seeing results. Success breeds success. When I feel like the diet changes and exercise are making a difference, it’s easier to stick to the plan. If I’m not seeing results and don’t feel like I’m making any progress, I get discouraged. What difference does it make if I eat another donut or order pizza?

There’s just no good way to measure the results. Without a good measure, it’s easy to feel like I’m not making any progress. Now I know that if I’m eating the way I should and exercising for an hour or more five or six times a week, my body changes in positive ways that don’t always show up on the scale.

Focusing on the bathroom scale definitely doesn’t work. My weight has hardly changed in the last year. Fortunately, my trainer checks my measurements every three months. I’ve lost inches in my chest and waist and gained them everywhere else and lowered my percent body fat by four percent. My lab work has improved, too–so much so that I was able to quit taking one of my prescriptions.

There are other changes, too. No more elastic waistbands. My BMI is heading towards normal. I’m a lot stronger, I can run for miles, and thanks to Zumba, I can move my hips like few men my age can do.

Tomorrow is my weigh in day. For the last two mornings, my weight has fallen below 220–the glass ceiling I’ve struggled to break for more than a year. I had a good run today and a fun hour of Zumba.  And to make sure I have a good weigh in tomorrow, I’m heading out now to mow the yard here at…

My Glass House

And Somehow…Results

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Healthy Lifestyle and I are still having trouble getting along. I left the bitch in Georgia when Toodles and I went to Kentucky. There was just too much going on to be bothered with her.

Since I’ve quit paying so much attention, my weight has steadily dropped about a pound a week. The ten pounds I keep gaining back are gone, at least for now. Whether I gain them back or finally move on to the next ten remains to be seen. I’m optimistic.

In the last two months I’ve skipped sessions with my trainer, cut my Zumba time in half, and just about stopped doing any strength training at all. I’m not running as much either, though I have to say, that I’m running at all in this heat impresses the hell out of me. Believe it or not, I enjoy it–once I get through the first three kilometers.

Given how little strength training I’ve done and that I missed our last session (and maybe the one before that), I’d been dreading my session with the trainer this week. I knew he’d make me do hard stuff–like burpees or something equally unpleasant. I started plotting and scheming two days before the session.

I planned to eat up part of our time talking about my trip to the eye doctor and the need to cut back on weight lifting. A quick check revealed it’d been just over three months since we last checked my measurements. That should eat up another five minutes. Men my age have a gift for making things take twice as long as they should. I could probably stretch it to ten. I can get through this.

My percent body fat dropped another two percent–twice as much as in either of the two previous quarters. Back when I was like 27, we checked my body fat before and after an eight-week aerobics class for an hour, five days a week. We did cardio three days and ab work the other two. By the end of the eight week course, my percent body fat had been cut in half.

Now I’m 54–twice the age I was in that aerobics class. I’m about 50 pounds heavier than I was then, too. It takes a helluva lot more work to melt the fat away now. I’ve been doing an hour or more of aerobics for ten months–long enough for four 8-week aerobics classes, reducing my percent body fat by a total of (drum roll please)…four percent.

I gained an inch in my thighs. My shoulders, biceps, and calves were the same as last time. I lost an inch in both my chest and my waist. My trainer says that’s where men store fat. No argument from me.

But I’m totally confused. When it comes to exercise, I thought there was no such thing as too much of a good thing–at least for me, considering my propensity to spend massive amounts of time on my ass in front of a computer or television or both. Could it be that “all things in moderation” applies to exercise? How can that be?

Over-thinking things is one of my many gifts. There are areas where thinking too much is helpful, like writing a novel or developing a new program. But mostly, it just complicates things, making them harder than they need to be.

Since thinking burns no calories, I’m not going to worry about it. Fighting with Healthy Lifestyle works for me. I’ll never embrace her, yet somehow, our rocky relationship works. Guess for now, I’ll let her stay here in…

My Glass House

Ongoing Relationship Issues

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You haven’t read anything about my diet and exercise program since me and Healthy Lifestyle started feuding early last month. I said then that we wouldn’t be having this trouble if she just didn’t expect so much from me. Seriously.

“Fine,” she said. “Do things your way. Remember how that worked for you? Remember where you were back before we met? Is that what you want?”

Lighten up, bitch.

And so it goes. That I know she’s right doesn’t keep me from resenting the way she bosses me around. I mean, really–I’m a grown-ass man.

I’m trying to exercise for at least thirty minutes, six days a week. Trying. I’ve missed a day or two here and there because of either the heat, travel for work, or medical procedures. Most days I manage about an hour.

Why only six days? Because I believe in the biblical imperative for a day of rest. I got the idea to pick the parts I wanted to believe in from the religious right. See, we can learn something from the other side.

I try to run twice a week. If it wasn’t so blasted hot, I’d run more often. Can you believe it?

My strength training program has suffered the most. This week, because of the holiday, I missed my session with the trainer. I worked out on my own last nearly two weeks ago.

Missing strength training bothers me. More than anything else I do, consistently hitting the weights twice a week makes a difference. Beneath all this excess fat is a muscular core just waiting for the chance to show itself.

Even Zumba has taken a hit. One of my regular classes was cancelled. They changed the time on another from 7 to 7:30. Getting home after eight was a stretch. Walking through the door all hot and sweaty at going on 9 just doesn’t work for me.

Every week I still record my weight, but I’ve quit keeping up with the number of Weight Watcher’s points I’m consuming or earning. It was just making me feel bad about myself anyway.

The upshot is that I haven’t completely fallen off the wagon. I might be dragging a leg or two in the dust, but I’m still hanging on. Just keeping it real, here in…

My Glass House