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Alone With Fat Thoughts...And Tom Waits.
16 years ago
Hey y'all. No dual POV tonight.
I'm in a sober humor.
I've been officially hired by this storage company that I've been temp-ing for over the last couple of months, so that's cool. I like the company a lot.
But that's not what's rattling around in my head tonight.
On one of the support calls, I found out that the property manager of one of the company's stores out west is in the hospital again tonight. She's got heart blockages—second time in 2 weeks. More stents. Plus, she's around 115 pounds overweight. I'm told she looks a lot like Mamma Cass. It's bad enough that they've notified her next-of-kin.
I spent the last hour of work tonight thinking about that. And thinking about the fact that, while I'm around 6'2" with a large frame, I'm around 350 pounds. I'm told I don't look that heavy, and I'd have to agree. I don't. Yet.
I'm thinking about the fact that I had about 3 double burgers & 2 sodas for lunch. I'm thinking about the fact that pants with a 50" waist are too tight for me. I'm thinking about how I used to laugh at the Goofy cartoon about overeating & how the main character couldn't see his own feet...and then I wonder with sobering shock when the last time I've seen MY OWN feet when I looked down.
I sit here, with Tom Waits crooning through "Closing Time", a song eminently appropriate for stripping away one's rationalizations, trying to admit to myself...the fact that I am obese.
OBESE.
Damn. It's like a five-letter piece of profanity. I am obese. I am at least a hundred pounds overweight. I can't even bend over to tie my own work boots.
It's disgusting to think that something as mundane as fat is dangerously hampering my quality of life. And it's even more disgusting because I'm the one who let all that fat get there. This is what over 10 years of bad eating habits will get you. There's always free cheddar in the mousetrap, baby.
I don't want to be that woman, lying in an ICU ward somewhere, barely able to comprehend what's going on around me as they stick probes & instruments into my arteries to try to save me from the consequences of my own lifestyle. I don't want to be one of these guys who is snuffed out by a heart attack at 35. I don't want to spend the rest of my life giving myself insulin shots in my stomach because I contracted diabetes.
It's all got to change. Today. Now. It HAS to.
In the morning when I wake up, I'm going to begin walking & doing some kind of exercise 7 days a week. Push-ups, crunches, bent over rowing, things like that. I know I won't be able to do a whole lot, but I've got to start somewhere. And I've got to start making it a regular habit. As regular as grabbing four cheap-ass McDonald's cheeseburgers for lunch has been.
I'm afraid; I'll admit it. I've spent over 10 years being more-or-less complacent-ish, and being comfortable with it. Willpower is going to be the sticking point, I guess; making a change in my lifestyle is easy. Sticking to it, and staying optimistic about it, will be the hard part.
If any of you out there have suggestions to stifle the siren song of a Meatball Marinara Submarino, or exercises that will help burn off this gutzilla of mine, I'd appreciate hearing from you. Wish me luck.
I'm in a sober humor.
I've been officially hired by this storage company that I've been temp-ing for over the last couple of months, so that's cool. I like the company a lot.
But that's not what's rattling around in my head tonight.
On one of the support calls, I found out that the property manager of one of the company's stores out west is in the hospital again tonight. She's got heart blockages—second time in 2 weeks. More stents. Plus, she's around 115 pounds overweight. I'm told she looks a lot like Mamma Cass. It's bad enough that they've notified her next-of-kin.
I spent the last hour of work tonight thinking about that. And thinking about the fact that, while I'm around 6'2" with a large frame, I'm around 350 pounds. I'm told I don't look that heavy, and I'd have to agree. I don't. Yet.
I'm thinking about the fact that I had about 3 double burgers & 2 sodas for lunch. I'm thinking about the fact that pants with a 50" waist are too tight for me. I'm thinking about how I used to laugh at the Goofy cartoon about overeating & how the main character couldn't see his own feet...and then I wonder with sobering shock when the last time I've seen MY OWN feet when I looked down.
I sit here, with Tom Waits crooning through "Closing Time", a song eminently appropriate for stripping away one's rationalizations, trying to admit to myself...the fact that I am obese.
OBESE.
Damn. It's like a five-letter piece of profanity. I am obese. I am at least a hundred pounds overweight. I can't even bend over to tie my own work boots.
It's disgusting to think that something as mundane as fat is dangerously hampering my quality of life. And it's even more disgusting because I'm the one who let all that fat get there. This is what over 10 years of bad eating habits will get you. There's always free cheddar in the mousetrap, baby.
I don't want to be that woman, lying in an ICU ward somewhere, barely able to comprehend what's going on around me as they stick probes & instruments into my arteries to try to save me from the consequences of my own lifestyle. I don't want to be one of these guys who is snuffed out by a heart attack at 35. I don't want to spend the rest of my life giving myself insulin shots in my stomach because I contracted diabetes.
It's all got to change. Today. Now. It HAS to.
In the morning when I wake up, I'm going to begin walking & doing some kind of exercise 7 days a week. Push-ups, crunches, bent over rowing, things like that. I know I won't be able to do a whole lot, but I've got to start somewhere. And I've got to start making it a regular habit. As regular as grabbing four cheap-ass McDonald's cheeseburgers for lunch has been.
I'm afraid; I'll admit it. I've spent over 10 years being more-or-less complacent-ish, and being comfortable with it. Willpower is going to be the sticking point, I guess; making a change in my lifestyle is easy. Sticking to it, and staying optimistic about it, will be the hard part.
If any of you out there have suggestions to stifle the siren song of a Meatball Marinara Submarino, or exercises that will help burn off this gutzilla of mine, I'd appreciate hearing from you. Wish me luck.
My only 2 suggestion are carry fruit into work and whenever you have a break scoff an apple or banana, then at lunchtime you won't want that triple cheeseburger of doom. the second is to park/get off the bus as far away from work as you can then walk in; take an ipod (or similar) with up-tempo songs you like to get you moving.
Oh... and find somewhere else for lunch!