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Weight Loss Is Hard

As in, losing weight sucks. There’s nothing good about my cyclical winter re-fattening.

Here’s how it seems to go: Summertime means running outside. Sunshine. Heat. Lots of summer-ish stuff, moving quickly and doing things for the sheer pleasure of being outside because life seems to really pop once the temperature starts rising.

As a kid in Florida, it was always summer. There was no sense of urgency about nice weather, and thus, activity stayed at a reasonable level year ’round.

Enter my move to “The North”. Now, do to the horrors of Daylight Savings Time, it gets dark sometime after lunch. I feel the urge to eat, get under blankets, and allow our herd of pets to camp out on me like a mountain that occasionally moves and snorts. I gain– without fail- twenty pounds. Then, as the winter wears on, I begin my cycle of yearning for seasonal tomatoes and wishing that it would be hot every day. Unlike normal humans, I prefer it to be hot when I run. I don’t know if it’s some latent form of Protestant self-hatred, but running in the summer is far preferable to the winter.

If I were to run in the winter (a nightmare for me), my nose whistles like a failing radiator, and my lungs fill with ice crystals and/or doom.

Oddly enough, I think I write more in the summer, too– one would think that cozy nights inside would cause a flurry of writing. It doesn’t. I eat cookies and feel moderate shame as I reach the end of the Oreos and give serious consideration to going out for more at 2:00 AM.

I’m going to see if there’s a connection between running, sunshine, and my word count. There has to be something scientific, probably a German word that sounds like a threat, which explains why I emerge from the relative gloom of winter and feel like writing, running, and not eating sixty cookies while looking out the kitchen window t the winter stars wheeling overhead.

My bride and I are having ten year anniversary pictures taken, and I’d like to be in peak form for those. I have a little more than two months.

Let the complaining begin.

A Cover Model Made Me Cry: My Workout Story

I decided to get professional help. I’ve lost a good bit of weight, started lifting again, and was, until today, feeling rather chuffed about it (as the Brits say). I know the reality is different, but in truth—




Last year in one of my classes, I had a student who is a cover model and personal trainer. His name is Fred. He’s a nice guy, as long as he isn’t making you lift weights until you think you might die.

This is Fred.


So naturally, I booked for the full hour of training, because a half hour wouldn’t quite get me that six pack. Fred understood. The appointment was made. I went. I was confident. So is Fred, who I might add, works incredibly hard. Here is Fred being confident:



Oh yeah? Well nobody can outdo the unjust confidence of an aging formerly average athlete. No. One. Stretch? Hydrate? BAH.


Well then. The results were a bit different than I’d anticipated. There was good news– I’m ten pounds lighter than previously thought, thanks to a scale that isn’t clogged with dust bunnies and shame. As for the actual torture workout, it was a bit more challenging than I imagined. 

As in, I was unsure I could drive home. Without dying. Twice.


Oh, and Fred gave me dietary information. He plans regimented meals with a fitness goal in mind:


So my ordinary meals are a thing of the past. I made it home– barely– and now, it’s time to be aggressive about taking care of my body. I’m sure that I’ll be cool in about two or three weeks.
I’m an American. Not an Americant.

*if this blog goes dark, I’m dead from health. please inform my wife. thank you.

Terry