Me on a Diet!

She Touched Me

2011-08-16T23:00:00.003-04:00

Note to self: doing a Google image search for "man getting massage"
with the safe-search off yields nothing but gay fetish porn. Lesson learned.

"Go ahead and undress to you level of comfort and Kathy will be right in."

My level of comfort? Um, so fully dressed? Sort of, you know, over the clothes?
How's Kathy with "fully dressed"? That's what I was thinking.

Alrighty!
That's what I said, like a giant dork-wad. Alrighty?
Alrighty then, I'm ready to be touched therapeutically!

Elsa Lanchester

Oh GOD. This was not the first time I'd had a massage and from Kathy- oh Kathy!- this woman is spellbinding. Kathy is a woman thank Jesus, because I don't think I could have a massage from a man. There would be stirrings and then it would be all over. Kathy is perfect. She is little and stout- think Elsa Lanchester wearing Crocs.

Kathy cuts through the bullshit chit-chat, calls you "baby" and gets her hands right in there. She's no nonsense. She's has a deftness and finesse that are sublime. SUBLIME!

It had been so long since I'd seen Kathy that I stood in the room for about a minute or two fully dressed just staring at all the zen tchotchkes before the receptionist was forced to come in and was all "um, go ahead and get undressed..." Ya gonna stand there all day? STRIP, ya big queen!

When you are fat, you do not want anyone touching you. Not one person, not even if she did play the Bride of Frankenstein in the glory days of Universal Studios. You don't want people touching your back-fat or your grabbing at your hanging arm flab. Or, your FEET, which may or may not be fat, but are still disgusting. When I was at my heaviest, I didn't even connect with my body. I could disassociate like a champ. I never looked in a mirror. I brushed me teeth and washed my face with the bathroom light off.

That disconnect between your sprit and the big fat body it is trapped in is palpable, but not tangible. No touching please. The more weight you lose and the more fit you become, the more you become actual. There is so much time spent being cerebral and witty and "heady" when you are fat. Being kinesthetic is at first like being an anthropologist on Mars.

This road trip has introduced my body to my spirit. What a connection.

Therapeutic Massage Arts-716-885-1581
Ask for Kathy!

Let's get right to it; have you ever had your BUTT massaged? No, right?
It's INSANE. How is this happening? If my butt could talk (and speak French,) it would say MERCI. If my butt could write, a thoughtful thank-you card would be in the mail.
Just yesterday, my butt started a gratitude journal!

Kathy has a way of finding knots you don't know are there and pressing on them with this one-finger technique that is almost accusatory. Think a long, therapeutic poke that says "I know what you've been doing and my very touch will destroy you. I can undo you with a mere TOUCH. BAD MUSCLE!"
OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!OhmyGod!
I was pummelled, kneaded, jiggled and rubbed. At one point, I KNOW THAT I DROOLED.
Drowning out was I'm sure was the soundtrack to The Joy Luck Club, was my inner-monolgue. When she got to my calves and thighs, my rant was reeling. You don't realize how much these muscles have NEVER been touched until, well, someone touches them. They were SCREAMING OUT in bliss, my legs were!

The sound of the pipe and the smell of eucalyptus all faded away and were replaced with a string of OhmyGods and litany of NoSheDi-in'ts! When she flipped me from my back to my front, I truly thought now what in the HELL is she gonna massage all up in here?
She pulled on my head, massaged my whole arms and ready...even did my fingers.
EVEN THE TIPS! I giggled during that part then spontaneously started singing the Theme from Ice Castles. "Please, don't let this feeling end...it's everything I am..."

At one point, I think that I even promised God that I would go to church EVERY DAY if he would just let this go on for even a tiny bit longer. I smelled of rosemary mint and desperation.

Kathy finished with her classic closing line "Baby, we're all done. Come back soon- there's ALOT of work we could still do." Ah Kath, you sweet talker! Thanks baby. I hear you.

Wiping the drool from my face and entering a state of lotion-covered grace, I was completely aware of every muscle in my body. From my temples to my toes, I felt pure gratitude for being lucky enough to reach a stop in my road trip where I would not only let myself be touched, but to do so without giving a shit about what I looked like while it was happening.
This body belongs to ME and I like it.

Every part of it.

Control myself and try to act as if I remember my name.'Cause she touched me. She tuh-uh-uh-ched me. And SUDDENLY...nothing, nothing, NOTHING is the same!

F@#K Me Now

2011-08-12T18:58:00.000-04:00

Mortified. It's the only word I can use to preface this true story from an incredibly ghastly conversation that spun out of control at my parents house.

I was at my mom and dad's having dinner the other night and was about to get up from the dining room chair when my mom quietly said:

"Honey, didn't you want to ask him THAT QUESTION?"
So mysterious, my mother is! My dad put on his DAD voice and his affect changed to one of STRICTLY BUSINESS. Uh-oh.

"FACEBOOK." He said it in all caps, just like he types. All of his emails to me seem to be yelling out with great pride and enthusiasm that he surely doesn't mean to convey.
"YOUR FACEBOOK."
My mom didn't let him even finish when she blurted out "are you in there as Shaun Doyle or Shaun Doyle JR?" She had her right eyebrow raised into her forehead and had the pursed-lip-anger-mouth goin'. This was gonna be a doozie.
JR.
"Then, well, tell him honey..."
"Somehow EVERYTHING you put up on YOUR FACEBOOK ends up on MY FACEBOOK."
I knew where this was going and it wasn't good.
Um...how so?
My mother had to get in on it again and said in her best Sicilian, former school-teacher, Roman Catholic tone...
"TELL HIM ABOUT THE FOUL LANGUAGE."
Shit. Now I was SURE about where this was going and I wanted to shrink myself down to one inch and flee the room undetected. But HOW?
"I'm not sure HOW, but everything your friends write shows up on MY FACEBOOK and, well, some of it is, uh..."
"FOUL LANGUAGE honey, tell him what that one person said."
Oh, I knew. It was only a matter of time before all worlds began to collide and my parents were let into the world of FOUL LANGUAGE that is my facebook page. You can't NOT accept your own father's "friending" right? Oy! My mom was getting all meshugganeh. And my dad?

My DAD read this...and MORE!

My dad. The kind, wonderful man who I aspire to be more like every day I am on this earth says to me. At our family dining room table.
"Well, one of they guys said something like, I don't know, uh... FUCK ME NOW.
Please Lord Jesus, just kill me. Take me now, just as I am.
It's been a great life, but my dad-see- just said:
FUCK ME NOW.
OUT LOUD. IN FRONT OF MY MOTHER!
Inside, I was pretty much freaking the fuck OUT. It was parent-teacher conferences, failing grades and getting caught smoking all rolled into one. I remember the first time my parents heard me say THE F WORD. I was playing with the neighborhood kids and I called one chump a FUCKER and- little did I know- my mom was sitting in her car with the window open. I was not allowed to watch Different Strokes for a month!
So, pretty much my father just said FUCK ME NOW out loud at the dinner table.
What could be worse?

I'll tell you. On the Top 10 list of things you NEVER ever want to hear you parents say, FUCK ME NOW comes in just a close second on the list, right next to CUM GUTTERS, which I was also pretty sure was said on this facebook thread as well. Notice I didn't BOLD that little descriptor. It's just that horrible. Seriously, fuck ME now. This is out of control.
All of that was just a quick blip in my head, and the 40 year old me said calmly "eh, we're all adults. I'm certain you've heard worse." Good one, huh?

My mom then said with the most disapproving look EVER,"He wasn't saying that to YOU, was he, honey?"
NO! God no, mom- it was about Adam Levine from Maroo- ah, just NO mom. Not me. HELP!?
I explained to my dad that since he only had like 20 friends, his whole News Feed was primarily MY posts.
"Hah?" That's all my mom could muster. "Hah," used as a means of bemused interrogation.
"Your WHAT feed? Is that your WALL?" asked my dad.

My mom kept at it. "Now, is it a real wall. What are you talking about?"

I assured my poor father that his golf buddies and old compadres from the Seminary could not see his News Feed. Seriously, I just wanted to cash in my chips at this point.
The next 15 minutes were spent desperately PROVING to my folks that their elderly pals weren't going to see the filthy ribaldries that populated my "wall" and they looked more than relieved.
"You need to tell your friends to 'watch it'!" my mom quipped.
Oh, okay mom. I sure will.

The good old days. You know the ones; the ones before
my father had facebook and also before my DAD said
FUCK ME NOW out loud at the dinner table. Yeah.
THOSE old days.

This was so INCREDIBLY surreal, I honestly didn't know what to do or who to call first.
As I walked out and down the driveway, my sweet wonderful parents stood at the door waving like they always do. They wave until I turn the corner in my car. Always.

I need you to know that I and MORTIFIED! I called this out just as I was getting into my car. "Eh, don't worry buddy- I've heard worse." my dad called back.

Yeah right. Sure you have.
The only thing I could think to say under my breath was, of course:

Ahhhhrgh...FUCK ME NOW!

The moves that started it ALL!

I HEART Paula's Donuts

2011-08-10T21:04:00.001-04:00

I would literally shove an old lady into the STREET to get at a Paula’s Donut!

Today, I said this AND I don’t apologize for it. I know it sounds sorta mean, but…

Add caption

YOU’VE NEVER HEARD OF PAULA’S DONUTS? While there is no need to commit an act of homicide-as they are readily available for purchase-you may find yourself doing some fucked up things to get a box of them. Short of an actual senseless murder, you might leap off your couch half dressed and get in your car in the wee hours because you think they might be open 24 hours. When you get there armed with your debit card, you see the hand written sign that says coldly- CASH ONLY.

FUCK ME! You scramble for cash, search for any ATM and act like a crazy person.
And when I say "you," you know I mean me.

Gorgeous Peanut Sticks. These fuckers weigh at LEAST a pound. Beautiful Toasted Coconut Donuts; flakes of coconut clinging to the glaze. Perfect Glazed Sourdough- I swear they're almost juicy. Chocolate Angel Cream that is literally made by actual ANGELS.

FROM HEAVEN.

This place it like magic. It’s Oz seen in Wonkavision.

It’s the sucrose Shangri-La of donut deliciousness.

It’s no longer CASH ONLY with Paula- I literally just called- but, they close at 10pm. Don't say I didn't tell ya.

If you don’t live in Buffalo, New York- get your ass on a plane and meet me at Paula’s Donuts. I’ll buy. If we’ve never met you’ll know me at a glance; I’m the one rolling an old lady onto Kenmore Avenue for a crack at a GLAZED CRULLER.

Sam, You Made The Pants Too Long

2011-08-07T12:15:00.000-04:00

Samuel Beckenstein's on the Lower
East Side. This is where he made the
pants too long.

Some little boys are just, well...super gay from day one. I was one of those boys.

When I was about five years old, I almost wore out my parents Barbra Streisand's Greatest Hits album. I played it and sang along, danced and mugged in front of our ginormous faux-wood floor stereo. Second only to my melodramatic rendition of People, Sam, You Made The Pants Too Long was really a living room show-stopper! I wore out our shag carpet doing dances!

What was a little Catholic boy in the mid-1970's doing camping it up to a 1930's novelty tune that gives a Yiddish wink-a-la to Lower East Side schmatta? Fucked if I know. What I do know is that I can still sing that song at the drop of a kapelyush!

Sam, you made the pants too TIGHT. Um, Sam...you made the pants too SMALL. Sam, your sizes must run small? I can barely shimmy into these pants, Sam. Fuck you, Sam.

See, the lyrics change as we get older and bigger, but the pants never lie. They remain a constant barometer to how we're doing. The clothes don't lie.

At the same time we could be blowing up our pantalones, we might be dropping pounds. Or, the opposite could happen and while we're staying the same at our weigh-in, our trousers could be draggin', slowly draggin', through the streets.

I am setting a new goal. My closet is full of pants, from waist size 38 to a willowy 32 inch pair. Those, Linda recommends, I should hang on my closet door as motivation. Let them stare me down, taunt me, even! I will fit into these pants and I will feel fantabulous in them. I'll even take a picture of them and make them my iPhone home screen. Whatever it takes.

Pants can be too long. They can also bust at the button, rub a the thighs and pack you in like some sort of denim sausage. Nobody wants this.

Sam, make the pants a 32 inch- low- rise- slim- cut...oh, and please feel free to objectify me in them.

Ya know what I mean, Sam?

I'm Just Not That Into You

2011-08-04T20:10:00.003-04:00

Let's play a game; name things that are FLAT. Okay, let's see...
My affect.
My attitude.
A PLATEAU!

I remember learning about basic earth science in grade school and being thrilled at the sight of mountains, plains and plateaus. So regal; so magnificent.
So what?

I have plateaued. It's been a long time since I have seen any significant weight loss on the scale. While it's fine to talk about how muscle weighs more and how my body is changing in so many incredible ways- I've STOPPED LOSING WEIGHT. I'm falling out of love with Weight Watchers and right now- I'm just not that into it. All the signs are there, just like in the episode of Sex and the City that launched that unnecessary phenomenon. "He just not that into you." Weight Watchers and I lack that zazazu. How can I get it back?

Well, today at my meeting, Linda asks "what's new?" I threw my hand up and revealed what I just told you- that I have plateaued and that because of it, I was falling out of love with the program. I winced as I said it and was wracked with guilt. Who could predict the maelstrom that was coming next? I knew I was in trouble when Linda grabbed a scented marker and headed to the flip-chart. SHIT!

Not the flip-chart.

"How many of you know why people plateau?" Some hands went up, but Linda cut right to it; people plateau because they're not really following the program anymore. They play it fast and loose and THINK that they are doing Weight Watchers, but they get too relaxed. I knew this was not going to go my way.

Linda told us that when people get to the scale and don't lose weight, she asks them "did you follow the program?" and people reply with a confident YES! Following the program, however, is more than just point counting. Suddenly, she was instantaneously asking me these dubious "10 Questions" that I have never heard of, to see if I was really following the program.
I'M DOOMED!

Are you counting all of your points?
No. This was already tanking.
You bought that Weight Watchers scale. Do you use it, or is it just sitting there collecting dust.
At this point, my hands were on my face and I was doing that combination laugh/cry.
I NEVER USE IT, I screamed out. This was a disaster.
Fuck the other seven questions, we have our answer. I have plateaued because I'm not really following the program right now. But, why?

I've slowly been falling out of love with Weight Watchers. Linda said that the romance has ended and now it's like a real marriage. I was starting to get it.
There's blame and apathy and rage and boredom. I need the spark back. I need Weight Watchers to wine me, dine me, sixty-n...well, you get it.

How did this happen? Linda knew even when I didn't. She looked me in the eye and said "I know why this is happening Shaun. I know you. Do you want to know?" I said SURE, but as soon as I said it I knew that I may not be ready to hear.

"You set a goal... and you didn't meet it. When you first started this road trip, you said 'I'm going to lose 75lbs by the time I'm 40.' You have done a million other things- you have run a 5K, you started boxing, changed the way you eat, many incredible things have happened to you- but you didn't lose the weight you thought you would. I know you Shaun, and it bothers you."

True. True. This is true, even though I thought I could never admit it. I'm disappointed.

"So, you know what you do?" she asked.
"YOU GET OVER IT! MOVE ON AND SET A NEW GOAL."

Fuck, am I glad I didn't blow off this meeting! I thought about it, I truly did. See, this IS like a relationship. If this is going to be like a marriage at this point, I have to take the "for better or for worse" maxim to heart. I can't give up just because the spark may have dimmed or because it's gotten tough. I'm in this and I can't stop now. I made a commitment. Now, I have to remember all the reasons I love this road trip when I first started.

Admitting that I'm upset that I didn't reach my final destination when I turned 40 is tough. I wanted to be bigger than that. My disappointment has been lying just under the surface and I have been letting it fuck me up. So now I've admitted it...and I'm going to get over it.
Life is tough, relationships are tough and this road trip is tough. I can take it, because I'm tough too.

I'm getting off this plateau and turning around so I can start driving up the mountain again.

For better or for worse.

I ate the whole loaf, babe...

2011-07-29T20:18:00.000-04:00

I ate an entire loaf of bread from the Coop yesterday.

THE WHOLE FUCKING LOAF.
It was fresh and soft with roasted cloves of garlic all up-in-it. It was supposed to be for dinner. It started in the car before I ever pulled out onto the street. It never had a chance.

The Coop was still in my rear-view mirror when I ripped off a chunk with a fury. I walked in the house with a loaf of crusty bread with a huge chunk missing- and I was covered in crumbs. I'm a CLASS ACT!

I cooked some Mama Rosie's Ravioli and some "nice sauce" and when it was done, placed a chunk of bread on each plate. No knife- I just tore off a gorgeous chunk. I called from the kitchen:
"Do you want bread babe?"
"No, I'm good."
So I ate Eric's chunk of bread with a quickness like it was never even there.

We ate our low fat, whole wheat ravioli and I kept running to the kitchen to get more bread.
I just ripped it off the loaf like so many lusty barbarians.

When we were done, I leapt up and proclaimed I'll do the dishes! While at first I seemed domestic and wonderful, I really just wanted to take the rest of the bread and WIPE the remaining sauce up from the pot. The INDIGNITY. I even dipped it in parmigiano reggiano cheese methodically a la Dom DeLuise in FATSO.

Standing in my kitchen literally PANTING, I came out of my roasted-garlic-induced swoon to see a pile of crumbs, an almost clean sauce pan and a limp, empty bread bag.

WHAT KIND OF A FILTHY ANIMAL ARE YOU? I said this with a catch in my voice. Eric heard me and called out "what babe?" from the other room. I yelled back "Oh, I'm just doing the dishes." Shitty cover-up. I'm a terrible liar.

While we were lying in bed, e turned to me in the dark and asked "babe, did we finish all that bread?"

Yeah. Yeah, WE finished all the bread. Rolling over completely mortified, I burped and very quietly said "AGITA." The heartburn that followed was epic.

I ate a whole loaf of bread yesterday. Each belch is still an affront.
I had to confess to you. You needed to know.

The classic Bread-Sauce-Cheese Dunk in action!

Weight-Kitchen. Fit-Gym.

2011-07-27T19:51:00.001-04:00

Say it very ME TARZAN. YOU JANEish and you're bound to remember this advice. Here's the unabridged version. "You lose weight in the kitchen and get fit in the gym. Not the other way around, buddy."

Okay, maybe Linda didn’t say “buddy” at the end, but I felt the need to punctuate it somehow. Linda was responding to my reaction to not losing weight during a week where almost literally busted my ASS working out.

What the FUCK? were my exact words.
Linda said “You seem surprised, were you not expecting this?”

Next came the list of all the grueling physical activities that I endured during the week. I ran and lifted and boxed and crunched and punched…and in this HEAT yet!

She reminded me of this very simple equation.
Lose weight in the kitchen. Get fit in the gym. Let’s really dissect this one.

The BOUNTY!

You lose weight in the kitchen. That would mean that there is some cooking going on in that kitchen Linda’s referring to. The kitchen, huh? That’s where the refrigerator is, I know that much. Abbey once said “the refrigerator is that big thing where I store my water” and I almost spit out my iced coffee all over her. If you look in our fridge on any given day you will see a lone Brita Pitcher sitting in isolation on the middle shelf.
So embarrassing! I wish that my kitchen were more like the one in the Weight Watchers collateral. Baskets spilling over with fresh fruit. A refrigerator near ta BURSTIN’ with lean meats, scads of Greek yogurt and the crispest of locally grown vegetables.

There would be nary an inch of space on my counters, what with the food scale, measuring cups and well-worn cookbooks everywhere.In reality there is nary an inch, but that’s because there is mile high KITSCH: from Funny Face mugs, to gimcrack trivets to vintage New York World’s Fair glassware covering every surface.

True, you lose weight in a kitchen- just maybe not THIS kitchen.

You get fit in the gym. Time Magazine published this article two summers ago:
Why Exercise Won't Make You Thin

The myth that the more you work out the more pounds you shed is turned upside-down in this article and at the time I read it, I remember saying with absolute glee “see, it actually makes you GAIN weight because you leave HUNGRIER than when you walked in. FUCK GYMS. I’m not ever going again." It went something like that.

Your clothes know. They will tell you what's happening, even if the scale doesn't. Nothing tells you loud
and clear like a FUCKING SWIMSUIT!

Truth is that you truly don’t lose weight at the gym. What DOES happen is that your heart gets stronger, your mind gets clear and your muscles get bigger and more defined. It helps us prevent disease and makes us sexy- maybe not in that order. The TIME article confirms what Linda told me at the scale. “In short, it's what you eat, not how hard you try to work it off, that matters more in losing weight. You should exercise to improve your health. You should eat less to lose weight.”

Huh! Albert Einstein said "Make everything as simple as possible, but not simpler." Parsimony is defined as behaving simply and economically. I dig the concept.

Kitchen. Gym. That's it.
We can change it to meet our needs.

Microwave ( for Lean Cuisine eatin') and living room floor ( for workout DVD's.) Whatever. Just don't mix them up.

Keep it parsimonious.

Find a Way

2011-07-23T15:15:00.000-04:00

This is not an early Jackson Pollack or a detail of a Clyfford Still painting. It's not a satellite photo of a galaxy far from earth either. This is the floor of the boxing gym at KC's- more specifically, the floor AFTER an hour of class. SCHIFIO!

If you look closely, you may notice that it is covered in sweat and were you to walk on it for even a moment, you would take note that,
HEY, this floor is slippery as FUCK...
WITH OTHER PEOPLE'S SWEAT!

When class started, Pietro let us know that he is well aware that the floor is slippery and that about half of us are going to be talking about it for the entirety of the hour. He also said that he's tired of hearing about it and that we need to get past it. Oh. Um...see, to me, when the floor is slippery my mind goes right to "see that? I bet class is cancelled. He's bound to cancel class. It's too hot to box anyway. This HEAT! This must be some sort of OSHA violation, right? Who knows what sort of pathogens we'll be rolling in later. It's okay; GREAT SEEING EVERYONE!"

Of course, that is not what this place is all about. It is certainly not what Pietro is all about either. This place takes people like me who will use the blistering heat or the slimy floor as mitigation to be lazy and "gets our minds right."

What if I fall? It's gross! This is completely disgusting and I've completely run out of metaphors for being hot ( and for ME to run out of metaphors, well...)

I took the class. I trusted Pietro even when I didn't trust myself to make it. After he let us know that bitching about the floor was not an option, he let us know that we should take this as an opportunity to find another way to connect to the floor- another way to move. Yes, the floor is greasy, but what of it? Be alert, be creative and find another way. At first I thought; has he no HEART? And then I learned something big.

At the end of the workout I was soaked...and happy. I found another way to connect and while doing so, I found yet another way to get through some light adversity. Let's call it "adversi-lite!"

Things are going to suck OUT LOUD sometimes and we are going to want to bail.

Pietro challenged us to just find another way then. Just, you know, figure it out! He gave us alot of credit as thinking adults and he was correct. There is always a way and we can adapt. Modify parts of this diet-this exercise-your road trip, to make it work. Just don't stop.
Who gives a shit if the floor is slippery? You'll live. Even if you fall, so what. Get up!

Just make it work for you. Stop complaining and find another way. I heard him loud and clear. I made it through without falling or giving up and THAT makes the floor, slick and nasty as it is, more profound and beautiful to me than any gallery painting could ever be.

Clyfford Still- 1949

Believe in Yourself

2011-07-18T22:39:00.011-04:00

I was talking to someone new at work today about how to get to and from some of our different locations. As I talked about jumping on the interstate, hopping onto the expressway or getting off of the New York State Thruway, slowly she began to screw up her face until it froze into a familiar grimace. It's the I DON'T DRIVE ON THE THRUWAY face. People who make this face will go to ANY extreme to avoid the high-speed Autopia that is the New York State Thuway. People drive back roads and side streets because they are terrified of the goings on that come with driving on the fast roads.

There is risk, danger and sometimes intrigue! Once, a truckload of live poultry overturned right near a local toll plaza. Chicken and roosters were running wild and cars were swerving right off the road to avoid the little cluckers. The headline read TRUCK ACCIDENT DUMPS THOUSANDS OF CHICKENS ON BUFFALO THRUWAY. What a headline! You can't make this shit UP!

I heard that they even set up a veterinary TRIAGE on the roadside to mend there little legs and beaks. If it's not chickens run amok, its maniacs who drive like they are extras in 1976's turkey, Gumball Rally. They shoot past you and tailgate you and give you the finger while they do it. Well mannered people can become dirty and lowdown at high speeds.

So, I get the face. This woman is going to be late all the time, or at least have to leave like a half an hour earlier because like so many people around here, "she doesn't 'do' the Thruway."

My first instinct was to just say- LADY, DO THE THRUWAY. Just fucking do it. You'll be glad you did. Then, I realized that every road trip, literal or otherwise, needs not to happen in conjunction with a major panic attack. It'll clearly fuck the WHOLE thing up. She's not okay with it and I better back off. This "I don't do the Thruway" thing happens alot around here. I need to perfect my response. What I said was, oddly, BELIEVE IN YOURSELF!

I don't know her; it just flew out of my mouth. Could the dreaded unwanted HUG be next?

Being who I am, immediately Lena Horne as the Good Witch from the (highly underrated) urban telling of The Wizard of Oz, The Wiz came to mind.

Why wouldn't it, right? I'm talking to a stranger about the dangers of the NYS Thruway and BAM! in a big gay flash, here's Lena Horne surrounded by celestial, adorable black babies floating in the cosmos. What if I started to undulate and point and make the INSANE faces Ms. Horne makes in this show-stopper? The lady may have fallen to the ground or burst into tears, just like Diana Ross does. SO MOVING!

The road can be so frightening that it's often paralyzing. Whether it's finding the motivation to start, continue or most terrifying- complete the trip (what then!?)- there are white-knuckle moments in front of us. Our road trip requires a little drama and colossal belief in yourself.

It takes courage, brains and lots of heart.

I'm not even HALF as demonstrative as Glinda the Good.
Just watch and listen and get yourself onto the road. Stay in the slow lane for as long as you feel safe. It's okay. Just get out there and drive.

Believe in yourself, as I believe...in you.

Okay, turn this way up and let Lena the Good convince you to take some risks and just believe. If this celestial show-tune doesn't inspire you to at least try the metaphorical expressway, I'm coming over with a dozen babies in a head piece and reenacting this myself!

Don't TEST ME!

Before the Parade Passes By

2011-07-15T18:24:00.002-04:00

Strange days indeed.

I am not running in the Buffalo Subaru Chase today and I THINK that it's bothering me! I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know. I was training to run this 4 mile race for a few weeks, but didn't truly feel ready. Kelly, my friend-cousin-running partner, hurt her foot on Wednesday and sent me a text message.

Don't hate me. I hurt my foot. I think it's bad. I hope you're not disappointed. I'm not running the Subaru Chase. So SORRY!

Disappointed? I was THRILLED!

THANKYOUSWEETBABYJESUS! It's fucking hot, I'm tired and didn't think I was ready. I mean sure, I hoped Kelly wasn't seriously hurt but believe me I was NOT DISAPPOINTED.

"Oh NO, that's TERRIBLE!" smacked of deception. "BUMMER about the race" screamed perjury! I'm a guilt-free guy, and I let her know I was secretly glad about the race.

The parade. IT'S PASSIN' BY!

Today is the race. It goes right by my street, so a bunch of us are going to watch the runners. And when I say "watch the runners" what I REALLY mean is check out shirtless hotties.

Yup, that's what I mean. That part isn't the strange part.

The curious part of this is that I really wish I were running. I could run alone; I thought about it and even considered running without telling anyone about it. Me and the course. Then I would just walk home. It is almost 90 degrees out, even at 6:00pm.

My partner is injured and will not be there. It's one more mile than I'm used to and I CRAMP UP in the heat.

I still want to run; I can't shake it. I can't help but feeling that I'm missing out on something.

Am I going fucking nuts?

I'll let you now how I feel when I see all the people run past in about an hour. Maybe I'm wrong, but I know myself pretty well. I bet that without even knowing it, I'll start singing Before the Parade Passes By. If that IS what I'm singing, I'll know that I have changed more than I could have EVER reckoned.

Epilogue:
Nope. I was wrong. Didn't miss a thing. I actually said that I needed to "really explore" what I was feeling as I watched the runners dash by. It was a short exploration. I felt sad for them, as they were disgusting and gasping for air in the humid air. Like running in a vacuum.
We made the right choice. I felt nothing. I'm glad we didn't run.

YAY! I haven't changed THAT much!

A Spoonful of Sugar

2011-07-14T17:29:00.000-04:00

Okay, do I need to start eating with a WEIGHTED SPOON?

Last night I was feasting on four cheese dip and pita chips when I realized that I HAD NOT STOPPED dipping and eating for almost a half an hour straight and in FRONT OF PEOPLE yet! Sometimes with certain foods I go into a sort of blackout or fugue state where I travel to another world and by the time I “come to” I have eaten everything. All of it. That’s right- EVERYTHING.
ALL OF IT!

Practicing self-control, being mindful and present and not looking at the clock are NO MATCH for two things.

SALT and SUGAR.

Sugar and the taste of sweet treats stimulate the brain by activating beta endorphin receptor sites.These are the same chemicals activated by heroin and morphine.

HEROINE AND MORPHINE! It's true. I looked it up!

"Can I tempt you with a 'Chicken in a Biskit"?

Mankind’s maniacal craving for salty goodness has created- ready? - an "ANCIENT INSTINCT" for it. An ancient instinct for salt. REALLY? Who knew my love affair with pizza flavored Combos had its roots in the ancient world. Did the centurions in Rome get all crazy over those peanut butter filled pretzel bites before battle? Imagine a row of Chinese ancients along the Great Wall chompin’ on Pringle after loaded PRINGLE CHIP! This shit is DEEP!

My 70's childhood tastes
just like chicken- in a
BISKIT!

These addictions cannot be stopped by regular means, short of rehab, and just when I thought that I’d exhausted my options, I remembered an old group home trick we use to slow people right the FUCK down.

Behold, ADAPTIVE EATING EQUIPMENT!

Has it come to this?

Sure, they’re clunky but they get the job done. In my years working with people that have developmental disabilities, I have seen people eat so fast it’s almost a blur, like in those cartoons where legs move so fast they become a mere circle of wild motion. Why, it's hypersonic!

Some of these folks' “rate of consumption,” as it’s called in the biz, is so fast, the human eye can barely detect it.

Note the mere circle of
WILD MOTION!

These cutie patooties sure can eat, and at the very speed of light! I can honestly say I have NEVER seen anything like it. The laser like focus on the food- you don’t DARE interrupt them- is much like that of a skilled surgeon. A surgeon who is working at about mach 5.

What to do? Introduce spoons and forks with weights in their handles so that these sweethearts have a chance to slow it up a bit, forced by the sheer crippling weight of their utensils. Brilliant, huh? For those special times when I am devouring snacks sans utensils, I could strap on cumbersome wrist weights before I plunge into the bag or box. You think I'm kidding, right? Um...

They come in different degrees of weight and the point it so make it so arduous and galling to hoist that truss of a fork from plate to mouth that you slow yourself or just collapse from fatigue. People who need this type of “life solution” are either spastic or infirmed or incapable of any self-regulation.

The elderly. The disabled. The spastic. The 40 year old gays.

Too Hot to Exercise?

2011-07-10T16:35:00.006-04:00

Yes.
That "yes" comes fast and quick without even a sliver of a second to think. Yes. It's too fucking hot to exercise. Whenever I see something like this and answer that fast, I think of this amazing scene from The Golden Girls. About one minute into this clip, Blanche asks Sophia to think "long and hard" before she answers.
Am I Ugly?

Sophia Petrillo's rapid-fire YES was as instantaneous as mine when I read the Weight Watchers for Men article headline. Too Hot to Exercise?

Too Hot to Exerciseyes. See how fast? You barely caught the pause.

This weekend the temperatures were in the mid to high 80's. Part of my soul dies whenever the mercury reaches 80 degrees. After reading this article I know that working out when the temps are in the 90's and above- actual CELLS begin to die, and those fuckers don't regenerate!

I have workin' out to do. This Friday I plan on doing a 4 mile run and I want to finish the race. Seeing as I have never run 4 miles before, I think that it might be smart to give that a go before I try to do it "live" in front of a cheering audience. Typical of how I usually operate, I ran without warming up or drinking any water before, during or even after. Had I read the "Too Hot" article, I would have learned that warming up before you work out in the heat, and -surprise- drinking water before, during AND after are essential. Yup, I bet that's true.

The morning started at KC's Fitness where, I'm pretty sure, my fingertips were actually sweating. KC's isn't air conditioned, in fact I have in the past compared the air quality to that of a sweaty crotch. I say it with love.

My fingers? They were bloated up like little Vienna Sausages and were like little nubs coming out of my wraps. One woman at the gym looked at me, sweating like a meatloaf, and said with concern "are you okay?"

"Yeah, I'm just bloated!" I reassured her. We boxed and punched and jumped rope and ran flights of stairs. I was literally SOAKING WET.

In the afternoon, running 4 miles had to happen. Let's go back to that article? Too hot to exercise? Don't insult me with your inane questions, Weight Watchers for Men. YES, YES it's too hot for the love of all that's holy. "Avoid running between the peak hours of 11am to 4pm, when the sun could cause heat exhaustion and even heat stroke?"
So, I'll pick you up at 2pm, says Kelly. C'est parfait!

Okay, I wasn't at my best. Almost the MINUTE we started running...CRAMPCRAMP! We walked-jogged the rest of the way. What should I do? Kelly said her husband, the handsome FrenchTriathlete Eric (pronounced eh'reek!) recommends drinking WATER.
The cramp means you may be dehydrated. Oh, really?
I am an asshole.

Next time, I will prepare. That seems to be the answer. Just like in Weight Watchers. Plan your meals, Linda says. Huh?
Working out when it is a humid, sultry, scorcher out ain't pretty. Your hair is dripping. Your arms-slimy. Eyes? BURNING. I won't even talk about that feeling you get when there's sweat slowly creeping down your but-crack. Feeling not-so-fresh- okay there, we seem to be talking about it. NASTY- all of it.

Sexy.

There are some things that REALLY help you to get through it though.

Brave.

Sexy people. Shallowyes. Said with a quickness a la Sophia Pertrillo. Many, many sexy people run and work out and hey- sweaty people are sort of, well- hot!
WHATEVER. IT. FUCKIN'. TAKES.

There is also this feeling of accomplishment you don't get when you work out in an air-conditioned or temperate climate. Yeah, there's that too! It's like telling the whole world "I made a CHOICE to be out here-I have great endurance! Look at me- I brave the elements and win! Sure, it's hot but I want to be out with the brave sexy people so that I can BECOME...a brave, sexy person!" Too hot to exercise? Why OF COURSE it is, but I'll do whatever it takes to be among the brave and the sexy.

Here they come! The brave and the sexy!

Racing with the Clock

2011-07-05T23:14:00.002-04:00

When you're racing with the clock. When you're racing with the clock!

And the second hand doesn't understand that your back may break and your fingers ache
and your constitution isn't made of rock!

It's a losing race when you're racing with the- racing, racing, racing, with the clock!

"Your mother sucks CLOCKS in HELL!"

Whenever I try not to look at the clock at the gym, it's like my head and neck get all possessed by the same demon that got Regan MacNeil in The Exorcist. Pazuzu, wasn't it? My head just twirls on its axis and cranks itself toward the clock without warning or Tubular Bells playing in the background.

How long is left in this workout? Are we almost done? Oh good grief! When do I turn 40? Oh, I did already? SHIT. How long have we been running?
Is that the finish line?

Are we there yet?

What I want to tell you is that I have been able to finally exhibit some self-control in this arena and sort of "practiced" myself into not looking at the clock. It's RIGHT THERE on the wall, often right above Pietro, Marisa or Max's head while they are giving the next combination. I can see it in my periphery and it takes great effort not to lay my eyes on it- but I don't.

HOW IT HAUNTS ME! LEAVE ME ALONE, CRUEL BASTARD CLOCK!

I'm a clock-watcher from way back, but of late, I can go through the whole hour in class without looking at that god-forsaken clock. I feel powerful. I know it's there, and I'm tempted as fuck-ALL, but I don't look. It's like I'm strengthening this medically undocumented self-control muscle that is somewhere in my brain. Could I transfer this skill? That has yet to be determined. I was not very successful staying away from Chicken Wing Dip yesterday. It consumed me, and was made even more easy to down with the addition of those adorable Tostito's SCOOPS!

To date, I'm powerless against it.

Baby steps.

The hour at the gym FLIES BY and I am always amazed that I didn't look. I even sort of threaten people during the workout- "I have not looked at the clock ONE TIME, do NOT tell me what time it is!" Then I sneer at them, to frighten them off. That last part has very little effect on people, but it adds the desired touch and I AM wearing boxing gloves, so...

I think that if I can train myself not to race with the clock to get through an hour of working out, I can make this work elsewhere. I really do.

I used to look at it the WHOLE time, but realized that was not really the point. Soon, I was holding out until about 15 minutes before the end of class. I couldn't resist!
Now, I'm pretty much clock-free! It has to be the same type of self control it takes to live in the moment and be fully present. This must be the same type of self-control people muster up to fool themselves into finishing marathons and to say NO to food, drugs and alcohol when they know they simply can't stop at "just one." If it's not, hell- it's got to be close.

The more I DON'T look at the clock, the stronger I feel. Maybe I'm wrong, but the stunned look that I get EVERY TIME I don't obsess with the clock and how many more minutes are left, the more I make my "HMMMMMPH!" face. You know that face, right? Your eyebrows go WAY up into your hairline and your mouth turns down into that prideful upside-down smile. You even give a nod so quick it's almost imperceptible to the human eye. The "hmmmmmph!" face is most often hard won. I love that face!

It's the same face you make when you lose 3lbs in a week, finish a race, or "pass" on a beautiful cannoli (with rainbow sprinkles and chocolate chips even!)

I'm just about through racing with the clock.
Maybe my constitution IS made of rock sometimes.

Is yours?

Big Mac

2011-07-01T18:41:00.002-04:00

So, I came across this headline:

"It's Always Sunny" star Rob Mc Elhenney gains 50 lbs. for show- Hopes to make character funnier!

Read the article from Jezebel.com.
What's So Funny About Fat?

AAAARRRRRRGGGGH! I'm so conflicted! Is this dedication to ones craft or insanity? I love It's Always Sunny if Philadelphia and don't want to be mad at it. It could be brilliant or incredibly insensitive. What do I do?

Oh boy. All I could think of was that the laughter will cease immediately when Rob decides fat isn't that funny anymore and he has to lose that same hysterical 50lbs. I HATE stumbling on articles like this for so many reasons I can barely get my head around it.

Untucked and blousey. Manscaped Beard.
It's the funny, fat dude's uniform.

How funny are fat people? The ones I know, and I include myself here, aren't all that giggly about it. There is great pain in self-deprecating humor. Fat jokes and targeting fatties seems to be one of the last great comic hold-outs, right up there with fag jokes and calling people "retards." It slips under the radar somehow. One website says Mac -50lbs heavier- will be funny, because hey, "it’s fat people. Deep down inside, you know that fat people are funny."
Jesus, help us.
Some viewers have lamented "now he looks like every other American" and "that's sad! He used to be the hot one, but now he's FAT :( "

Fat dudes are fun and can take it! It's just a joke! Why are you so fucking sensitive. I was only joking, okay? These words have been said to me by family members, friends and even strangers.

Everyone was in on the joke, except for me.

People have poked at my belly, asked me "When's the baby due?" or "What happened to Weight Watchers?" and even been kind enough to inform me "You've put on alot of weight!" OUCH.

Even though co-star Charlie Day expressed some concern: "It was disgusting watching him go through this process. We were a little on the fence about it for his own personal health and safety"-he did qualify it with- "… But it has definitely made Mac a lot funnier!" Oh well then...

Mc Elhenney writes and plays Mac on what I really think is a brilliantly written piece of television. The main reason for this arbitrary weight gain was so he could write in some "Big Mac" jokes. I ask you, however, are there REALLY that many Big Mac jokes out there to be written? No. No writer is that clever. Big Mac consumption is so funny? The idea of someone so out of control that they cannot stop consuming fast food is less funny to me than it is part of my life story. And, none of it's funny. It's terrible and humiliating.

Okay, 50 FUCKING POUNDS in six months is alot of weight! Next time you are at the grocery store, pick up two twenty-five pound bags of dog food and carry them under your arms for about 5 minutes. I hope that Rob Mc Ilhenney has great health insurance and a strong heart. And, I hope he has an iron constitution for when people in "real life" start reacting to him and treating him as a fat person.

Could there really be THAT many jokes betwixt
those buns?

I don't know Ron Mc Elhenney and can't know what he's going to experience here. Oh, but I bet I can guess with some accuracy! He'll know what it's like to not be able to fit into ANY of the clothes he owns. When not joking about how funny it is now that he's fat, his friends will treat him much differently. They'll expect less from him. He'll tire easily and may not be able to keep up. He'll become invisible to many people. The people around him will expect him to be convivial and jolly; good natured and a "take it on the chin" sort of dude. I know from experience that this gets absolutely exhausting.

They'll ask him questions as if he is from another galaxy: "What's it like? Do you feel weird? Where do you even shop now?" From the big goofy shirt he has on in the picture above, I'm guessing probably NOT where he shopped when he was thin. They may wonder when he'll be done with the misery of being fat and can return to being "normal." At least he "did it for a role" and isn't REALLY a fat person with all the internal struggle that I, and millions of Americans, face every day. What could be worse- or funnier?

I know that the characters on It's Always Sunny in Philadelphia are terrible people and there is a context for this move. Nothing is off limits. I get it, I really do. Great character writing and amazing television are what I live for. What makes this different is that for me and all of my friends who are on this road trip, gaining weight for laughs isn't the real world. It's not all that funny.

Maybe I'm just sensitve; maybe it WILL be funny.

There aren't writers putting words in our mouths and a team of people doing our blocking. There aren't executives that can decide that the joke is over and hire us personal trainers and private chefs to get us back to "normal."

Most overweight Americans have very real, deeply personal and intense reasons for being fat and cannot afford therapy. It's a mess. Sometimes they eat Big Macs secretly in their cars before coming home for dinner and then lie about it. Other times, that's all they can afford.

Shit- you know- I wish I were more breezy and "ah, lighten up" about this stuff. I'm challenged by this; it's a great opportunity for me to see the other point of view, you know? I'm trying.
What I do know is that the struggle to lose 50lbs is incredibly hard for everyone. This could be the most enlightening thing he has ever done. I wish him all the very best with his road trip whenever he embarks on it.

The road to gaining that much weight is a short one. The road trip back is more complicated and WAY longer, and I can only hope his is as incredible as mine. Either way, he'd better get the car ready, because he's sure as SHIT in for a wild ride.

Whatever may happen, Drive Safely, Mac.

Say CHEESE!

2011-06-27T21:13:00.000-04:00

C'mon, are you kidding me with this?

Adam Levine most CERTAINLY EATS CHEESE!

This most awesome text was part of an important conversation Abbey and I were having about NBC's phenom- The Voice. As the conversation quickly devolved, we all agreed that Adam Levine, judge and front-man for Maroon 5, is smoking hot. Soon after, we got nasty and started doing a Google Image Search until our smart-phones started to catch ablaze with this impossibly hot image of Adam.

WHOA.

We said all sorts of piggy things leading us to this sad fact; now our mobile devices have become teeny-tiny porn generators, just like our COMPUTERS! Important technological advances all so we can see Adam Levine with random hands covering his junk.

Cut to Abbey texting me that she was dodging temptation in the form of CHEESE CUBES at work.

Apparently they were everywhere, and those little fuckers are hard to resist.
They’re little and savory and perfectly symmetrical.

"I WANT PROOF!"

The fact that the trail of cheese cubes led to thoughts of Adam Levine's possible lack of cheese consumption and then to tracking and ultimately NOT eating any cheese at all-was pretty brilliant. If Abbey clearly has issues, then I have the excact same ones.

The issue at hand is an unhealthy relationship with food. I have more issues than VOGUE when it comes to food.
Does Adam? I mean, is there a cheese cube in there somewhere? Maybe he has issues with food too? It's almost like I'm praying to CHRIST ALMIGHTY that he does.

Some of us have this disfucntional relationship with food that is very much like a relationship with a person. You get attached for all the wrong reasons. There is instant gratification- the classic "quickie." You want to just KICK yourself afterwards sometimes. You know you shouldn't get involved, but just can't say no. It's like being sort of a food slut that makes bad descisions all the time, even though you know better.

It's irrational. It's crazymaking. It's foul-fuckery and it's not fair.

I once read a book that enouraged me to "think like a thin person." It was some Aaron Beck-Cognitive Therapy bullshit. I even wrote "thin thoughts" on colored index cards to help me repeat over and over again what thin people think. I tried to imagine a life where I wasn't preoccupied with whose piece of cake had the "best frosting" or trying to get into the kitchen to eat an entire helping of tater-tot casserole off of the serving spoon right from the Pyrex dish in SECRET. Thin people don't mess with that shit. Adam Levine never ate an entire bag of WOW potato chips and the crapped like a crazy person for ONE SOLID MONTH. Yeah, you heard me- ONE WHOLE MONTH before I got back to normal. Adam never had to destroy the remaining fries or garlic bread on his plate using a travel sized can of fucking Aqua Net hairspray that he concelead in his pants. Oh yes, I have done this right in a restaurant before; spraying my french fries so I wouldn't eat them. CLASSY.
I am almost certain there is nary a thin person on planet EARTH that would think of this as a viable option. Show me your Aqua Net, Levine!

ISSUES.

What would a healthy relationship with food even be like? Is it eating the cheese and owning it by tracking it, or not eating it and comparing your life with that of a thin person. Denial isn't healthy, comparing yourself to someone else isn't healthy and being consumed by the guilt of "I just ate cube after cube of cheese" isn't the sign of a quiet mind either!
SHIT, why is this so hard?

There are people in this world who have never, ever had to think about any of this ever- not one time.

Whatever it takes.

And then, there's us. So, here's what I have to say about it. I will never have a healthy relationship with food, so fuck it. I gotta do what I have to do to make sure that I don't throw this whole road trip into reverse by making bad choices and being a food slut. So, if I have to imagine what Adam Levine might eat and even fantasize that cheese has never entered his ROCKIN' body, so be it. If I'm caught pouring water on my uneaten food, who cares. What's the problem? I may be writing index cards until my hand cramps up and publicly spraying my leftovers like they're an elegant bouffant, but that is what will keep me on the right track.

A healthy relationship with food? FUCK IT- that ship has sailed.

Has anyone seen my can of Aqua Net?

The Best Time of Your Life

2011-06-23T21:39:00.001-04:00

Remember Dessert Carousels?

Holy shit, I forgot all about them until just a few days ago when my parents took me to their favorite diner, the grandiosely named OLYMPIC. Void of all magic and mythology, this Olympic site is good for a decent cup of coffee and a waitress with all the personality of that same decent cup of coffee. While we were walking out, a rotating, refrigerated glimpse of some peanut butter pie caught my periphery. I ran right over to the dessert carousel and then got lost in it. Completely LOST.

"Has anyone seen Shaun?"

"Did you check the DESSERT CAROUSEL?!"

While I was spinning down this fantastic rabbit hole, I started to hear all sorts of things whirling in my head.

Roger's and Hammerstein's "Carousel Waltz."
The Carousel of Progress song from Walt Disney World.

"Sing along, you all know the words..."Now is the time, now is the BEST time..."

I love carousels! There- I said it. They spin and they're colorful and they are fun!

"The world's forward marching and
YOU'RE IN THE PARADE!"

Suddenly, I was transported to the Howard Johnson's that my dad took me to in Niagara Falls for just about every Sunday in the 1970's.

I could almost taste the American Rainbow! My childhood was drenched in kitsch, and since my mom really didn't cook, we went out to the safest, least (yet somehow MOST) interesting of all places in the U.S. of A.

The FAMILY restaurant!

Look at the seductive and richly heterosexual future promised to me in this
AMAZING HoJo rendering. Think of the tender moments, the bikini clad minxes-
THE GINORMOUS TURTLENECKS!

Will it be the "Little Boy Blue' or the
plucky "Tommy Tucker Plate"?

The dessert carousel is indicative of that certain type of restaurant that- thank you Jesus- still exists today. While some people feel this type of kitsch is in poor taste, garish or heavy on sentiment, I want to dwell there for as long as I am allowed. Vinyl booths that are bright orange. Long Formica counters with rotating stools. Paper place mats with cartoon maps and tourist "attractions."

Who doesn't go "through the
looking glass" directly to a
Patty Melt with butter pickles?

Milkshakes. Waitresses in UNIFORMS! Those containers toothpicks and cups of melt-away mints that Linda refers to "bowls of hepatitis"!

I'm all over it. I grew up in these little time machines that even then seemed antiquated. Alice's Kitchen had lavender vinyl booths and at one time, a whole Lewis Carroll vibe- because when I think of fried bologna..

The HoJo's that my dad and I went to when I was a kid was complete with those moo-cow creamers and special kids menus. They had those hot dogs- oddly named the FRANKFORT on those fucked up, toasted rectangular buns. Crinkle cut fries. Sundae's with rainbow chunks made of who the knows WHAT the fuck and of course-balloons! There was also the long-suffering Thelma, our favorite waitress. She was just perfect. She had one of those left-over, deflated bee-hives she REFUSED to let go of.

Thelma wore a primarily brown, shapeless uniform, with orange and turquoise accents. Poor Thelma. She LOVED me and I used to draw her an elaborate picture on the back of the place mat with just the four colors of crayon they had at the table. She used to hang them up behind the counter. Why, I was Ho Jo's ROYALTY! When old Thelm' was feeling especially moved, she would- ready? I don't think you are- let me choose ANY DESERT FROM THE CAROUSEL that I wanted for being the "best boy."

This kid's menu was also a
HAT!

When my lunch choices were dazzling and held a strange gay foreshadowing- the "Spready Freddie" or the "Super Sailor?"- how could my little mind face decide without me actually wetting myself? I'm not sure that I didn't. Kids just sort of ruled at the Ho Jo, and I was playing Thelma like a fiddle.

I had the same effect on a waitress in Sarasota, Florida named TWYLA(!) at the cheery, family-friendly MEL-O-DEE Restaurant. The Doyle's just seemed to have a knack seeking out family restaurants with dessert carousels, incredibly creative children's menu's and old-before-their-time waitresses who adored little gay kids. They did it without even trying and we found one within every city we travelled to. Going to these places was such an opulent event to me and I knew that I could probably win over the server and try to land a free dessert if I just turned on the charm and drew on the back of the place mat. The food was average and the decor was always questionable, but I loved all of these places. We all know of at least one. Just one glance into that dessert carousel and I was back to a time when all I needed were four crayons, a butterscotch sundae and a wink from an ageless angel in a pressed uniform and a name tag.

Those truly WERE the best times of my life.

Like Rolling Out of Bed

2011-06-19T13:32:00.006-04:00

"You don't just roll out of bed and run a 5K"
Or, do you?

I wanted to be able to just roll out of bed and run a 5K. When I started using the C25K app on my iPhone, I actually told someone while explaining how it works, "You don't just roll out of bed one day and run a 5K" followed by that uncomfortable laughter when you just said something your own mom might say. Hmphahahaha. Oh brother!

Well, today I LITERALLY rolled my ass "out the bed"and ran a 5K. I did not train for this one at all. I ran it and finished without resting. YAY! It was bloody hot and there was a hill that we had to run up two FUCKING times. My time was about a minute past the run I did two weeks ago. I don't care. This run was different.

Setting goals and reaching them is not something I have been an expert at. Setting goals in secret, not reaching them and living in constant shame has been my M.O. for most of my life- maybe until I was in my thirties. Then, I managed to quit drinking one humbling day when I realized that I may or may not have been hitchhiking down a main city street with my pants down.

Oops. Someone MAY have a wee drinking problem. The choice was pretty simple.

Quitting smoking was the hardest thing I ever did. I still think about smoking everyday and I even smoke in my dreams. Usually I smoke in my dreams while in a CHURCH while mass is going on, making me a full-on mortal sinner. That goal was planned and I never looked back.

Setting goals and then reaching them is cool. It feels amazing and you earn the RIGHT to live in that moment for a while. And then it ends.

I ran my first 5K and it was a turning point for me. My road trip changed directions. Soon, though, this weird sense of NOW WHAT? set in and for me, I got a little sad. What's next?

Sometimes we forget to set new goals once we reach the hard won goals we have obsessed over for months- maybe even years. I have to start thinking about what's next for me.

Today's run was the Jog for the Jake for Multiple Sclerosis and it was in Delaware Park. That's the very place Kelly and I have been training since that icy day in February. I guess you can't compare one run to another, but this one was harder for me.
I must confess that I was holding in a FART the ENTIRE time, and successfully held it in for three miles. Um, WINNING!

Since this was a course that I was familiar with, I knew where the finish line was, which made it harder for me to focus on the moment. There were some atypical runners too- some in wheelchairs and another in one of those motorized "Little Rascals." "If that thing goes over 5 miles an hour, we're fucked Kelly. We can't let her beat us." This, I said WAY too loud and got a dirty look from the runner to my right. FEH- I meant it.

The last mile was tough- again, because I could see the finish line and I wasn't in that state of mysterious oblivion that I was in for my first run.

Race swag for men. Ladies,
you get the old lady with the
bum leg!

There was a moment when, I really wanted to walk. My gas cramp was consuming me and I was ready to walk. I had to get inspired and FAST. I mentioned that the swag was pretty good at "the Jake" and that the guy on the cover of Runner's World was kind of a hottie. Kelly shot back, "what guy? Mine had an old lady with a prosthetic leg on the cover!" Maybe that's the one they gave the women, I speculated.

We ran with a friendly man named Pat who was probably in his late 60's and had had some very intense open heart surgery in DECEMBER. OF 2010. I noticed his huge scar right before we started the run. It was long and deep and shiny. He wore it like a badge of honor. He is incredible.

I thought of Pietro standing directly in front of me in boxing. Would I DARE tell him that I wanted to rest while I was sparring with him? Um, no.

These kick-ass Kenyan women walk 3.7 miles EACH WAY to bring water
to their families. Look at the one in yellow- SHE'S SMILING!

Then, I started thinking of those women in Africa that have to carry water on their HEADS for miles back to their villages. Shit, that's gotta suck. How many miles do they walk with all that WATER on their heads? How many gallons are in those buckets anyways? What if they have those super long necks with the rings around them. Does that make it better or worse? I'm sure that no one is clapping or using a bull-horn to tell them that it's only 45 miles back to their ramshackle hovel.

If these chicks can do it, I can run one more time around Delaware Park.

Get inspired by anything and everything. Set a goal and then reach it. Don't forget to set a new one right away.

Maybe this is what life is really all about.

We Go Together

2011-06-16T19:55:00.002-04:00

These country cuties go together like, well...
felt chokers and back-combing!

Don’t tell anyone, but…is there anyone around here that would bust me?

I haven’t been counting points QUITE as diligently and I have been in the past. Or, um…at ALL.
For at least a WEEK.

Shhhhh, now wait, before you judge harshly, let me give you a shitload of great excuses.

I know what I’m doing without writing them down.

My body knows when I've had the right amount of food.

Didn't you hear about my 5K? Um, honey- I exercise kinda A LOT and I’m sort of a runner now, so…

I’m tired and it’s hot. Too hot. And, I’m bored.
Did I mention that 5K?

It goes on and on. Here's the sad truth: I'm falling out of love with points
Can this be?

ONE, one entire cake...BWAH HA HA!

One reason that this is happening is because I’m getting so caught up in the mere fact that I exercise a lot, that tracking sort of feels like a big fucking drag- OH WAIT, that’s because it is. Why do I have to do both? Maybe I was a malevolent dictator in a past life and this is my hell on earth. “In your next live, Benito, you will count endless points and journal all your food intake AND sweat pant and heave.
And SMELL!”

Here’s the rub. I am who I am. I am a person who has to think about this kind of shit until my last day- like I said- this road trip never ends. I can’t get fooled into thinking that if I work out all the time, I don’t have to track. That's the road trip equivalent of thinking that if I steer "real good," I don't have to press any pedals. How fucking stupid is THAT, right?
Diet, er...lifestyle change...er, changing your relationship with food OH FUCK IT!
DIET and EXERCISE go together like George Jones and Tammy Wynette. To much of a stretch? Okay, like peanut butter and jelly! Gin and Tonic!
Like Sonny and CHER!!
Why, they go together like ramma lamma lamma ka dinga da dinga dong!

Sing it. Know it. Face it.
Don't think you're better than any of these combos.
They are bigger than all of us.

Makin' It!

2011-06-08T17:15:00.019-04:00

The can fill an ENTIRE magazine?
Good GOD!

Apparently, I’ve completely lost it. Now, I find myself talking about running in OTHER RACES! I'm like a maniac. I want to start hoarding the free t-shirts you get when you participate in a run. I want to get in on who has the "best food" after the race. I’m all Runnie Mc Runnerton and chattin’ it up about the Corporate Challenge and the Race for Jake and, dare I even say it? THE TURKEY TROT! Who do I think I even AM?

That’s a five mile run that I have at once time loathed and been intrigued by all at the same time. The loathing has come from the fact that it has blocked my main route of egress off of my street for that last 13 years, just when I’m trying to get to Starbucks on Thanksgiving morning. I have hurled expletives at the well-meaning runners from the safety of my car and illegally driven the wrong way down my street to escape them. I have even said, heaven forgive me- FUCK THE TURKEY TROT! The intrigue has come from wondering what it might feel like to be able to justify stuffing my gullet with a huge feast with hard proof that I already ran 5 miles earlier in the day.
I’ll wear my race number as a bib.

Setting a goal and achieving it FUCKING RULES! How's that for some unsolicited advice?

I'm solid GOLD.I've got the GOODS!

I am still practically levitating from the memory of finishing that race without resting this past weekend. It has been transformative. I keep thinking of that 70's jam by Dr. Pepper cover-boy David Naughton- Makin' It!

Every single person who passes me by on the street gets put through the same simple, mental inquisition: RUNNER? RUNNER? Et tu, RUNNER?

I even dared to crack open a copy of RUNNER’S WORLD. What untold mysteries await me? Articles like the pun-filled “The Up’s and UPS of Running Mt. Washington” and the saucy “The Strange Appeal of Running NAKED” are as baffling to me as they are exciting. Do people really run NAKED? SHIT!

I find myself taking clandestine drive-bys of The Runners ROOST and even dared to look up the address of FLEET FEET! I’ve fantasized about registering and running a race in SECRET so just I know if I messed it up.

Behold! The terrain of Mars is strange and terrifying!

One thing I love about it is that it really takes no equipment. Just you, your legs and your spirit. You can just walk out your door and start running if the mood strikes. To date, that mood has yet to strike me, but at this point anything could happen. It’s sort of raw and all-inclusive; it’s very “me and me against the world”-ish. Don’t get me wrong, I love all the swag that comes along with this road trip- the WW Points Calculator and glossy cookbooks- the kettle bells and hand-wraps. If you choose, running is just your pure physiology and inner monologue. See? RAW.

While both can betray you at times, running forces them to work in tandem somehow. When you push yourself farther than you ever thought you could go, really far-out stuff starts to happen. This far-out stuff isn't limited to just running. The thing I have found the most incredible is that for the first time I find myself NOT minimizing my accomplishments and agreeing with people. Now that's far-out and as foreign to me as the surface of Mars.
Um, YEAH- it’s pretty incredible right? THANK YOU, I worked really hard to get there.

I think that I’m makin’ it happen and I love, love, LOVE the way I feel.

Make some room now, dig what you see. Success is mine, 'cause I got the key.

I'm MAKIN' IT!

I Can Do Anything

2011-06-05T01:25:00.001-04:00

Please note the tracking chip on my sneaker. This was some serious shit.

Here's what you need to know- today I did something today I never ever thought I could do.
I highly recommend it. You get goose bumps and you may even cry a little.

Before the race, the runners were all stretching and doing a whole lot of posturing. Skipping. Running around the beer tent. HIGH KICKS, even! I wasn't up to ANY of that bullshit. I was too busy being inspired by, and comparing myself to everyone else. I kept saying "Look at all the FIT people!" There was no shortage of those. Could I really do this?

Before I knew it, the race had started and we were running. "We're doing really good!" I said and then I added "even though we've only been running for like two minutes." I could not have done this without my beautiful friend Kelly. She has been training with me for the last nine weeks and I love her. Every time I looked to my right, there she was- like a security blanket that just happened to be running at about 5mph.

Every time we turned a corner, I asked my self: is that the finish line? Is THAT the finish line? Each time I told myself not to look at the other runners, I looked right at one. What are YOU lookin' at? At one point when I started to breathe very heavily, a worried child running along with us cried out "Mommy, what's that NOISE?!" I snapped back "That's me breathing kid- now RUN!" Whenever I tried to figure out how far I had come or how much further we had to run, I forced myself to focus on exactly what I was doing in that moment. If I started to wonder how much longer the race was, sudden fatigue could have gotten the best of me- but it didn't.

I thought about how far I had come on my road trip and that if I lived to be one hundred, I NEVER would have thought I could run a race. I ran in the race. I didn't stop to walk, not ONE time. For a second, I thought about it, but I imagined how incredible it would feel to be able to write in this blog that I ran the entire three miles without stopping. That propelled me further on the road. I actually envisioned this exact moment when I would be typing the words that I just wrote. It got me to the sign that read 1 mile.

Then, I said there is no fucking WAY that I am NOT going to finish this race. There were little kids with cups of water handing them to us in one beat and then in the next, we were hurling them onto the street. On one corner there were a bunch of kids and old ladies with noise-makers and tambourines; some of them were clapping, a few were spraying us with water guns and others were just holding up colorful signs. "You can do it!" By the time we got to the 2 mile sign, about 23 minutes had past. That was better time than I ever made when I was training. Really? 23 minutes. SHIT, I'm really going to finish this race. I CAN do it.

I started to get wild and really focused. I heard Pietro's voice telling us about aequanimitas and just relying on your mechanics. Don't crap it all up with thoughts about how tired you are, how your underpants are riding up or how much your shins hurt. Just run and move yourself toward the finish line. Irime (ih-rah-may.) That is a word Pietro uses to get us to power through the end of a boxing round, even when we are so tired we can barely stand.

Exuberant after 35 minutes and three miles.
I can honestly say I have never felt anything
like this in my life.

Irime is a term used in Aikido. It means to move toward and is all about stealing momentum. In Aikido and boxing, you would be stealing this momentum from your partner. I found in running, you steal momentum from wherever the fuck you can. At the 30 second bell, Pietro yells IRIME. It is primal and as serious as a heart attack when he shouts it out. IRIME! I could actually hear him screaming it as I turned the last block in the pouring rain and moved toward the finish line. Sweet Baby Jesus, I'm going to finish the race. I never stopped once. I threw my arms up into the rain and started to cry. If I can do this, I can do anything.

ANYTHING.

As long as I stay in the moment and don't worry about where I have to go or where I just came from, I can do anything at all. I know that I can.

There are no words that will ever be able to describe what it felt like to finish this race, but FUCKING AWESOME will have to do for now.

Finish Line

2011-06-03T16:31:00.004-04:00

Stacey Halperin in 1987

I am running in my very first 5K. Tomorrow.
I'm scared shitless and my stomach is all scrambled up.

I may just barf, to be honest.

My mantra has been that I just want to make it to the finish line; as long as I finish, I will have made my goal.

Must finish. 5K. Me.
That last part must be read in your very best Boris Karloff Frankenstein's monster.

This unbelievable stretch of my road trip has actually involved a real ROAD! For a guy who is most comfortable writing and speaking in metaphors, I almost stun myself that I got so fuckin' literal! The road started off covered in ice and snow. The first day I ran it was 15 degrees out and I couldn't feel my hands. The road has been: a treadmill, the track at Delaware Park, a city street and a cemetery path. Now, it is hot and the air is thick. Running in the heat is so incredibly hard for me and so damned masochistic, that after I do it, I am literally hysterical. When I have been running these last few times I can't help but think:
WHAT IF I DON'T FINISH? FUCK!
That's a total possibility! After nine weeks of training and the cold,numb hands and the sweaty butt-crack...what if?

Then, I think of Stacey Halperin.

This beautiful woman has lost 364 pounds. That's no typo- 364 POUNDS! She first appeared on The Oprah Winfrey Show in 1987. When she returned for her final episode, she said something so familiar to me that I sat up immediately. She didn't feel like she was worth being there for Ms. O's final weight loss episode, because- she had gained some of her weight back. On being over 500 pounds, she says "it's so wonderful to know that it isn't my life anymore- even though I did put weight back on."

Stacey and Oprah in 2011.

Shit. How many of us do this to ourselves? We throw in an ugly qualifier just to let people know what we have already done really isn't good enough or got fucked up somehow. I made the sauce, but it's not my best. I lost weight, but I put some back on. I ran the race but didn't win, or even finish. It was so familiarly painful to hear her say these words. Why don't we give ourselves credit for how brave and strong we have to be to do ANY PART of this shit.?

From Oprah.com:

"Yet, even after losing several hundred pounds, she said she didn't feel worthy of returning to the show for a final time. Stacey says that, even while sitting in the greenroom just before walking out onstage, she didn't feel worthy of returning for another show. 'I didn't feel like I deserved to come,' she says. 'But now I know that I deserve to be here, and I don't want to hide anymore.'"

After and AFTER after.

Erik Chopin, the Season 3 winner of "The Biggest Loser" has slowly gained back all of the weight he lost on the show. When he posed for the picture on the far left, I am certain he thought he had crossed the finish line. I have been there too; at 185 pounds after losing over 75 pounds on Weight Watchers, I was sure I had arrived. Finished!

"I felt so proud about what I had done," he says, "but I feel like I've let (people) down by gaining a lot of the weight back." That feeling that you have let people down is nothing compared to the feeling that you've let yourself down. Nothing.

What Erik, Stacey and I didn't realize is that this doesn't end and that's okay. The road trip doesn't end, the blog doesn't end and the race doesn't end. What an incredible amount of pressure and stress this takes away. I feel so FREE! All of it is really too big to ever really have an end.

"If her journey has taught her anything, it's that losing weight is a struggle that doesn't magically disappear one day. 'My dream was that I wanted to come here and be at the finish line,' Stacey explained. 'There is no finish line. It's an ongoing process.'"

There is no finish line. Thank you Stacey. See you at the race.

You Alone Are Enough

2011-06-01T17:58:00.003-04:00

This weekend while we were out to dinner, I ran into a great family friend who has known me since I was about 15 years old. She ran over to our table and kissed me on both my cheeks. “Happy Birthday honey, I can’t believe you’re 40!”

It’s weird, right? That’s all I could think of to say. I certainly have a way with, with…

She came right back without thinking twice:
“I loved being 40. At 40, you know exactly who you are.”

I thought about who I was when she and I first met. I was 15 years old. At 15, I could sing you any song by The Monkees and quote you any episode of Maude.

I knew exactly who I was, but then got scared of how big my personality could be and promptly learned all the tricks that it took me 25 more years to perfect. Self-numbing, self-sabotage, self-deprecation- all the “self” bullshit I could pile-on.

Turning 40, I do know exactly who I am. And I like me. I don’t feel bad saying it. That alone has taken 40 years to be able to say without feeling like I’m an egomaniac or some sort of asshole full of braggadocio.

There seem to be so many messages coming from so many people. It's all very The Celestine Prophecy- remember that book? Running into my beautiful friend Bev this weekend was no accident. She had a message for me. All of the incredible friends that I was lucky enough to spend my birthday with are all part of who I have become. Some have known me since I was four years old, and others I met only four months ago. None of them arrived by accident. All of them reflect different parts of me.

Show me your company and I’ll show you who you are. Nothing could be truer.

At times, the experience of turning 40 years old became overwhelming. Do I really deserve all of this? I had to fight off my inner-monologue, the one that starts with Dude, you ain’t nothin’ special. You don’t deserve any of this- not the fresh flowers, not the cupcakes, not even the picture collage! None of it. Don’t even look at it. It’s too nice. You’re not worthy.

Once this diatribe starts, it's like a runaway train. Am I seriously worthy of any of this? Am I handsome enough? Am I thin enough? Do I have the right degree? Do I make enough money? Is any of it ever enough?

The next day, surrounded by cake and all my gifts, I sat on the couch hearing a message that again, didn’t come by accident. It was perfectly timed and I was ready to hear it. It was from Oprah Winfrey in her final show. I sat up from the couch and listened carefully. I was hanging off of her every word.

"The show has taught me there is a common thread that runs through all of our pain and all of our suffering and that is unworthiness. Not feeling worthy enough to own the life you were created for. Even people who believe they deserve to be happy and have nice things often don't feel worthy once they have them."

Me! That’s me, Oprah!

Monica George

"There is a difference, you know, between thinking you deserve to be happy and knowing you are worthy of happiness."

Oprah kept telling me what I needed to hear. It was so perfect it was scaring me.

Jacqui Saburido.
She only lets herself cry
for five minutes every day.

"We often block our own blessings because we don't feel inherently good enough or smart enough or pretty enough or worthy enough. From Jacqui Saburido—her face literally melted by the flames ignited from a car accident with a drunk driver—to Monica George—remember her? The mother with a young daughter and a brand new baby who lost both her arms and both legs—the show has taught me you're worthy because you are born and because you are here.

Your being here, your being alive makes worthiness your birthright. You alone are enough."

And there it is. At 40, you know exactly who you are. Your inherently good enough and worth all of it. Just by being here.

You alone are enough.

Lordy Lordy, Look Who’s 40!

2011-05-28T08:00:00.001-04:00

Clever sayings like Uh Oh, It’s the BIG FOUR OH!, Forty HAPPENS(?) and the mind numbing I’m NOT 40, I’m 18 with 22 years EXPERIENCE(!) all make me want to strangle someone. My visceral reaction to Over the Hill flip flops labeled “left” and “right” or the most horrible of them all, the gravestone with a cheery RIP on it. Classy! What great minds got together on that one? Party City makes a fortune on inflatable walkers, balloons with the grim reaper on them or faux prune juice cans.

“I’m not 40- I’m $39.93 plus TAX!” Why, THAT’S hysterical- you slay me!

Everyone should be ashamed of themselves.

Note the shy tombstone hiding behind the 40,
as if we have no idea that death is so imminent.
Then, the blank space below it to fill in any old name.

I’m 40 years old today. That’s 14,610 days according to cheap t-shirts emblazoned with this incredible fact. 40 is not the “new 20” or even the new 30. 40 is 40 and...
I’m SO GLAD THAT I LIVED THIS LONG. Holy SHIT!

Some of those 14,610 days have been, well, a bit touch-and-go.

I always said if I even had to title my biography the choices would be either simply WOW! or the thought provoking How Am I Still Alive?! It would be a real page turner, save for the chunks of blank pages dedicated to many gin-induced blackouts. That chapter could also be titled simply The 1990's.

When I was a little boy, my parents and I would take many road trips. We never went too far, but I loved making the back seat my own imaginary play land. I had all the books any typical kid would bring along, like Mad Libs, a well-worn copy the Films of Bette Davis or best of all, the Shaun Cassidy SCRAPBOOK! We would sing show tunes on 8 Track or I’d cuddle up in a ball while my parents navigated the US Interstate using the highlighted Triptik that they got at the AAA. The last hour of the trip, however, I was like a wild, exposed nerve in that back seat. We were almost there- be it Plattsburg, New York or glorious Waterbury, Connecticut- I was always so excited to arrive that I would come undone and almost bounced through the roof of our mighty Reliant K! By the time we got out of the car at our destination, I'd be so heightened I had all but passed out.

This K-car frenzy is how I feel RIGHT NOW.

I hate this poster more than you can ever imagine.

This is the same excitement that I felt on the last hour of those car rides with my mom and dad. I can't contain myself AT ALL.

I'm Four-fuckin'-ty and will love telling people that I am.
I'm incredibly happy that I made it to exactly where I am.
Listen up- I'm not youthfully challenged or older than dirt. Nothing about me is antique or ancient.
I'm no crony nor am I an old fart. I don't need an inflatable walker or prune juice to keep me regular. The only thing I may change is that I'll stop wearing ironic t-shirts from Urban Outfitters. There's something creepy about a 40 year old man in a Reading Rainbow ringer tee.

The road trip I have been on has taken me to where exactly where I want to be. This has almost nothing to do with what I weigh, and everything to do with what I have learned since I started the journey. Last night I was running to get ready for the 5K in June and it hit me; I NEVER did this when I was twenty. Once in college, I was chased through a dorm corridor by some young toughs, but that was the extent of my running. I could not run through three long hallways let alone run miles. I never stuck to any fitness plan for more than a month or so. I have been boxing at KC's for almost a full year. Any fruit or vegetable that I ever ate during my thirties was most definitely against my will. Now I buy and then strangely lose huge heads of fresh kale. I'm full of remorse. I've yet to find it.

I said when I started this blog that this was my road trip to 40 and that I "REFUSED to be fat when I got there." For me, there is May 28th, 2011. Where is "there" for you? It might be a reunion or a wedding. Maybe it's a vacation or an over-hyped milestone birthday. All of you probably have a "there." Only you know where it is. Only you have the map.

Plan a road trip. Pack the car with all the things you will need. Bring along brave people who will tell you the truth and help you see how beautiful you already are. Leave room for all the amazing people you will pick up along the way.

I never knew I could do this until I started up the car and hit the road, but now I realize this trip started well before I started writing Me on a Diet.

It has taken me 40 years to finally meet the person who would provide me with the only insight and love that I ever really needed. Me. This guy has at the same time been my greatest advocate and my most vicious adversary. Me. Me on a diet. Me on a road trip. Me turning 40. Me loving myself more than I ever did at 7 or 28 or even 39. Me finally okay with me- just as I am.

Thank you for taking this road trip with me. It was so incredible, that I'm going on another one right away. I have everything I need to get there. I have me and I have you.

That's all any of us could ever really need.

This was the number one song just before I was born. The song that topped the charts on the day I was born is Brown Sugar by the Rolling Stones. Not quite the message I'm going for. Three Dog Night says it better.
Joy to the fishes in the deep blue sea. Joy to you and me.

PLEASE. FIT.

2011-05-25T19:17:00.004-04:00

"Madam, you will simply have to leave this store immediately or I will be forced
to call the security guards."

               
"You're really gauche, madam. A regular little cochon and THAT MEANS PIG!"

This infamous scene from John Water's 1981 film Polyester (in glorious Odorama!) always comes to mind when I try on my summer clothes.

Divine barfing in her purse while Edith Massey tears a Halston alone in the dressing room, trying to get on a dress about 10 sizes too small. She, of course, blames Halston himself.

"DAMN THESE DESIGNERS!"

Even though I LOVE quoting Polyester, I dread trying on summer clothes that I have put aside for that special time in history called “next summer when I have lost weight.” I dread it like most people dread being attacked in an alley, or having their car explode with them in it. Dread.

Yesterday, I brought out the bin labeled TOO FAT. NEXT SUMMER and grabbed an awesome pair of khaki shorts from, ready- Abercrombie and FITCH! Who did I EVER think I was waltzing in there. Apparently, there was a time. Not even remembering what year these shorts made it into the bin, I just went for it. Last year, this scene played out with grunts and tugs and if I’m not mistaken, some JUMPS trying to get into these shorts. Buttoning them was IMPOSSIBLE, like getting a camel through the eye of a needle. Summer clothes get hauled out when it’s most likely hot too, so then you’re sweating and panting too. So sexy! After a few years of this, it’s no wonder my TOO FAT tote bin isn’t at the bottom of the river. There are J Crew polo shirts, seersucker shorts and some jaunty MUSCLE shirts in there too.

The tote should play Kenny Rogers Through the Years when you open it.

Back to me and the shorts. Like most people trying on clothes they haven’t fit into in years, I turned to the Lord. It ain’t pretty when I’m praying, BEGGING out loud, all alone and standing over a stack of madras shorts- PLEASE FIT. Akin to speaking in tongues, I lose control.

pleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefit
pleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefitpleasefit!

They fit. WHAHOOEY! THEY FIT! If Blogger had a bigger font, I might use up all the available MB space Google has to take. They are three sizes and six inches smaller than the shorts I wore when I started my road trip. Y’all, they weren’t even TIGHT! I danced and sang and shouted and jumped around. I scared the shit out of our dog Marm too. What else fits?! Frenzied robing and disrobing ensued. Not all of these relics, but most of them fit me.
I really wanted to cry, but was too busy dancing around like a fool. What a feeling!

THEY FIT! Did I tell you that already? Oh, look there- I did. This is BIG NEWS.
It means that the goal of this road trip, turning 40 and not being fat when I get there, is happening. Now, I would not claim to be thin or have achieved my goal weight, but when I think about turning 40 in three days and NOT being able to fit into these clothes, well…I have made sure that did not happen.

Decisions I have made on my road trip have MADE. SURE. THIS. DID. NOT. HAPPEN.
It took a year, but I dodged, well, a speeding button. I planned and blogged and counted points and punched my way to that moment. A year of preparation for the moment when I faced-off with a pair of size 34 A&F khakis and came out the winner for once.
It's been a long fight.

I kicked ASS simply by buttoning one button.

Don't FUCK with me, 40. I'm ready for you.

In searching page after page for a Google Image for these shorts, the BIGGEST size
they dare to fathom and photograph is a 32" waist.
Most were a 30" waist.
Let's see Edith Massey get her BIG BUSINESS into THESE!

Stay With Me Baby

2011-05-21T20:51:00.000-04:00

One week from today I'm turning 40 and part of me feels like I'm fucking up.

On purpose.

Le grand saboteur. That's French for "self-fucker-upper." Sometimes it can happen in the course of a day, and sometimes it's over a whole year. Self-sabotage is not a war someone engages in ENTIRELY on purpose, but part of me knows exactly what that what is. That makes me mad, and sad and really confused.

The car just starts veering off the road and maybe the best way to describe it is like siphoning your own gas tank or throwing nails on the road in front of your tires. What kind of dick-head does something like that? This kind of dick-head apparently.

There a many ways that people sabotage their efforts and lives. Subtle and creative ways too. Mine aren't that clever. I get a wild case of the "fuck-its" and stop counting points, or blow off the gym a few times.

Fuck points. Fuck working out. Fuck it.

There's not alot of elaborate pathology behind this. I have been a master at this for, well, just short of 40 years. Yes, that's right! I was an INFANT SABOTEUR!

Ruining things for yourself makes no sense, right? I had a wise therapist tell me if any of us ever lived up to HALF of our full potential, we would scare the shit out of ourselves. Maybe I'm scared.

What would life be like at 185 pounds? My life would most definitely change. What would I hide behind? Maybe the road would take me to places I could never imagine, and maybe some of them wouldn't be near home. Scary. Perhaps my life would change and I would leave people behind, or maybe the attention would be to great. Who knows? I'm scared just typing this. When your self-esteem ain't an issue, life must be pretty incredible. So much to think about- maybe too much. I'd better secretly eat a whole Philly steak and cheese sub from La Nova and then NOT count the points.

We are scared of ourselves; I am convinced of this. I, and most everyone else I know, have no idea what it might be like to live to our full potential. To potentiate is more horrifying than anything even Stephen King could dare to imagine onto paper. It's too fucking scary. In the end, we may not wind up with the same partners or live in the same cities. We could even become well-known, financially secure or the scariest and most spine tingling thing of all...

Happy.

I know what happiness is, but like so many others, I'm always waiting for a safe to fall on my head, like in those old Warner Bros. cartoons. At the very moment I'm whistling with a bounce in my step, I get a face full of safe. That'll teach me to be happy. Nice knowing ya!

The closer I get to happy, the stronger the impulse to fuck it up becomes. So, we sabotage ourselves so we don't have to ever know how scary being happy really is. Now THAT'S messed up. Right?

I don't feel good today. To be honest, I am miserable. If I learn one thing before I turn 40, I want it to be why I do this to myself all the time. I need to be my biggest fan and stay with myself on this trip. It reminds me of that song Stay With Me Baby. I always thought that Bette Midler was singing it to another person. Maybe she was singing it to herself. We can't ditch ourselves or blow ourselves off. That would make us shitty people, right? If I don't catch this RIGHT NOW, this road trip will start playing itself out in reverse.

Oh God, I abandon myself all the time. Admitting this is painful and cuts into a part of me that is buried deep inside. It has the soul and anguish and the very guttural, bluesy wail that the Divine Miss M has in this performance of the song. This clip is perfect.

The self sabotage I spent 39 years crafting and perfecting has to end. Now.
Stay with me, baby. We're almost there.

Remember, remember you said you're always gonna love me. Remember, you said you'd never ever leave me. I'm askin' you, tellin' you, beggin' you...stay with me baby.

Could We Start Again, Please?

2011-05-15T23:48:00.003-04:00

Could we start again, please?

At our house, we sing this little line from Jesus Christ Superstar when we need, well- start again. Those are the times where your attitude just sort of sucks, or you said something you didn't mean to say- or meant, but you came off like a CHUMP when you said it. A chance for a "re-do" doesn't come too often, but if you have the self-awarness to realize something needs to be completely tossed, erased, redone or just started all over again...you sing.

"Could we start again, please?" It works, even when things don't even seem like they COULD be undone. They CAN, though, in some sort of cosmic mental "re-wind." It just works.

I'm depressed and I don't really know why. It's nothing that has me packed up for the bins, but it is very real. I'm just sort of tired and uninspired in many ways. Friday at Weight Watchers, I feel like a lot went wrong. I'm up about a pound and a half. That's the second week that I've gained. It didn't make sense to me exactly, and some tough love backfired at the scale.
When I walked out, I felt like a bad boy and my lids got heavy. After years of trying on a bunch of different defense mechanisms like hats, the one that I've managed to keep in my arsenal is to fall asleep. GOODNIGHT!

Hey, I can think of (and tried) worse. It's very physiological with me. It's really quite amazing. My whole body just shuts DOWN and to be honest, have very little to say about it.
I just fall asleep. At about 7pm Friday I laid down, and barely got up again until Saturday morning. There were no major binges, but my apathy for the whole thing has been pretty palpable. I hate when I'm like this, but...this is what I'm like right now.
Tonight, I was struggling to think of how to get out of this terrible rut.
Then, I heard Little e's sweet voice.

"Could we start again, please?"

That's what I'm going to do. Just start again. I'm self aware enough to do it, and it works. When I looked up the lyrics, just to be sure there wasn't anything that was to much of a non sequitur, I laughed when Lyric Freak said for the end of the song:

Could we start again please? (Repeat 5 times)

Repeat it five times, please- or 500 times, whatever it takes. Tomorrow, I'm just starting again,
Oh, and just know that while you're singing, I'm at my house singing it right along with you.

Life in One Day

2011-05-10T22:31:00.000-04:00

Don't try to live your life in one day- don't go speed your time away.
I bit off more than I can chew; only so much you can do.
Wolves are gathering round my door. Ask them in and invite some more.
I tried to live my life in one day.
Don't go speed your time away

Here’s who I am taking advice from these days: Howard Jones and Marisa Licata. I find myself slowly turning into someone who is GIVING advice about food choices and exercises and starting a road trip and it’s nuts to me.

Look, I’m still new at this even after one year “on the road” but there are some things that I know. I call them, These Things I Know.

Knowing and doing are two different things and I love it when people join me in the "doing," be it at Weight Watchers or at KC’s Fitness or even at Wegmans. I get really excited. Road trips taken all alone are dumb.
Loading up the car with raucous friends hell-bent for adventure is more my style.

This week, my friend Jimmy decided that he wanted to try a boxing class and I came undone. I was pushy and pumped-up and proud all mashed together. Without any doubt, what makes KC’s special is the people. Inclusive, kind, honest and tough too- they are the people you need on a road trip. When we got to class, I felt responsible for Jimmy. "Are you okay?" I must have asked him that a thousand times. Marisa, my friend and stalwart instructor was warm and wonderful as usual. She reminded me again why I love going to the gym just in the way she greeted Jimmy and showed him the basics. She was present for him and thoughtful throughout the class. I, on the other hand, took a different approach.

Jimmy BREATHE! Drop you shoulders.Keep your gloves up.Thumbs to the ceiling.Move your hips.Don’t look at the focus mitts.BREATHE JIMMY!

Marisa finally had to bust our little clusterfuck right up.

“Um, maybe just focus on ONE thing you want to master. There’s so much too it and people will be telling you so many things during each round. Just relax and have fun.”

Yeah, Jimmy- what Marisa just said. Do that. And I should do that too.

Jimmy (and everyone like him) is brave.

Going to a gym or a Weight Watchers meeting for the very first time is an act of bravery. Staring to exercise at home or trying to change your fucked-up relationship with food in ANY way is courageous. Having to see in print just how much you weigh, and often how badly you have let yourself spin out of control is shocking; SHOCK that takes quite a while to recover from.

Walking into a gym wearing ill fitting work-out clothes that are “riding up” on ya isn't a parade either. It’s fucking brave. I’m all about boxing because you are interfacing with two or three new people every time the bell rings. You learn from them and they learn from you- HOWEVER- if you have any social phobias or are self-conscious in ANY way (and that covers just about EVERYONE on the planet) this kind of intimacy can make your tummy queasy and wrecks your nerves.

I must have told Brave Jimmy a hundred things before Marisa took control and mercifully she did. What she told him was advice I needed to hear all over again. Choose one thing- JUST ONE- that you want to work at and focus on it. There’s no shortage of great stuff to choose from on this road trip. Be kind to yourself. Commit. Be mindful. Move more. Eat a vegetable. You choose.

Don’t try to do it all at once. I assure you, all of it will come together; it’s like the natural order of the universe for it to just eventually “click.” This I know for sure.

Sometimes we try to do so much at one time and it becomes so overwhelming that we quit ALL of it. We get a bad case of the “fuckits” and give up. Maybe we tried to do too much when we weren't ready, or we were afraid to slow it down. It is okay to slow down on this road trip to become excellent at just one thing, whether it’s writing down everything you eat, working out with a DVD in your basement or just remembering to breathe. It does not mean you won’t get where you are going. It’s okay to slow down and take things one at a time.

It's all okay. Don’t try to change your life in one day.

Don't Get Too Comfortable

2011-05-09T17:12:00.000-04:00

“Here’s your problem, you’re getting too comfortable!”

Ugh.

This chronology sucks and is super ironic.

Start with me getting my shirts from the dry cleaners. When I got them home, I hung them up and then put on my favorite shirt. It’s my favorite for a few reasons. It’s black and therefore slimming. It looks expensive, but it’s really from OLD NAVY! Getting a cheapo shirt dry cleaned makes it suddenly look like it’s from Prada I guess.

I put on my favorite shirt and IT IS TOO BIG. Wait a minute now…when did THIS happen. Clearly, the pile of shirts to be dry cleaned has been on the closet floor for a long fucking time. I must have shucked it off and tossed it there about 10 or 15 pounds ago. TOO BIG. I was wrought with emotion- mostly unadulterated JOY. Off to the Goodwill with you, old shirt-friend.

Without missing a beat, I started singing Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long in my best Streisand. Yahoo! While I’m at it, my jeans could go too. They are loose and sliding off and the ass is baggy. SEE YA! A lot of my clothes are too big now, and I’m getting all haughty.

Check me OUT! Losin’ weight! Looking good! Singin’ Sam, You Made the Pants Too Long like a big QUEEN! I’m so comfortable!

Cut to me, up 2 pounds from last week. KAPOW! That interjection was the sound of my bubble bursting. The scale is a ball buster, and color me busted because I know exactly how it happened.

I’m too comfortable. My clothes aren’t too tight. One day without much fanfare, your thighs cease to rub together and you suddenly stop compulsively pulling your shirt away from your body. I have more misshapen shirts and sweaters than Quasimodo. I don’t want to be too literal about being comfortable.

It’s not just my clothes.

When the end of your road trip is in sight, even if it is still miles away, you start to get sort of ahead of yourself. You get all “look at me” and mistakenly believe you have arrived. THAT is precisely when your new-found comfort bites you in the ass. When I say YOU, of course I mean ME. I stopped counting points at the end of a few days and thought

“Didn’t you read the headlines in today’s paper?

“Recently Dry Cleaned Shirt- TOO BIG!”

The sub-heading reads: “Please feel free to stop counting Weight Watchers PowerPoints as you see fit. You’re so advanced!”

When Linda nailed it, as she always does, I didn’t disagree. I AM too comfortable and that is dangerous. When I get too comfortable and literally too SMALL for my britches, I get all loosey-goosey with the program and then I’m up 2 pounds.

Linda advised that I get rid of the big blousy shirts and my “eatin’ pants” and move into smaller sizes that let me know things- things like when I’m too full and that I haven’t quite arrived.

They are physical reminders that will hopefully remind me to match that to my inner-monologue too.

When I was thin before on the program, there was a woman who congratulated me and in the same breath said-you poor thing, you’re going to have to be doing this for the rest of your LIFE! Way to give a compliment. At the time, I was indignant and felt she was a.) out of her mind and b.) a bitch. The latter remains true, but she was right.

This is something that I will have to be aware of for the rest of my life if I want to STAY comfortable. If I want to wear a size 32 waist and a medium t-shirt, I have to count points. If I want to permanently un-strap my C-PAP machine from my face and get off my cholesterol meds, I have to follow Weight Watchers. If I want to skinny-dip during the day (and I DO!) and run a 5K, I simply have to go to the gym regularly. That’s it- there’s nothing more to know.
I can never get too comfortable, and sometimes that seems unfair- REALLY unfair- but I can think of a state of being that’s much worse.

So I stay just a little uncomfortable and I don’t forget where I came from. I’ll never give up.

Many of life’s failures are people who did not realize how close they were to success when they gave up. – Thomas Edison

Starting Here, Starting Now

2011-05-06T22:24:00.000-04:00

Starting here, starting now- when we walk, we'll walk together.

Year by year, starting here, starting now-

When we talk, we wiII say the most with silence - when we're near- starting here.

Now when you sleep, you will dream a dream that's free from care.

For now when you wake, I'll be there.

So be still.

Take my hand.

For the greatest journey heaven can allow-

Starting love

Starting here

Starting now

Now, take my hand- for the greatest journey heaven can allow.

Starting Here. Starting Love. Starting Now.

Gotta Move!

2011-05-05T22:24:00.001-04:00

Even if you are on the right track,
you'll get run over if you just sit there. - Will Rogers

Well ain't that the truth? This was the quote on my Couch to 5K app today. I am finishing week 5 of training and um, it's like really hard.

Running is hard. I pant and bounce and sweat and drip. The magic of the C25K still lives on, but I find it just a scunch less charming than I once did. It makes you run for longer stretches and I find myself checking to see how much time I have left. That's a dangerous game. You know that old saying, "a watched iPhone running app designed for the recently lethargic never moves any goddamned faster no matter how many times you check the fuckin' thing." Or something like that.

It was all hearts and flowers when I was running for just 90 seconds straight and then walking for the next 2 minutes. Hearts and flowers. Oh, how I long for the simplicity of Weeks 1 and 2.

Running for 5 minutes at a time seems like FUCKING FOREVER. Week 5 really ramps it up and assumes you are like some kick-ass runner all of a sudden. WRONG.
While I was running today, I thought about the ACTUAL real live, honest to goodness 5K I would be running in just 4 weeks. It made me have a flashback to this past Thanksgiving when I completely blew off the Turkey Trot. I planned on trying it, but got all "jive turkey" instead and just slept right through it. Oops.

While I was running today, I remembered all the races that are always blocking my route of egress onto the main street that leads me to the closest Starbucks. Soon, I will be running in a race that is blocking someone ELSE'S path to their Frappucino.
5K. 3.1 miles. I started to doubt if I could actually do it and had a teeny-tiny 5mph panic attack.

Praying to CHRIST JESUS that the run was almost over, I kept checking my iPhone to see how far away the cool down was. That's when I read the quote by Will Rogers. His homespun, depression era sensibilities were an odd match for the song that accompanied him on my iTunes- Gotta Move from Streisand's 1966 television special Color Me Barbra. Or maybe it was just perfect. Whoa.

Being on the right track is one thing, but you have to move your ass or you might get steamrolled. Don't just sit there. GO! GO!

I knew I was doing the right thing, no matter how desperate I was to just hurl myself to the ground and quit. I kept replaying that dramatic gesture over and over in my head while I ran, sort of rehearsing it in my mind, just in case.

Before I started on this road, I spent alot of time talking and very little time actually doing anything at all to get where I was going. It's one thing to be right-minded, but getting up off of the couch, putting on your running sneakers and taking off is entirely another. Being on the right track means, well, that you are on the right track BUT- being on the right track is not enough.

You can't just sit there...you GOTTA MOVE!

My Soft Stomach

2011-05-03T22:41:00.002-04:00

I do my level best to get to the gym at least three times a week. On Tuesday, I go to class at 6pm and then leave early to sing with the Buffalo Gay Men's Chorus at 7pm. I race at about mach 5 to get there, but I am committed to both and often take the wraps off my hands at red lights on the way to chorus. I know I look a hot mess, but I don't care. Sometime I even eat dinner in my car.
My commitment to both the gym and the chorus are important to me and bust my ass to do both in one night.

It would be clear to even a blind person that I just came from doing some form of exercise. Sweaty shirt. Soaked hair. White socks and sneakers. Water bottle. All signs point to me just coming from a gym, but the genius minds at the chorus always seem to get all bamboozled and ask "are you still boxing?" (which someone asked me tonight while I was WEARING MY SOAKED KC'S FITNESS SHIRT!)

Ah, these are great minds indeed.

"Did you just come from the gym?"

Please be kidding.

Tonight, the gay that sits next to me and put his hand right on my stomach. Um...
Strike ONE
"Ew, your stomach is SOFT!"
Strike TWO
"Er, but your legs are rock solid."
Strike THREE, ASSHOLE.

"Look, nobody ASKED you!" was all I could muster up. I barked it out curtly in my best Zbornakian dialect. I had more to say however, but held back for some reason.
Here were some things I wished I'd said:

That hurts my feelings.

I just came from the gym where I am working hard and way out of my comfort zone trying to make my soft stomach go away.

I actually raced to get here on time, but not so I could be touched and then insulted by a BIG FAT QUEEN.

You may have noticed I am covered in SWEAT (yet strangely still fresh smelling!)
YOU, sir, are a DICKWAD.

Ah, I let it go- but clearly it is still bothering me. People are assholes sometimes, I know that. No matter what you think you're doing right someone often comes along to tell you the one or two things you forgot. What I love is that this dude tried to backpedal with the "you have great legs" compliment.

Too late, Count Dickula.
For the record, "great legs" is the Gay Men's Chorus equivalent of "you have such a pretty face" or " you would be so pretty, if only you lost some weight." Those two are the worst to hear, but are the best at letting people like us know we're not QUITE good enough.

I left rehearsal smiling, however, because I realized something HUGE.
I am not doing this for anyone but MYSELF- not for the gays, or my family, or my doctor or even my partner, who I love with every beat of my heart.

This is all for me, and I'm happy with how I am right now.
Sure, I'm not there yet but I love how far I've gotten.

I know my stomach is soft, and I couldn't give a shit. It's mine and I love it.

My Friend Eddie

2011-04-29T22:59:00.002-04:00

My friend Eddie G.

Oh, the twists and turns! Just when I thought nothing could surprise me, my road trip ramps up and gets all "Chitty Chitty Bang Bang" on me.
I opened my Yahoo! email yesterday and there it was in the subject line. Your Blog.
The writer of the email?

EDDIE! Weight Watchers Eddie. FROM THE COMMERCIAL!

It took me a second to realize who Edward Gazzillo was, but when it hit me, I literally almost fell out of my chair. OUT. OF. MY. CHAIR.

Chitty Bang Bang, ready to help me finish my road trip.

I was afraid to open it, in fact I peered through my fingers like I was at a scary movie. OH SHIT. I'm goin' DOWN for this one. If memory serves me, I think I MAY have called him a douche bag for being in the Weight Watchers FOR MEN commercial that was the topic of my blog mere hours before. FUCK! What have I done?

Peering through my fingers, I scanned his letter for words like "lawsuit" and "please delete" and "copyright infringement."

There were none of those words, so I proceeded to read his email.

"I just came across your blog. I’m terribly sorry that you took offense at the rainbows and lollipops line. It truly has nothing to do with being gay or that Weight Watchers is not just for gay people."

What is happening here? Eddie is sort of like a Weight Watchers hero to me, which is one of the reasons I was so harsh with my words. He "CAME ACROSS MY BLOG?"
How, Sweet Jesus, HOW?

Eddie continued, "Losing weight is not easy. We live in a world of wanting instant gratification. When trying to lose weight instant gratification is not an option. People would look at me and ask if I was on something besides WW’s, like a weight loss pill. Of cause I wasn’t, so I would say “The only other thing I’m on is the track, the bike, the bench. Losing weight is hard work; it’s not rainbows and lollipops.”

Well, they could have made it a WAY better commercial if they had included that first part. It must have ended up on the cutting room floor.

He continued to explain that he has many gay friends, and is a big supporter of gay rights. Eddie is a coach and a father and a husband. He loves Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs. He even made a Lesley Gore reference! This is a good man, and I called this man a bad name on a public blog and now, I wanted to fling myself onto the floor. That wouldn't have been hard to do, because by this point, I was sinking so far into my chair, my head was on the edge of the seat.

OH EDDIE- I am an asshole! I'm so sorry!

I read on:
"So please except my apologies, it was definitely not my intention to insult you. I don’t want to dismiss your feelings; I can see how you might take offense. I hope I cleared this up."

Oh my God.

I wrote him back immediately. This man took the time to write to me not only to explain what his obviously edited comment really meant, but also to make sure I didn't think he was dismissing my feelings. Shit, I have people in my real life that aren't that concerned with my feelings and whether or not they are dismissed! This was too much! I was almost dizzy.
(sings) Chitty Chitty Bang Bang...

I responded. Here are the key points.

Next, Lesley Gore will be emailing me.

"Eddie, is that really you!?
I'M SORRY FOR CALLING YOU A DOUCHE BAG! I really and truly am- (also for calling your picture soft-core porn, but I bet you get that alot if you have gay friends. If they aren't saying it, they are thinking it!) Please accept my apologies too.

I can't thank you enough for taking the time to put that metaphor into context for me. Losing weight IS hard work, not all rainbows and lollipops. I get it IN context, and appreciate the reference shift.
Again, I shit rainbows and love lollipops too- I also love that Lesley Gore song.
It's kicky and I have used it to run to, believe it or not!

Sometimes I think that people and even big companies feed into that stereotype of what it means to be a man, that whole "boys don't cry" syndrome. It would be naive of WW to think that there are men out there that aren't going to have the same types of feelings. The first meetings I started at were at our local Pride Center here in Buffalo and I called it Gay Weight Watchers for the longest time. It was interesting watching the leader they sent tell the trans women that they didn't need to worry so much about the calcium! When I moved to the local WW Center, I missed all of the people at Gay WW. I fed into a stereotype about "Straight Weight Watchers" and was embarrassed that I bought into the myth that all the people at that meeting had a wife and 2.5 kids at home waiting for tuna noodle casserole. I learn alot every time I go to a meeting about how wrong I was and how truly alike all of us on this road trip are.

The commercial got me riled up, and when I realized the "actor" saying that line was YOU, I got sad. I really love your blog and am incredibly inspired by you. It's almost like your quote was "taken out of context" or they edited out the part that would have made it make sense.

I hate the commercial. You, however, are really wonderful in taking time to make sure that your message was clear and it is really nice of you to take my feelings into account. You DID clear it up and I am very grateful. It's all about this type of conversation between people, and I love that.

Now who would have seen any of THIS coming?

Eddie closed his letter by saying that if I was ever in the NYC area, he would love to meet up for coffee or something to further discuss this if I wanted to.

Linda, my Weight Watcher's leader (and part time muse) had this to say:
"...Eddie is right!! It isn't all rainbows and lollipops!! Yay for Eddie! yay for Lesley Gore! I can't wait to see pictures of you and your new best friend Eddie in New York. Maybe dancing to a Lesley Gore tune..."

Eddie, thank you. Thank you for teaching me that sometimes it is worth having a conversation before ( or in this case after) making such a quick judgement. I have so much to learn. Thanks for being awesome and for forgiving me- in reality, what I did calling you out as a d-bag is WAY WORSE than what I accused you of. Mea culpa.

So, get ready to crank this up and dance in the streets with me. Eddie. Thank you for being part of my road trip. Listen! They're playing our song...

Rainbows and Lollipops

2011-04-27T21:50:00.000-04:00

Time to rock out with your cock out apparently and click away the pounds, dude. Weight Watchers For MEN has made some mighty assumptions here about what being a man on a diet is all about. I'm disappointed in Weight Watchers. THERE. I said it.

Jezebel.com's headline Weight Watchers Lures Men with Meat, Beer certainly grabbed my attention. Anna North writes "Ads touting the Weight Watchers for Men website instead of group meetings (which are for girls) will air during sporting events (which are for men). The spots, like the one above, emphasize that men need not suck on lollipops or shit rainbows in order to use Weight Watchers. Instead, they may drink beer and grill things. Then they can look thin and laugh at stupid fat men. Ha! Ha! Ha!

Oh God. No. Not Weight Watchers too?

Hey, great minds at Weight Watchers marketing, there are all sorts of men in this world. From neanderthals to big fat Nancy's, there is truth in every stereotype. Carnivorous men grilling all day, ball-walking to and from the cooler for beer, is an image that is just as bad as that of a Weight Watchers meeting filled with cackling harridan shrews debating the points value of a well made Cosmo. While some of this does happen in real life, I always hope there is just one person on the ad team to say..."wait, this is some bull-SHIT! We're taking our members for chumps feeding them this crap."

Eddie. I expected more from you.

"I'm like, 'It's not rainbows and lollipops'" is a scripted line by a man I have come to know as simply "Eddie." Ah, Eddie is dreamy. His after picture is like decent soft-core porn. Eddie has a blog on the machismo-soaked (it's really not) Weight Watchers FOR MEN website. He has lost a ton of weight on the program and his blog is sort of no-nonsense, but sensitive too. Eddie has feelings. Eddie knows pain, so WHY did he sell out and read that line, with literal, exploding rainbows and lollipops surrounding him. Nice one. Thanks a million. When I replayed the commercial, I yelled "That's EDDIE!" I caught him being a douche bag. For shame.

Being a man on a diet is not gay or shameful or anything to laugh at. Wanting to feel confident enough to swim with a shirt off or have sex with the lights on is a feeling that is deep and painful, especially when those things seem like they can NEVER happen. Being a man in the gay community is even harder because we are shallow. THERE- I said THAT too! I'm on a roll!

We judge people on looks alone sometimes(most of the times) and to be certain I feel that I have stepped in deeper puddles. This is hard work, and the true test of a man- or a woman- is in committing to this program and making it happen day after day, even when you don't feel like doing ANY of it anymore.

I'm sure that getting Joe Average to buy-in is what Weight Watchers was trying to achieve, but in doing so they sold their gay contingency out. They threw us under Priscilla, Queen of the Desert ( that's the name the gays give the bus in the titular film.)

I want to shit rainbows and suck on as many lollipops as I can. That's how I live and what I am. I lollipop suckin' rainbow shitter, and I am proud. I want to take my road trip in a silver bus topped with a drag queen lip-syncing Sempre Libera in a giant shoe.

That's what I want; I'll do the next commercial for all the dudes who don't want to eat a live cattle while kissing thier biceps.
Weight Watchers, if you're going to throw me under the bus- please make it this one.

Nachos...YUM!

2011-04-24T20:10:00.003-04:00

Is it possible to make myself diabetic in the course of just one day? If so, will I be forced to buy one of these cookbooks from the insipid 1999 Miss America, Nicole Johnson.

She is more excited about nachos ( YUM!) and bundt cake (it makes my MOUTH WATER!) than I've ever been about anything. Ever.

They play them non-stop and these commercials make my skin crawl. One actually says for "people with diabetes who LOVE FOOD!" Oh, those people!

One YouTube comment captured it well:

"While it's sad that diabetes can kill, cause amputations, and blind, this commercial, which seems to play ENDLESSLY, doesn't make me feel at ALL sympathetic..."

Whoa! One yum too many, and suddenly people are cold hearted and apathetic.

"and nachos..."

Drive THROUGH!

2011-04-23T22:52:00.000-04:00

Gratuitous, objectifying SEXY BOXER clip-art

It's funny how phrases change in meaning as we change our lives.

Drive-Thru. Drive THROUGH!

At the end of each round of boxing today, at the 30 second bell, Pietro encouraged us to work harder than ever by yelling "DRIVE THROUGH." That's the time where I want to give up the most, and I was really spent by the time I heard him cry out this bit of coaching. Drive through. Work harder. Let the mechanics kick in.

Don't give up; this isn't the time for that.

Not very long ago, drive through used to mean Drive-Thru and was a phrase I used to cry out from my car window. Drive-Thru windows at Burger King and Mighty Taco and Wendy's were second nature to me. Usually, I would drive through them alone and eat everything while I was driving home.
Driving and eating. Sexy.

I used to have a zaftig friend who was a drag queen that worked the window at "the Burger King." His drag name was Symphony Bar. Paints a picture, no? By day, he was Bobby, the kindly drive-thru window attendant who would cry out "Hey Girrrrrrrrrrrl" from his perch and then give me- ready?- tons of extra fries and sometimes one or two extra burgers! Oh, what an enabling drag queen with a little power can do!

No Exit

Drive-thru's were a regular stop on the road trip I was on before this one. They are so easy and they are perfect for shameful, secret eating. I used to go through the Boston Market and tell myself this was the healthy option. Look at me, driving and making great choices too! Did I eat an entire rotisserie chicken while stylin' and profilin' in my Buick Century? I'll never tell. The imagery THAT conjures up is too hot to handle, no?

Every time I would drive-thru, I remember a story my friend Niki told me about a time she was TRAPPED in the line to the window at an Orlando, Florida Taco Bell- no exit on either side of her car- and a maniac came running out and started masturbating on the hood of her car. She had no way out and was forced to just hit her horn and watch. I heard that was actually the original plot of Jean Paul Sartre's No Exit, but then he changed his mind.

So, when the 30 second bell rang, we all ramped up and really gave it all we had.
DRIVE THROUGH! Can I tell you this shit is fucking HARD to keep up and all you want to do is lay on the floor and pant. And cry. And then, fall asleep- BUT, you can't, lest you be judged by everyone in the class. When I heard Pietro, all of the secret eating and whole chickens and serial masturbators on the hoods of cars popped in and out of my head in a flash. I thought of seeing the free bacon cheeseburgers in my BK bag and thinking Bobby was just about the best friend an overweight gay could have.

A haven for maniacal masturbation.

JAB! CROSS! JAB! CROSS!

I was back with my partner doing 30 seconds of jab/cross combinations and powering through to the end. I was employing AEQUANIMITAS and committing to my partner. By the final bell, I was drenched in sweat and realized that my road trip may not take me to an actual drive-thru, but that driving through was something I would work on until I reach the end.

My First Passover

2011-04-19T23:55:00.004-04:00

When I was a kid, my mom would always say to me “HONEY, chew that VERY THOROUGHLY because LAMB IS VERY HARD TO DIGEST!” It used to scare the shit out of me because I had no idea what would happen to me if I chose to do a half-assed job of chewing lamb. Would I die in my sleep? Might my stomach explode? Either way, her warning stuck with me and I’m almost 40 years old.

Last night at sundown, I was included in my very first Passover Seder, and I could not have been more removed from the early lamb-terrorst of my childhood. When Abbey’s Mamala, Marcia, hoisted these enormous platters of tender lamb over our heads onto the Seder table, I heard the faint echo of my own Sicilian Mamala ring out; “HONEY, chew that VERY THOROUGHLY because LAMB IS VERY HARD TO DIGEST!” Feh! No longer afraid, I went for it- hard and fast. This was lamb worth risking your life for, in fact so were the mashed sweet potatoes, and the salty boiled baby potatoes, and the Gefltefish(!), and the roasted chicken AND the lemon pound cake made in the wonder-pan!

Matzah Mamala Marcia!

Marcia appeared at the door to welcome us wearing a matzah apron.

“This has matching oven mitts!” How ironic that as a Passover offering, we brought her a giant inflatable GENUINE MATZAH BALL!

Now, what makes this genuine, I haven't any idea.

This moment was really too perfect. It was one of those moments when I say to myself, I’m home.

These are my people.

STRIKE! SMITE!

Passover is a biggie…it’s no Purim! While Purim is wrought with tom-foolery and costumes and kick-ass cookies called hamantaschen, Passover is far less playful. It commemorates the formative experience of the Jewish people from scattered tribes enslaved in Egypt to the emancipated crew we know today. The Ten Plagues drove the Pharaoh to relent and “let the people go”! There is apparently no shortage of Plague “swag”! Masks, finger puppets and yes…Ten Plague BOWLING!

What Seder table is complete without being showered with boils and lice at the last minute? Marcia had it all. The fact that she didn’t ALREADY have a giant inflatable matzah ball took me by surprise.

The soup. THE SOUP! The matzah ball soup. It’s comforting and salty and perfect. There are carrots and chicken and parsnips. The “how many balls?” jokes were flying, but all joking ceased and there was SILENCE while people were eating their soup. Revernce and silence. Unleavened HEAVEN. It was as close to a religious experience as I’M ever going have anytime soon. If you are feeling alone, scared or experiencing what I like to call "general malaise," get yourself to a bowl of matzah ball soup.

Call Marcia. I’ll give you her number.

Mortar never tasted THIS GOOD!

Charoset is a mixture of apples and honey that has been called the “glue that holds Passover Seder together.” It represents the mortar exhausted slaves used to create the pyramids. I ate enough mortar to build the great pyramid and have enough left over to repave our driveway. I CHEART CHAROSET! (wink*)

Before we began eating, the youngest child asked the Four Questions, which explain the activities of the Seder and concisely tell the history and significance of Passover.

In our case, the youngest child was a twenty-two year old mensch with five o’clock shadow. Eh! He'll do. As he read them, I thought of my own:

How hard could lamb ACTUALLY be to digest?

Why am I not a part of a creative team that makes Ten Plague merchandise?
It’s not fair.

Did I ever think this road trip would lead me to earn a seat at this magnificent table?

My heart is so full of love for this incredible family; how did I get so lucky?

"This matzah is so dry."
"Dip it in your 'tears' babe."

2011-04-19T18:55:00.001-04:00

My very own Harmonia Gardens.
Back where I belong.

It's so nice to have you back where you belong!

2011-04-19T17:25:00.000-04:00

Tonight, I FINALLY make my glorious return to KC's Fitness after working evenings for the last few weeks. I can only expect that much like Dolly Levi, returning once again to the well appointed Harmonia Gardens, my return will be just as dramatic.

Wow, wow, wow, fella's!

It will be complete with singing waiters, a grand staircase, and if I'm lucky, Louis Armstrong HIMSELF! Or, Pietro, Marisa, holding push-ups and of course, the dirty, smelly boxing gloves. All of those, to me, are just as beautiful as Harmonia Gardens and rival ANYTHING it has to serve up.

I have missed going to KC's so much it has made my heart hurt. And that's the truth.

You're still glowin'...you're still growin'...you're still goin' strong!

Let the Sunshine In

2011-04-15T19:26:00.002-04:00

Are you hiding in there somewhere?

Sometimes a big long sweatshirt is just that- a big long sweatshirt. Breezy, flowing pants are just pants. And, sometimes a haircut is just a haircut. Then other times, they are something else.

Louise Brooks.
Virile, she ain't!

Today, I got all of my cropped really short. "To the wood" I joked with my friend and long-time stylist Amy, who has seen me through every style from bleach-blond surfer to dramatic black bob (okay lookit', we all make mistakes.) No 20 year old man should ever look like Louise Brooks. Ever.

I have been hiding behind my hair to distract people from my fat face.
There, I said it. Whoa...
Luckily, I have really awesome hair to hide behind, but the longer it gets, the more I am pretty much telling the world that I am throwing a distraction. The heavier and more unattractive I feel -the longer and "swoopier" my hair becomes. It's been down to my shoulders before. It has been this short before too. There have been days I'm surprised I haven't had a bouffant that touches the ceiling, complete with decorative bees pinned in it.

It's part of a process. A stop on this road trip I was really hoping to make, but I really didn't know when I'd get to this particular point. It took me by surprise how ready I was to get out of the car and say "to the wood, Amy."

I feel really exposed, but it does not bother me. It's on par to no longer wearing huge blazers in the summertime, or putting away the giant t-shirts that are more like caftans. Confessing that my super-great head of hair has been used to make people look away from my face and body is painful and makes me sad for myself. That's the part of this journey when I have to almost literally pull over and cry for a while. But, wipers on, I'm going to drive forward.

The beard will be next, but I'm not there yet. The day I arrive there, you'll know that something had truly changed in me. Until then, I'll crank this up. I'm ready to start letting the sunshine in.

I'll sing this at the top of my lungs and be glad that I have stopped hiding, even if it's just a little bit.

Maybe you're hiding behind something too...

Insidious

2011-04-12T18:53:00.000-04:00

"Just until Easter, then they'll be gone."

Maybe you don’t associate holiday specific treats with the tortured souls of the dead searching for a vessel on this earth to occupy…but I DO!

There has been an odd convergence of a.) Easter Candy and b.) the WALKING DEAD and I am here to tell you about it.

Insidious. This movie scared the SHIT out of me and made me scream like a little girl. It is an awesome combination of early 1960’s horror films, Disney’s Haunted Mansion and some obvious nods to Poltergeist. I was in horror heaven, but it wasn’t just that. I had recently used the word “insidious’ to describe something entirely different.

Reese’s Peanut Butter Eggs and their Cadbury buddy, the Easter Cream Egg.

Oh, it starts slow. You go to the grocery store in February and there may be a load of Valentines candy, but look- WHAT WAS THAT? Small sized Reese’s eggs in their own subtle bin. I think nothing of it, because it is only FEBRUARY for FUCK’s SAKE. There may be one or two stacked at the register at the gas station, but nothing we can’t handle. The Cadbury Eggs are in a small box at the bottom of the St. Patricks Day mayhem at the drug store. Will they grab at my feet while I’m standing here?

Herk Harvey

The definition of" insidious" is: awaiting a chance to entrap, treacherous, harmful but enticing- SEDUCTIVE! The more I saw these eggs, the more I felt myself being sucked into their “world.” I know damned well that once I eat one, there’s no going back. There’s no way I can eat just one of either of these evil things and they have been my undoing before. So, I said it:

These little fuckers are INSIDIOUS.

It was at Rite Aid when I let that one fly; there was a display that defied all laws of marketing. IT WAS HUGE! So many eggs. It was multi-tiered, so people of every height could get at these eggs. I snuck back into the Rite Aid to take a picture while my friend Bridgette threw a distraction at the register. True to the definition, the presence of these goddamned eggs were developing so gradually, I hardly noticed.

Insidious Easter Creme Eggs. Frankly, I’m surprised their image even appeared in the photo.

I’m not too far off here. Like a tormented banshee trapped between worlds, these are intended to entrap or beguile the weak souls of people with not an OUNCE of impulse control. I’m BEGUILED. They are treacherous.

The ghouls in Insidious are terrifying. The head ghoul, the Old Woman, appears in the opening credits and instantly reminded me of this great cult classic from 1962, Carnival of Souls

This awesome gem has a blank faced woman strangely drawn to this spectacular old pavilion. She was the lone survivor of a car accident ( OR WAS SHE?!) and starts seeing the horrendous ghoul (Herk Harvey) in the window, in her car mirror…ON HER COUCH! The climax of the film has a whole crew of ghouls dancing in fast motion at the old pavilion, inviting her (BACK?) to their world. I know you are ALL going to NetFlix this flick immediately, but SPOILER! She was dead all along! The Ghoul, played by Harvey, is enough to make you crap yourself, especially when he gets a little too close. Just like this dude, the Old Woman in Insidious ( also played by a dude) make me jump and even get a little hysterical. She appears subtly at first, but before you know it she has her hand on your shoulder and suddenly uses you as a vehicle to cross over into this world. Much like a Reese’s Egg, she waits around for a long time before going in for the kill. Also like a Reese’s Egg, one is powerless in its presence.

ON HER COUCH!

I cannot stop thinking about those eggs and how good they are. They haunt me. This should be Halloween, not Easter. When I was a kid, I ate the Cadbury one’s like it WAS MY JOB during Easter time. Did you know they actually make a ONE POUND REESE’S EGG?
What the fuck? They are best cold, but sometimes melted they are good too.
Ah, the true meaning of Easter.

It is no coincidence that I used the word insidious to describe the terror that these positively sublime treats create for me. Comparing them to malevolent specters feeding off the weakness of human will is in no way a stretch for me. It’s not a disconnect. Don’t you believe me?
You don’t see the connection?

(with a primal scream)

FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WON’T ANYONE

PLEASE BELIEVE ME?!

One Pound at a Time

2011-04-10T13:59:00.003-04:00

Now that we all know I'm lavishly showering at the BAC while not actually working out for even a minute, I can admit that I am feeling like a failure this week. While I haven't gained any weight, I have only lost about a pound and a half. Working at night and not being able to go to KC's has thrown me off and to be honest, made me really depressed. I miss the people, I miss the hard, dirty floor...I even miss the smell (sorta.)

Yesterday, I got to go back for a class in the morning and was almost emotional. These are my people, and I love them. I wanted to hug Pietro and kiss Marisa.
It's a good thing Sebastiano wasn't there!
With my schedule the way it is, I won't be back there until next Tuesday. I'm all at sea.

So this week, I have to recommit to trying the BAC in the morning again, and not just to utilize it as the world's most expensive toilet. While I no longer have a number goal set for when I turn 40, I just "know" when I'm not on target. Without being at KC's, things just don't feel right.

Then, along comes Linda at Friday's Weight Watchers meeting and just about knocks me off my chair with this:
"You lose 25 or 50 or even 100 pounds one pound at a time.
ONE POUND AT A TIME.
People come in here saying 'I need to lose 75 pounds and there is no way I can ever do that.' You're right, you won't come in and lose 75 or 100 pounds, you'll lose one pound at at time. EVERYONE IN HERE is capable of losing a single pound. So, just keep doing it and you will get to your goal, AS LONG AS YOU DON'T KEEP LOSING THAT SAME POUND!"

That part killed me, because before my road trip, I kept losing and gaining the same 8 pounds over and over again while paying hundreds of dollars to Weight Watchers to do it. I wasn't ready yet, that's all. In a years time, I actually weighed MORE than I did when I started. I remember saying to Linda that I must be the only d-bag in here actually paying to GAIN WEIGHT. See, you gotta be ready.

So, we are all capable of losing one pound at a time. Even losing 100 of them has to happen one pound at a time. Why didn't I think of that! A giant DUH rang out in my head. Maybe I'm looking at this whole thing in slightly the wrong way.

The longest road trip starts off one mile at a time, even one YARD at a time. You'll get there as long as you're moving forward. Just move forward, even if it's at a time you don't love at a place you don't love. None of that is forever. Anyone can do that, for just a little while, right?

Just a pound and a half lost and I'm all grumpy about it. I sit slouched at the meeting with my arms crossed over my chest, all closed off. What a jerk.
If I continue to lose just that much twenty more times or so, I'll be under 200 pounds.

One pound at a time. One day at a time.

"So' wop on your feet! Somewhere there's music playin'!"

My Own GIANT Bathroom

2011-04-04T11:49:00.049-04:00

Apparently this is just a GIANT BATHROOM out in the suburbs for my convenience and EASE!

“THIS is embarrassing.”

Today, I literally said this out loud as I got out of my car to go into the Buffalo Athletic Club. I said it because I am REALLY outdid myself this morning. I’m so ashamed.

For the next two weeks, I am working in the evening, which throws me way off. I can’t go to KC’s Fitness for my boxing classes. I’m actually having separation anxiety. Will they remember me when I return? I’m freaking out a little.

I do have a gym membership at the BAC. Um, it’s not my favorite BUT I made a commitment to working out before I have to be at the office AND it’s only one mile from work. This is how I’ll feel less guilty and sad. I’ll go there in the morning. This was the plan.
This particular morning, I fucked up. I got off to a late start and forgot that the rent check was late and our dog was going to starve if I didn’t go and get him is special organic food that he hates. It all hit me as I was driving to the BAC.

SHIT! The RENT!

FUCK! Marm’s FOOD!

Before I knew it, I didn’t have enough time to work out. Jesus, why can't I time things better. Realizing slowly that I only had enough time to shower and haul ass to work just HAD to manifest on my face somehow. If only I could have seen my expression the moment I realized that I was about to use the BAC as my own personal bathroom.
I could not go to work looking like a skank, so I HAD to shower somewhere. What was I to do?SHIT!
No. I can’t just go in there, shower, and then leave. Assholes do that.
NO ONE DOES THAT.
Oh, but I do. Not only do I, but I actually put together sort of a makeshift DISGUISE, lest I be judged by the apathetic girl taking the membership cards.

My timing allowed for me to put a bandanna over my entire head- biker style! - and remove my glasses in the car. Then I bolted in, all nonchalant. She’ll never recognize me when I exit; a dashing, bespectacled young man. Again, I’m an ASSHOLE for doing this!

The BAC was not designed to be my own personal bathroom. I realize this. More self-conscious than I EVER thought possible, I was the guy who came in, DID NOT WORK OUT, showered, and left. No one does this. I wanted to announce something that would make the people think I really had like the workout of a lifetime, but what would THAT be?
“WHAT. A. WORKOUT! Hope I didn’t rip a TENDON on those bicep curls!” Believable!

Walking to the counter-ABASHED- I said my name so quietly, the staff made me repeat it. SHAUN DOYLE. SHAUN FUCKING DOYLE! I DIDN’T WORK OUT- NOT AT ALL- NOT FOR ONE MINUTE.
HAPPY NOW?

The BAC and I just can’t seem to get our shit together, and that’s okay. I’ll try again tomorrow.

At least my hair is clean.

These Things I Know

2011-04-01T16:33:00.006-04:00

It has been one year TODAY since I started Me on a Diet! The mere fact that I committed to doing this and stuck with the blog for a whole year is remarkable, but also- I had to commit to being on the actual diet for that whole year too. The blog is a way to help me keep myself honest and I knew the added pressure of knowing that people were following along with me would sort of force me to stay on course.

All of this has magically worked, and more.

I could not have imagined in my most fucked-up of dreams some of the people I would meet or feats I would attempt in this year. Running in pubic- on purpose! Going to the fights with my gym friends- wait, I have GYM FRIENDS?!
Feeling actual remorse that I lost a head of kale somewhere. Hoisting giant kettle bells and then coming home to cook escarole. Going to New York Fashion Week and not feeling self conscious. None of these landmarks even appeared on the map.
When I started this blog on April 1st of last year, I was all "what the FUCK was I going to write about for a whole year?" I will surely run out of topics by the 4th of July, and who will actually give a shit that I am doing any of this? How wrong I was.
The universe, in all its perfect wisdom, kept sending me challenges and victories, mentors and villains- in many different forms. Each of these was worth writing about and the more I discovered that people were on this road trip with me, the less about me it became and it soon became more about US. I LOVE us!
There are 8 weeks now until my 40th birthday. I mentioned to my friend Katy the other day that when I finally do reach my destination, I will probably have nothing left to write about. She said, and with a quickness too,"Honey, THAT'S when the journey will REALLY begin, so forget all that 'I've arrived' bullshit. Just keep writing."

And so I will.

I used to joke that if I ever had a talk show, it would be called with certainty "These Things I Know..." Since this trip began, I have learned so much, and well...these are a few of the things I know for sure:

Don't start your road trip until you're ready-REALLY ready. You'll know when you are. Be kind and gentle with yourself until you are.
People's lives aren't that much better than yours- TRUST ME. Even thin people have their own shit, so don't worry about them. Believe me, they ain't worrying about you.
Weight Watchers REALLY WORKS. It's worth the money if you follow it just like they tell you. There's no way you won't lose weight if you do.
It's not about the number on the scale. If we make it about that, we'll feel like shit every time we get on it. We're all one salt lick away from being bloated like a zeppelin. It could mean the difference between agony and ecstasy on the scale. Don't let it mess with your mind.
Like yourself. This one might take a while. Once you do, it will make you very, very attractive.
Some foods are worth the ginormous points values. If you love it, truly love it- EAT IT WITHOUT REMORSE or APOLOGY. Then, write that shit down.
You're not alone on your road trip. There are TONS of people in their virtual cars headed in the same direction.
It's okay to be selfish. You can say no to people, to food, to bad choices, and not worry about hurting people's feeling. This is about you. They can take care of themselves and they will.
Don't buy a cookbook unless you think you'll make at least ONE recipe from it. If you don't, soon HOARDING: BURIED ALIVE will be at your door with Dr. Robin Zasio. She'll have to find you under the pile of unused cookbooks that fell on you.
The most interesting person you will meet on your road trip will be YOU. SURPRISE! It's twisted, but it's true.
Learn to love the life you live, and live the life you love.
Exercise will change everything for you. You may have to kiss alot of frogs before you get to your "prince," but once you "find your exercise!" (said in my mother's voice)- you will know it. Then, just do it.
Change how you see, not how you look. Whoa...so DEEP and fraught with double meaning!
"Your life does not start 10 or 20 or 50 pounds from now. Your life has already started. You will never get this time back, this day, this moment, this week – they are all gone. If you want to waste the time you have left waiting to be smaller, that's your option. But if that's how you've been living – aren't you tired of that? You DO have a choice, a choice nobody can ever take away from you – you can live an amazing life right now."
There is a universe of food out there that most of us have never heard of. It all sounds so "galaxy far, FAR AWAY"...Quinoa. Kasha. Fage. They're not princesses from the Planet Zod, they're FOODS! Try them!
You're going to feel like you're going nowhere fast for a while. You'll make some instant progress, and then you will think you're idling. It's normal and it will pass. Don't quit. Please keep driving.
Almost nothing in the whole world feels better than the day you realize that you love to exercise, whatever it may be. For me it was at the boxing gym. You may love spinning, or Zumba or Yoga or weights. There is something out there for all of us. The day you are mad that you MISSED going rather than being mad that you are THERE is one you will never forget.
Don't eat Chinese food for at least 23 hours before you get on a scale. You'll want to throw it at someone. Legend has it someone gained 11 pounds from the MSG alone. Don't let this be you. You'll be SO PISSED OFF.
Live through every connection you make on your road trip. People, feelings, food, thoughts...live through each one and be mindful of what you are learning.
Practice AEQUANIMITAS. Let the mechanics kick in when you're too physically or mentally tired to go on.
Don’t hold on to what you know. Share it. Teach it, and you will, in turn, be better for it too.
Teach people to show you that they love you without using food. It's not easy, but there are a thousand other ways.
When talking to yourself, be truthful and kind. There is no power in being truthful and brutal. People can be assholes to us- don't you be the biggest one.
Admit it if you have a trigger food that makes you act positively FERAL when you get a mere taste. Stay away from these foods at all costs, unless you want to have someone catch you pulling a George Costanza- eating out of the garbage can.

Lastly, remember that you are in exquisitely excellent company. Remember that line from Dom De Luise's FATSO? "The good people are the fat people." Even when we get thin, we are still just one or two cookies away from being back where we started and will always have the wit and wisdom that often only someone who has been on our road trip can.

I have learned that I am not alone. I have learned that being part of what I consider to be this elite group reminds me of that, everyday. There are wonderful, honest, thoughtful people that remind me gently when I fuck things up, and that once and I while, I do things right.

They remind me to be selfish sometimes, and to always keep my head up. High.
I love all of you and thank you for making me believe in myself. Let's continue on our road trip, okay? Even when we're there- we have only just gotten started.

These things, I know for sure.

35 Barbara Stanwycks

2011-03-28T21:26:00.003-04:00

There's nothing that I dislike more than doing sit-ups, let alone in a crowd. While not a giant fan of push-ups, which I am convinced I MAY just be the worst at in all of Western New York, sit-ups are a special kind of hell for me.

See, after about twenty or so, my stomach starts to do this weird trembling thing on the way up; it's sort of a mini-seizure caused by flagrant neglect. There's very little that's more bizarre than this. Once, my stomach muscles quivered for about 15 minutes AFTER I STOPPED!
Now, THAT'S some fucked up shit if you ask me.

Sometimes at the end of class, three or four people who are what they like to call "experienced" will call out an abs exercise to the group.

Marvin Hagler...

50 CRUNCHES!
25 LEG LIFTS!
And, my favorite...
"35 MARVIN HAGLERS" which in the din of my own pulse drowning out every sound in my head, sounds all the world to me like 35 BARBARA STANWYCKS!
Um, WRONG.

...and Barbara Stanwyck. One can see how I'd
confuse the two.

We moan and groan and pant on the sweat covered floor until we can't take it anymore. It's like its own special level of hell. One week, my teacher Marisa handed it over to the group of people who know what the hell they're doing and asked for abs exercises. We did about 50 Barbara Stanwycks and then Marisa jolted me out of my haze by calling out my name to choose the next exercise.
SHAUN?
Me?

Um...30 BICYCLES! I picked them because I only know like one or two floor moves and I thought that she still may have called me by mistake. Could she have thought enough of me to include me in the abs part of the class? I was actually giddy inside as I cycled aimlessly on the gym floor, even if she did mistakenly choose me.

Then, I realized that she didn't; she picked me! Then, I realized why I love Marisa so very much.

Marisa was the teacher for my very first class at KC's. When I tell you I was A NERVOUS WRECK walking in there for the first time, I am not really doing my level of unease justice.
What would this be like? Will they all laugh at me? Do I have to REALLY hit people? I wanted to back out a MILLION times that Monday in June. It was really hot and humid and I was a point on my road trip where the goin' was slow. Could this actually make it worse?

Marisa took the time- I mean REALLY took the time- to make me feel comfortable. She helped me wrap my hands. She showed me how to throw a jab, then a cross, then a hook. Then we did it again. And then, we practiced it again. The feeling that someone is truly there for you and actually paying attention to only you in that moment is rare, and wonderful, and instantly calming. I will never forget how that felt.

The class went by in a mad whirl and since Marisa was keen enough to make me a "station" in the rotation of exercises the people in the class were doing, I got to meet every single person that was there that evening. They taught me more about myself and what this gym was about than they ever could have about boxing. It takes a great and very insightful teacher to place a brand new person in the best position for them to learn the most, AND in the shortest amount of time. Without knowing it, Marisa changed everything for me that night in just a few, small gestures.

As time has progressed, I have learned that Marisa is one hell of a fighter and humble bad-ass too. She was actually sporting a shiner for a while and she wore it well, somehow. It takes a beautiful person inside and out to still look great with a black-eye, but she did.

When I am in Marisa's class, that feeling that she is REALLY paying attention to us and carefully watching what we are doing has not gone away. She makes you want to do well not only for her as the instructor, but for yourself. When I screw up, and I ALWAYS inevitably do, she corrects and teaches with that same blend of humor, responsibility and inclusiveness that I experienced at my first class.

Feeling included in a gym, when you are out of shape and frankly scared shitless is hard-won. Many years ago at the BAC, I was having my complimentary initial session where they measure you(!) and take the fat calipers to your underarm dingle-dangle. When having my fattest parts measured by a TOTAL STRANGER got too emotionally painful, I started making jokes as I often do when I'm dying inside, and I said "well, at least my legs are strong?" The dickhead that was measuring my fat said- without missing a beat- "well, they'd have to be- LOOK at what they need to hold up!" -as if no legs had ever dared to stabilize such inhuman and incredible girth. I laughed it off and then I left. I cried in my car. I did not return to ANY gym for years.

Sometimes you need a friendly face to help you to make that GIANT leap from fear and lethargy to sudden activity. The wrong person, the wrong words and even the wrong vibe can send a person screaming in the other direction and often, they'll never get the courage to attempt it again.

I am certain you know what I mean.

For my first class at KC's Fitness and my first attempt at exercising in a excruciatingly long time, I found Marisa there for me. I am so, so lucky.

I would never have returned to KC's for my second boxing class if it wasn't for Marisa Licata, and that's the truth.

I can never thank her enough.

AEQUANIMITAS

2011-03-25T19:00:00.013-04:00

Written on a chalkboard in the boxing gym at KC’s Fitness is the word AEQUANIMITAS.
I noticed it the other day written faintly in white chalk, but I was busy dodging haymakers, so I didn’t really get that into it.

Okay, cut to me fucking up Weight Watchers throughout the years. For a long time before this road trip started, I would quit and rejoin like it was MY JOB, and giving up on myself became sort of a tradition. Nice, huh? Right before I would totally crap-out on the whole thing, I would say these words “Okay, I’m going to cut the shit and really follow this program. I’m going to, like, plan meals and do the good health guidelines or whatever, and like, journal my points- all of it. I’m going to get ‘really scientific’ about it and just do it on 'automatic.'”

Linda would always hit me back at light speed with “Oh, so you’re going to DO WEIGHT WATCHERS?” Ha. Ha. Ha.

The best thing about the program, and boxing, and taking a road trip of any kind is that there are concrete directions, rules, best practices and paths that sometimes you can just put yourself on automatic and follow. Very often, they are non-negotiable too, so you have no wiggle room. You don’t have to get all touchy-feely and emotional and sad and whistful. Just follow the basics- the mechanics- and you will make it. Linda says that too- "if you follow the program, and journal everything you eat, there is no way you will NOT lose weight. It’s just impossible."
And as you know, Linda is always right.

Okay, cut back to me and AEQUANIMITAS.

Pietro often has us sit in a circle, panting and lifeless, at the end of class. At least I'M panting and lifeless by that point. We do manage to muster up the energy to share what we learned in that class. I love this part. It's my favorite part of the class- the sharing part.

On Tuesday’s, I have to leave class early to get to Gay Men’s Chorus rehearsal (yes, the irony is rich- leaving boxing to then sing choral music with a bunch of gay dudes) and, I miss the best part. This particular Tuesday, Pietro talked about AEQUANIMITAS. My Abbey knew I would have really hung off of his every word on this one, so she emailed me right away. I love Abbey. During the end of class "wrap-up," Abbey shared that, about halfway through class, she was very tired and starting to loose steam and hit up some good old fashioned “lazy boxing.” Then, she remembered what Pietro has said, about that being the exact time when it is most important to not lose your mechanics. I've heard him say that too. She “got her mind right,” as I call it, and found that place where she got the stones to power through to the end of class.

Pietro then shared with the class the concept of AEQUANIMITAS. Basically it means calmness or evenness of the mind, especially under stress. Pietro said it's when you force your mind to power through the tiredness of your body or spirit. It's when you ask yourself how you want things to go, without judging yourself for being tired or weak or anything else. AEQUANIMITAS. I'll try some; serve me up a big ole’ helping of that!

Sir William Osler

Sir William Osler, a Canadian physician who was a professor at Johns Hopkins Hospital and considered the “Father of Modern Medicine” LOVED this concept. Careful not to confuse keeping a "cool distance" with ice-cold stoicism, Osler used this concept to train doctors in not getting to emotionally attached to their patients. Makes sense. To this day, there are devotees of Osler who opine on the topic and the t-shirts at Johns Hopkins University are emblazoned with it. Osler took the definition- coolness and presence of mind under all circumstances- and went nuts with it!

The metaphor of calmness amidst the storm, clearness of judgment in moments of great peril, immobility and impassiveness, is really what I need to make it to my destination.
While I realize being on a diet is not truly perilous, it sure as shit can feel like it. Dramatic and a bit histrionic- I know- but hey! I need the composure, self-control and impartiality that is at the core of AEQUANIMITAS to travel the next 9 weeks until my 40th birthday-exactly 9 weeks from today. Oh, and by the way, I realize that once I get there- I'm still not done. That's when it all really begins. SO DEEP!

Being impartial about my journey and the successes and failures I experience will set me free from all the judging and self deprecation I’m so fucking good at, too. That’s a key to being mindful as well- no thought is good or even bad. It’s just a thought. Address it and let it go.
Hmmmph! I sure did eat a whole cake; MOVING ON!

While Osler does seem pretty cool, I like the way Pietro said it better ( and I wasn't even THERE!)
Calm down. Focus on the mechanics of what you’re doing. Power through the tiredness of your body and spirit. How do you want things to go- what do you need to do to get there?

AEQUANIMITAS. I love it. It's gonna get me where I need to go.

No CUCCIDATI on the SCALE!

2011-03-25T18:15:00.001-04:00

The Cuccidati in question.

Just when I thought I'd done it all...

When I reached into all my pockets to empty them before my weigh-in, I felt something odd and misshapen in one of them. I pulled it out and was SHOCKED to find...
a day-old CUCCIDATI in my hand.

A FUCKING CUCCIDATI!

I CAN EXPLAIN! I cried out, but Linda just buried her face in her hands laughing.
OH MY GOD, THIS IS SO EMBARASSING.

Really? I'm at the counter weighing in, with my mentor and WW leader just a few feet away and there's a CUCCIDATI wrapped within an inch of its life, right there in my hand?

I'm an ASSHOLE.
It had only been there for a day, and IT WASN'T INTENDED FOR ME. I SWEAR!

I blame Savion!

It was a treat for Eric and he didn't want to eat it in front of Savion Glover. Okay, it sounds like a lie, but it's true! Long story.

I put the cookie back in my pocket. End of story.

Why I chose to explore the mysteries of my pocket publicly in front of Linda and a "sassy mama" weighing in next to me- I haven't a clue.

"NO YOU D'INT!" the sassy mama said, laughing and then a quick "OOOWEE, FOOL!"
"I am so MAD at you right now for doin' that, FOOL!"

Yeah, that's me. The dude with the Italian fig cookies falling out of every pocket onto THE FUCKING SCALE!
I could NOT. STOP. LAUGHING. In fact, I'm still laughing.

PLEASE!

No CUCCIDATI on the Scale!

Your cooperation will be

appreciated by the

next person in line!

Yeah, no shit. What kind of JACKHOLE would do THAT?

"OOOOWEEE, FOOL!"