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Getting Started Every fat person has one: the story of how it happened to him or her. In my case, I blame it all on my knee, which I blew out a few years back while motorcycle racing up Mount Everest. Exciting, huh? Yeah, well, the true story wasn't so thrilling. I was raking leaves in the yard when the ligaments in my knee tore with the sound of a baby carrot being snapped in half. I was on crutches for a little while and walked with a cane for nearly a year. Two years later, I was still half-stepping up stairs like a toddler (putting one foot on a riser then bringing the other up next to it and repeating the process). My knee didn't hurt; it simply had no strength. Truth be told though, my weight gain began long before my raking accident (or long before my motorcycle accident, if you believed that story). In fact, my weight gain had a lot to do with my knee blowing out in the first place. I'd once been an athlete with a high metabolism who could eat all day long without gaining weight. Wasn't I surprised to learn that I couldn't keep eating that way when my activity level dropped down to that of a hibernating bear. Combine that with bad food choices (McDonalds, Burger King, and so on) and my weight doubled from a muscular 200 pounds to a Shamuesque 400. Every formerly fat person also has one: the story of how they turned their life around. This is mine. Today is day one. Whenever I've heard the phrase "Use what you've got," it's always been to describe something like a woman trying to cram her bosom into a bustier; but for me, today, my bustier is a pair of sneakers. There might be a lot of things I can no longer do, but at least I can still walk. So today is the first day of my walking program. I'm lacing up the Nikes and hitting the streets. Wish me luck! A Rolling Ball I should have brought more than just my Nikes with me on that first walk. I should have brought a moped. That way, I could have hopped on it after I'd walked a half-mile from home and felt like a dagger was piercing my side. Instead, I staggered back home in a stupor, wheezing, heaving, certain that someone had altered the dimensions of time and space. I had to have gone farther than one mile! Getting a ball rolling is much harder to do than keeping it in motion, especially when the ball is 400 pounds of blubber. Simple things get me winded. Going up a flight of stairs leaves me gasping for minutes afterwards and tying my shoes usually leaves me out of breath and sweating for several minutes; when I bend over, my gut compresses as I stretch to reach the laces and I literally can't breathe. People either think I'm faking or that maybe I�m having a heart attack. A few people eyed me warily on that first walk, ready to call an ambulance if I collapsed. I wallowed for 6 days after that first trip outside, and then I took a second walk this morning. I did another mile and it was hell. But hey, I didn't feel like puking this time. I�ve gotten the ball rolling and it�s getting the tiniest bit easier. That's something; not much, but something. Progress, Baby, Progress I only bitched and moaned about my sore legs for 3 days this time before heading back outside for another walk. Quite an improvement! Not only that, I added a half-mile to my walk this morning. A mile-and-a-half may not be much and I may have strolled at a turtle's pace, but it felt like a marathon to me. Surprisingly, I feel fairly good now, several hours after my walk. I don't think I've completely shaken off all the rust, but this is promising nonetheless. I'm even looking forward to my next walk. Bring it on! Terry...Bless Her Heart 
My smurfy little friend called me up last night to ask if I'd like to go for a walk with her this morning.
The main reason I call her "smurfy" is because she's so tiny. I can wrap her entire body around my midsection...literally! She's 5'3-3/4" while my gut is a rotund 64." If she had a buckle and hasp on her head and feet, I could wear her like a belt...but only if she stretched out for that final quarter-inch!
The other reason I call her "smurfy" is because she's so lovably naive. She's as gullible as I am devious, which works out great for me but not so much for her.
I continuously yank her chain without her realizing that my pants should be on fire. Doesn't matter how many times I fib, she always takes me at my word (Insert devious laughter here).My description of her above is far too unkind to be accurate. See, Terry is one of those altruistic people who will do anything to help a person in need. Me? Not so much. I'm more of a mistrustful git. My credo is: "The masses are asses." But not Terry. She's always thinking of others. Which brings me back to her phone call. Terry knew I'd started walking and was having a tough time of it, so she offered to drive out to Poquoson (a half-hour from her house) and walk with me in the mornings. Either some of her charitableness rubbed off on me or perhaps I just didn't want her to show me up because I suggested we share the driving and I would go out to her house to walk next time. The great thing is that my exercise program now includes a sense of accountability. When I was on the track team, we had two-a-day practices, a voluntary one in the morning before school and a mandatory practice after school. I wouldn't have gotten up early to go running during the school year if it weren't for the peer pressure that went along with it. Same thing now. Sure, I'm walking by myself already, but there are days when "not feeling like it" wins out over "got to get up and do it." But when I'm supposed to meet someone for my walk, there's no room for "not feeling like it." Also, the company makes the walks more enjoyable and the variety of location is a nice change of pace. This morning, we walked behind the Poquoson Library on a path called The Canal Walk (though the canals are just ditches that fill with stagnant water so the mosquitos can breed) and we did 3 miles! Not only did I complete the walk, but I didn't go into cardiac arrest...woo hoo! I'm driving to Newport News this Thursday and we're planning to go behind the Mariner's Museum to hike a nature path called The Noland Trail. As the saying goes, variety is the spice of life. Or is it Tabasco that's the spice of life? I never can remember. Monkey Butt 
Fat people have many health and safety concerns. Sure, there's high blood pressure, diabetes, heart disease and death, but I'm talking about something really serious. I'm talking about monkey butt. When a fat person walks his thighs rub together, which is usually not a problem since the distance covered is usually proportional to the distance from the fridge to the recliner. However, when walking any distance greater than a few hundred yards, we've got to do something to prevent chafing. And that's why I say, "God bless Lycra," not just for the uniforms worn by professional women beach volleyballers but also for the way the skintight fabric clings to skin and prevents chafing (which, I'm sure, is the real reason the FIVB created the women's beach volleyball bikini regulations. Wink, wink). Lycra shorts allow me to walk without creating red welts on my thighs, thus sidelining me for days or weeks.But my thighs are not the only thing I need to protect. I am a sweaty beast. Generally, I think most fat people sweat more than skinny people, but for me it goes a step beyond that. I was a sweaty beast even when I used to be skinny. Since I sweat so much, my t-shirt gets soaked and starts to swish back and forth against my chest like the dangling towels in a car wash, which chafes my nipples. Runner's nipple is more common than you might think, affecting the slim as well as the stout. I learned this lesson the hard (and sore) way years ago when I ran ten miles and came home with bloody nipples. These days, I wear Underarmour beneath my t-shirt, and this skintight top eliminates the chafing on my nipples. Unfortunately, the size that fits my chest doesn't fit my gut too well, and it tends to creep up my torso. I'm constantly tugging at it, pulling it back into place near my waist. Even though it's hidden beneath my shirt, I hate the sense that I'm wearing a sports bra. And I do not want anyone to start calling me "Jugs." Downsizing I�ve lost about fifteen pounds so far. No one has noticed the change, which is understandable since fifteen pounds is a tiny percentage of my overall weight. I haven't mentioned the weight loss to anyone else. I�m hoping one of my friends will notice one day and I'll be able to reply, �Why yes, I've dropped enough lard to grease every skillet in the South.� I went down a belt notch recently, which is a first. I'm used to it going the other way, sometimes punching a new hole in the belt just so it will still fit. Since the belt goes around my waist, it doesn't equal my �gut size,� which I measure from time to time, but the two do correlate. And my gut is the area of my body I most want to slim down. It hangs over my belt like a sack of potatoes. Sexy as that may be, I'm ready for a change. I haven�t yet gone down a pants size, but my pants are fitting better now. That's great news because I was down to my last pair, and those were getting tight. Over time, I've busted the seams in numerous pairs of pants. Sometimes pants would split when I bent or stretched, but sometimes friction would wear a hole in them as well. I couldn�t stand without sliding to a position where I could use my hands to help lift, and the friction from those slides would create worn patches that eventually busted. A few months before I started this program, I had torn the seams on the last two pairs of pants. I needed to go up a size and Wal-Mart/K-Mart didn't carry anything that would fit me. So, I did the only sensible thing I could think of�no, I didn't start exercising or (gasp) eating less. I found a place that sold bigger clothes. I drove to a Casual Male XL in Hampton, but it was just a plus-sized hip-hop store, which wasn't really my style. Fo shizzle! So I made the hour drive out to their branch in Richmond where I found a sea of fabric that fit me. I bought two pairs of fat pants, a jumbo belt, and a handful of shirts. Several months later, one pair of fat pants was so tight I could only wear them on days when I didn�t feel bloated and the other pair only fit because it had an expandable waist. Even so, I would often unfasten the button after a meal and let the zipper slide down a few teeth to give me some breathing room. The fear of busting the seam in the last pair of pants was one of the motivating factors for me starting this walking program. Now my pants fit better; they're not billowing around my legs but they no longer cut off my circulation when I sit. I am once again (finally!) loose in the caboose. Snowball Effect I'm amazed at how far I've progressed. Of course, that might just be a sign of what poor shape I was in to start with. To be honest, I'm still in awful shape. But I can walk my ass off, which, of course, is the plan. The recuperation time between walks has all but disappeared now. I'm walking longer and taking less rest between walks. I'm not concerning myself with pace; I'm just logging the miles. This morning, Terry and I walked the entire Noland Trail, which is 5 miles over hilly terrain. Wow! I didn't think I'd be at this point for several more months. I've been rapidly upping my weekly mileage from 2 miles the first week (I started on a Sunday, so the 6-day break and the next walk were all in the same week) to 4 miles the second week, and nine miles the third. This week I logged 15-1/2 miles walking two days on and one day off and then repeating. Once I took that hard-as-hell step of getting out of my chair and out onto the street, my legs started remembering what they were built to do - walk! And I'm feeding on my own success. The more I walk, the more I want to walk. I want to go longer every time; I don't necessarily feel that way when I first head out the door, but once I get in the groove I don't want to stop. And, best of all, I've got more energy during the day. I feel like I'm a great big snowball rolling down the hill, picking up steam, becoming unstoppable. Man Down Turns out I'm stoppable. How ironic, considering my last entry. Here's what happened: I was rough-housing with Dawn's dogs, running around the house, throwing them thither and yon, when my knee gave out. I already have a bum knee (I tore ligaments in my knee two years ago) and know I need to avoid high-impact stuff, but I've been getting cocky with all my newfound energy. Now I'm all gimpy and unable to walk. Harumph. Of course, lots of people are worse off than I am. As the proverb says: "I cried because I had no shoes, then I met a man who had no feet...and stole his shoes." There, I feel better now. (Not) Getting Back in the Swing I've been having a hard time getting back in the swing of things; I haven't walked since I hinked my knee ("hinked" is a technical term; it's synonymous with "schlinked"). I keep telling myself, "I'll walk tomorrow." But then tomorrow comes and I put it off another day. I've been busy, but that's no excuse. Which got me thinking: "I should think up some good excuses for not walking." So, here they are, all my great excuses for putting off my next walk: Top Ten Reasons to Procrastinate Santa Lies 
I don't care what Santa tells you, fat people are NOT jolly. What does it feel like to be a fat man, to tip the scales near 400 pounds? Ridicule is what I feel when people look at me; generally, I avoid public places. Bad things happen to fat people in public. Well, bad things happen to fat people in private too, but it's more bearable then. I skipped my 20th high school reunion because I didn�t want my old classmates to see what had become of me. I didn't want to explain how I'd gone from jock to slop. My old friends might not have made a big deal about it, but I've had too many bad experiences to chance it.One moment that comes to mind is when I was driving in the car with a girlfriend and we passed a carnival. We stopped and bought tickets to go on an awesome-looking ride, but when I got in the attendant couldn�t get the restraining bar closed because my gut was too big. He put all his weight into it, pushing and shoving as hard as he could, but I was too fat to fit and we had to get off the ride. I can't say that was the low point for me because there have been too many other shameful instances like that and they're all low points. When you're fat, you plan ahead to avoid situations where you might be embarrassed. I�ve refused going to a show at a new theater because I was unfamiliar with the seats. I stay inside unless there is a reason I must go out. But even then, I try to choose my times when fewer people will be able to see me, such as shopping at the 24-hour K-Mart at 2 or 3 in the morning. Then there are the "fat accidents," such as breaking pieces of furniture. Once, an office chair at work snapped like a twig when I sat on it; another time, a porch glider broke in similar fashion. The driver's seat in my previous car was worn down to the frame, the padding held together with duct tape. Two different toilet seats snapped under me during a span of two weeks. And I can't count the number of times I�ve caused my pants and shirts to split open. I don't mean to be such a grinch, especially at this time of year, but that's the sorry truth. Now, if you don't mind, I'm going to take my two lumps of coal, slather them in barbeque sauce, and have myself a little pity party. Reboot Okay, the pity party is over. The day after last week's rant, I went out walking. It was even harder to start back up this time than it was to get started in the first place. Or maybe that's just because I'm still feeling the pain from that walk. I felt horrible. My shins, calves, and back were all seeing which could hurt worse. Regardless, I walked a mile-and-a-half that first day and three days later (Christmas Eve), even though I felt like Hell, I went out again and did 2.2 miles. Now, three days after that, I'm feeling mediocre instead of lousy, and my plan is to go out and do another 2.2 miles, a frequent walk I do that takes me out to the first stoplight I come to and then back to my house. I've lost a lot of ground, but I'm determined to make it up. |
