F is for Fat, Fitbit, and Fitness

I’ve tried hard to not become “that guy.”

But, yes, I’ve had to cancel crap with the term, “I have to go to the gym.”

Grant you, I hang out with zero people that would actually use that term in any way, shape, or form. Seriously. That’s why I hang out with them. But, when I go to the gym, deep down, I do feel a smidgen of a connection with those muscleheads. I can’t truly explain it. I look nothing like them.

NOTHING like them.

But I am fascinated with them and their dedication to their art. Yes, exercise and fitness, is, technically, an art. Think about it. There’s a piece of a creation, a pathway to success and then the fine modifications to approach to achieve those ends.

Here's the thing. I'm not necessarily attracted to them. Most of them have personalities that are fairly focused-and focused on things I have little or no interest in. Conversations start with what you have in common. But their commitment to the gym is something of envy. The results are evident. But when holidays roll around and I see them in the morning and again at night...still there, a few things become evident. They are unemployed, most likely, something I have a hard time looking politely upon. Or they are an athlete, and this is their job. Cool, cool.

Or Mom's paying. The evidence is there. If I wish to be like them, I have to eat two teaspoons of food and stay at the gym for 48 hours at a time.

Now, I’ve been going to the gym for years, believe it or not. Not because of any true wish to get bigger. I will admit, having a massively fit partner does motivate one to get into the weight room. But there was something satisfying by doing the exercise and my emotional state, even if the workout session was terrible or not productive. I had friends there.

Then I moved here. I went to the gym, but didn’t do much beyond that. I wanted to reclaim that feeling, to connect again in my new adopted community, but it wasn’t happening. With a beach so near, fitness takes on a new, wonderfully horrid demand.

And I didn’t have the abs or biceps to support it.

Dammit.

The body wars against myself began.

I’ve always been fat. Quit smoking, that was difficult. But eating? That’s all I have. It’s my drug. I don’t even drink. So, when the husOtter gave me a Fitbit, I took it seriously. So seriously, I didn’t rush into it. Every week was a micro goal to just ease me into the lifestyle change. LIke...wear it for 48 hours. Next week? 72 hours. Slowly but surely.

A Digital Reminder that You're Still Kinda Going To Need to Do Some Work

Eventually, I started walking more. Then I started to count calories.

And the fat melted off. I didn’t realize that the simple decision to pour one measurement of food into a cup was a way to melt a pound off a week, as opposed to sitting and just clearing a bag of chips. Getting ready to see a movie, knowing I’d have popcorn and cutting down on lunch. Knowing visitors were coming and saving up calories.

And I dropped fifty pounds.

But I still hated myself in profile.

It's a profile. It's not mine. Cause then I'd hate it.

I know, I know, of all things.

So I started to go the gym. ALOT.

I even hurt myself, like, numerous times.

And, after a year, I realized--

I still hated my profile.

But?

I was much more okay with it than I was before that point. Because, in the end, I was still a work in progress. I think it’s, like, called competitive theory or something like that? Where you know you put in the work, and the work causes the pride?

Yeah. That.

So, here’s to the continuing war on fat. We are, at least, doing SOMETHING. Wear that fitbit. Be self-aware. And the fitness will help.