My attack on unwanted poundage isn't going quite as swimmingly as I'd hoped. Last week, Pyscho Mom was out of town so I was pulling double duty on the parenting front. I weathered that storm, but my forward march was slightly stalled.
This week, I'm back, but only slightly with a vengeance. Because I'm really fat and even more out of shape, I've been walking to get my body used to the beating its in for. Walking is so lame though, that I feel like I'm not doing anything. Even after a couple miles, my feet are hot and my legs tired, but I'm barely sweating.
Today was the day to sew up the vag and start getting air born. I was ready to break out of Bad Grandpa mode and start pushing the treadmill to spin a little faster. A look on the scale was all the motivation I needed. Somehow, I'm up 1.4 pounds this week.
I walked for a couple minutes to get my parts warm. Then, I went air born. Cranked that dreamill up to a sizzling 5.2 MPH and started to jog. Yeah, 5.2 is pretty puss but it's a start. I knew my lungs would be the first casualty of the day so I figured a combination of walking and jogging would make for a good routine where I could spend a decent amount of time in motion and burn some calories.
Amazingly, my lungs were hanging in there. Instead, it was my knees that waved the white flag. Initially, some sort of shin splinty kind of thing started acting up on the left leg, but that pain was soon overpowered by the fire in my right knee. Sadly, my right knee is the good knee, a virgin of scalpels and big needles. The left knee is a bit of a mess. It's got three little marks where the scope went in some years ago and it's been drained more times than I can remember. According to the doctor, 'it's fine,' but I know better. It's still my bum knee, but now it seems it's the better of the two.
While the left knee was making a noble effort at accepting this new chore of running, the right knee grimaced and whined and cried the whole time. After a combination of walking and jogging produced an embarrassing 13:44 mile, I called it a day and headed to the debriefing room to discuss the issue with the knees.
Me: Knees, what's the problem?
Knees: The problem? Have you looked in the mirror? That's the problem.
Me: Sure, I'm carrying a couple extra pounds, but that's no excuse.
Knees: A couple extra? Try a dozen.
Me: Ok, a dozen. But we've done this before, why suddenly is there a problem?
Knees: Dude, we're old. We're older than we've ever been. We're just about as fat as we've ever been. And that shit you feed us isn't exactly Jenny Jones approved.
Me: Come on, grow a pair. I have a beer a night on the weekend.
Knees: Yes, one beer in a 22-ounce bottle.
Me: So! It's not that unusual.
Knees: The one beer in the 22-ounce bottle isn't the problem. The problem, Einstein, is the one beer in the 22-ounce bottle is enjoyed with a half a bag of pretzels, a few handfuls of Cheez Its, another bottle of beer and then some ice cream, eaten right out of the container that you think no one knows about. And then a couple pieces of candy just so you don't have to walk back up the stairs all alone. And just for a nightcap, you get into the fridge-type thing that's upstairs and grab another bottle, just because you're tipsy by then and think that calories consumed when you're tipsy don't count.
Me: Point taken.
We seem to be near a mutiny. I'm getting little cooperation from the troops. This is a problem because in addition to wanting to be cougar-bait on my golf trip in May, I was hoping to participate in some 5K thing my wife's company is throwing. I call it the Ten Toes for Kiddoes because the thing benefits kiddoes in some way, but the higher ups had already named it something far less cool. Anyway, I think that's in April so I have to start making some headway.
The past two weeks have not been a good start as I'm already up a pound and a half.
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