I have a problem. Well, I have many, many problems, so I guess I have a new problem. I haven't been to a doctor so it hasn't been diagnosed, but I have an eating disorder. I don't know what it's called, but it's the opposite of anorexia...I eat shit all night long.
Part of the blame goes to my work. For the past couple years I've only been working part-time, so I sleep later than normal and I go to bed later than normal. I've always been a bit of a night owl, put simply, I enjoy staying up late. I rarely go overboard and stay up til 3 or 4, but during the week I'm lucky to get to bed by 1 AM and on the weekends by 2 AM. So, during the evening prime time hours when the best TV is on, I'm sitting in the recliner in the mancave watching shit I've TiVoed. Even when watching something I'm interested in, I get bored and want to snack. So I do.
During the week it's not too bad. A handful of chips or a couple pieces of candy and I'm good for a while. The weekends are when all hell breaks loose.
On the weekends, I crack open a rich, yummy beer at about 9:30. Not just any beer, but usually something that's highly alcoholic in a 22- or 25.4-ounce bottle. The first half of the beer, I savor and cherish while I'm reviewing it online at BeerAdvocate.com. The more reviews I do, the higher my "beer karma" goes. I'm not sure what exactly that gets me, but I'm sure it makes me cool somehow. Or should I say, cooler.
Anyway, I nurse and revere the first half of the beer, then I grab a bag of Honey Wheat pretzels. There's no fat, but it still got calories and salt. As I empty the bottle of yumminess, I grow bored with the pretzels and start on a bag of chips or a box of White Cheddar Cheez Its.
By now, I'm typically get very full, but the new switch in flavors from pretzels to Cheez Its gives my palate and stomach their collective second winds and I grab a 12-ounce bottle of beer, whatever I happen to have upstairs at the time. By now it doesn't much matter, I'm just looking for something to wash down the snacks.
It could be 11 or 12 at night when that bottle is gone and I close the snack package. I make my way downstairs to take my medley of drugs for all my illnesses and disorders. As I'm walking down the stairs, I realize my mouth and throat are a bit warm from all the beer. I fix this by dragging out the tub of ice cream in the freezer. With spoon in hand, I don't bother with a bowl as I eat directly from the tub while reading up on the latest from any of the three car magazines sitting on the kitchen table.
Before I even begin with the ice cream, I'm miserable because I'm so full. But...it's ice cream. Chocolate even. I've never had to be hungry to eat ice cream, so for 10 or 15 minutes I sit at the table and do teaspoon curls. I don't stop til I've embarrassed even myself, or I feel I'm about to blow chunks.
Back when I was a bit healthier and more active and arthritis hadn't taken one of my hobbies, I maintained an even weight each week by losing 5-7 pounds during the week and putting them back on during the weekend. It was a beautiful cycle. But no more. Now, I gain 7 pounds during the weekend, but only lose 3 during the week.
Yesterday was when I realized I had a problem and I had an intervention with myself while shopping at Wally World. I was in the frozen fruit section buying more fruit for my daily protein shake. Those Wal-Mart bastards intentionally put the frozen pies right next to the frozen fruit, so weak people like me stand at the door to the freezer and think, "Hmm, frozen fruit or pie? Frozen fruit or pie? Fuck it, I'm getting pie."
I can't tell you how close I was to throwing a Key Lime pie into the cart. That's when I had the intervention with myself. After a few minutes of staring blindly into the freezer, I put the pie back and went with the fruit. It was then I decided no pie until I get below 190 pounds. It was a small step, but it was a step nonetheless.
Further, when I got home, I decided since I didn't do anything on the dreadmill on Saturday, I couldn't miss Sunday. I changed into my running britches and shoes and then stretched. And I stretched and I stretched. And then I stretched a little more. And then I played with the dogs. And then I talked with Hayden. And then I stretched some more. I told Jennifer that I was hoping I could keep stretching and completely avoid the dreadmill, but it never worked.
So I got on the dreadmill, and again, I had an intervention with myself. For the past couple weeks, I've done lots of walking and a little bit of jogging on the dreadmill. Mostly, I'm going through the motions, just killing time in hopes that I can lose two pounds in 5 or 6 minutes. But that hasn't happened.
I decided I was going to stop walking on the damned thing and start jogging. I weighed 195 pounds and it was time to stop being a pussy and actually burn some calories. I didn't care how long it took, I was going to jog for a whole mile without walking.
As the seconds slid by, I noticed my shin stopped splinting and the only pain was from my good knee. I said, "suck it up" and continued. As I approached the end of the mile, I thought I'd walk a bit after that first mile and then continue jogging for a second mile. I managed a ridiculously slow 12 minute mile, then walked for a quarter mile, then jogged the remaining 3/4 of a mile to finish 2 miles in 24 minutes and some change. It's sad, but it's a start.
My legs never hurt, but were a bit tired most of the night. It's hard carrying around an extra 15 pounds (or 20) every day. I considered giving them a rest today, but nixed that idea. So, another mile before heading into the office, with no walking allowed, stopping the clock at a staggering 11:36. Still glacier-slow, but an improvement.
My goal is to hop on for another mile tonight when Hayden and I get done with homework. Another small step, but at least it's a step forward.
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