Continued from Part 1.
Intellectually, I realize that not every week is going to be the epitome of weight loss Xanadu. But last week sucked. I know it and if I try to tell myself it was fruitful, I’d be lying to you and worse, to myself. I slipped, twice last week. I went out and had some dinners that were way off the charts. Granted, I’ll admit, they were less than my usual umpteen-zillion-calorie meals, but they were, nonetheless, not ideal for me.
As a result, I am certain I didn’t have any weight loss. I was far too depressed to go and weigh in. There were some positives, though. I did transition from walking, which was killing my shins, to a gym. I have now changed up my routine to include cardio at the beginning of my workout, to get me warmed up, followed by a series of weights, both free and Nautilus, to round out my exercise regimen.
I have taken on this journey, mainly, by myself. I have no motivator, other than myself. I think I need a hot chick dangling her clothes in front of me to drop each time I do another rep. Not sure my wife would like that, but I sure as hell would be motivated. Then again, there may be some laws that might come into play if that were to happen.
The truth is, I do need some motivation at times.
The extra push to go.
The extra push to say I can do it.
This week a friend recommended stomach bypass surgery. Though I think that for some folks it is a godsend, I can’t even consider it. First, I hate going under the knife. Been there, got that t-shirt. Second, this journey is about me changing my life, my outlook, and my soul. Something about the thought of having to resort to a surgical procedure to get me to stop eating would cause me even more distress. The fact that I would have to admit defeat is unacceptable.
I understand this is going to be a very tough, very uphill fight. As I said, intellectually, I understand I am going to have bad days and weeks. I think, though it sucks, I’m OK with that. I’m not OK with cutting my big ol’ gut open, or however it’s done, to bypass my natural organ and get me to slow my intake down.
So for the time being…no surgery.
My mother was preparing some food in our kitchen. I had just eaten a sandwich about a half hour ago, and I was sufficiently full.
“I’m making some cookies; there are a few over there on the counter. Help yourself,” said my mother.
“I’m all set, mom,” I replied.
She turned and gave me a half look, “But, they’re fresh.” She actually looked a bit hurt.
“I know, mom, but I just ate and I’m full.”
“Nonsense, everyone has room for a cookie or two,” she said.
And, as she poured a giant glass of whole milk, and placed five or six cookies on a plate and shoved them at me, I relented and ate the cookies. Mom was only doing what a good mom does. Taking care of her cub. It was sweet, normal, and nice. The problem is that this was a very common occurrence. And it wasn’t just cookies. Brownies, cakes, pies, popcorn balls, buttered popcorn, and other assorted delights were in abundance. They were all amazing, cooked with love, butter, sugar and shortening. Delicious. Fattening.