And they are my man-boobs.
2005, leading up to and including the “Clerks II” shoot was a banner year for me all around, but in terms of weight-loss especially. Between August 4th and the end of November ’05, I dropped 70 pounds. Granted, I was still a flabby fuck when all was said and done, but I can deal with that. I’ll never be one of those cut dudes who can take his shirt off and not have people whisper (and holler) “Ewwww…”
I don’t have a weight problem. There are people who can work their asses off to lose weight only to find that their genetics conspire against their best efforts. I’m not one of those people. I can lose weight – I just have a problem with getting off my fat ass. What can I say? I’m just a lazy fuck.
When I apply myself in the pursuit of better health, I get good-to-great results. But I know I’m not expressing anything new here when I write that eating right and working out aren’t nearly as interesting or fun as eating garbage food and laying around. There are two many DVD’s to watch, and too much pizza to consume while doing so. And I’ve always been able to justify my position by reframing the negative as “I busy myself professionally; the down-time is mine to do with as I please.”
And that’s what’ll put me in an early grave.
So as of January 5th, I’ve been on a diet (again). So far, so good: I’m down fifteen pounds. But this time, it’s not enough to fast and drop pounds only to slowly put it all back on; this time, I’m making a lifestyle change.
So I’m goin’ gay!
Then I thought “I’m married and I don’t like cock. Not even my own; probably because it’s so small.” So I did a little more thinking and decided to alter relationship with food and exercise instead. It’s good for me, but a shame for my wife – as me going gay would’ve meant she could’ve moved on and started fucking real men; not a dude with bigger tits than hers.
Here’s the thing: I’m thirty seven and I come from a long line of diabetics. My Father was diabetic; his sister, his brothers, his parents, their parents – all diabetics. And considering the amount of sugar I put into my body (pre-Christmas, I kid you not, I was laying around watching Oscar screeners and putting away two and sometimes three quarts of Ben & Jerry’s a day), I was just asking for it. You’ve heard about bug-chasers, right? The people who have unprotected sex indiscriminately with high risk partners in an effort to become HIV Positive themselves? Well I’m not that self-destructive, but I wasn’t just flirting with diabetes for the last ten years; I was asking it to cum on my face. And as I close in on forty, I’ve decided to put that casual attitude toward a loaded gun away and get diligent about moderately good health.
So I took the glucose tolerance test – the blood test one undergoes to see if they’re diabetic or at least pre-diabetic. You fast for twelve hours, have blood drawn, down a bottle of sugar-heavy medicinal soda (in my case, orange-flavored), wait two hours, then have blood drawn again – all in an effort to track your body’s ability to deal with sugar (diabetes is, after all, the body’s inability to metabolize sugar normally). After taking the test, I went to Jersey for a week to hit some Devils games and play some poker – all while ignoring the distinct possibility that I’d passed the point of no return, and had, indeed, developed diabetes. Today, I went to the doctor’s office for my weigh-in and to face down the test results…
Which I passed with flying colors.
Apparently, my body knows what to do with sugar: it stores it as fat. Not great, but very awesome, considering the alternative. It was a wake-up call. I’ve beat the genetic odds thus far, but just because you haven’t shot yourself yet doesn’t mean you keep playing Russian Roulette. I’m putting the gun down, folks: the gun that’s filled with cake frosting.
So here I sit, a mere three hours away from the “Catch & Release” premiere – a movie in which I’m the fattest I’ve ever been. I mean, look at me, for Christ’s sake…
I’m a whale. A blimp. I’m wearing a robe that’s comprised of multiple beach towels sewn together. Both Jen and Sam (pictured) could slit me open and wear me like a human suit; together.
Mistake this not as a request for your sympathy; I don’t deserve it, nor do I require it. I’m a lard-ass; I know it. I put myself in this position, and I’ll dig myself out. Just letting you know that, from here on in, Monday will be the blog day in which I write about what I’ve lost (if I’ve lost), and what I want to eat so badly that I’d be willing to step on all your necks just to get a taste… but won’t, because I’m committed to a cause. And the cause is this…
I wanna be able to look down and see my dick again.
And live longer, naturally. But that dick-seeing thing is pretty key, too.
So follow my triumphs and failures on the road to 230 (God, how sad is that? I’m sure most of you see 230 as abject failure, while I see it as a long, hard road to travel toward), every Monday, right here, in a blog I’ll call “Fat-Fuck Vs. Food.”
End of Part One.