More visual evidence that no one looks good exercising

Oh yeah. That's me right there to the right, looking less like an athlete and more like a cramping sloth whose shorts are way too tight as I make the final turn at a 10K I ran this past weekend in the lovely Newport section of Jersey City. My friend Theresa took it upon herself to snap this shot of me passing the girl I was using as a pace-setter for the final mile and while I would have preferred she didn't share it with the outside world, such is life sometimes. There I am, dragging myself through the last half mile of the longest distance I had ever run with my noticeable green and yellow shoes that are far too snazzy for a man with my fashion sensibilities.

On the plus side, though, it's hard to lose me in a crowd.

So yes, a few weeks after I ran an actual organized race for the first time, I decided to test my mettle again by doubling the distance. This may not have been wise. After all, 6.2 miles, while not an insurmountable distance, was not something I had ever pushed myself to. In fact, I often opt for the elliptical rather than jogging outside these days because I know my ankles and knees have gotten somewhat balky and running on pavement for roughly an hour straight isn't really going to help that. What's more, when you get past three miles or so, it's wise to kind of train for these things and gradually improve your mile base rather than just throwing yourself into the fire. My training involved exactly one run of 5.5 miles a week earlier, which nearly killed me since I may (definitely did) have had too much to drink the night before.

But hey, when you've lost 40 pounds in five months, I suppose you take it upon yourself to prove just how physically fit you are by indulging in these feats of endurance. If you're lucky like I am, the result of this is, well, survival. Beyond surviving, if you can deal with the lingering pain for at least a little while you're ahead of the game. In my case that pain was pretty ever-present, as I could feel some nasty discomfort hitting my right hip about halfway through the race. Fortunately for me, that is gone now, but my legs were extremely stiff for the first 48 hours after the race and just now are starting to loosen up a bit on me. All of those aches made the fact that my shoe got soaked when I stepped in a puddle during the first half mile seem immaterial by comparison.

There was a pretty big holiday yesterday. I did not celebrate.

Far be it from me to judge peoples' logic or reasoning marking certain days. After all, the start of May is just chock full of important, universally enjoyed celebrations such as Cinco de Mayo, May Day or Star Wars Day, but in some cases, I question the rationale, and yesterday a holiday I had never heard of caught my eye. It seems that every year on May 6, the few of us that can't be bothered to celebrate Willie Mays' birthday are actually celebrating the curious International No Diet Day. This particular holiday is actually far less jovial and full of reckless abandon than one might hope for, particularly since I first heard about it while reading an article about excessive ways to consume bacon, but it is actually a celebration of the natural human form in such a way that it intends to lash back at the societal pressure to maintain an unhealthily skinny body.

According to Wikipedia, the key terms involved are body acceptance, fat acceptance and "body shape diversity." Much of this has been spearheaded by the International Size Acceptance Association, which, amazingly, is actually a real thing. Who knew?

Now, on its surface, I can certainly understand or even appreciate the need to boost morale among people that are either genetically predisposed to weight gain are simply have a larger structure and frame than someone who is, uh, "pretty" like Kate Moss. Like everyone else who has been obese at some point of their lives I've been victim to my fair share of teasing or societal pressure as a result of my own weight. In some sense, I can understand or even appreciate the need to reassure people of their own self esteem when they tip the scales a little more than they'd like to. Lord knows I've met more than my fair share of women who think they still need to lose three pounds when there isn't anything left to lose.

Running a race? Me? Really? Don't be ridiculous.

Ladies and gentlemen, I am not fast. I never have been. I've come to terms with the fact that I never will be. As someone who has watched more than his fair share of sports both professionally and for fun, I know that athleticism is a physical characteristic that never leaves you. If you have it, you have it. And ladies and gentlemen, I don't have it.

That's fine. I've accepted my lack of velocity ever since I "ran" a mile for gym class at age 10 and clocked in at a robust 17:18. Granted, this is mostly due to the fact that I walked the entire thing with my friend Matt, but over the 17 years that have passed since I have not shown the predilection nor the aptitude for learning how to run one faster than that. And that's ok.

Of course, I'd be lying if I didn't admit that I had, in fact, gotten faster. In high school when I "played" football -- there's a reason "played" is in quotes -- I ran a timed mile in 8:30, though I did weigh significantly more at the time. While I didn't time myself at any point, I did begin to run on a regular basis in college, sometimes as many as seven days a week, usually at a fair brisk pace and never indoors. Given that I went to school near Chicago, this was not a smart idea for approximately 11.5 months out of the year.

If you'd ever like to know what lake-effect snow in your face feels like in -20-degree weather, I'm happy to tell you. It isn't good.

But I never ran races. Never. I was not one of those people who trained for road races and became obsessed with collecting bibs, breaking their PRs or measuring my splits. In fact, I had never run a race before in my entire life, and while the idea of running a marathon was always an athletic achievement I had considered striving for, it's become extremely clear to me over the years that I'm far more interested in telling people I ran a marathon after the fact than I am in actually doing it. After all, why would I want to duplicate a feat that killed the first person to ever accomplish it? Seems somewhat counterintuitive when applied to my general goal of staying alive.

Passover: Friend of Foe?

For those of you that know me, which I have to assume is absolutely anyone that reads this blog, you already know that I'm Jewish. After all, it's not like I keep it a secret. But the impact of Judaism on my diet is usually not terribly dramatic, though if anything, it does have a tendency to induce more eating because what Jewish family gathering is complete without loud political debates, frequent hand-gesturing and a ton of food?

None. That's how many.

So yeah, my family enjoys a good meal, which in the past hasn't exactly served me terribly well as I look to keep the waistline under control. Not that I mean to blame my parents for my own lack of self control, but the idea for us that if you're going to eat, you might as well eat well, isn't unusual. It is rare, however, that Judaism finds a way to actually restrict my diet. After all, I don't keep kosher, which means cheeseburgers, bacon and shrimp fairly regular choices. But there are two times every year when being Jewish actually has to hold my food choices in check, with one being Yom Kippur -- a straight "Don't eat or drink for 24 hours" bonanza -- and the far more fickle yeast-free Passover.

And lo and behold, here we are.

Passover is typically observed by, among other things, not eating bread for seven days. (Yes, I know some more conservative adherents don't eat bread for eight days, but if you look up why that tradition was established, you can see that it's totally ludicrous and completely unnecessary in modern times. Some Haggadot have been updated to reflect this.) But bread isn't the only thing to avoid. I can't drink beer, cookies, pasta, most cereals or any number of other foods made with yeast or leaven. Instead I get to eat matzah, which every gentile seems to think is awesome, and every Jew knows is an oversized flavorless saltine, which begs the question of how any person, Jewish or gentile, could possibly think matzah is awesome. But there is matzo ball soup, which is pretty fantastic.

Now, on the surface, an inability to eat wasteful carbohydrates should seem like a blessing in disguise if I'm trying to cut weight. After all, in this Atkins Diet world (note: I think the Atkins Diet, or any other fad diet, is total bullshit), everyone knows that carbs are basically the worst things known to man and not at all necessary to live properly and keep your brain in proper chemical balance. Nope, they just make you all big and fat. You don't need them to live.

The Week of Eating Dangerously

In his seminal 1859 work on the theory of evolution On the Origin of Species, Charles Darwin posited the idea that dramatic genetic changes that comprised evolution's basic ideal of survival of the fittest came in short bursts of drastic mutation separated by extended periods of little to no movement up the evolutionary ladder, the concept of "punctuated equilibrium."

Weight loss isn't all that different in its Darwinian timing mechanism. Plateaus will periodically keep you stuck on a number for potentially weeks at a time. I was stuck at 205.8 pounds for nearly a month from late December to late January. However, the flip side of this is that these long static stretches of little to no weight loss are bookended by periods in which the pounds just seem to disappear at chunks at a time for four or five days. Look no further than last week when a big meal Monday night could have pushed me close to 200 pounds before the requisite digesting, but by Saturday evening I tipped the scales after my workout at just 191.8 pounds, more than 27 pounds lower than my starting point just over three months ago.

The key to these stretches is to not disrupt the natural order. As Ray Bradbury noted in his famous short story A Sound of Thunder, in which a wealthy dinosaur hunter travels to the past and dramatically alters human history when he accidentally kills a butterfly, (Personally, I prefer the classic "Time and Punishment" segment from The Simpsons "Treehouse of Horror V" episode), a slight change to something in the intended course of actions can have a dramatic and sometimes disastrous effect. When losing weight, one cannot disrupt the natural order if they intend to keep losing weight, and that means not simply exercising and watching what you eat, but harnessing and riding those periods when you can't lose pounds fast enough. If your exercise and diet are causing you to drop .8 pounds per day, behave like a gambler who doesn't understand the concept of quitting while you're ahead and let it ride.

Unless, of course, you're an idiot like me. If you are, rather than let it ride when you're this close to your next Chipotle burrito bowl and watching those pounds roll off, you're instead going to have a salty greasy dinner because you're watching some ridiculously stupid television event, which involves consuming a massive amount of pizza. And to make matters even worse, you finish in second place in your Oscar pool by one point because you didn't pick Innocente to win Best Documentary -- Short Subject, and fellow Millburn High School alum Anne Hathaway just casually disregards you during her acceptance speech.

I promise I will not be playing any Bon Jovi today

Last Saturday night I stood in a bar with some friends on the lower east side when suddenly "Don't Stop Believin'" by Journey started blaring from the speakers. This isn't a terribly unusual occurrence. Anyone who has had alcohol in a public place in their 20s is probably all too familiar with this, but given that it was around 11:30 p.m. at the time, this did seem strangely early for it, as was pointed out by my friend Amy.

Perhaps more curious, though, was that we had not yet heard "Don't Stop Believin'"s companion in the "We always get played at bars so drunk girls can act excited about it as if it didn't happen last week" circuit. That song, of course, is this one. (Ok, I lied. Get over it.) If you're in a financial crunch, you can basically bank your life savings on the fact that at some point Saturday night in any bar in Murray Hill you'll hear four dozen 23-year-olds sing "Livin' on a Prayer" at the top of their lungs -- assuming you can find a bookie dumb enough to offer that bet.

This is kind of annoying, partially because none of these people can sing and partially because the experience ruins what is, really, a pretty fun catchy song. And as a result, it makes it doubly annoying that it was one of the first things that came to my mind as I stepped on the scale this morning.

See as you may or may not remember, while I aim to get myself down to 175 pounds by my sister's wedding this June, my starting weight was 219. That's 44 pounds which means if you passed second grade you can probably deduce that a weight of 197 pounds would be, well, "halfway there." Of course, I don't really think the work to get myself to the halfway point in my weight loss needs to driven by, well, "prayer." Nor is my likelihood of actually succeeding at this as unlikely as, say, achieving the American dream when I'm a striking dock worker and my wife, Gina, is a hard working diner waitress.

Sometimes the world is just against you

Let's be frank here, people. The holidays are a very trying time when it comes to the subject of weight loss. Late December is a gorge of eating, then there's New Year's Eve, then there's New Year's, then there's the inevitable heavy drinking involved when Northwestern wins its first bowl game in 64 years (Ed: Go Cats.) and combined with all of this is the fact that it's just so damn cold outside and you start thinking and extra layer or two of cellulite might not be the worst thing in the winter months.

You fight through that shit.

You need to push yourself through the easy exits so you can actually make some progress in losing weight -- or at least keep yourself in check while you pound down loads of empty calories. Fortunately, while I haven't made much progress in getting the number on my scale lower through this most dangerous time of the year, I've managed to keep myself from going too overboard. However, now it's time to take a deep breath and focus. The holidays are over, I'm in the clear, and with the exception of my grandmother's birthday next weekend and the Super Bowl, there is nary an eating holiday in sight for me until late March, when I enter a brutal stretch in which my family and Judaism force me to endure about 87 food-heavy celebrations in seven weeks. Yes, Passover and the birthdays of my uncle, mother, father and step-mother all fall within close proximity, which means before those days hit I need to get some serious work done. We're talking "be in the 180s by mid-March" work.

I didn't think that would be too hard since I've made pretty solid progress over the first six weeks of this stupendous journey, but right as I walked into the gym on Jan. 2 to get my most pivotal period of weight-loss underwear I saw something on the door to the elliptical machine. It was that notice you see in the top right of this entry, a warning that if I should so much as dare to jump in the pool, I will not be allowed to for ten full days while it undergoes "annual routine maintenance."

Now that is some bullshit right there.

Tailgating is great, but it is not your friend

Last weekend I decided to make one of the many trips I do annually to see some professional sports team I've never seen before. Anyone who is reading this blog is probably already familiar with it, but as I headed down I-95 to visit friends in Washington, D.C. and then see my Giants get the fucking shit kicked out of them in Baltimore, it hadn't occured to me that weight-loss on a vacation -- even one that lasts all of 60 hours -- is astonishingly difficult. As soon as I arrived I was completely out of my element and out of my routine as far as regular exercise and watching my diet goes. At one point, I actually offered to cook dinner for my friend Lindsay and her brother so I could ensure that whatever I was eating wasn't awful for me.

For whatever reason I was not taken up on this offer. Oh well.

The tragedy of all of this is that right before leaving for the trip last Friday I had worked my way down to an impressive new low in my hunt for that magical number of 175. On Thursday afternoon following a round of jogging and swimming I had dropped down to 206.6 pounds, the lowest I had been in, well, I have no idea since I didn't have a functioning scale for the last three years. The point is that I had made progress. Precious, precious progress. But one meal at DuPont Circle eatery BGR and an impossible to ignore BBQ pulled pork mac-n-cheese at Noodles and Company and suddenly extensive damage had been done, even if I tried my best to keep the diet reined in by having an extremely mediocre sub-600 calorie Moroccan chicken dish at Gordon Biersch Saturday night.

This was already a weekend doomed to ruin me as the previous paragraph suggests, and in the midst of it all I only managed to get one 45-minute stretch of exercise squeezed in. And then the tailgate happened. Now this wasn't as bad as your standard tailgate before a football game considering we had no grill at our disposal, but that didn't exactly make our chosen spread a healthy option either. After our initial tailgate plans had fallen through, Lindsay and I hastily went to a supermarket and bought loads of cold cuts, rolls, cookies, potato chips and a remarkably potent new brand of Doritos Lindsay's brother Robert suggested. And since this was a tailgate, of course there was a bundle of Yeungling and Blue Moon to help numb the eventual pain of the football game.

Let's just recap all of this: eating like this is not good regardless of whether or not you're trying to lose weight. Eating like this when you're trying to lose weight is definitely not good at all.

Your scale is a drunken mess

Power, liquor, it doesn't really matter what your bathroom scale is drunk on, but you ought to know that it is jumbled indecisive disaster. All of us have that friend who just can't seem to make up their mind when they've had a few. They might want to go to this bar or that club or get that slice of lasagna pizza or those cheese fries, but the point is that they really don't know what they want and even if they do they can't decide how they're supposed to articulate it.

The scale in my bathroom isn't all that different. Now, I know many think this is somewhat indicative of mild obsessive-compulsive disorder, but with my scale working again and my weight-loss plan in full swing I've taken to weighing myself just about every time I enter my bathroom. For most people these probably sounds like a problem. Some weight-loss gurus believe you should only weigh yourself once a week to avoid driving yourself crazy and most say to only do it once a day and at the exact same time, but I have problems with both options. As far as weighing myself once a week, one of my big problems has been being able to keep myself in check by keeping regular track of my body. Once a week, in my mind, leaves too much time to inflict damage with a bucket of fried chicken if I don't know the next day that I'm three pounds heavier. Once a day, however, can be too random because weight fluctuates over the course of a day.

So where does that leave me?

I have decided the only rational conclusion is to weigh myself at every possible opportunity, not because I'm petrified of not knowing if I lost 1.5 pounds of water weight during my jog, but because if I see the scale often enough and see how much the numbers can vary over the course of a day on a regular basis, I will learn that my weight is difficult to pinpoint and is likely just going to fall in a slight range at any given time. And if I do that, I take those three digits on the readout far less seriously.

This leaves one problem, though. What if your scale gives you different numbers within a span of five seconds? What should you make of that?