Nude by Christmas

38 years old, 102kg. One of those numbers is about to change.

Archive for the tag “fat”

Lose weight fast: get sick.

If you really want to lose weight: get sick. Trust me, it’s been my most effective technique. I don’t mean really sick, like leukemia sick, or cancer-of-the-colon sick. Just sick sick. Flu sick. While those other kinds of sickness will greatly assist in weight-loss, they also have a pretty nasty side-effect: death. But flu sick is fine. A couple of days of sweating up a storm, dropping a few kilos, then you’re right as rain.

Dietitians and doctors amongst my many, many readers will be aghast at this suggestions, so I should assure you that I don’t really mean it.

But boy does it work.

Coffee – the elixir of life

If black coffee made me fat, I’d be Stay Puff’d the Marshmallow Man. I can go without butter, milk, meat, candy, chocolate, sugary drinks – even alcohol. But coffee? Forget it.

Depending on which blog or newspaper or medical journal you read, coffee either gives you cancer or stops you from getting it. It’s either good for your brain or bad for your liver, it’s either a life saver or the kiss of death. For me, it is the elixir of life. If Christians took communion with a croissant and espresso, I’d be in for morning prayer without hesitation.

This blog is pro-coffee (and, though not anti-Christians, it is unsupportive of religion in general). I have an espresso machine at home that, if I were honest, gets handled more delicately, lovingly (and frequently) than any woman I’ve ever had. Oh go on, pour scorn on that – but it’s true. I have consistently blown off more steam with my beloved espresso machine than I’ve had hits from a lover – including a record 19 in one day…. coffees that is. So shoot me.

When I’m not at home, I’m doing it in public. I have a few little coffee bars close to where I live, where I’m known by name and by coffee. I’m in one of them now. It’s kind of like the gym, except people are wearing more, sweating less, and look happier.

I have tried to give it up, but then found myself wondering why? Sure it’s a drug, but it’s legal. Sure it’s a waste of money, but it’s my only vice (and it’s a relatively nice vice). Sure I could switch and drink herbal tea, or chai (blurgh) or just water… but then I would annoy myself as much as herbal tea drinking, chai loving, water nazis annoy me now.

So I’m afraid, my love affair will continue. Unabated. Raw. Frequently. Privately and publicly. If you’re ever in town, and you love a strong one, get in touch. Let’s do it together.

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Burgers and Big Butts

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Calories and Craps: Vegas, Baby!

72 hours in Vegas is enough, more than enough, to understand everything that’s wrong in the world.

When the fattest people on the planet are not at Disneyland devouring turkey legs the size of an ostrich, they are in Vegas, waddling their way along the strip from one resort monstrosity to the next, bucket of margarita in hand, leaving one free to accept the flicked card of a hooker slipped into a greased palm by some random on a street corner. It can safely be assumed that Occupational Health guidelines would require all hookers to ride reverse cowgirl style while in flagrante delicto so as to avoid being crushed under the weight of their mega-clients.

But I digress…

There are no kids in Vegas – they’ve either all been swallowed whole by their obese parents, or locked into a kids’ club somewhere, parked in front of Playstation, where they will learn to be sedentary… and lazy… and get used to the blinking, flashing, beeping sounds of screens, that will later translate into gambling addictions. To go along with their food addiction. The one family I did see was propped up against the counter of a hamburger bar, oozing cheese down there chins and making regular trips back to the soda fountain to top up their Hoover Dam sized drinking vessels (which flashed, incidentally).

The mega high-roller gamblers that hit town in their corporate jets and Hummer limos are commonly referred to as ‘Whales’. The name would be a good one, if it weren’t for the fact that almost everyone in Vegas is the size of a whale. But these whales are whales because of the size of their wallets. Their ability to swallow big wins or losses, not just Big Macs. You don’t see them on the street, they are shuttled in via chopper to the roof tops of the faux castles/pyramids/skyscrapers that make up the hotels of this very, very strange town. Once inside, they either drop more money than your entire extended family will make in their lifetime, or rip the shirts off the backs of the casino mogels daring to take them on. Then they will eat and drink like the rest of the crowd. Only more. And in private. And at great expense.

The hotels themselves are almost as big as the people. Mine was a grotesque reproduction Italianate palazzo. It was claimed by some of the guest I spoke to, to be “even better than Italy”. Better in a worse kind of way, I would argue. But then this guy would know. I mean he had stayed at The Venetian on a previous visit – so he was full bottle on la dolce vita, Vegas style. Not that he’d been to Italy. The real Italy. Why bother? When Paris is just next door…

Well, mini Paris. To say that Vegas doesn’t do things by half is just plain wrong. The Eiffel Tower at the Paris Hotel, Las Vegas is only half the size of the real one. Impressive? In a Lego kind of way…. But don’t worry, they double the cheese to make up for it. And the queues around the corner of the all-you-can-stuff-in-your-gob buffet (hey, that’s French!) are only bested by those at queuing, soda and candy in hand, to pay a mint to see the lithe, athletic, sexy bodies in a Cirque du Soleil show… Oh, Cirque du Soleil. Don’t even start me on Cirque du Soleil. Fast food theatre.

I feel dirty now. I gotta go run.

Friday Night Even Lighter

The hairy fat man is now screaming. I am off-put.

Friday Night Lighter

Blogging live from the gym tonight. First time here for two weeks, and expecting to hurt a little tomorrow. I weighed myself on arrival, which was a dumb thing to do after a two week holiday in cheese and wine country. Time to play catch up now.

There are only three other people here tonight. All guys. It’s Friday – I’m a father of three kids under 7 years of age, what’s their excuse for spending Friday night at the gym?

There’s a hairier, fatter, older bloke than me huffing and puffing his way through a weights circuit, like he’s going to blow this house down; a guy with a boy-band hair-cut splashing sweat all over the screen of his exercise bike; a tiny little guy doing HIIT on a treadmill – grunting like one of the little pigs the hairy guy might quite like to devour, and; oh, and a fourth, some guy staring into the mirror, willing it to tell him who’s the fairest of them all.

Well it’s not me. Not tonight. 14 days out of the sweatshop has left me saggier and baggier than a little elephant.

But I’m here. Like these other guys. Hairy, sweaty, big, small, pretty, neatly groomed or otherwise. We’re here.

For me, that’s a win.

Insta-fibby photos by Insta-fatties (like me)

I post pictures of my fat gut and man boobs on Instagram. It’s off-putting for some, I’m sure. In a community that is seemingly populated with six pack abs, buns of steel, thigh gaps (I’d never noticed them as being so sexy before) and picture perfect pecs, I am the wobbly whale. The thing is, my photos are of me. Peter Perfect Pecs and Belinda Bubble Butt’s pics are of… models. Hot guys and girls from around the world and across the net, perfectly shot by pro photographer, then just as perfectly photo-shopped by pimply nerd on an iMac. I’ll admit I can’t help but ‘like’ these. Who wouldn’t like a twenty year-old babe’s butt you could bounce a dime off? Who doesn’t crave the Atlas shoulders you could – probably literally – carry the weight of the world on. I’m happy to admit that I love seeing these pics come up in my feed… pure eye candy.

And that’s where my problem starts. The sweeter the eye candy, the less nutritious these pics are for my soul. And it’s in the soul that I need the most nutrition.

So what feeds my soul is the fatties like me. The men and women brave enough to bare their souls, not just their tits and asses. The mums struggling to drop gut and boobs that arrived when they delivered their third child. The chubby teenager, who’s realised being a Pringles gobbling Prince of Persia legend isn’t going to get him laid. The dad who works for himself, just not on himself, and has let the Coca Cola Company’s advertising wizardry drown him in feel good calories for years on end… hey? That’s me.

Nothing inspires as much as before-and-after pics. We all love a good story with a happy ending. A journey through fear, with hope on our side, that results in a victory, a transformation…

…and, in my case, a body as hot as my inner soul ūüėČ

Stay tuned.

The Heaviest Place on Earth!

I couldn’t believe the number of fat people at Disneyland. I’m talking mega-fat, not just your average American fat. Blubberous. Bulbous from head to toe. Sweaty, lardy, swollen, grotesque fat. Forget “The happiest place on earth!” it’s “The heaviest place on earth!”.

And there they all were, rolling around on those little golf cart thingos, speeding from place to place, in and out of all the other people who were – astoundingly – WALKING. Yes, at Disneyland, if you are whopping great ball of a person, you get an advantage. You speed straight past the lines of normal, healthier people (who can stand on their own two feet and walk from place to place), and barge into the rides. All because you’re a chubber. You get treated like a person with a disability (I have no issue with these people speeding around on scooters, or whatever it takes), but you do not have a disability. Last time I checked, lazy was not a disability.

I saw one guy get stuck on Splash Mountain. They had to stop the ride because he couldn’t lift his gigantic body out of the funny little log boat. Now that’s fat. There was family of four – kids no older than 16, who could have been mistaken for some kind of inflatable bouncy ride if they’d sat down on the grass for too long together. The dad and the son proudly scoffed down their enormous turkey legs and sucked back a gallon of soda (well hey, you know sitting on the “It’s a small world” boat for 15 minutes can really take it out of a guy).

By the end of my first day there I was angry. Angry that a country so smart, that leads the world in so many things, could have so many stupid fat people. Attack me all you like for my strong language, but if you are that fat, you are stupid. You know you shouldn’t be, know you can do something about it, know how to go about it – if you don’t… you are stupid.

I sat in the twilight right on the tip of Main Street waiting for the night-time parade to begin, bewildered at the long, broad shadows cast by the wobbling bellies of people heading out the gates – probably to Downtown Disney where they would guzzle more sugar and scoff another dozen ribs or more.

It was the saddest thing I saw at the happiest place on earth.

Is it just me, or does this align with your experience of the crowds at Disneyland?

Me

I’ll get around to publishing a photo, but it’s likely to be headless – at least until I have the confidence to show my face alongside my gut. Yeah, this is all about self-esteem really, isn’t it? I clearly don’t feel great about myself, so I figure if there’s less of me to feel great about, then it will just get easier. Follow my logic?

So I’m Australian, from one of the warmer parts. There’s little excuse to be unfit and unhealthy where I live. It’s the middle of winter right now and there’s not a cloud in the sky on a 21 degrees Celcius day. For anyone visiting from the US, that’s about 70 degrees in your language. I am married, have three kids and work for myself.

The last time I was really fit I was in high school. Twenty years ago. I played a lot of basketball and was quite a good swimmer. I’m about 190cm tall, so when I’m fit and healthy, I expect I’ll be drop dead handsome.

I’m kidding.

You’ll get to know more about me as we go along.

Nude by Christmas

Yep, I want to look good nude by Christmas. ¬†Surely it can’t be that hard. ¬†I’m 38, 189cm and weigh 102kg. ¬†My BMI, whatever the fuck that is, tells me I’m obese. ¬†I don’t feel obese, but I don’t feel good. ¬†I want to feel good, and look good. ¬†Hell, I’d like to look hot, but easy does it… first things first.

I have no idea what I’m doing, so I’m keen for feedback, ¬†I’m not a blogger, I’m not a fitness person, and yet for some reason, I’m diving into both at once. ¬†Perhaps it’s a sign. ¬†Perhaps it’s just something new to do.

You’re not starting right at the beginning of my journey. ¬†I joined a gym three weeks ago and have lost 2kgs already. ¬†I needed to convince myself that I could do something, anything, before I started telling the world.

But from now, there’ll be regular postings, photos – of me, and of things that inspire me – and all sorts of other goodies. ¬†Like I said, never done this before, so I am making it up as I go along.

You can also follow me on Instagram. ¬†I’m sure I can link these two somehow – I’ll figure that out – but for now, go check me out and follow if you like @nudebychristmas.

I’ve just got back from an hour at the gym. ¬†I’m buggered. ¬†Gotta sleep. ¬†If you have stumbled across this and have any advice or ideas or inspiration – get in touch.

I’m gonna need all the help I can get.

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