Nude by Christmas

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

Archive for the tag “Instagram”

Bibles and Barbells

I do not believe in a god of any description. If that bothers you, it’s probably best that you read no further. No, I will not mock you if you do believe. You have the right to believe what you want, and I have the right not to. Simple. Let’s be friends.

But I’m a little taken aback by all the god-believing fitness fiends out there. It seems every second fitness or health blog moves quickly from biceps to bibles, from alcohol-and-carb free living to the importance of including bread and wine in your diet… especially on Sundays.

I see more biblical quotes at the header of people’s blogs, facebook pages, tweets or instagram feeds than anything else – beside goal weights. “Jane Doe. Mom. Jesus Lover. UGW 100lbs” “John Doe. Loving Father. The Lord is my Shepherd. I want ripped abs”.

I guess when you don’t understand faith, it’s difficult to get how faith could be employed to make someone fitter. I don’t get the need to declare it. If your god is all-knowing (they pretty much all seem to be), then why do you need to tell anyone on Facebook? Surely your god doesn’t need a status update to know whether or not you still believe?

You see, I believe in me. I’d like to believe more in myself, and someday I will. I can see how the gym – not Jesus – could help me out there. I don’t think there is a higher being that can help will the fat around my waistline elsewhere. I don’t believe that his right hand man could spot me on the bench-press (or even cross-trainer, if we want to be really crass about it). And I don’t believe, wholly, in a spirit of any sort… other than the ones I now try to avoid at the bar.

But you might. And you’re probably fitter than me.

Hmmmmm…..

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Sit-ups and put-downs.

I must have been bullied as a kid. I don’t remember it, and given that I was 6′ tall at 12 years of age, I struggled to imagine how it came about. But I must have been. How else could my body image be so bad?

Oh, I’m not hideous, I know that. I don’t think that. I’m not one of these fifteen year old girls you see on Facebook or Twitter or Instagram blogging their recovery from an eating disorder (poor loves). It’s not that bad. But it’s not good, and something I want to climb on top of as I lead myself through this health recovery journey.

I’m calling it health recovery, because there must have been a time when I was healthy. At school I played basketball a million times a week, almost – but not quite – having the vertical spring to be able to slam dunk (I peaked out at 6’2″, for those who are following closely). I swam in the summer – quite well, actually – and (shock horror) even enjoyed it. I don’t remember what my body looked like, or even how it felt, but there’s probably no doubt it looked fine and felt even better. Which is about what I’m aiming for now.

But my body now is not like those of the free-weights boys at the gym, and I have to admit, they intimidate me. Not because they’re scary, or dangerous. Not because they have tatts of their murdered first wives, or the warring South Pacific island their ancestors fought for. No, they intimidate me by their capability. Their strength.

Currently, I am a weakling. I cannot do ten push-ups. When I went for my induction at my gym, they took all the weight off a barbell for me to bench press, and I only managed three lifts with the empty barbell itself. I was doing sit ups with a medicine ball that might as well have been a ping pong ball. Maybe two.

While I’m slowly (very slowly) building strength, I admit that I feel awkward at the gym. Sure, I’m not Mr Puniverse, but for the other Masters of the Universe, they must see this dumpy old guy and wonder… WTF? How do you get to 38 and not be able to do ten push ups. Indeed, how do you?

It’s times like this… as you write these things for all the world to see… that you realise that it’s actually not about your physical fitness at all, is it? It’s all in your mind. All in my mind.

Why the hell should I feel intimidated by the Masters of the Universe? My war is not with them: it’s with me. With my own body. And, clearly, with my own mind.

That’s the war I think I need to win first.

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 😉

Stay tuned.

More photos @nudebychristmas on Instagram

The girls and boys on Instagram, and a bit about treadmills

Right now, I’m on a treadmill. Walking, blogging and Instagramming. So damned 2012 it’s not funny. I’ve already done a cardio session this morning, just following up with some weights tonight. It’s 10pm in the part of the world I inhabit.

If you haven’t spotted me on Instagram, it’s not hard @nudebychristmas is the name, photos of me, exercise and food is the game. I’m also dropping down some thoughts there too.

If you follow me and check out my likes, you’ll notice I like girls butts, mens torsos and the legs of both. No, I’m not bi, I’m just an admirer of quality. If you work hard, and look good, I’m gonna tick like. No hidden agenda. Sure, it might mean I think you’re attractive, but hell, isn’t that the whole point? Your butt is hot. Like!

I staggers me a little how many kids there are on Instagram with such low self-esteem. Look, I’m no Anthony Robbins (the guy’s over the top in my opinion), but seriously people, get a grip. Today some girl posted a threat to shutdown her account if more people didn’t like her, or make more comments. Sheesh – just shut her down already. If you’re on Instagram to make friends, it’s time you joined the real world. And made real friends.

There are 15 year old girls desperate to lose pounds to squeeze into a bikini, 16 year old boys obsessed with their abs, some that admit to self harming, many that admit to just being miserable.

How do we get it through to these kids that the hottest body is a healthy body, and nothing – nothing! – is sexier than confidence.

I wasn’t going to put my face on Instagram. This was both a privacy and self-esteem thing, but then I thought fuck it. I’m me. Fat, but thinning. Middle aged, but not middling. Weak, but getting stronger. If these messed up kids can see that it’s okay to make it to 38, have all of these so-called ‘faults’, and still be prepared to put yourself out there, there may be some hope for them yet.

And for me.

I gotta go sweat some more.

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