Nude by Christmas

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

Archive for the tag “men”

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.

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Lycra Virgin… will I touch it for the very first time?

Three years ago, maybe four, I was given a bike for Christmas. I couldn’t tell you what make it is, what brakes it has or where the gears are from. It has the customary two wheels, a frame designed for a man (with the inconveniently placed central bar) and a seat designed as a long-term contraceptive. It seems neither a mountain bike nor a molehill bike, do I presume it is a hybrid – though not with an electric engine. I can confidently tell you it is silver. Perhaps grey. Fifty shades of it?

You see the thing is, I’ve never ridden it. Not once. It remains in my garage, stuck in a corner, not yet with the er, wheel thingies connected to the frame thingy. I vaguely remember trying to put it together once, but that involved tools… and thought. Two things that do not mix well in me.

So instead it has just sat. And sat and sat and sat. Untouched.

About the same time as I got the bike, my work gave me a corporate Lycra cycling costume. You know the ones: the funny pants that make you walk like you’ve pooped your pants and look like a kid’s balloon full of jelly. If there is anything less attractive than a MAMIL (for the uninitiated: Middle-Aged Man In Lycra), it is ME in Lycra. Trust me.

So that too has never been touched. It sits, as neatly folded as Lycra can sit, in the bottom drawer of my wardrobe. I may have put it on once, just to, er, see how bad it would look on me, but let’s keep that between us.

This week, I am getting out the bike, getting it together and getting on it. I don’t plan on driving anywhere anymore, unless I have to. Given that I have three kids of quite a young age, there will be lots of times when I simply do have to drive. But when it’s something for me, I’ll be on my bike.

But the Lycra? Well, I’d rather be nude by Christmas than in Lycra by Christmas. So you won’t be seeing me out in the street in it any time soon.

Check out my pics on this site, or on instagram @nudebychristmas, then thank me for my community service in staying Lycra virgin.

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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