Nude by Christmas

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

Archive for the tag “weightloss”

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.

Seduced by a vegan

I just consciously ordered vegan. I feel dirty. Like I’m about to grow a beard and my clothes will start to smell.

And I liked it. Like really liked it. Like mopped up everything on the plate – not just because there was hardly anything on it, but because it… tasted… good. Oh I can’t believe I just wrote that. It tasted good.

I don’t even know what it was. There was an avocado, a tomato and something – to be quite honest – which looked like a shit. Sorry for being so crass, but that’s one turd I can’t polish. That’s what it looked like. I’ve never eaten shit in my life, but if it tastes anywhere near as good as this shit-looking thing that I just ate, I’m surprised more people don’t eat it. See, I told you I feel dirty.

The waitress who served me was, thankfully, carnivorous. She looked down her nose at me, stared with her over-made-up-eyes, and sneered. Phew. That made me feel normal. Like it was right not to want to eat this stuff. Then she talked to me about bacon. How she would wear it, she liked it so much. How she had seen shoes with bacon painted on them, and a t-shirt, and bacon band-aids. Enough with the bacon, already! I thought, as my butter knife easily sliced through my pile of vegan poo. But on she went. About her friend who was denied a place in a share-house because – although vegetarian – the vegan landlords wouldn’t touch her with a bean-pole. Wars are fought over things like this.

I’m sitting here looking at the plate wondering what I’ve just done. Like I’ve woken up in a strange bed, incense burning, next to a skinny girl, tanned from spending too much time in Bali, with beads in her hair and a pierced tongue. Hmmmm. Guess it’s not so bad.

20120803-102450.jpg

I wish my gym could make me come

Raw honesty.

I’m not in love with my gym. Not at all. Sure, we’ve only be dating for less than two months – perhaps she’ll grow on me – but for now, she’s a bore. Dull. Repetitive. Do I really want to get all hot and sweaty, and use the same equipment, every night? I’ll be honest: sometimes gym just doesn’t do it for me. Sometimes I don’t even come. Er, go.

We had a two week break there in the middle – I had a commitment to a holiday that I couldn’t back out of. While away, I cheated on my gym (and yes, fitness Nazis: on myself) with wine and cheese. But I ran. And hiked. And even did body weight exercises (which is really the fitness equivalent to masturbating, isn’t it?). Then I got home, ran straight into the arms of my gym, and… nothing. Absence failed to make the heart grow fonder… In fact, it probably just clogged it up a bit more.

That was ten days ago.

Since then, we’ve seen each other every day. Some days we’ve gone quick and hard, some days it’s been a more sustained sweat-up. Just the way she likes it. Tonight I’m pumping her like a… gym. But still: just no doing it.

I know, I know, I should give it time. Not rush into this thinking I’m going to be swept off my feet straight away. But something needs to give soon. Some result. Some magical feeling. Some glimpse of being… more. Better.

Anything.

But I’m no quitter.

(Actually, I am. But this time, I’m so determined not to be).

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…..

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.

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 ūüėČ

Stay tuned.

Beating Obesity with Beethoven, not Bieber

I’m the heavy middle-aged guy on the treadmill, sweating like a prisoner on death row, as my legs thump, thump, thump against the rubber below. I have my headphones stuck firmly into my ears, partly to block out the incessant noise of Channel V blaring across the room, and partly to I can tune into my training music of choice: Beethoven.

Yeah, how old am I? Instead of Boyfriend, I’ve got Beethoven belting into me. No baby faced Bieber, just my immortal beloved.

I’ve always found the deaf old prick to do find the best in me. When I was writing films and plays, Beethoven was always the one who would reach deep into my soul and bring out the real stuff that I needed to put on the page. Now he’s my sweat master. And my timer. If I can row for a full Choral Fantasy (between 19 and 20 minutes, depending on the conductor), then cycle for a Triple Concerto (say, 35 minutes), I’m pretty satisfied with my cardio.

For weights, it makes sense to go with the Emperor Concerto, or one of the Symphonies. It works every time!

If the cool kids puffing their way through Beyonce or Usher or whoever it is that they listen to while they work up their own slipper sweat knew what I was listening to, I’m sure they’d laugh even harder than they do already.

Bugger them.

Now, if only I could get someone to shoot some music videos of LvB with some booty shaking and plunging necklines, I reckon I’d be set for my gym-going-life.

What do you guys listen to?

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.

Post Navigation