I went out and bought one of those digital, 3 in 1 weight scales from Shoppers Drug Mart yesterday. The indecisiveness of our $9.99 Walmart special was driving me to drink and to eat. So, gone is the "Not for legal trade" plastic white piece of crap and arrived is the slick glass and stainless steel super deluxe weight scale that captures your profile -- gender, height and age -- and spits out your weight, body fat percentage and body water percentage, then declares your health condition.
And that's where the heartache begins. I haven't checked things this morning, as that would require taking off my socks -- Did I mention you have to take your socks off to get measured? -- and bending over is just too much work. But last night, the Beast confirmed my deepest, darkest fears -- that according to the UNDERFAT HEALTHY OVERFAT OBESE scale, I am teetering into the obese category. The Beast also confirmed what the piece of crap Walmart special was trying to tell me, that I am 206 pounds, not 205.8 or 206. 2, but 206.0 on the nose.
So, now I have three measures to track my progress or lack thereof: body weight, body fat and body water percentage. Whoopee! Obese? Come on!
Then I turned sideways and looked at myself in the mirror. (insert long pause here) Ahh, there's the rub, as Hamlet said. Looking straight on the perspective is misleading, overly optimistic. Looking at the side view is the money shot, the view of truth, the modus operandi for this Middle Age Bulge journey I've set upon. Where did that lopsided hourglass figure come from? Could it have been that beer, those chips, the yam fries and blackened chicken melts and overflowing lunch meals served up in the cafeteria at work? Yah, probably. Certainly.
I've noticed in the dawning days of what needs to become a significant life change that my eating challenges are easily overcome in the morning, midday and afternoon -- it's the evenings that prove to be the most difficult. Sitting in my favourite spot reading The Prince of Tides by Pat Conroy, my stomach and brain begin their familiar dance trying to figure out what food or drink would make the evening more perfect. My thoughts drift from the page to the cupboard and images of crackers and cheese appear, disappear, then reappear. Vegetables and fruit don't even make a guest appearance in the movie reel of my mind.
"I'm going to go for a long walk after supper," I declared, feeling compelled to do something to begin moving the health meter in the better direction.
With temperatures dipping near -30 degrees, I put on all of my winter accoutrement including the uber warm, super large snow pants and snow boots, and headed north. Across the old snow dump at the end of Father Mercredi street, through a well-worn walking path in the willows, a quick slide down the bank and I found myself on the frozen snow covered Clearwater River.
The full moon had made its presence known earlier in the day, shimmering behind the clouds on the northern horizon, like a second sun. Now it owned the sky, bathing the long expanse of the Clearwater in a kind of magical half-light, shades of dark blue and purple with the pinpricks of stars creating a celestial ceiling.
I liked the solitude of this path, adjacent to a teeming city but completely stark and apart -- so close yet so far. Following the snowmobile tracks on the south side of the river I slogged ahead one heavy step at a time, feeling that spot on my heal where my boots dig into my flesh, adjusting my step to mitigate the pain. I decided that I would walk as far as the new building going up along the river next to Rona, then turn around.
When I'm walking around town, every distance seems so much longer, the city so much bigger. There is a similar effect on the river being both longer and wider than I imagined. My thoughts often drift back to the early settlers and how the world must have seemed so much larger to them. With fast cars, fast airplanes and fast Internet connections, the world has been compressed beyond measure.
It was cold as I turned and began walking with the current, but it felt good as ice crystals formed on the tip of my jacket covering my chin. My legs grew heavy, one foot in front of the other, by rote following the tracks toward Snye Park where I got off the river and scooted through the forest and former snow dump before emerging on to Hill and finally Demers Drive, home.
December 31, 2009 - 205.4 pounds, 31.1 % body fat
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
My Aching Back
One of my first paid gigs was shoveling the walks at St. Stephen's Roman Catholic Church in Kamsack for Father George. It was a big job, a wide sidewalk leading up to the main doors, one that ran parallel to third street and comprised the frontage of both the church and rectory -- probably 200 feet of so, and a sidewalk that ran down the side of the building along fourth avenue -- an additional 100 feet. Add to that myriad meandering sidewalks leading hither and thither on the church property and you can see the size of the task.
I had acquired several pieces of clothing from my grandfather that year, dressing in a 1940's retro look as part of an ongoing campaign to differentiate myself. For shoveling at the church I wore a pair of heavy wool World War II vintage olive green flight pants with suspenders and a black winter dress coat that extended just below my knees. With a warm toque and scarf, I kept warm no matter the depth of the cold.
The magic of Christmas for me was contained in the mystery and wonder of midnight mass. As far back as I can remember, wrapping ourselves up and trudging the three blocks to church in the waning hours of Christmas eve was the anchor of our holiday traditions. It was the piece that provided meaning to everything else. As a youngster, I was one of many altar boys who adorned the front of the overflowing church, filled beyond capacity with many once-a-year worshippers. Incredibly warm from the mass of humanity contained in the church's finite space, I vaguely recall passing out and coming to in the sacristy, the little room where the priest got dressed, with my mom hovering over me ensuring that I was OK. That was probably 35 years ago, but I still can feel the refreshing cool breeze as I watched the remainder of the service from behind the scenes.
Christmas eve in the year of my shoveling job was bitter cold, and the snow had been falling all day. So, after concluding our other Christmas eve tradition of going up to my grandma and grandpa's house to open one gift each, I wrapped my neck in a scarf, pulled on my black winter dress coat and headed to the church, several hours before everyone else.
The wind was piercing as I turned the corner at the TD Bank and crossed main street, barren of vehicles and snow blowing horizontally from the east. Cutting through the side of the old post office building into the back alley behind the RCMP depot, I swooped into the church yard from the back to discover six inches of heavy snow and a tremendous task ahead.
Starting with the driveway in front of the garage that contained the priest's car and working my way toward the church, I was able to get all the sidewalks and pathways cleared in time for the arrival of the early birds. More importantly, the older parishioners would have no trouble traversing the distance from their parking spots to the doors of the church. My cheeks were frosty and red, but my heart was full, and Christmas eve was its most magical.
Shoveling the driveway, sidewalk and myriad pathways running hither and thither is not quite the gargantuan task today that I faced in 1984 earning $5 an hour, but its physical impacts are much greater. Leaning over the heavy steel shovel, effective yet unforgiving, my discs in my back shimmer and shudder, eloquently reminding me that I'm not in Kamsack any more.
December 30, 2009 - 2006 pounds (oops)
I had acquired several pieces of clothing from my grandfather that year, dressing in a 1940's retro look as part of an ongoing campaign to differentiate myself. For shoveling at the church I wore a pair of heavy wool World War II vintage olive green flight pants with suspenders and a black winter dress coat that extended just below my knees. With a warm toque and scarf, I kept warm no matter the depth of the cold.
The magic of Christmas for me was contained in the mystery and wonder of midnight mass. As far back as I can remember, wrapping ourselves up and trudging the three blocks to church in the waning hours of Christmas eve was the anchor of our holiday traditions. It was the piece that provided meaning to everything else. As a youngster, I was one of many altar boys who adorned the front of the overflowing church, filled beyond capacity with many once-a-year worshippers. Incredibly warm from the mass of humanity contained in the church's finite space, I vaguely recall passing out and coming to in the sacristy, the little room where the priest got dressed, with my mom hovering over me ensuring that I was OK. That was probably 35 years ago, but I still can feel the refreshing cool breeze as I watched the remainder of the service from behind the scenes.
Christmas eve in the year of my shoveling job was bitter cold, and the snow had been falling all day. So, after concluding our other Christmas eve tradition of going up to my grandma and grandpa's house to open one gift each, I wrapped my neck in a scarf, pulled on my black winter dress coat and headed to the church, several hours before everyone else.
The wind was piercing as I turned the corner at the TD Bank and crossed main street, barren of vehicles and snow blowing horizontally from the east. Cutting through the side of the old post office building into the back alley behind the RCMP depot, I swooped into the church yard from the back to discover six inches of heavy snow and a tremendous task ahead.
Starting with the driveway in front of the garage that contained the priest's car and working my way toward the church, I was able to get all the sidewalks and pathways cleared in time for the arrival of the early birds. More importantly, the older parishioners would have no trouble traversing the distance from their parking spots to the doors of the church. My cheeks were frosty and red, but my heart was full, and Christmas eve was its most magical.
Shoveling the driveway, sidewalk and myriad pathways running hither and thither is not quite the gargantuan task today that I faced in 1984 earning $5 an hour, but its physical impacts are much greater. Leaning over the heavy steel shovel, effective yet unforgiving, my discs in my back shimmer and shudder, eloquently reminding me that I'm not in Kamsack any more.
December 30, 2009 - 2006 pounds (oops)
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
Shin Splints
For several years I was an avid walker, traversing from home to the college with ease using my two legs. I'm not sure about the exact distance except to say it requires walking from one end of downtown to the other, a journey that takes about 25 minutes at a steady clip and 35 minutes if you're ambling.
At the time, Heather was working up the hill in Thickwood, the opposite direction from where I was heading. We had made the decision to downsize to a one car family in the interests of saving money and providing me some motivation to get some exercise. Heather drove up the hill and I walked to work. It was a good set-up.
Then, her office was transferred downtown, a mere block away from the college. And while I could have continued my walks, I lost my swagger and began catching a lift. My ephemeral walking days were done.
With time on my hands, it still being the holidays and all, I decided to walk to Canadian Tire to pick up a replacement part for the front door latch set. The pain started setting in early, just around the corner from the house with the nativity scene in the front yard which is just around the corner from our house. By the time I neared Mark's Work Wearhouse my shin splints were screaming. And in the final few steps before the automatic doors at Canadian Tire opened, I was ready to stop.
I selected the mechanism I required and quickly headed back the way I came. This time, no pain, nothing. It was like a cake walk, although I'm not really sure what a cake walk is, despite it being a well used saying.
After all that walking, the mechanism didn't fit, no matter what I tried. So, with memories of shin splints fresh, I drove back to the hardware store instead.
December 29, 2009 - 205 pounds
At the time, Heather was working up the hill in Thickwood, the opposite direction from where I was heading. We had made the decision to downsize to a one car family in the interests of saving money and providing me some motivation to get some exercise. Heather drove up the hill and I walked to work. It was a good set-up.
Then, her office was transferred downtown, a mere block away from the college. And while I could have continued my walks, I lost my swagger and began catching a lift. My ephemeral walking days were done.
With time on my hands, it still being the holidays and all, I decided to walk to Canadian Tire to pick up a replacement part for the front door latch set. The pain started setting in early, just around the corner from the house with the nativity scene in the front yard which is just around the corner from our house. By the time I neared Mark's Work Wearhouse my shin splints were screaming. And in the final few steps before the automatic doors at Canadian Tire opened, I was ready to stop.
I selected the mechanism I required and quickly headed back the way I came. This time, no pain, nothing. It was like a cake walk, although I'm not really sure what a cake walk is, despite it being a well used saying.
After all that walking, the mechanism didn't fit, no matter what I tried. So, with memories of shin splints fresh, I drove back to the hardware store instead.
December 29, 2009 - 205 pounds
Monday, December 28, 2009
Less Full
Two words kept resonating in my head after day one of this battle of the bulge: less full. Leading up to and including the Christmas holidays it felt like I was in a perpetual state of fullness. Eating reasonably throughout the day and sticking to my edict of post-dinner nibblies comprised of only fruits or vegetables and I felt substantially less full, and it felt good.
Let me preface this observation with a reminder that our bathroom scale is a cheap piece of crap. That said, with my glass is half full optimism in overdrive, the scale read 205 this morning, five pounds lower than yesterday. "That's impossible!," you're screaming to yourself. Yah, I agree, but it's still nice to see, as wrong as it is.
I'm sitting here at the laptop in my pseudo study (I say "pseudo" because it doubles as our walk-in closet) drinking black coffee, as opposed to the sugar and cream infused variety that normally jump-starts my day. Why do we drink this stuff? Sans sugar sans cream it tastes awful, as it did back in the summer of 1985 when I first began my relationship with java.
I was working at IGA in Kamsack, Saskatchewan -- a summer job of stocking shelves, cleaning floors and packing groceries. This was a long time ago, near the advent and arrival of plastic grocery bags, shortly after the stone age. Coffee time was revered in this environment and grabbing your fifteen minutes of sitting-on-your-duff time mid-morning was one of the two highlights of the day, the other was the one mid-afternoon. Now, here's the thing, you had to pay for anything and everything you ingested during coffee breaks, everything but coffee. A soon-to-be starving university student, I saw a savings opportunity and seized the day....ahh, err, coffee. What it tasted like then is very likely what it tastes like now, but I'm nothing if not persistent.
One of the handful of readers who saw my first blog post suggested a calorie counting regimen, as a means of managing the battle of bulge. I'm not sure I want to expend that much effort or time at the micro level of this adventure, but I appreciate the suggestion.
In my head I was thinking getting down to 190 pounds would be a reasonable target--20 pounds off the summit of my weight gain. Then I googled a body mass index chart only to discover that 190 still finds me high in the overweight zone and that the "normal" weight for my height is in the neighborhood of 170 pounds. Oh my goodness, I can't remember the last time I was that size.
December 28, 2009 - 205 pounds
Let me preface this observation with a reminder that our bathroom scale is a cheap piece of crap. That said, with my glass is half full optimism in overdrive, the scale read 205 this morning, five pounds lower than yesterday. "That's impossible!," you're screaming to yourself. Yah, I agree, but it's still nice to see, as wrong as it is.
I'm sitting here at the laptop in my pseudo study (I say "pseudo" because it doubles as our walk-in closet) drinking black coffee, as opposed to the sugar and cream infused variety that normally jump-starts my day. Why do we drink this stuff? Sans sugar sans cream it tastes awful, as it did back in the summer of 1985 when I first began my relationship with java.
I was working at IGA in Kamsack, Saskatchewan -- a summer job of stocking shelves, cleaning floors and packing groceries. This was a long time ago, near the advent and arrival of plastic grocery bags, shortly after the stone age. Coffee time was revered in this environment and grabbing your fifteen minutes of sitting-on-your-duff time mid-morning was one of the two highlights of the day, the other was the one mid-afternoon. Now, here's the thing, you had to pay for anything and everything you ingested during coffee breaks, everything but coffee. A soon-to-be starving university student, I saw a savings opportunity and seized the day....ahh, err, coffee. What it tasted like then is very likely what it tastes like now, but I'm nothing if not persistent.
One of the handful of readers who saw my first blog post suggested a calorie counting regimen, as a means of managing the battle of bulge. I'm not sure I want to expend that much effort or time at the micro level of this adventure, but I appreciate the suggestion.
In my head I was thinking getting down to 190 pounds would be a reasonable target--20 pounds off the summit of my weight gain. Then I googled a body mass index chart only to discover that 190 still finds me high in the overweight zone and that the "normal" weight for my height is in the neighborhood of 170 pounds. Oh my goodness, I can't remember the last time I was that size.
December 28, 2009 - 205 pounds
Sunday, December 27, 2009
Where did those 10 pounds come from?
My middle age bulge is growing. There, I've said it. And while we have one of those $9.99 scales picked up in the dollar aisle, I have to stand up and take notice when it jumps by ten pounds after just a couple of weeks. Yikes! That explains why my 36" waist dress pants have gone from being "just right" to "right snug".
I am 42 years old and my middle age bulge is growing. Perhaps if I keep saying it, thinking it, typing it, it will go away.
There is no doubt that I could take refuge behind the "we've just finished Christmas" card, or maybe the "I'll change my ways in the New Year" card, but I know myself too well to know that hiding isn't going to do any good. So, instead of basking in the state of denial, I'm starting a blog.
My inspiration is Julie Powell, the blogger made famous by the Julie & Julia film starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. She made a commitment and kept it real every day by putting thoughts, experiences, joy, pain, loss and gain into the virtual and very public ether of the blogosphere.
This notion of trying to begin the battle of the bulge has been scratching just below the surface, trying to get out and take form, for weeks. I've talked to colleagues who have been successful in their fitness efforts. I've attempted to change my eating habits over the past few months (unsuccessfully). I've noticed as putting on my socks in the morning has become increasingly difficult.
A few months ago I had to go for a doctor's appointment to get a referral for some lingering hearing problems -- I'm pretty much deaf on my left side -- and as I sat there in that small office staring at the medical charts, anotomical drawings and medical fee notices my eyes landed on an obesity index. I couldn't resist.
"OK, I'm about 5' 10" tall," I mumbled to myself. "And about 200 pounds. Let's where that puts me."
My eyes almost dropped out of my head as the intersection of the two lines landed on the border between overweight and obese. That was about two months ago. This morning's scale reading was just on the south side of 210 pounds.
My middle age bulge is growing and I am intent on doing something about it. But what?
Two things I know for sure: I need to eat less and I need to eat better. Honestly, if I just did those two small things, I suspect the weight would go down. But I also know that's not enough. My stamina is nowhere close to what it once was, nor is my strength. I've become mostly sedentary, let's face it.
OK, let's make a list of what I will do. This blog will play the role of taskmaster, confessional, fitness barometer. And rather than making this negative -- what I won't eat or do -- I'll turn it on its head and make it positive -- what I WILL do.
I will...
I am 42 years old and my middle age bulge is growing. Perhaps if I keep saying it, thinking it, typing it, it will go away.
There is no doubt that I could take refuge behind the "we've just finished Christmas" card, or maybe the "I'll change my ways in the New Year" card, but I know myself too well to know that hiding isn't going to do any good. So, instead of basking in the state of denial, I'm starting a blog.
My inspiration is Julie Powell, the blogger made famous by the Julie & Julia film starring Meryl Streep and Amy Adams. She made a commitment and kept it real every day by putting thoughts, experiences, joy, pain, loss and gain into the virtual and very public ether of the blogosphere.
This notion of trying to begin the battle of the bulge has been scratching just below the surface, trying to get out and take form, for weeks. I've talked to colleagues who have been successful in their fitness efforts. I've attempted to change my eating habits over the past few months (unsuccessfully). I've noticed as putting on my socks in the morning has become increasingly difficult.
A few months ago I had to go for a doctor's appointment to get a referral for some lingering hearing problems -- I'm pretty much deaf on my left side -- and as I sat there in that small office staring at the medical charts, anotomical drawings and medical fee notices my eyes landed on an obesity index. I couldn't resist.
"OK, I'm about 5' 10" tall," I mumbled to myself. "And about 200 pounds. Let's where that puts me."
My eyes almost dropped out of my head as the intersection of the two lines landed on the border between overweight and obese. That was about two months ago. This morning's scale reading was just on the south side of 210 pounds.
My middle age bulge is growing and I am intent on doing something about it. But what?
Two things I know for sure: I need to eat less and I need to eat better. Honestly, if I just did those two small things, I suspect the weight would go down. But I also know that's not enough. My stamina is nowhere close to what it once was, nor is my strength. I've become mostly sedentary, let's face it.
OK, let's make a list of what I will do. This blog will play the role of taskmaster, confessional, fitness barometer. And rather than making this negative -- what I won't eat or do -- I'll turn it on its head and make it positive -- what I WILL do.
I will...
- Eat a healthy breakfast. Simple. Simple, yet something I haven't been doing. Instead, waking up in the middle of the night and chowing down, or skipping breakfast entirely.
- Drink my coffee black, which will reduce my sugar and fat (cream) intake and reduce the amount of coffee I drink (black coffee is not terribly appealing to me).
- Eat a sensible lunch. Out with the blackened chicken melt and yam fries and in with the soup and sandwich special or salad. Better yet, I should bring a lunch, allowing me to eat better and save money.
- Eat a hearty dinner, but limit myself to single servings. No seconds for me!
- Eat only fruits or vegetables before bed. No more chips, nachos and cheese or personal pan pizzas.
- Start to exercise. What this means is yet to be determined and the subject of Middle Age Bulge blogs of the future.
That's a manageable list, yes? Oh God, I hope so.
December 27, 2009 - 210 pounds
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