In the general sense, I like what I do for a living. Sometimes I complain that I'm exhausted from thinking about stuff, because there's a whole lot of deep thought you have to do at times, but I can say without question that my body is not exhausted. At all. In fact, since I work from home about 60% of the time, it's possible to barely crack 1,000 steps in a day on the Fitbit unless I deliberately get out and walk. It's not as simple as eating less than I burn for me, because when I'm inactive, I'm convinced my metabolism goes nowhere.
OK, so my job doesn't really make me fat, but it enables a lifestyle that is the opposite of active. And I also don't think I'm fat, and really OK with appearing slightly "doughy." (Sidebar: I'm apparently obese on the BMI scale, but I was 10 pounds "overweight" in high school by that measure. If you knew me then, and how skinny I appeared to be, you can imagine why I largely ignore BMI.) And while my appearance doesn't concern me, I do notice feeling less fit and frequently more tired when my weight is higher.
I was 175 when I started college, which shocked me in that physical. I distinctly recall the doctor suggesting that, while high, it may be normal given my bone and muscle density. I was pretty scrawny, so if there was any muscle density, it had to be in my legs from all of the cycling in high school. I had total noodle arms.
Given the unlimited nature of the relatively excellent food in college, not to mention the frequent pizzas (and lots of beer by the time I was a senior), I put on some pounds in school. But it was the years right after where I slowly started to put on weight. I remember walking up the stairs in our apartment, to the third floor, and getting winded. That's when I first realized there was a problem, and the scale was not kind. There are photos of me from that time, and I can't believe it's me.
About 10 years ago, when Stephanie and I split, it became even more clear that I had a problem. Those kinds of events tend to trigger a great deal of reflection, and when you feel like things are out of control, you also grasp for things that you can control. For me, one of those was getting off of the fucking couch.
At the time of the split, I was wrapping up a JO volleyball season, which was going kind of average. We didn't have as much practice time as I would have liked, and I didn't play with the kids as much as I had in previous years. I bailed on a contract job that banked a fair amount of money, and agreed to coach a high school team. Few things could have been as well timed. I had keys to a gym and a bunch of kids who wanted to play as much as possible. Along with that, I started logging my food consumption online using Weight Watchers' points system, and the pounds melted away. I bottomed out that fall, 30 pounds under where I started. In fact, I often look at weight loss in those terms instead of some arbitrary ideal. Right now I'm at -22, but my range in the last 10 years has been between -11 and -30.
This week I started to stick to the plan for eating, and hit 10k steps (almost five miles) every day. After 7 days, not surprisingly, I dropped a pound and a half-ish. I hate real exercise unless it involves a tennis or volleyball, so this will have to do. I want to get beyond my 2005 self, which is hard because I like to daydream and eat. Fitness freaks think my approach is some kind of compromise, but whatever. Nothing is more boring to me than thinking about fitness or doing anything related to it. The only reason I do anything at all is because I want decades of fun ahead of me without diabetes. Happiness doesn't have anything to do with it beyond the fact that heart disease wouldn't be fun.
So I'm back to a better lifestyle, if somewhat reluctantly. Midlife isn't going to let me eat like a lazy teenager.
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