Big Fat Eddie

You bet your BOTTOM dollar, you SHOULDN'T read this post

2020-03-15T15:06:00.002-07:00

I have written and deleted, and then rewritten and redeleted this post 100 times. For the most part, I think it is a fine post… 60% of the way through. That’s when the story becomes unreadable. After much thought, I have decided to write the post, in its entirety. However, because I have a conscience, I am doing so with a warning.

Warning: Only read the first half of this post. Do not read the second story! Seriously… don’t read it. You wont like it. Its awful from start to finish and I don’t want it getting into peoples thoughts. So only read the first part, and then when I say… yes, I will clearly mark when to stop reading… STOP READING.

Part One: Ultrasound

I have spent my life in a constant struggle to keep my midriff hidden. I know I am not alone in this endeavor. This means my tummy must be covered by clothes, but it also means much more than that. Every t shirt I wear has to be just long enough to extend past my belt line, but also made of fabric flexible enough so as to prevent the bottom from coming up when I move my arms. There is also an art to how I handle the tuck of a dress shirt… I wont get into it, but its labor intensive and created to form an optical illusion to hide the fact that I am out of shape. Fuck, I lost my virginity wearing nothing but a cummerbund in attempt to hide my tummy... I also wore a bow tie, so as to stay classy.

Suffice it to say, I am always cognizant of my weight issues. So it is probably for the best that I was getting my ultrasound during the beginning of the coronavirus outbreak, because I was sufficiently distracted from the details that go in to getting an ultrasound.

For approximately a year, I have been dealing with an umbilical hernia. It doesn’t cause me much trouble, but once in awhile it protrudes for a bit then recedes again. The fear is that one of these days the hernia will not recede and my intestine will end up strangulated.

When I walked into the waiting room at the hospital, there were people coughing and wearing facemasks, and I was fighting the urge to freak out every time anyone made a noise. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!! I was obviously distracted from the details of my own impending procedure. When the ultrasound tech came out to usher me back for my procedure, the process I was about to face instantly flashed before my eyes and caused a moment of terror. See, the problem was that this tech was maybe the best looking healthcare professional I had ever met. She had dark shiny black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, to reveal her gorgeous olive skinned face and bright green eyes. A Greek goddess. As we walked back to the ultrasound room, I INSTANTLY remembered the two different methods of ultrasounds involved in the births of my kids… and I was almost 100% sure I could eliminate the method in which she inserted a wand into my vagina.

This only left the option where she would be maneuvering my tummy all around the room, covered in jelly. I barely remember removing my shirt and getting on the table, because I was so fixated on the fact that she was holding a giant clear bottle of what appeared to be lube. Now, I have seen my fair share of porn, so I knew one of two things was about to happen… and as I heard the farty sound of goo being squirted from a half empty bottle, and felt cold liquid pouring down over me and making a pool in my ample belly button, I realized she was using the lube for the thing I didn’t want her to be doing.

I can't tell you what was on the screen as she worked.

I can't tell you how her face looked as she worked.

I can only tell you that there is a blinking green light on the ceiling about 45 degrees behind the head of the table I was laying on, because no part of me was strong enough to bring myself to make eye contact with the woman who was gently kneading my tummy like a cumbersome toddler trying to roll out playdough. Bless her heart, she tried so hard to make this experience less suicide inducing, but there is no way to make that pleasant. I could feel this gooey monitor pushing my tummy back and forth, as my pride slowly drained out through my butt. She was asking me what I was going to do this weekend, and how work has been going… and all I could do was day dream about driving into on coming traffic on the way home.

OK!!!! NOW!!!! STOP READING NOW!!!!!! TURN AROUND AND GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME!!!!!

Part 2: Ultra POUND

My hernia isn’t the only issue I’ve been dealing with. I have had some issues with urination, and some unpleasantness in my taint. A few weeks after my ultrasound, I had an appointment to get my prostate checked. Now, I know what you ALL are thinking… “Dude, I am sure your taint is always unpleasant”. I don’t mean its unpleasant for the audience, I mean its unpleasant for me. I am referring to sensitivity behind the taint. Being a 40+ male, I know that these are warning signs of prostate issues, so I went in to get examined… but no good deed goes unpunished.

As soon as I walked in the examination room, I knew I was not in for a smooth experience. While this wasn’t my regular Dr I was seeing, I have been seen by him. His demeanor is much like a humorless David Puddy from ‘Seinfeld’, very dry and monotone… but he looks like Bluto from the 1980 Robin Williams ‘Popeye’ movie, and just as surly.

I wasn’t in the room for more than 5 minutes before Dr. McSmilesAlot gruffly informed me “you know how we check prostates, just bend over the table and step out of your pants”. Dude, so much for romance, Jesus.

Its funny how blank your mind becomes when your resting on your elbows, bent at 90 degrees over crinkly butcher paper covered hospital bed.

I was oddly calm as I was fixated on the yellowish wall as the exam began. I could hear frustrated sighs from my Dr. SOOOORRRR-RRRRY!! I hate to be putting you out like this. Is this not pleasant for you!!! Because I am having the best time ever. Thats when I found out my Dr is humorless.

Dr: “STOP CLENCHING” he exclaimed angrily

Now, no matter how indignant I wanted to be in my response, there is nothing more humbling than someone chastising you while playing “hide the finger” at your expense.

Ed: “sir, I am not clenching. I assure you I am not trying to delay the completion of this process”.

He didn’t seem to be buying what I was selling.

Dr: “Than you must have the tightest anus ever”, he snapped back.

I slowly looked back over my shoulder and made eye contact with him

Ed: “Thank you?” I said in a questioning tone.

This was the last straw as far as Dr SausageFingers was concerned. He pushed forward with the power of 1000 charging rhinos. I kid you not, he ended up tearing my anus. I went in to the Doctor anticipating an antibiotic prescription, and ended up leaving with what will eventually be 3, 21 day antibiotic prescriptions for a prostate infection, and a topical for my now expanded bottom. This Doctor seems to lecture me every time I see him, but I still wasn’t expecting him to tear me a new butthole.

Thought; creations and manifestations, and sexual hubris

2019-09-11T19:40:00.004-07:00

I have decided to use my period off of work, to my advantage. I have been researching theories of how our own thoughts and ideas effect our ability to act in our own self interest. This goes beyond just weight loss. We self sabotage in many ways… career advancement, sexual pursuits, finances, addiction… the human mind is so complex and our own neurosis cant be boiled down to one or two simple factors.

I listened to a podcast on NPR called “Invisibilia” and the episode was called the “Secret History of Thoughts”. The basic premise surrounds the question of “Do our thoughts define us”… do the dark, or hurtful thoughts we have, dictate our action.. or do all people have dark and self-destructive thoughts, but only some people are compelled to act on these thoughts. One point that really stuck with me is how our thoughts can be molded by what we audibly inundate ourselves with.

Do songs, movies, regional slang, education level, dialogue with loved ones, shape our thought patterns. Of course they do. So I decided to dissect the songs on my gym playlist. See what is subconsciously being fed to my brain. I picked a few songs and over the past month, I would play them on repeat and truly dwell on the lyrics, and see the thoughts that where in my head by the end of the workout… monitor my mood… see how I interacted with people… did I peacock around the gym, mean mugging people? I really needed to break down the lyrics to see what the true context was.

Work it – Missy Elliot

DJ, please pick up your phone, I'm on the request line
This is a Missy Elliott one-time exclusive, come on

Is it worth it? Let me work it – This is the problem with so much of my fitness attempts… I cant know if its worth it, until I work it.
I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup
If you got a big, let me search ya – Full disclosure, Big is relative. This feels like a gamble. If you let her “search ya”, and you have misrepresented the girth of yourself, this could go very very wrong. Missy doesn’t have a “I have come this far, I might as well finish what I started vibe”… nor do a vast majority of todays discerning females. They will send you packing with your “tail” tucked between your legs. Maybe she is telling me that I need to be more confident. I need to “say yes” at any of lifes big dick statements.
And find out how hard I gotta work ya
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup

I'd like to get to know ya so I could show ya
Put the pussy on ya like I told ya – Integrity… Fuck.. .this is a good start. She said she would put her pussy on ya, and by god, she followed through. This is good. My music is going to give me good pussy ethics.
Give me all your numbers so I can phone ya – This is a sticky wicket. I don’t get to just demand numbers. I feel like this is not a behavior I should mirror.
Your girl acting stank, then call me over – a healthy sense of self. Huh… I don’t seem to have this. I tend to operate from a subservient role. I need to see myself like Missy, I am the alternative to a stank ho, I MYSELF am not the stank ho.
Not on the bed, lay me on your sofa
Call before you come, I need to shave my chocha Missy… come on. Be game ready at all times. My chocha is freshly shorned before I even brush my teeth.
You do or you don't or you will or won't ya?
Go downtown and eat it like a vulture – Ugh… Missy… NO… I have an unhealthy relationship with food as it is. I need less aggression at the dinner table.
See my hips and my tips, don't ya?
See my ass and my lips, don't ya?
Lost a few pounds and my waist for ya – Fuck yes. Inspiration!!!! Losing weight SHOULD be done for ones self, and not for ya… but being healthier is good regardless.
This the kinda beat that go ra-ta-ta
Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta
Sex me so good I say blah-blah-blah
Work it, I need a glass of water
Boy, oh boy, it's good to know ya – Ahhhhh, thanks. I like knowing ya too.

If you a fly gal, get your nails done
Get a pedicure, get your hair did – These lines feel exclusionary. Even if you aren’t a fly gal, you can get your hair did.
Boy, lift it up, let's make a toast-a
Let's get drunk, that's gonna bring us closer – Fuck! I have used this line 1000 times, and it has never felt as charming as it does when Missy says it.
Don't I look like a Halle Berry poster?
See the Belvedere playing tricks on ya
Girlfriend wanna be like me, never
You won't find a bitch that's even better – I feel like this line is a bit braggadocios. A healthy ego is important.. but come on.
I make you hot as Las Vegas weather
Listen up close while I take it backwards I have never been able to talk a woman into this. I feel like this is Missy proving her last point of “you wont find a bitch that’s even better”.

I'm not a prostitute, but I could give you what you want – I am listening.. this is like the best attention grabbing lead in sentence ever. I don’t give a shit what I am doing, or what is happening, I will listen to what comes next.
I love your braids and your mouth full of floss
Love the way my ass go bum-bum-bum-bum
Keep your eyes on my bum-bum-bum-bum-bum – HUGE let down. This is a bait and switch. Great lead in sentence is totally wasted.
You think you can handle this badonkadonk-donk – No. I don’t. Nothing in my life has lead me up to the point where I could begin to handle Missy Elliot’s Bodonkadonk-donk.
Take my thong off and my ass go boom
Cut the lights on so you see what I could do

Boys, boys, all type of boys -
Black, White, Puerto Rican, Chinese boys – Puerto Rican feels oddly specific.
Why-thai, thai-o-toy-o-thai-thai
Rock-thai, thai-o-toy-o-thai-thai
Girls, girls, get that cash
If it's 9 to 5 or shaking your ass
Ain't no shame, ladies do your thing
Just make sure you ahead of the game – These 5 lines are very important. I think “shame” can be healthy, but can also be illogical at times too. Why do we worry so much about the opinions of others. Do what you fucking need to do.
Just 'cause I got a lot of fame super
Prince couldn't get me change my name, papa – Pride seems to be a theme. Confidence.
Kunta Kinte a slave again, no sir
Picture blacks saying, "Oh yes'a, massa" (No!)
Picture Lil' Kim dating a pastor – This feels like an attack. Shouldn’t we be rooting for each other. Lil Kim could marry a pastor. If you see your fat fucking friend trying to run on a treadmill, run next to him… don’t say he cant do it.
Minute Man and Big Red could outlast ya
Who is the best? I don't have to ask ya – Her prideful boasting is beginning to feel like sexual hubris. People gravitate towards confidence, but come on.
When I come out, you won't even matter – Sigh
Why you act dumb like, uh, duh?
So you act dumb like, uh, duh – MISSY… you're losing me. I need more confidence but I don’t want to be arrogant. This feels like a short sighted over compensation.
As the drummer boy go ba-rom-pop-pom-pom
Give you some-some-some of this Cinnabun – You just lost me. Now all I want is a cinnabun. Fuck.

While I was listening to the song, I could feel my confidence growing. The beat, the lyrics, the bravado… it was all so good. I was stomping around the gym, batting water bottles out of peoples hands, and being untenable. I pulled my thing out, flipped, and reversed it, much to the chagrin of EVERYONE in the weight room.

It is funny how we listen to music, and podcats, and TV shows, and the news and we never stop to think about what we are programming our thoughts with. We hear people hurting people, and we are inundated with messages of boastfulness, and its no wonder so many carry feelings of intimidation and fear. Self doubt. Social media does this too. I do think I need to be more careful with my thoughts and how they manifest themselves into behaviors. Part of this is to be mindful of what I listen to

Drama and Silence.

2019-09-03T14:57:00.000-07:00

The last 4 months have been crazy. That’s an understatement. Well, actually, no it isn’t. That’s probably exactly the best way to sum it up. I have had a crazy few months.

When I set out to document my journey from fat guy, to svelte vixen, I had some rules I sort of outlined in my mind. One of which was that I would be 100% open to the world about everything. My struggles with health are monsters of my own design. This struggle has primarily been a mental issue. Of course, we all need some physical adjustments. However, most of the reasons I am fat, revolve around the fact that I make bad decisions. So documenting my struggles has been good for me. Every time I write a post, at least one person messages me to tell me how they relate to part of, or all of, what I said. Some people have advice, some people have similar experiences, and some people just contact me to say “thank you”.

One person in particular stands out. One woman reached out to me, and I found it to be a somewhat unlikely connection. Her name is Krysta, and I know her because her sister was once married to one of my best friends. I feel I need to set the scene a little, with some back-story on Krysta. Krysta is fucking stupidly smart. She always kind of intimidated me, so when her name popped up in my Instagram messenger, I was a bit nervous. I was a worried she was going to point out some holes or contradictions in one of my posts. She is very good with words too, so I would be outmatched if she wanted to call me to task on something. I am so glad she reached out to me though. We ended up discussing my blog for a while, and she had some great points for me, all in regards to my own possible effect on myself. The conversation was long and covered her view on this topic well, but it was one of her simplest comments that gave me pause; “I wonder what would happen, if you talked about yourself with kinder words”. This is so simple… but it has sat in my brain for weeks now. Am I the reason I struggle with self-esteem? Do I subconsciously sabotage myself by being overly self-deprecating? The answer may be yes. I am the first to celebrate other people’s accomplishments, and the first to make jokes at my own expense. I need to strike a better balance. Yes, I can be a total shitbag.. I can be lazy and do stupid stuff… but I can also point out when good things happen. I think there is something to this. I think this may be part of why I face such big setbacks in my progress, as well as why I tend to withdraw when truly impactful things happen to me.

This all leads up to my crazy few months. I was toying with the idea of glossing over this period. I was going to begin writing again as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t disappeared for 6 months. However, this spits in the face of why I started this in the first place. I feel that sorting out my thoughts and being transparent, makes me better. Humor, and relating to people, and sharing my life are the best way for me to regain perspective. I feel most of us over inflate the gravity of serious issues, and it’s healthy to take a step back and focus on the rewards of getting through the hard times.

There were two major issues that I faced these last few months. I tend to be a bit dramatic, so I will try to discuss these issues in a sensible way.

1) Back in May, I almost fucking died!!!! Fuck. That’s already a bit dramatic. Also, somewhat incorrect. Lets try that again. Back in May, my blood tried to kill me!!!

a. I had been getting nose bleeds for a few weeks, and had some headaches… neither of which happen to me. But it wasn’t until my assistant manager noticed my eyes were actively getting blood shot in front of him, that I decided to go to the Dr at lunch. Turns out my blood pressure was 230/190, which is well above what their charts called “Hypertensive Crisis”. Within minutes the nurse had my shirt off (BTW, porn has lied to us about what comes next after a nurse demands you take your shirt off) and they were hooking me up to electrodes to monitor my heart. I wont give you all the details, but it turns out I had a blood infection that was causing my kidneys to malfunction and cause my blood pressure to sky rocket. I had to take medications and refrain from exercising for 2 months. It was a bit scary to be honest. My doctor was very clear that I was in real danger of strokes or heart attacks. I was on the blood pressure meds for 4 months before they were confident enough to take me back off. After months of antibiotics and Lisinopril, I am officially healed. I have been cleared

2) I lost my job

a. I guess saying “lost” is a bit disingenuous. I mean… I know where it is. I didn’t misplace it. I know where the physical job is located. I just don’t occupy it anymore. I was asked politely to leave and never come back. This part is true. It was a polite process. The owner of the company actually hugged me on the way out. I was relieved on some level, because I wasn’t happy with this job. The atmosphere was awful, and I was already looking for employment elsewhere. So while the separation was mutual, it was still stressful to be sent out on a career ice float to die in the abys. No matter why a job separation occurs, or how long it lasts, there is some uneasiness that accompanies this kind of transition. I felt like I was in the middle of a shit storm. First, I had a health scare, and then I become unemployed. This was a low period for me. Although from point of termination to accepting an offer for 2.5 times the wage, was 23 days, which made lessened the stress.

This is why I have been absent for a while. I was a bit scared. I spent a few months being worried about my health due to the ups and downs that accompany trying to regulate my blood pressure, as well as fight an infection. My body felt insane. Internally schizophrenic. One second I felt fine, then all of a sudden, I would feel jittery and uneasy for a few hours, and then immediately start falling asleep and becoming foggy brained. Then as soon as I dodge that bullet and started to feel better, and feel the relief that I wasn’t going to die, I lost my job and I was unsure that surviving the health scare was the right move. However, this is exactly when I should be writing. I need to gravitate to the catharsis that comes with being open. Both of these incidents caused a great deal of stress to my life, and both ended up being ending perfectly fine. Life has a way of figuring itself out. I could have been dealing with the stress as well as keeping my mind in a better place, had I just been writing and making sure I spoke about myself with kinder words.

America and God have set my expectations

2019-04-06T18:45:00.000-07:00

Lifestyle change. Lifestyle. Change. I can’t really put my finger on it, but something has always felt odd to me about this phrase. I don’t care for it. It feels insincere. I have been dissecting the roots of all the words involved, as well as the inferences and implications of the phrase as a whole, and I realized why I am uncomfortable with this term… because this expression is the fat people equivalent to masking something with a stupid fucking made up term. It reminds me of ridiculous office speak, or terms like “sanitation engineer”.

Just by definition this term feels disingenuous, “Lifestyle change” infers that my previous course of actions were dictated by some set policy or routine. I understand that technically any manner of existence is a lifestyle, but the term has a societal based implication that some semblance of thought goes into ones actions when those actions are classified as a “lifestyle”. Whether inspired by religious, political, health, or financial terms, when a person refers to a “lifestyle”, there is an inference of structure. I have spent the first 41 years of my life operating 100% from the id. Impulse, react. I am a god damn cave man. Structure didn’t lead to me eating 5 microwave burritos for an after school snack in 7^th grade. This physique was not created by a well thought out plan, but instead by a lifetime of gross negligent and a complete disregard to common sense. I have body by chaos.

I am typing this entry with a sandy vagina mentality. Being a person is dumb. The human body is a fucking nightmare. I spend a lot of money every month just to maintain this shit physique.\

- Fish oil for my heart, $20.

- B vitamin to maintain enough energy just to get through my day, $10.

- Testosterone so my pecker and muscles work, $25.

- Estrogen blockers so the Testosterone replacement doesn’t give me delicious titties, $65.

- Metamucil so I can clear my system and not die of colon cancer, $15.

- Apple Cider Vinegar to make sure my digestive system works, $5.

That’s a grand total of $140 a month to aid my body in doing what I think should be basic functionalities that come with just being alive. Boners, energy, and pooping.. those things are promised to us in the Bible and the Deceleration of Independence. America and Jesus promised me these things, yet here I am paying $140 a month on supplements just to MAINTAIN this shit body. Not improve it. Not make it better. Just for maintenance purposes. Just to help my body perform basic functions.

Calling what I am doing a “lifestyle change” is definitely intellectually dishonest. A better name for this process is “pleasure center deprivation”. Everything that is good in life is being stolen from me, by me. This is some self-induced sadism. I am eliminating all of my favorite things in life in an attempt to make this life last longer, like some sort of deranged unhealthy behaviors snuff film. I am watching myself kill all the things that made me happiest. If eliminating these things doesn’t make my life last longer, it will absolutely make it feel like it is lasting longer.

- Diet Coke, gone

- Peanut butter cups, gone

- Pizza, seriously, drastically restricted

- I am sore every day from working out

- My back hurts all the time

- Booze? Nope, none for me

- I am hungry all the time as I retrain my bodies idea of “caloric need”

That list comprises almost everything good about being alive. If I find out that the next things I am losing are baseball, smelling flowers, and masturbating, I am going to jump off the Vista Bridge.

I need to get back in the positive zone. Going through a pleasure center deprivation process is hard on my demeanor. Yesterday in traffic, I was behind a car accident, and I actually said “Someone better be dead because this is going to make me late”… I said this out loud, to no one. I was alone in the car. To make this worse, I was on my way to the grocery store with no time line for when I needed to return home. I was requiring an exchange of life to make amends for me being mildly inconvenienced (in my air conditioned Q5 with leather seats and listening to podcasts). This is what caloric restriction and constantly being sore is doing to me. How is this a thing? How have I become this much of a cunt? I need more moderation.

Between my new job, which is requiring long hours as I get my feet under me a bit, and having to drastically change my workout schedule, as well as being extra strict with my calories, has me off balance. I need to add in some indulgences. So tonight I will drink some gin and debate cutting out my estrogen blockers for awhile… at least if I am going to be angry and sore, I can ease my soul by doing so while sporting the best cans in the county.

Assault? Incident? Or nothing at all? We will never know.

2019-03-30T22:59:00.002-07:00

I think I may have assaulted a woman at the gym, Sort of. “Assault” is a weighted word. It may not really be “assault”. There was an incident though, this much I am sure of… I think? Am I? Fuck, I don’t know the correct adjective to use here. Or even the correct verb. There are very few parts of speech I feel comfortable assigning to this thing that may or may not have happened. I have two nouns… Me, and the poor woman that may or may not even have known I was at the gym with her. Every other piece of the puzzle depends on which perspective you view the event from. Was there an event? Ugh

I don’t honestly even know if she is aware anything happened. I wasn’t about to ask her. What would I even say? “Hey, did I come off like a terrifying shit bag right there?” My perception is that she was not pleased with my antics, but its not like she screamed or blew a rape whistle. How do I really know? I am extremely cognizant of my actions. Probably to a fault. I don’t gawk at women at the gym. I am one of those guys who knows women are not at the gym for our amusement. They are there to work out. Of course every frat boy, sideways glancing, eye fucking, slack jawed dip shit thinks that he is the ONE GUY who doesn’t sexualize every person at the gym… but I am comfortable that people would agree with my interpretations of my demeanor.

Here is how the “incident” unfolded. Remember, this is a monologue.. Anecdotal.. I don’t actually have any intentions of course correcting… this incident is funny to me. I like the antics caused by my hijinks and socially awkward idiocy.

I walked into the gym with an especially high dose of whimsy. I could tell by the lack of vehicles in the parking lot, that I was going to have a lot of room to roam on the gym floor that day. This is a special kind of rare treat. Usually the place is packed. I was not about to waste this treat and go in to this particular workout saddled by a formalized plan, or any of your Judeo-Christian ethics. I was going to strut in like I owned the place. The staff at VillaSport was lucky I had a shirt on. I was feeling cocky. The only other person I could see was my buddy Chris, and he is always up for my antics, and also looking for any excuse to pop his top. I knew that I had the support of crowd on this day.

The gym I go to is more of a health club than a gym. The workout floor is actually located upstairs, and the spa and basketball courts are accessible downstairs. I was not there for a wax or to play horse by myself, I was there to pick up heavy shit and put it back down, so up to the gym I went. As I walked upstairs, I rounded the corner to see that the weight room was completely empty. Not a single soul in sight. I instantly was hit by a powerful inspiration.. I was going to have 80’s dance party workout. I found my 80’s pop mix on my phone, and hit “shuffle” and off I bounded into the day. I walked out past the weight machines and towards the free weights while fluctuating between the opening dance sequence from “Flash Dance” and Emilio Estevez’s fist pumping overly masculine version of a skip from “Breakfast Club”… all while “Take on me” reverberated through my head. The only problem with my gym is that it has abbreviated sections of walls to separate cardio equipment from the weight room floor. This lends to blind spots. Sure enough, when I was midway through my 4^th pas de bourree while gliding across the floor, a beautiful woman rounded the corner. I almost exploded my knees from putting the brakes on my dance moves so quickly. I had to get back into character ASAfuckingP. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and turned my whimsical dance routine into a “go fuck yourself” style strut. I am 5’10” in every direction, and with my hat pulled down and my brow furrowed, I can look pretty intimidating. If only people knew that behind my mean mug, “Gloria” was blasting through my headphones. I only mention her appearance because there is a direct relationship between the embarrassment from doing stupid shit, and the level of attractiveness of the sole audience member for the show.

I felt confident that I had recovered without being seen, and I was honestly relieved that the near miss had centered me. I was now focused and ready to work out… which lasted for about 3 songs. I was quickly becoming bored with my aggressive and effective workout, and had switched into full “bro dude” mode. I could slowly feel my mind wander. I was back to day dreaming and bobbing my head to forgettable 80’s pop classics. I was only going to do squats, curls, and bench press and then I was planning to follow that up with a smoothy from the café while I sat in the hot tub. It was not shaping up to be my most intense or productive day at the gym.

That’s when it happened… I was starting the second chorus of “Only You” by Yazoo when I realized I was screaming out the lyrics to every inch of the room. I knew this only because my voice cracked a little causing me to have that oh noooo moment where I realized “You are signing these lyrics out loud, and not in your head, dumb shit.” I was mid set on incline press, and instead of racking the weights like a right minded individual, I just surveyed the room as I kept repping out the weights all while still singing audibly. That’s when I saw that the beautiful woman was NOT looking at me at all, and appeared to be not doing so in that “Holy shit, don’t look at the crazy butthole who is singing”.

Did she see me? Did she not see me? Was it possible that she didn’t see me and I had dodged yet another bullet? There was only one way to find out… attempt to lock eyes with her and increase your volume. Serenade the fuck out of this poor woman. The thing is, I kind of know her. We had the same trainer 18 months ago and ran into each other a few times. I have a nearly eidetic memory for faces and names, and I love everyone. So I tend to believe everyone is my best friend. And usually everyone feels that way with me too. This may not have been one of those reciprocal “we are bff’s” moments. I cant count the times I have been at the store and started talking to someone only to realize they have no clue who I am. How do they not remember going to that party that my friend dragged me to in 2003? We talked for 3 ½ minutes!! How do they not remember!!!

I was hitting every note, I think… and as I hit the last chorus and was midway through, I realized this was one of those moments. She had no clue who I was or that we had ever met. No I know how the hobo feels when the strangers on the train frown at his antics. I was undeterred….

ALL I NEEDED WAS THE LOVE YOU GAVE!!! ALL I NEEDED FOR ANOTHER DAY!!!!

When she re-racked her weights and wandered off toward the stairs so she could leave, she was not noticing me more than women usually don’t notice me. Fuck that’s a sad sentence to write… ooff… but what I am saying is she felt very deliberate and very manic in her calmness. My buddy Chris had wandered over from the squat rack section of the gym, and was looking me as though he had just seen me stab someone in the brain. He was wide eyed and just shook his head back and forth slowly, with shameful disapproval.

I guess we will never know. Did I ruin the gym, and serenades, and Yazoo for this woman? Was she left with a “fuck I hate the dudes at the gym” feeling? Was she left feeling uncomfortable and unsure exactly why? Or is this a case of me creating both sides of an interaction.. did my mind play out both sides of the exchange that didn’t exist? Only one way to know… SCREAM OUT THE LYRICS FROM ANOTHER HAM HANDED 80’S BALLAD TO THIS POOR WOMAN AGAIN!!!! I hope she likes Kim Carnes, because she is going to get the best god damn unsolicited version of “Bette Davis Eyes” that anyone ever had sung straight into their unsuspecting heart.

We buy the clothes we barely fit in, so we can fit in, barely.

2019-01-11T23:28:00.001-08:00

I remember it like it was yesterday. That’s how deep the scars of degradation can run. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Who ever said that lived a pretty unscathed life. Time heals scratches. Wounds bleed out.

I remember it like it was yesterday, but it actually happened Wednesday. 1/9/19 is a day that will live in infamy. My own personal pearl harbor. 1/9/19 will forever be known as the day that Ed Kiester wore a crop top at the gym.

My list of goals on that chilly day did not include “soaking the underpants of every women in a square mile with my bare midriff”. In fact, Wednesday was supposed to be my day off from working out. When I went in to the gym, I came with nothing but a sense of whimsy as my guide. Hell, the only reason I had gone to the gym was to vent out some steam. Work, kids, friends, life, all of these things are dumb. Some days, the only way to decompress is to sweat out the angst. Wednesday was this day for me.

On days in which we feel beaten by life, sometimes we put on a false bravado. There is absolutely an inverse relationship between how secure I am feeling, and how cocksure I present myself. On Wednesday, I walked into the gym as if I owed the place. 2 Pac was entering my head through my ear buds, and blasting through my glances and into the souls of everyone around me, like I was the vessel delivering his divine message to the unwashed masses at VillaSport.

When I entered the locker room and saw my buddy Chris, inspiration darted through my body. Today would be a “bro dude” workout day. Bench press, curls, triceps… we would basically just haphazardly lift heavy shit and grunt.

Sure enough as soon as we entered the weight room floor, we both walked for the incline bench. Does this exercise aid in my attaining my goals? Who fucking cares. It combines my two favorite activities; 1) Sitting 2) lifting heavy things. It was during this first set that my shirt sprung to action. As I was grunting out reps, I could feel my shirt crawling up my stomach like it had come to life. Once you are lifting, there is little you can do to run interference as your shirt starts inching upward. As soon I had completed what I assumed was an adequate number of reps to impress the legions of backward hat wearing miscreants, I decided it was probably time to re wrack the weights and pull my shirt down. As I stood up and adjusted my clothing, it occurred to me that I might be fighting more than just my clothing that day. I glanced around the room, and there must have been 10 soccer moms staring at my midriff like I was a piece of meat. Not cool “ladies”. My eyes are up here.

Of course, I figured that I had sufficiently handled the crop top dilemma by the time my next set started, but I assumed incorrectly. Sure enough, as I started lifting, my shirt started its way back up. However, this time it was painfully clear that my shirt was playing a game of cat and mouse with me. This time it seemed as though she had crawled a little further up my torso. My shirt was gaining confidence and felt as comfortable increasing the distance it would creep up my body. Also, as I stood up to adjust my shirt, I couldn’t seem to get my shirt down as far as I would have liked. I was hoping that my crop top was making me look like one of the Alpha Betas from “Revenge of the Nerds”, but I have a feeling I looked like one of the dudes from the first half of the Olivia Newton John “Physical” video.

I instantly understood that I was doomed to spend my entire day in an unwinnable battle for my self-respect, against my shirt. For awhile I thought that I was going to be a worthy adversary against my clothing, however my shirt had a secret weapon. It appeared as though my sweat was working as a double agent. I kept thinking that as my sweat saturated my shirt, the added weight would help keep my shirt down. The opposite happened. As my shirt grew increasingly damp, it began to stick to me. Every inch of movement my body made, resulted in a disproportion amount of upward movement from my blouse. Up. Up. Up it went.

By the time I had moved on to the final set of incline press, my shirt had basically become a sports bra. I have often referred to myself as “buxom and flirty”, but this was going way too far. Every time I finished a workout, I pulled my shirt down, and every time I started lifted, my shirt worked its way back up. To make it even better, Chris is friends with every single person in the gym. People know him and ask him for tips all the time. He’s a really amiable guy, so he ends up helping a lot of people with their workouts, and in doing so, ends up with a lot of people who know him on a first name basis. Of course, and I shit you not, half way through one of my lifts as my shirt was doubling as a sports bra Chris started giving workout tips to the 25ish year old woman in front of us, and decided this was the perfect time to introduce me to her. I was too mortified to hear what he really said, but it felt something like this…

“Hey Syd, have you met my friend Ed? Or his bare navel? If you wait long enough, at his shirts current rate of reduction, I bet his nipples will be out too.”

You know who I blame for my shirt going rogue? Not myself… no no, of course not. I also don’t blame my shirt. I really don’t even blame the clothing company. I blame every self-loathing portly person. Why can’t people act in their own best interest? Here’s the problem, fat people won’t buy a brand of clothing made for overweight people. We all want to dress in the name brand clothes our physically fit counterparts are wearing. However, mainstream clothing companies expand their patterns equally throughout the whole pattern as they increase their sizes, but peoples bodies don’t work like that. We aren’t meat tubes. Men and women have somewhat universal “trouble” areas as our weight changes. We don’t gain weight evenly throughout our bodies. Name brands don’t really account for this. To be fair, I don’t think name brands want fat people wearing their clothes. I know Banana Republic saw some backlash, a few years ago, over their limited plus sizes.. and of course the CEO of Abercrombie said he they didn’t make plus sized clothes because they made clothes for “the cool kids”. Before you get too pissed, its not Abercrombie’s job to create clothes for you. Of course it was shitty of him to say that, but to be fair… fat people are usually fattists too. We judge each other and ourselves just as harshly as anyone else does. We buy the clothes we barely fit in, so we can fit in, barely.

What we need is a line of clothes aimed at actually meeting the body type needs of people who aren’t tiny or in perfect shape. I think there is a need, and a growing market for such a thing. A growing market for cool, fashionable, well made, and attractive clothing that isn’t cut to fit hanger type bodies. However, because overweight people are usually self-loathing, I have doubts that people would actually buy a line of clothing like this. We fear that people would see the label and then judge our weight. Do we really think that people who are going to judge us, don’t know we are overweight until they see our clothing label? This isn’t a rhetorical question. The answer is yes, we actually think our clothing is hiding how we look, and that if someone saw us for what we really are, they would reject us. Just like how the heavy dude who wears his shirt in the pool thinks no one knows he’s overweight just so long as he leaves his shirt vacuumed sealed to his over abundant torso. The idea that people would reject you for being overweight is shitty too. It makes bold implications against people we don’t know. It is mean to think that people we don’t know, will reject us for being overweight. It is also narcissistic to think that the whole world is analyzing us. No one cares that you are overweight, or is judging you for it, as much as you.

Someone is going to see that the overweight clothing demand is growing. They will create a line of workout gear without a logo on them. The first; high quality, cut to fit heavier people, cool yet non-descript, clothing line… and they will make a fortune. Of course, the clothing would have to look good, but not have a logo that could be associated with unfit people. Otherwise, the brand would slowly morph into a punchline, and overweight people would allow fear to stop them from acting in their own best interest.

I admit I would struggle to buy a brand that everyone knew was for heavier people, too. However, hopefully whoever makes this clothing line, will not have the sick sense of humor that kids jean providers had in the 1980’s. I cant be the only kid whose parents scarred him for life by calling out across the store, “They are out of the ‘husky’ sized jeans”. Husky sized? Seriously! Why not just name them “little fat bastard jeans”. If you are going to murder my self-esteem, at least make it a quick death.

I dont want to yuk your yum, but for me, 2018 didnt suck, I sucked in 2018.

2019-01-01T12:38:00.002-08:00

I love New Years. I love seeing peoples New Year’s resolutions. I love seeing all the "out with the old, and in with the new" posts on social media. I love seeing hope, and optimism and outright intellectual dishonesty that surround this arbitrary day on the calendar. I don’t want to yuck your yum, but why do we think that just because the calendar flipped, that anything is going to change this year.

New Year’s resolutions are pretty universally mocked as being delusional. Everyone knows the jokes about how the gym is packed between January 1, and February 1… and all the gym regulars love February 2^nd when the gym starts to empty out again. Just like Vegas wasn’t built on winners, and everyone who goes there dreaming of the big pay day is kidding themselves, I feel the New Year’s resolution makers are kidding themselves too. I use to be one of these delusional people too. I made the traditional carbon copy New Year’s resolutions too. I would complain about how the year before sucked, and then make some grandiose resolutions that I had no chance of attaining, and I am almost sure I made my resolutions with the intention of failing. The point is, what makes me think that at 41, this list of resolutions will be more successful than the last series of idiocy were.

My list use to look similar to everyone else’s

1) Lose 75.26 lbs by spring

2) Help end homelessness

3) Make 100k for savings

4) Buy my first Ferrari in time for summer

People, here is a piece of information we all need. Are you listening… 2018 didn’t suck, you sucked in 2018. Own it. I don’t want to be a product of the time, I want the time to be a product of me. Do not bring me your anecdotal examples of life shitting on you. Yes, someone out there probably had a helicopter fall on their mom, or their husband fucked his secretaries dad, and those things are not your fault and are a total drag. Not fun. However, for the most part, the course of your life is up to you.

I know there are no universal axioms, and everyone’s journey is specifically tailored to their own experiences. However, this is the entire point of being alive. Growth. Maybe some of us will have a harder hill to climb, and some of us have inherently better starting position. Hell, I am a white male... Life is thoroughly easier for me than for anyone in any other demographic. I understand upbringing, and how life events and circumstances shape us, and will effect where we are in life as it pertains to where we would like to be. Somewhere out there someone who has significantly less financial security than me, and maybe even is in worse physical shape than me, and had a worse socioeconomic starting point than me, has overcome much more than i have to just get where they are. The key is, where are you in terms of where you want to be, and what did you have to overcome to get there. Growth. Be better today than you were yesterday. The best part… we get to set the definitions. We all get to set our own definitions of success, and we all know if we are doing what it takes to get there.

All of this supports my views on New Years resolutions. Regardless of who you are, or where your life currently is in regards to your goals, maybe you should be reformatting your resolutions. Instead of end goals, resolve to set better life habits. For me, 2018 was rough, because I am a shit pig. Instead of creating magical finish lines for wants and desires, I am going to resolve to create behaviors that will get me too where I want to be. I am my only barrier.

Another aspect of the New Years resolutions that I find detrimental, is the lack of small measurables. Instant gratification. If all of your resolutions are grandiose, then as you fall short on them, it becomes easy to scrap the whole list. I am a firm believer that self esteem is created. True self worth comes from achievement. From figuring out whats important to us, and then working to achieve it. Being less concerned with people being proud of us, and being proud of ourselves instead.

This year I am going to reformat my resolutions to focus on behaviors that will help me achieve what I want, as well as small pieces of deliciousness that will help give me little moments of happy.

Here we go… a lot of thought went in to these

1) Count my calories with intellectual honesty

2) Dedicate one day a week to financial industry analysis to help see trends in lending so I can become a more successful sales rep

3) Food prep so I don’t end up hungry without healthy options

4) Get payback on “likes to be naked guy” and put MY butthole on something HE owns

5) Go for a one mile walk every morning at 9 am (that’s noon in my sales territories time zone and a perfect time to take a break). Make it routine

6) Invest 2% of my income in a non 401k investment portfolio

7) Keep a journal of how my body feels after working out. See what parts of my body may be being detrimentally impacted so I can avoid injury

8) Strive harder to remove sexist or other derogatory terms from my lexicon. Go from almost never to zero tolerance

9) Visit SF for a baseball weekend with Jared and JD. This is very good for my mind frame

10) While in SF, volunteer at the soup kitchen run by one of my former high school classmates (Paul Trudeau for those of you who remember him)

11) Learn to dance by taking a class this summer

12) Find a yoga studio and work on my core strength and joint health

These are the steps that will aid in my overall progression. This will help me be more successful at work, more financially secure, and help me lose weight while increasing flexibility (making my body feel better and be healthier).

Be honest. Evaluate yourself with the right kind of eyes. 2018 probably didn’t suck so much as you just behaved like a dumb shit last year. Set your resolutions accordingly.

In order... Princess, Brain, Basketcase, Athlete, Criminal... but this is a sliding scale

2018-12-29T17:02:00.004-08:00

NOTE: I want to thank everyone for the support and love this last 45 days between posts. I have had a lot of messages in my Instagram and Facebook DM’s and my email, asking if I am ok, and will be writing again… I was concentrating on work a bit more during a frantic period.. but I am going to make a better effort to write more often again. Its good for me to purge my mind.

Now back to regularly scheduled programming:

My kids and I have started a tradition. My 11 year old, Abe, asked me the other day what it meant to “pour one out for your homies”, and we just so happened to be driving to Red Robin for dinner. I told him that it is tradition to pour some of your drink out as a sort of offering for your fallen homies. When we arrived at dinner, he took 3 fries out and laid them on the table (he actually threw them on the ground under the table but that’s a dick move so I made him get them and lay them on the table). He said it was his version of “pouring one out for his homies”. Seeing as how Abe is the softest, pinkest, dude on the planet, I asked “you have a lot of friends who are victims of the streets?” He said no, but he wanted to pay homage to three people we recently lost the benefit of: Stan Lee, Stephen Hawking, and John Hughes. I told him this was a cool idea (Well, I actually said “Cough cough, NERD cough cough… but I eventually relented to this being a good idea) Honestly, it was a rad idea. What an awesome collection of people to feed your mind with. Humor, fantasy, and science at its best.

This interaction made me hungry for some Hughes action. We started with “Weird Science”.. yes, I let an 11 year old, and an 8 year old watch “Weird Science”. You may think this makes me a questionable parent, to which I would reply, yeah… I probably am, now go fuck yourself. We followed this up with a viewing of one of their favorites, “Breakfast Club”. What a great movie. Of course I was shocked they didn’t go with Ferris Buehler, but I was super happy they didnt.

I think everyone who has seen “Breakfast Club” has tried to decide which roles they, and their friends, embody. Are you a brain… an athlete… a basket case… a princess… or a criminal? We have all tried to assign these characters to ourselves, and our friends.

I bet you are asking, HOW THE FUCK DOES THE “BREAKFAST CLUB” RELATE TO YOUR STRUGGLES WITH BEING FAT?!?!

When Abe and I did the inevitable contemplation of who we are in relation to the characters, Abe of course compared his studious nature to being like Brian, the brain. I struggled more with this. I was having trouble, because I don’t know that I relate to any of them. Then I realized, I am “Larry Lester”

Here is the quote about Larry Lester for those of you who don’t remember who he is…

Andrew: I taped Larry Lester's buns together.

Brian Johnson: That was you?

Andrew: Yeah, you know him?

Brian Johnson: Yeah, I know him.

Andrew: Well, then you know how hairy he is. And when they pulled the tape off, most of his hair came off and some - some skin, too.

Claire Standish: Oh my God.

Andrew: And the bizarre thing is that I did it for my old man. I tortured this poor kid because I wanted him to think that I was cool. He's always going off about how when he was in school and all the wild things he used to do. And I got the feeling that he was disappointed that I never cut loose on anyone, right? So I'm sitting in the locker room and I'm taping up my knee, and Larry's undressing a couple lockers down from me. And he's kinda, he's kinda skinny. Weak. And I started thinkin' about my father, and his attitude about, about weakness. And the next thing I knew, I jumped on top of him and started whaling on him. And my friends, they just laughed and cheered me on. And afterwards, when I'm sitting in Vernon's office, all I could think about was Larry's father and Larry having to go home and explain what happened to him. And the humiliation - the fucking humiliation he must have felt. It must have been unreal. I mean, how... how do you apologize for something like that? There's no way. It's all because of me and my old man. God, I fucking hate him. He's like this mindless machine that I can't even relate to anymore.

[crying, imitating his father]

Andrew: 'Andrew! You've got to be number one! I won't tolerate any losers in this family! Your intensity is for shit! Win! Win! Win!' You son of a bitch. You know, sometimes I wish my knee would give. And I wouldn't be able to wrestle anymore. And he could forget all about me.

I have felt an internal inferiority my whole life. I think a lot of us do. We wear our weight issues as a sense of embarrassment that we aren’t living up to something. For me, I enter so many interactions and situations with a sense of shame. I feel that “fucking humiliation” of feeling inferior in the eyes of people who love me, as well as people who I have never even met. This bleeds into my psyche both consciously and undoubtedly subconsciously, and effects my sense of worth. It sounds absurd. I have created this inferiority complex based on a humiliation that lives in my head. So often I walk into a room and feel that open exposed feeling akin to broadcasting an embarrassing detail to a loved one. I feel like the whole world is “taping my buns” in the form of judging me for being fat. Actions that make us feel shame do not have to be physically degrading. Mental degradation is just as shameful and makes us feel just as weak. There is a feeling of inferiority and shame that comes from being the fat kid. I don’t fear having to tell my dad that my buns were taped together… I do fear the shame of being the fat guy at the gym, or the fat guy chatting at the bar, or the fat dad to my kids friends.

Every time a fat kid

- Speaks to a girl

- Deals with a handsome peer

- Orders food in a restaurant

- Shops for clothes

There is a feeling of shameful humiliation involved with what should be menial tasks. Most often, this is created in our own brains, and projected on to other people. Very few people have ever pointed at me and mocked me, but the feelings of shame and humiliation are the same regardless of the validity or the source. Perceived ridicule is just as hard as real ridicule. No one has to point and laugh, sometimes we point and laugh at ourselves.

This type of thinking can create a toxic internal cycle. We start to live according to our own low expectations. We don’t always even realize we are doing it. But I am a firm believer that we live according to the guidelines of our self esteem. Low expectations we create for ourselves, as well as low expectations that come with some societal views of weight issues, can create patterns of self defeating behavior. We need expectations and standards for ourselves, and if those standards are low… we will get stuck in habits that lead to negative outcomes.

“Breakfast Club” is timeless. It is a perfect combo of both the stereotypical clique societal structure of high school life, but also… there is another connection I think gets overlooked. This is a connection I need to strive to remember. This is something that can help me break free of my inferiority and keep me striving forward.

Like I said earlier, I think everyone who has seen “Breakfast Club” has tried to decide which roles they, and their friends, embody…. Which ROLE they embody…. Which ROLE.. Are you a brain… an athlete… a basket case… a princess… or a criminal? We have all tried to assign these characters to ourselves, and other people do this to us. However, “Breakfast Club” could also be seen as a predecessor to Disneys “Inside Out”. The interactions between the kids in the movie, all take place in our heads everyday. Do we follow our criminal side down hallway A, or our Jock side down the activities hall? We are all made up of all these characters. All of these personas compete for time in our minds. The world may see one side of us more than the other sides, but that doesn’t mean we have to believe other peoples views of us. The key to emotional stability is to have all of our personalities able to sit around the library, smoking pot together and having open dialogue. When I get too lost in one side of my identity, it stifles my growth. I need to remember I am a brain who can trust my thoughts and drive my life forward through intellectual pursuit... but I can still be an athlete, and I can get more out of my body as well. I can be whatever the fuck I want to be.. and I can be as many of these personas as I want.. even if you “see me how you want to see me”. I struggle to remember that I don’t need to “fill A role”… I am a brain, an athlete, a basket case, a princess, and a criminal, and mother fucking Larry Lester too.

Panty Dropping 101: New Edition/Johnny Gill/Keith Sweat

2018-10-26T19:21:00.001-07:00

I rarely have my own best interest in mind. If regaining my health was solely for me, I would end up having to be cut out of my own house. Pizza, five guys, beer, French toast, captain crunch, diet coke, waffles, burritos, ice cream, any form of fried potatoes, pork, peanut butter cups, my dad’s Coney dogs <- these are my 13 reasons why. Apparently, I love bad foods more than I like being alive.

This journey has been so hard for me because I so often get bogged down in how far the finish line feels. I have been more successful this time, because I am more concentrating on enjoying the journey than mourning that I am not at the destination.

Life is about the little things. Take this last weekend for example. Abe, my 11 year old son, had his first middle school dance. To make this event even more significant, he also has his first girlfriend. A few days before the dance, he informed me that a tall blonde-haired girl pulled him aside and announced that he was going to be her boyfriend. I could see how proud/nervous/excited he was and it melted me. On top of that, he asked me to chaperone the dance so I could meet her. These are the small moments that make me happy.

I have had the genuine fear of being the “fat dad” that my kids would be embarrassed to have around their friends. I know this is mostly born of my own insecurities, but we all know how ruthless kids can be. It would have haunted me forever to not be in a position to share these things with Abe.

The fun began with the buildup before the dance. Abe asked me all about my first girlfriend, and first kiss. I gave him the full story:

I told him about sitting at the Aloha Theater watching a double feature of “The Fisher King” and the Steven Seagal classic “Under Siege”. The girl I kissed went to a different junior high, and we only got to hang out when she visited her dad and step sisters who introduced us. I haven’t seen her since I was 13, but she reads this blog so I will change her name to mask her identity… we will call her Shmacy Shwhite… (you’re welcome Tracy). When we got to the movie, Matt Hickox and Kacey Kerger sat in the row in front of us. As I kissed Shmacy, I knew no one at school would believe me… it could not go unwitnessed. Every soft pink virgin ever has told tales of “the mystery girl from another school”... So I flailed and kicked at Matt’s chair until he turned around to see me kissing her. Matt gave me thumbs up, which I know about because I had my eyes open the entire time.

Abe cackled and laughed through my entire story. He asked me all about how I got the nerve to make the move, and how I knew she wanted me to kiss her. I was open about consent and how any hint of a no NEEDS to result in an instant ejection from the current activities. I told him “I knew she was ok with the courtship because 15 minutes before I kissed her, she placed my hand on her boob”. I also had spent the entire lapse of time between the hand placement, and the kiss, counting backwards from 3 and mumbling “fucking kiss her already” quietly under my breath. I couldn’t have made my intentions more obvious short of holding a neon sign saying “I AM ABOUT TO KISS YOU”. She had ample time to say “no thank you”… but my game had her body screaming, “yes, please” (gross).

The day of the dance was the best though. I created the quintessential “hook up” playlist.

- - Bobby Brown

- - Keith Sweat

- - New Edition

- - Tony Tone Toni

- - Ginuwine

- - Blackstreet (no diggity? No doubt)

- - Boyz II Men (have you ever noticed that the grunt at the beginning of “Motown Philly” sounds like a dude climaxing? Its fitting that the album starts this way, because the rest of the album is akin to an audible post coital cuddle)

- - Toni Braxton

Before we drove to the dance I set the mood by letting Abe listen to this. Well, “made” is more accurate. I could see the glee in him the entire evening. The best part of the night was watching him hold her hand. He tried to hide this from me by only holding her hand when on the opposite side of the courtyard from me. He failed to realize that no matter how dark it was, I could tell which couple was them because his girlfriend is easily 18 inches taller than him. The logistics of holding her hand created a scenario where his hand was higher than his shoulder, because he didn’t want to make her lean down.

This. This is the reason I am working so hard to improve my health. I have found that focusing on the “why” makes the “how” so much easier. Focusing on feeling good, and enjoying the little moments has made my workouts so much more tolerable. Plus, now I have been listening to this new playlist at the gym, and the charge of sexual energy is improving my workouts.

There is a hole in my scrotum

2018-10-06T20:02:00.000-07:00

V is not for “victory”. V is not for “valor”. V IS for “victim”… also maybe for “Voly Vucking Vhit, vy Valls Vurt”. That’s right, today I got my vasectomy. It is about time too. I never understood men who put this off. Why? Now there are absolutely ZERO consequences to unprotected sex with multiple partners. I was neutered today. Well, I became electively sterile today, but there isn’t a vas deference between the two. THAT’S FUCKING RIGHT, LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, that’s a testicle tubes play on words!!! Outstanding artistry. PS.. I am writing this while high on Oxy, so it may get away from me a time or two. But this is a monologue, I can say whatever I want. Don’t be selfish.

I want to share my experience with you so as to ease the stigmas, and fears that surround vasectomies. Men have so many weird hang ups about their dicks and balls. There is no need. Manhood has almost nothing to do with your penis (Yes, I understand that this comment is in the “guys with small dicks hall of fame”).

My process started out on a brisk Saturday morning. The fact that this was done on a Saturday drew the attention of my friends. They thought it was odd that a surgical procedure would be done on a Saturday.. and honestly, I don’t know if it is or not. This is my first, and hopefully only, vasectomy. I did think this was weird once I really thought about it though. Would my doctor be hung over from the night before? Would he be pissed that he drew the short straw and had to work on Saturday... I don't need a disgruntled dude stabbing at my dong? Would I be getting this done in the urgent care? Wtf. When I arrived, I actually asked my Doctor why we were doing this on a Saturday, and he told me that so many men get them that they have to schedule them on Saturdays as well. That means there are a lot of guns out there shooting blanks.

The procedure itself is really easy. The hardest part was standing in the middle of the room, wearing only my t shirt, and a smile, as I discussed music choices with the surgical tech. Our eyes locked, as we debated "Midnight Marauders" vs "Low End Theory", while I was unpleasantly pants-less. I feel like this is how 90% of high school girls would describe their first sexual experience.

I climbed onto the table awkwardly, because that is the only way to crawl onto a table while naked and chatting with a dude standing behind you. Tad is now one of a very short list of people who has seen me from this position.

The procedure itself is standard. The only pain you’re supposed to feel is the shot of numbing agent applied directly to your scrotum. However, because the shot didn’t fully take effect, the worst part for me was feeling the doctor cut through my vas deference. It was less than pleasant… I screamed fuck and jumped away. Sudden movements while a man grips the inside of your package is ill advised.. but once they applied more numbing agent, I was good as new.

My very favorite part of the procedure was when I saw that the doctor and his surgical tech were bobbing their heads to “Electric Relaxation” by Tribe Called Quest, while they were working attentively on my scrotum and the tech was gripping my shaft. I asked the Doctor “Do you have my vas deference outside my body right now”… he responded, “yes, I am cauterizing the ends now”… I found this outstanding. I actually chuckled aloud. How funny. I love that he was burning the tips of my severed semen tubes while bobbing along to Tribe. I never thought this would be a thing that happened.

Men. Get this taken care of when you are done having kids. Condoms are stupid, and birth control is not a burden women should carry alone. Chemically altering their bodies should not be the only long-term answer. A vasectomy is not a big deal. Here is a time line of unpleasant parts of the process

- Naked conversations with strange men

- Commercials on the “90’s hip hop” Pandora station they play for you

- Hearing how “its not a big deal if you get an erection” while the surgical tech smears ICE COLD disinfectant gel on your taint and shaft

- Having a needle jammed into your scrotum

Really, that’s it… that’s the hard part. I know some jack hole is going to chime in with a story of infection that they got. But leave your anecdotal one off, super rare, experience out of this. Just learn how to properly wash your privates, and shut the fuck up.

revelations and evaluations

2018-09-26T22:19:00.001-07:00

Along with the importance of losing weight and becoming PHYSICALLY healthier, this process has had other benefits. Primarily, I am starting to understand so much about my own psyche, and body. What moves me? What works for me? What makes me better? What makes me worse? I find journaling to be helpful (No shit, right. I regurgitate every stupid fucking thought I have for the whole world to read... however, I keep personal journals too). Considering what I DO post, you can probably imagine the stupid shit I don’t post. Well, now I am going to post some of the inner most thoughts that have surfaced through this process. By the way, I don’t know that self-actualization is a path that shouldn’t be explored unguided, but at this point, what do I have to lose?

- Not all diets work the same for all body types. There is no universal fix. I meet so many people who have anecdotes about how perfect a diet works, and then meet other people with the opposite experiences. One diet and exercise plan doesn’t seem to fit all body type).

- I need cardio. My body likes being fat, and lifting alone doesn’t fix this

- My body likes putting on muscle.

- I work out like an idiot and it is making my body hurt (I have concentrated on my upper anterior and neglected my posterior… its destroying my back support and weight distribution and muscular structure).

- I need to calorie count

- My penis becomes a charisma black hole in compression shorts. Loses all its expressive character.

- I cant look in mirrors when I work out, because I don’t always like myself

- Veggies make me fart, but I love them.

- My knees, back and shoulders are paying now, for having neglected stretching in my younger years

- Sugar and diet soda both make me bloated

- Enriched flour makes me fat, and fast

- Dudes who wear shirts in the pool look fatter than dudes who take their shirts off

- Food matters more for my weight management, than working out

- I need to be nicer to myself

- It’s important to have a written out workout plan, so you don’t cheat yourself

- It’s also a good idea to have a secondary plan for the gym, in case the equipment you wanted is occupied

- Get massages

- Not those kind of massages, pervert. Besides, massage therapists don’t fall for my tricks

- Lean meats make my body feel good.

- I cant walk nude to the showers without whistling

- My belly button can hold entire socks worth of lint. This cant be a thing. I cant live in a world where this is my reality

- People are luke warm about me, and its frustrating... and I let this affect me and my mood

- I shoot three pointers well

- The FDA will probably never warm to the idea of adding "pump cheese" or "pump meats" to their list of things with an RDA.

- My cardio vascular health is coming along too slowly for my liking.. I am not naturally good at endurance sports

- I shouldn’t watch my 600lb life. I only have one of two mind frames when I do: mocking, or self-loathing

- My yellow nike workout shorts are see through in the bright lights of the gym

- My gym buddies palms are orange because he applies self tanner

- I need to calorie count. No matter how healthy the food, I need to limit total intake to 2000 calories or less

- Cauliflower pizza crust is fucking gross, and people who like are stupid assholes.

- I need a butt. For aesthetics and for structural support.

- I am unsure about the effectiveness of protein powder. I fear its wasted calories.

- Alcohol makes me feel bad. Even small amounts. This is upsetting, and probably wont guide my behavior.

- I have lost enough weight to see that I have knees and ankles, and not meat tube limbs (I just hurt my own feelings)

- People with initials for names are usually dicks.

- Podcasts are terrible for keeping me focused on a workout (except Dr Death)… but Busta Rhymes adds 10% to my PR’s

- Flat soled slip on shoes relieve stress from my back when I workout. The forward slant of running shoes is no good for me

- My body feels better as I build my upper back, core and leg muscles. I have too much weight in front

- Full frontal nudity is always funny in a mens locker room. Dicks are absurd looking

-

A salty dog with a sandy ______

2018-09-16T19:04:00.002-07:00

I love the way groups of friends create their own lexicon. If you are friends with a particular group of people for a long enough time, you will most likely have inside jokes that just become part of your day-to-day terminology. For my friends, one of those terms was invented while on a weekend long trip to see a Red Sox vs Mariners series in Seattle circa 2004. We had arrived at the Renaissance hotel in Seattle on Thursday evening for what would prove to be 72 hours of nonstop drinking and exploring. When I say “nonstop”, I fucking mean it. I woke Friday morning at 8 am to one of my friends, still dripping wet from his shower, doing naked jumping jacks on my bed. This trip was akin to “liver crossfit”.

Usually we tend to be a loving group. We drink, and flirt with each other, and we will inevitably end at least one evening with a drunken declaration of our love for each other. This trip was a bit different. The previous weekend two of the people on the trip had been involved in an incident at a bar in LA. Friend 1 (We will call him “DJ”) felt that friend 2 (we will call him “Twah”) could have avoided the melee had he just kept his drunken mouth shut. Therefore, we spent the first 24 hours of the trip listening to these two idiots bicker. DJ was not himself. He could not be subdued.

Also, while on this trip, we kept running into this one group of women. We saw them at the hotel, at two of the bars we went to, as well as at the restaurant we went to for breakfast. They were easy to pick out, because they all three had matching red jackets with “Canada” on the front. It was a running joke that every bar we went to, we would be on the lookout for our Canuck stalkers.

By the time we were headed to Saturday evening’s game, we were a wreck. We had spent 48 hours trying to create a gin shortage in Seattle. We had to be on the buddy system. If we realized one of us had been gone long enough, we had to make sure a search party went out to track him down. Sure enough, with in the first two innings, Twah was nowhere to be found. I got up and started to roam the stadium, before I found him standing by concession stand working his way through a drink. As I wandered over to wrangle him in, Twah and I both saw our red jacketed friends from the north, and without saying a word we walked over to see them. Twah being the only single guy in the group, I knew he would need my help as his wingman. The only issue being, that as we walked up to the group of women, DJ happened to wander up as well. And he the look of bad intentions all over his face.

We began the conversation the way these conversations always begin. We did our best to present a series of worthless statements in as charming a way as possible, and they did their best to humor us and not roll their eyes at the drunken onslaught. This time was a bit different though. The women were chuckling, and seemed genuinely engaged. Twah was making real headway. The only problem was, I could see an inverse relationship between how happy these women were that Twah was being so charming, and how angry DJ was that Twah was having success. As the conversation went on and on, I could see DJ becoming saltier and saltier. His comments were matching his disgust. I knew we were heading for an ordeal. At some point Twah asked the women “whats up with the matching “Canada” jackets”. They told us that they are from Canada, and had been on a trip across the western part of the country, before coming to Seattle. Seeing as how it was summer, they hadn’t thought to bring jackets, but with Vancouver BC and Seattle both being next to bodies of water, they found that the evenings were chilly, and when they bought jackets they thought it was funny to buy matching touristy jackets. “Oh you are from Canada” DJ inquired, “Where about”. When they answered “Regina”... a quiet calm fell over the crowd. I looked at DJ thinking he would make some sort of lazy “bro dude” play on the fact that Regina-Vagina sound so much alike. While I had applied all of my will into silencing D in order to not block Twah’s efforts at fleeting affection that night, little did I know Twah would jump on the cock block grenade himself. I heard Twah mumble out “That’s funny, DJ’s had a sandy Regina all weekend”. The women were not impressed. Twah had sacrificed a potential hook up for the greater good of the group. This is heroism at its finest. Of course, as can be expected, the women soon found a reason to escape our witless tractor beam. I was sure Twah would have remorse at what he had cost himself, but that wasn’t the case. I have never seen anyone find so much success in their own failure.

This was 14 years ago, and we still refer to one of us being cranky as “____ has a sandy Regina”.

Fast forward to Wednesday. Wednesday, I had a sandy Regina. I couldn’t seem to break out of my funk. Work didn’t go my way, and when I looked in the mirror that morning I felt like the worlds fattest man, and one of my kids was texting me that he needed me to bring his lunch to school because he forgot it, and I was sore from Mondays workout, and… and… and… and.. Basically the whole day had turned me into a salty dog. My sandy Regina had turned me into an uncomfortable and agitated asshole.

I really didn’t even want to work out. I wanted to skip so badly. I started my workout by sitting in the parking lot for probably 15-20 minutes judging all the pretty people that were entering the gym. When I finally entered the front door, I was greeted by some dummy who said “happy humpday”. It took all the restraint in my body to stop from spitting in their face. There is nothing dumber or more insulting than canned small talk. If I ever say “high” or “how are you” to you, and you feel the urge to respond to my greeting with

- Working hard or hardly working

- TGIF

- Living the dream

- Happy hump day

Or anything resembling this canned idiocy, instead of doing this… just stand really close to me and scream “I have no interest in talking to you. Go FUCK yourself”. Canned responses are a waste of our time. It is the least sincere form of communication. You are not obligated to talk when you don’t want to talk. I wont be offended if you give me a nod of acknowledgement and go on your way. But if you DO drop one of these responses on me, it will absolutely aid in my anger.

I think I was also salty, because I smelt stupid. My workout was hard, and I was sweating profusely. The type of sweating that leaves a huge lake of saturation down the back of your t shirt. While I didn’t have BO, I definitely smelt like someone who didn’t know how to properly clean their own body. I didn’t smell good, I didn’t smell bad…I smelt, well, too stupid to properly clean myself is actually spot on.

All of this being said, this is all the more reason to be happy I worked out. Accomplishing anything is easy under ideal conditions. Its days like today that I am most proud that I got in to the gym. My entire goal is to rewire my brain to have my default setting to include physical activity. So on days that I get up off my ass to work out, even though every inch of my being was boycotting this call to action, are the most important days. These small successes will lead to me changing my lifestyle for good. I also found that getting out and sweating, really getting my blood flowing, is the number one thing for improving my mood. Its days like this, that I am glad I go into the gym with a plan. Had I been left to my own devices I would have left after 10-15 minutes. Overcoming my sandy Regina and forcing myself to workout, is going to be really good for me long term.

Feminization of the gym

2018-09-09T20:25:00.001-07:00

When I was a young man growing up, the gym had certain connotations for me. I pictured a dark, dungeon of a room, with legions of oiled up animals in tank tops regurgitating stupid clichés and peacocking around the gym floor compensating for their misplaced fear of their own latent homosexuality by turning every interaction into a reason to demean each other and declare their unnecessary dominance over one another with false bravado. God damn did I love it. For, I too was once a “bro dude” moron. I wore backward hats, and the idea of self-worth felt like a zero sum game to me. In order for me to have more self-worth, it had to come at someone else’s expense. I could not feel good or worthy of being loved, unless someone else felt bad about themselves... or at least, beneath me.

The only time I have ever felt attractive, or had any semblance of satisfaction with my physical appearance, was when I was 19-22 years old. I had spent my entire childhood as the soft pink kid. I felt invisible to girls, because I was. Then when I was 18 i took a solid year of hard work and dedication and I finally got in shape. Once this happened, I was an untenable piece of crap. It was so fun. Nothing is more fun than being a clueless young dude . The world was made for clueless young skinny dudes, unless you are anyone else besides “skinny young guy”, then they are pretty awful and make the world almost unlivable with their idiocy.

I spent that period of my life working out in a tiny, cement floored hole in the wall of a gym in my home town. The temperature was always an exaggerated version of the outside conditions. If it was chilly outside then the inside of the gym was a tundra, and on warm days you could barely stop from passing out from heat stroke. I think the entire clientele was made up of 15 guys who knew a combined total of 45 words, and we ended every sentence with an insecure attempt at herd mentality validation sought with the uttering of “bro” in an upward inflected request for agreement. To their credit, every member of the knuckle head gathering would belt out an “absolutely, dude” in supportive unison. Every single guy in that gym was there to throw weights around the room and endure joint injuries and wallow in self-satisfaction.

Anyone who knows me now, knows I no longer have any love for bro dude. As I have grown the fuck up, and evolved, I have found no need for toxic masculinity. I am a soft pink father of 3 with nothing to prove to anyone but myself. The only exception to this is when I am in the gym. The truth is, I do find that I have a misplaced competitive streak in the gym. I still have this me vs them mentality. It is so not who I am in any other part of my life. The worst part, for me, is that because I am no longer at the top of the physical pecking order I find that I have a negative self-image when I am working out. My natural state is to be cloyingly optimistic. I tend to the positive, silver lining, side of life. However, when I work out, I feel as though I am somehow less valued than my peers are, because I am not in as good of shape as them. The reality is, fitness and self-image are not zero sum games. My value is not gaged in relation to other peoples value. Not to mention, the gym is a showcase of the most shallow value structure. I am literally impeding my own progress because of a self-inflicted lack of value derived from the fact that I am no longer at the top of the physical food chain.

This is where the feminization of the gym has been an amazing thing for me. What I mean by “feminization of the gym” is that the growing numbers of women in the gym, and the growing numbers of women who lift weights, have started to change the mentality in the weight room. When I was younger, women tended to work out more on the outer rim of the gym. Cardio equipment, and workout classes, were traditional located on the outer rims of the gym, or on a separate floor, but the center stage of the gym was the weight room. Men tended to lift weights, and women did classes and cardio. Yes, I know there have always been exceptions, but as a general rule I feel the gym was inadvertently segregated by gender. This no longer feels like the case. More and more, women are venturing into the weight room floors of the gym.

Now, while it is ridiculous to paint any group/race/gender with one brush, I feel that I have noticed a trend from the women that have started to venture into the weight room… they have each others back. Its refreshing. I feel like these women seem to have grasped what my testosterone challenged brethren have missed… WE ARE ALL IN THIS TOGETHER. Fitness is not a zero sum game. I am not better, for my friends being worse. In fact, it is quite the opposite. Having an atmosphere of support and inclusion relieves the heavy cloud that tends to hover in our brains when we work out. The gym can have a “high school PE class” feel to it at times. The negativity surrounding the difficulty that comes with working out, can be the biggest hurdle in improving our health. SO much of this battle is mental. The biggest things between us, and a healthy body, are mentality and education. This drive to remove some of the meathead antics in the gym, are only good for everyone. There are a lot of things that are slowly changing as women become more and more confident roaming out into what was once a lions den atmosphere that comprises the weight room.

- Removing the negative overly testosterone fueled vibe of the gym

- Adding a more inclusive and supportive feel

- Removing the over sexualization of the gym (grow up guys, gawking at the women at the gym makes them uncomfortable… and as they get more and more comfortable being in the gym, they are making this more and more known… eyes on your own papers, idiots)

- Removing the body image hurdles that make us afraid to take risks by creating a culture of acceptance

Along these lines, one of the trainers at my gym (VillaSport in Beaverton, Or) has started a class for men. Seems exactly contrary to this entire post, but it actually falls in line with the message here. The idea behind the class is to retrain our brains. Get us away from the peacocking, and posturing, and create more of an all inclusive vibe in the gym. Teach us proper form, and workout routines. Get us away from just trying to lift every ounce of iron we can, with no real agenda outlined to improve our wellness. We are trying to remove the meathead mentality, and replace it with a support structure, and real world working knowledge of what’s best for our bodies as we age. Removing the stigma of using non-weight training methods, as well as some weight lifting, to strengthen our entire bodies in a way that will allow us to maximize the longevity of our muscles and joints. The class is intended for men, 30-50 who have a working knowledge of the gym, but need that support system and accountability that the female gym patrons have been much more progressive about.

It isn’t shocking to me that the gym is one of the last bastions of the might = right mentality. It is a refreshing change to see the gym being integrated and the vibe changing to become more accepting. It is long overdue and makes us all better, inside and out. That being said, it is important for you ladies in the gym to return the favor, and stop objectifying us men as well. The rules of public decorum clearly state “no booby honking”… this goes for my boobies too. (note from the author: I just hurt my own feelings with that last sentence).

Showdown at the Probably Not OK coral

2018-09-04T16:55:00.001-07:00

I have discussed “Likes to be naked guy” before. There is a generation a bit older than I am (I am 40), that grew up with more of a Caligula’s palace view of locker rooms. Men between the ages of 48-dead. These men are tough, and surly, and do not understand the younger generation. I feel like they all look like Marlboro men, or Kenny Rogers. A lot of them have grey beards, tucked in polos, and white off brand tennis shoes. Others have a dirty baseball cap, and gaudy t shirt, with unsettling tight jeans. Both versions are guys guys, and use accidentally offensive language, and most importantly… both versions are aggressively nude in the locker room.

“Likes to be naked guy” roams the locker room nude, greeting newcomer’s dong first with a smile. Powdering their undercarriage at the sink, and shaving, all while wearing nothing more than flip flops.

I am proud to call many of these men my friend. Most are respectful of personal space, and I am not uncomfortable around penises. I like a little ballyhoo. I also feel I am a bit of an old man myself. I tend to relate to these throwbacks of a bygone era. I like muscle car chase movies, and Waylon Jennings, and exaggerating tales of high school heroics, and I really love exposing myself in a semi appropriate setting. But today, things went too far.

When I entered the locker room, I noticed that a new “Likes to be naked guy” was in the same locker bay as the locker I had put my clothes in. This dude was aggressively naked, even for the normal naked guy standards. He was making quick, unpredictable movements, like an old grey haired bunny. He also wasn’t sitting on a towel, which I take exception to. Don’t go bhole to bench (this is sort of my motto). He also had all of his stuff spread out through out the locker bay, so I couldn’t get to my locker.

Being a nice guy, and having just had an intense workout, I decided just to give him time and go shower while he got dressed. I took my sweet ass time showering, and applying deodorant, and singing power ballads, but when I got back… he was in the exact same spot as where I left him. Clothes strewn about, and bhole to bench.

The novelty had worn off. I was no longer feeling like this old timey fuckers kindred spirit. Therefore, I furrowed my brow and tried to scoot past him. I did the sideways foot shuffle with my ass mere millimeters away from the lockers, while being careful not to give Nudity McRudenstein an inadvertent back rub. As I was starting to pass him, he looked over his shoulder and glared while he said “excuse you”. This... this… well… it didn’t sit right. I gave him more than enough time to get dressed while I did my own abbreviated gallivanting. I don’t take shitty exchanges like this well. I can not shake off rude comments and go about my way. I am wired to take instant offense, and set into antics that will undoubtedly make things worse. Today was no different.

When I reached my locker, I grabbed all of my stuff, and instead of racing to put on my clothes and leave, I dumped all of my stuff out of my backpack onto the bench next to my new friend. I grabbed my razor, and a towel, and went off to do some nude shaving. On my way out of the locker bay, I made sure to drop my shaving cream can, and bent over to pick it up in a not so concealed way. I know he looked. I know he was not pleased.

After shaving, I stood and picked food from my teeth for a while, played the drums on my tummy in the mirror, I started chatted with a friend for a while. A very respectful friend who keeps his eyes on his own paper. I was explaining to him, unnecessarily loudly, how I hate when the old nude dudes don’t know to keep their junk off of public things. That’s the first rule of life. “If you don’t own it, keep your penis off it”. I don’t care if he humps every inch of everything he owns. Keep your stuff off the community property.

After 10-15 minutes, I grew tired of my own naked antics, and it was a bit chilly, so I wandered back to the bay of lockers, and saw that my nude rival was still there. Only now he was wearing black socks, only black socks, and was standing facing me. We stood and locked eyes, and I could hear the theme from “The Good The Bad and The Ugly” in my head. That trademark whistle was blowing through my eyes. This was a showdown of good v evil. Hell, he was even wearing black socks in lieu of a black cowboy hat. We stood locking eyes for what felt like an eternity. All the other patrons of the locker room ran for cover. The first one to move aside lost. It is a dance as old as time itself. After what felt like an eternity, I started to slowly walk toward my locker. Eyes still fixed deep into his eyes, guns drawn. Then, right as I approached the bay, he turned to the side to let me pass.

This was more than just winning a battle; it was like winning the war. I felt as though I not only bested a member of the previous generation, but it felt like the passing of the torch. It was a non verbal acknowledgment that my generation was taking over. We were setting the standards. This was a big win for me. I cant think of a better way to end a great workout, than winning this gun fight.

Skinny people have bad days too? How?

2018-08-28T18:32:00.004-07:00

I had a realization yesterday… fit people have bad days too. What in the actual fuck? How?

Pretty people have one out that I don’t think they use enough. One escape that can instantly put a positive spin on anything. You. Are. Fucking. Fit. How the hell do you not notice this? No matter what life throws at you, you look good, and that’s all that matters. The whole world is at your fingertips.

I think this is closer to how I subconsciously have felt than I always like to admit. I blame all of life’s failures on being fat. However, I think that has been a crutch instead of a catalyst for change. Expectations are a motherfucker. The status quo is easy, even if it is hard. Change and the unknown are always harder. Its easy to pin my shortcomings on other peoples judgement of my weight, than it is to accept that I actually have shortcomings.

Being passed up for a job, or sitting alone on a Saturday night, or losing the big deal at work; I have spent my entire life pawning all of these life events off on my physique. Of course, the handsome guy got the job, or the date, or won the deal. They are handsome guys. They whole world was made for handsome dudes who lack self-awareness. The dumpy white dude cursed with self-reflection is built to self loathe. Life is easier without having anyone expect anything from you, even yourself.

Truth is I am a monster of my own design. Feeling feelings sucks. Especially the negative ones. I have never felt I maxed out my own potential. I have avoided chasing the highs, in fear of the lows. I have used the built in lack of expectations, to hide from trying. Here is a great example of this.

My brother Jimmy has cerebral palsy. He is quadriplegic and confined to a wheelchair. He is also extremely magnetic and wired with an overabundance of “fuck you, I can do it”. He started his academic career at a school meant to help physically disabled students learn to harness their physical beings as well as learning their ABC’s, but finished his academic career by graduating from Oregon State University. He needs an aid to help him with every aspect of life; eating, showering, getting dressed, taking notes in class, and getting to bed… hell, he needs help clearing the sleep from his eyes, and scratching his ear. The man types using a propped up keyboard that he pecks with his nose. He can take nothing for granted and his entire existence is shadowed with the realization that he has no physical control of his world. With all of these perceived hurdles, he still achieved. He was student body vice president of his high school, attended every football and wrestling practice in spite of not being able to participate, and he was friends with everyone he ever met.

When I walked into my first day of high school, Jimmy had already applied weight to our name. I was sitting in gym class when Coach Dave Foust began taking roll. He made his way down the line up of awkward and terrified newcomers, bellowing out name after name, each one being met by a cracking/nervous/faintly voiced “here”. As soon as Coach Foust called out “Brett Johnson”, I knew I was next… but instead of calling out my name, he just stopped and looked at his sheet. He slowly looked up at me and inquisitively said “Ed…. Kiester”. When I responded that I was indeed in attendance, he smiled this sideways smiled and asked, “Kiester, as in Jimmy Kiester”. “Yeah, he’s my brother” I answered. He stood there in his 1980’s issued skin tight polyester PE teacher shorts, and unnecessarily sexual identity testingly tight and perfectly tucked in Spartan blue polo, and he giggled out two words which I will never forget… “You’re fucked”. I raised my eyebrows and my heart fell out through my butt. He continued, “Your brother is a legend here. He is an inspiring guy. He overcame so much and left his mark here. No matter what you do, you’ll never accomplish 1/10 of what he did”. He was right, and I knew it. This should have been a call to action. This should have raised my inner “fuck you” and I should have… well... I should have fought. However, I didn’t. I agreed. I validated his statement by spending my high school days being the jolly likeable person. The guy who befriended everyone, and challenged no one. I came, I saw, I relented. I didn’t fight to leave my mark on my school, pr even on myself.

I have treated my weight issues the same way. I use them as an escape from accountability or expectation. I use my weight issues to change the conversation. So many innocuous and mildly uncomfortable life issues can be ignored when we are focused on our weight. We all feel like Jimmy at times. We all feel out of control of our physical presence. We feel like we are fighting an unwinnable battle. Its easier to chalk all inconveniences up to the fact that we are the jolly fat people. This is obvious skirting of personal responsibility. Instead, we should be screaming “fuck you” to our hurdles. Fighting for ourselves. Fighting for our health. This is life or death.

Besides, I am tired of feeling marginalized by myself. This is a completely self-fulfilling prophecy. We are monsters of our own design. When we have bad days, and we self loathe and comfort eat and downplay the accomplishments of others, we only hurt ourselves. Our rush to comfort is what is holding us back. We need to take that “you’re fucked” that we feel, and turn it into a call to action. Instead of “you’re right”, we should meet that with a “fuck you”. I feel like any scary emotions that come in are pushed aside and drowned out with easy emotions. White noise. I need to adopt more of what Jimmy has. Take my hurdles as a challenge, and feel proud of a battle won. Instead, I have spent my life using my weight as a deflection from hardship.

- Being passed over for a job isn’t a reflection of me… they gave it to the pretty guy

- Sitting home on Saturday nights in high school wasn’t a result of my cowardice… she went out with the pretty guy

The fear of judgement or personal failure was replaced by this thing that I could pin all my failures on. Instead, I need to use these hurdles as learning experiences. Own my shortcomings as my own. I should seek high expectations. Someday I want a man in tiny polyester shorts and an unnecessarily tight polo shirt to say “You are following Ed Kiester? You’re fucked. No matter what you do, it wont measure up”.

My inner DJ Tanner

2018-07-25T12:21:00.001-07:00

We all need a little guidance in our lives. We need that thing, that thing that resonates deep with in us. For some people it’s the Torah or the Talmud, for others it’s the Quran, and still others use the bible to teach them life lessons and give them guidance. People find so much reliability in these teachings, and can see a reflection of themselves. I too have a guiding force. A body, or bodies of work that are so relatable that my soul finds comfort almost every word projected out to me. Everything I know and believe can be traced to 1 of 3 shows. 3 shows that are leading me to salvation and peace.

- - Full House (only “Full House”, get the fuck out of here with this “Fuller House” BS)

- - Saved By the Bell

- - Facts of Life (Obviously)

For instance, I had a mild diet pill addiction back in 1999-2000. This was during my 3 year period where I was actually in shape. Great shape. I lost 80lbs over a 5 month span, with an ultimate goal of losing 100lbs. I hit a plateau and found I was really struggling to lose the last 20lbs. This is when I discover Ephedrine. Holy shit Ephedrine. It was a magic pill. I can still feel the blood coursing through my veins at the mere mention of the word. When I was taking Ephedrine I could run 3 miles to the gym, lift heavy for an hour or so, and run home. I was a god damn super hero. Sure, some people died taking it, and I got so wired I would have to stand through some of my college courses because I couldn’t physically make myself sit down… but that shit is bound to happen. My friends had many discussions with me about how they worried about my health while I was taking Ephedrine. What a bunch of daffodils. My heart might of lost rhythm a few times, but it always found its correct tempo eventually and with almost no passing out. No matter how many times they talked to me, their words fell on deaf ears. That is, until they reminded me of the plight of Jessie Spano. I can still see her spinning wildly and out of control in her bedroom, crying out the lyrics to “I’m so excited”, while Zach tried to hold her and console her. Fuck, if I had a dime for every time my resemblance to Jessie Spano saved my life, I would be a rich man. Just thinking about this has me so thankful that even though Jessie ruined “Hot Sundae’s” chance at a record deal, she may have saved my life.

I base my life on the character arcs of these three shows, and thanks to examples like the one above, I have yet to have a problem that this method of living couldn’t solve. I am a perfect mix of Jessie Spano/AC Slater/Natalie Green/Blair Warner/DJ Tanner with just a sprinkle of Uncle Joey.

I have a very important event coming up in 2 weeks. My oldest friend’s, oldest son, is getting married. This family is very important to me. Jared Taylor and I were inseparable in jr high and high school. His first job use to call my parents’ house when they wanted Jared to come in to work extra shifts. Jared’s brother JD Taylor is the dirtiest piece of shit, but I love him like a brother too. In fact, I love this whole family. I love them so much that I gave my youngest son “Taylor” as a middle name. 10 years ago, when Jared moved to Idaho Falls, it was one of the hardest days of my life. I mourned his move the way I would mourn a death. Now that his son Dom is getting married, I am as excited for the event as if my own son was getting married. In February, Dom’s fiancé called me and asked if I would be willing to officiate the wedding, and it was one of the highlights of my life. I could not be more honored. This will be my 6^th wedding I have officiated, and it feels as though I am officiating this wedding for a member of my own family.

As I prepare for this wedding, there is so much to do.

- - I am writing personalized vows, as I always do.

- - I am setting up my travel to and from Idaho, and arranging my schedule so that I can take time off work

- - most importantly, I am starting the DJ Tanner diet.

Up to this point of my weight loss journey, I have experimented with my diet strategies. I started on keto, but found that my body was not handling it well. I was becoming very acidic and my guts hurt all day. Now I am eating lean meats, plenty of vegetation, a limited amount of grain, almost no sugar, and I count every calorie I eat. I am finding some success with this. Success that I am hoping will lead to this being my forever diet. No gimmicks, no quick fixes… just clean healthy living that is leading me to a healthy body and mind. That being said, as I prep for this wedding, I need to make a drastic leap in my weight loss. No one at the wedding will care about my weight, and I feel no pressure to be any more fit that I am. However, nothing feels better than making your best friends feel like shit. I want to make a noticeable stride in my efforts to lose weight, so I can attempt to steal the spotlight from the bride and groom, as well as make Jared and JD feel a tad shitty. I would love to see them feel really shitty, but they are soulless fucks and don’t really feel super high or low, so I will take seeing them feel “a tad shitty”. We have been friends for so long, that our bond is now made of a mutual and healthy distain for each other, and a direct mourning of each other’s successes. Oh god would I love to show up 10-12 lbs lighter. Those halfwits would be noticeably aggravated with this, and my soul would find peace in their distain.

This gives me a target to lose 10-12lbs in the next 2+ weeks, and I am open to anything that can help me get there. As we know, drastic times call for drastic measures, so I knew I was looking at a long study session in order to find my answers. Of course, by “long study session”, I meant I had hours and hours of “Saved by the Bell”, “Facts of Life”, and “Full House” reruns ahead of me. I started with “Facts of Life” for the obvious Natalie Green factor. I couldn’t imagine there wouldn’t be an episode based around Fatalie Green dropping weight to fit in. I also had the Blair Warner wild card… she was hot, but she was so vapid and egotistical, I could feel there may be a “very special episode” about Blair being anorexic, that I could glean some tips from. However, half way through season 3, during a classic Tootie fiasco, something hit me… I had an “ah ha” moment. DJ TANNER FACED THIS VERY PROBLEM…. Maybe the help I need is contained in her exploits. I instantly aborted from my “Facts of Life” haze, and began my search of “Full House episodes” with a newfound fire in my heart.

The answer to my prayers was found in Season 4, episode 8. The aptly named, “Shape up”. Even the title of the episode screams, “hope”. During the episode, DJ’s rag a muffin of a best friend, “Kimmie Gibbler”, is planning her birthday party, and decides on a pool party. A pool party!!!??? Leave it to punk ass Kimmie Gibbler to look out only for herself. Kimmie knows that DJ Tanner is not bathing suit ready. What is DJ supposed to do? I will tell you what she is supposed to do. DJ, our hero, is supposed to binge diet and work her ass off at the gym, that’s what. This was my ah ha moment. Why didn’t I think of this before? In times of trouble, I need to start with “WWDJTD” (What would DJ Tanner Do). I will tell you what she would do, she would work herself out to the point of exhaustion, pass out, and fall off her exercise bike, like a fucking champion! She sustained herself on a diet of mostly foliage and water, and exercised 3 times a day. Jesus, I wish I had her will power. I am no DJ Tanner, but I am trying to be.

So this gives me two weeks and 4 days before I see my oldest and closest friends. People I love as if they were my own blood. 2 weeks and 4 days to drop as much weight as I can in order to rub shit in their dumb fucking faces. 18 days of the DJ Tanner diet, and I will be ready to strut into that place like a jerry curl free AC Slater, instead of a dumpy Natalie Green. My ultimate goal of course is to get my body, mind and soul in line to mix some “Beverly Hills 90210” into my life coaching. However, in my current condition I am way to Andrea Zuckerman to be using “Beverly Hills 90210” as a life track. I will incorporate this show when I have a bit more Steve Sanders in me. My ego cant take being Andrea Zuckerman, that fucking geek.. but until the day when I can find my inner Steve Sanders, Uncle Jessie take the wheel.

C-inco Burrito

2018-07-07T11:57:00.001-07:00

I need more self-reflection in my life. I am a silly man. I tend to be too aloof and lack focus. I work so hard to eliminate my issues surrounding food, that sometimes I lose my inner fire. Growth occurs where need exists. I can sometimes become overly self-satisfied, which is odd for a man whose baseline setting is to be self-loathing. What an amazing juxtaposition. Do I hate myself or look down on other people today? Or both? I feel that I am using my discovery to eliminate neurosis. Maybe this is a flawed strategy.

Have you ever been listening to music, or seen something on tv that sparks a memory? Emotion begins to flood in. A deep feeling that makes you uncomfortable disturbs your calm. Do you allow it in? Do you dwell in the sadness? Do you let the emotion live and breathe? Or, do you search for something to choke that emotion away? Change the channel, hit “thumbs down” on your Pandora? Or do you sit and soak in the moment? Let the sadness overcome you, and sit and live in that place for a while? I have been struggling to find why I lack self-control. I have been working to isolate the emotions and self-destructive thoughts and eliminate them from my mind. I am sure that my health issues are mental. When I am in the gym, there is very little I cant do. My issues are not physical. My issues are related to something inside me that I am struggling to pin point. Something has to be at the root of the yo-yo nature of this struggle. This goes for most people. This is a mental journey. However, I had an epiphany. Instead of isolating and pinpointing the patterns and perceptions and doubts that have led to me having an unhealthy relationship with food, with the goal of “eliminating” the neurosis. I should be working to recognize my issues, so I can add them to my bag of tools.

When I was a teenager I played basketball with my friends every Wednesday night at the local Mormon church. Have you ever played basketball with a Mormon? Those fuckers can ball. I don’t know this for a fact, but I have long suspected that the reason they have sacred sections of their temples, is that they don’t want the general public knowing that they hold secret basketball shooting clinics for their youth. Like a fucked up basketball sweat shop operation. It’s a religion made up of 2,000,000 pasty dudes who can shoot the 3 ball like assassins. During our games, we always had too many people show up for everyone to play. We would shoot for teams, first 6 guys to make a free throw were in the game. We played to 11 by 1's and the winner stayed on the court to play the next game. The losing team, and everyone who sat out, would shoot free throws to see who the next group of challengers would be. The one caveat was, if any team won 3 games in a row, we would all re-shoot. The idea was to keep one team from dominating the night. If a team was too good, we had to break them up. This rule always bothered me. It made me feel small. You think you’re better than me? Fuck you! We aren’t re-shooting. Stay in. Defend your court. If we want you off, we need to beat you (which, by the way, I am the world’s most average basketball player, and I in no way was capable of changing the course of events those nights). So why? Why did I give a damn? Its pick up basketball, so why do I care if we re-shoot for teams? I care because this is how I am wired. I am wired to hate being marginalized. I also feel that real progress occurs when you are motivated to work harder. Growth occurs where need exists.

I am starting to realize that as I isolate my neurosis, I don’t think I am supposed to learn to mute their voice. I think I should be learning to change their message.

I came home from school one fall day in 7^th grade, with the knowledge that I was walking into a buzz saw. Progress reports had been mailed home, and unless my prayers that my mom get into a fender bender came true, I knew it was not going to be a good afternoon. Straight C’s. My apathy for school was about to become extremely public. I came home from school and checked the mailbox. I needed to know if I still had time, or if the jig was already up. The mailbox was empty. The wheels of doom had already been set in motion. I sauntered into the house with the broken spirit of a new inmate. My footsteps were unsure... my head was vacant. I dreaded what waited for me inside. As I entered through the front door, it was obvious that the house was empty. But how? Was this a false sense of security? If no one was home, who got the mail? I know the lord works in mysterious ways, had he answered my prayers of an accident by making the mailman die in a car accident instead of a minor fender bender I asked for to slow my moms return home? Could I be so lucky?

I sat at the table and dreaded what was coming for me. Where was the progress report? Where was the mail? Had the events already been set in motion? I needed to decompress, and that meant food. We always had snacks around… but this kind of sedation was going to require more than a little Debbie snack cake or some fucking Doritos. This was going to call for the only medicine strong enough to ease my soul, microwaved burritos, and lots of them. I spent 30 minutes working through my beef and bean prescription when my brother Jef came out of his room. He walked out with the smirk that only a nosey son of a bitch could have. That piece of shit was clearly our villain… our mail thief. He walked right past me to the refrigerator without saying a word. He did not have to speak. His self-satisfied grin said it all. Before I could set fire to him with the profanity laced tirade that was building in my mind, he started to uncoil from where he was crouched infront of the refrigerator and I could see his head appearing over the top of the door like a mean spirited prairie dog. His head slowly turned to me, and it spoke. “Ed, did you happen to have some burritos?”… Fuck… I knew where this was going. In my panic, I had worked my way through more than one beefy beany Valium. More than 2? Maybe. I knew I had gone too far. Jef knew I had gone too far. Although I knew it didn’t bear mentioning, I was 100% sure it would be mentioned.

“Yeah, I had a couple” I replied. I could tell by his look that he knew exactly how many I had eaten. “Ed, there were 5 burritos in here when I got home. Now there are zero. Did you eat… 5 fucking burritos”. This is what we call a rhetorical question. We both knew I had. Being the consummate little brother, his line of questioning was met with a sea of “mother fuckers” and “sons of bitches” as well as unyielding denial. Jef's slight unhappiness at finding we were out of burritos, was quickly being replaced by a look of pure glee. I knew something awful was coming. This is when that piece of shit dubbed me “Cinco Burrito”. That… that…well… it didn’t feel good. It was not crafted to make me feel better. I wish that this was the end of the story, but that would be too easy. This is actually when the story became a forever memory. Jef lit up as he exclaimed, “By the way, I took the liberty of opening your report card. All C’s. Well done… Cinco Burrito got straight C’s. CCCC-inco Burrito, got straight C’s”. You would be shocked at just how much mileage Jef got out of this joke.

This was 27 years ago. 27 years ago, and I remember it like it was yesterday. Having an eidetic memory has a down side to it. I remember the bad as much as the good. However, recalling this event doesn’t need to be a bad thing. We are here to grow. To learn. To evolve. You cant know where you are going without knowing where you are now. I need to learn to use these events as fuel for my fire. To propel me forward. Instead of defeating my neurosis, I need to learn to harness them and use them to my benefit. I need to mix my ability to isolate my issues with my “you think you're better than me” attitude. I don’t need to break down my instincts and remove them from the game, I need to compete with them to make me better. I need the message I get from my neurosis to morph from “you aren’t good enough” to “this is how you get better”. I need to be grateful that I understand how these events shaped me, and altered my course. So many people never learn what drives them. So many people never learn "why". I need to be grateful that I am discovering these things and understand how valuable this is. I also need to be grateful that "Cinco Burrito" never turned into "C-cup Burrito" during my soft pink doughboy later teenage years. Bullet, Dodged.

Grunty, thrusty, goodness

2018-06-29T19:37:00.001-07:00

I am fatter than gods worst case scenario of how fat, fat people would get. That’s a sad state of affairs. I say this because my weight is breaking my bodies structural integrity. I have been struggling with some lower back issues for most of the past 5 years. I have the wonderful genetic gift of carrying all of my weight between my chin and pelvis. It’s like my body is building a giant front porch but the rest of my body is about as sturdy as a mobile home. Considering I have been over weight for all but 2 years of my life, that means I have spent 38 years smuggling a bowling ball around under my shirt. At some points in my life, I have been smuggling bowling balls. Plural. As I get older, my body is less able to carry this excess weight.

The first issues came from the fact that carrying extra weight has compressed areas of my spine. Due to this compression I have had some bulging disc problems, as well as arthritis. Arthritis? Isn’t that for old people? Apparently, if you apply years of pressure to carbon, you get a diamond. If you add years of pressure to your spine, you get a shitty spine that is 30 years older than it should be. There are days when my lower back is so swollen and sore, that you can actually feel a giant bump at the base of my spine. Wait, I can feel the swollen bulge… ME… I can. Please do not just walk up and rub the top of my butt. Fuck it, if you want to, you can too. This was almost selfish of me. You all get booty rubbing carte blanche.

Another issue with spending years overweight, is that carrying extra weight in your gut causes your spine some stress during what should be innocuous movements. Its basic anatomy. Your vertebra are designed to cover a certain distance when you bend your back. Add extra weight to your torso, extra mass, and those vertebrae have to stretch and space out further to allow you to bend over. This can lead to degenerative disc disorder, and is taxing on your musculoskeletal structure.

I have also noticed that in order to carry the extra weight, I have compensated for the added strain by adjusting my posture. I stand in a way that helps relieve the pressure on my knees, hips, and back… but this has caused my muscles to develop different than they were intended. My posture is horrific due to the strain of carrying excess weight. When I was younger, my body could adapt to my new stance. However, years of bad posture and strain from supporting excess weight has caused so much pressure on my back that the muscles have had to “relearn” how to support my body. Our bodies do what they have to in order to adjust to injuries and ailments. Being overweight is no different. Our bodies adapt to changes, good or bad. My body has changed how it supports itself due to the excess weight I have, as well as the way I carry it. Also, grab a weight and hold it on front of you. Now start extending your arms. As you hold the weight further and further from your body, it puts more and more of a strain on your structural support. This is no different with your body weight. The more weight we carry, the more of a strain we put on our body just to hold us up.

There is good news!!! We can lose the weight that is causing us so much pain. Sure enough, as I lose weight, my back is hurting MORE and in new and fun ways. Wait. WTF!!! Thanks for nothing, body. It turns out that as my center of gravity, and weight distribution change, my body needs to readjust to how I am carrying my body weight. You know what is super motivating? Losing weight and building muscle only to find I am now having new and worse issues as I try to improve my health. My back use to have a dull ache all the time. I woke up stiff, but could do some stretching and my body would slowly loosen up and hurt less. I had adapted to the extra weight, so even though it was hard on my body, I was used to it. Now, as my body’s posture starts to change, I am starting to have spasms that cause me to stop in my tracks. I also find that I have 1-3 hours of intense pain in my back after workouts. The pain in my lower back can be so intense that it radiates down to my knees. Granted, this is going to be helpful long term.. I know this. Part of getting to the place where my body doesn’t hurt, is reshaping and repairing my body. My body is relearning how to support itself. This is a rough realization. My body weight was so out of control, that it changed my structural make up. My muscles have to adapt to me being at a healthy weight. Ugh.. that’s rough.

There are things I can do to aid this process. I have a whole routine for repairing my back. I actually sought professional opinions on this process too. I assumed that simply stretching, and doing core workouts would strengthen my back. Dead lifts, crunches, leg lifts, and planks. However, I am learning the body doesn’t really work that way. Its not this simple. Our entire muscular system works together to support us. I had a chiropractor, and a physical therapist both tell me, that my lower body is under developed and is causing most of my pain. My hamstrings, calves, and ass have all been neglected, which means they are insufficiently aiding in the support of my body. So along with my core work, I need to be doing squats, roman dead lifts, and hamstring curls… as well as lunges which I fucking hate.

Today… today I had a minor social hiccup in my stretching routine. I spent an entire week sitting through corporate meetings in Florida. This means I also sat on airplanes for 6 hour flights to and from Orlando. By the time I got home, I could barely walk. I needed so much extra work. A big part of my pain relief process involves a thorough and extensive stretching session. I spend a significant amount of time everyday using the foam rollers and therapy balls which are meant to really work out knots and release fluids from the muscles. It’s akin to breaking down tissues, much like a massage. I have been doing these stretches and rolling out the knots at the gym in the designated stretching area, which my gym has a great stretching and muscle relief area. Anyone who has rolled out painful muscular issues knows that it hurts. You really have to concentrate on the muscles and isolate which areas need focused work. During this process, I tend to make some intense faces, and have been known to grunt. This isn’t exclusive to me. Most people who are rehabbing an injury have grunted through their exercises when they reach a painful part of the process. However, today during the foam rolling session, I got lost in my own thoughts as I really worked to release the pain in my back. I had the foam roller under my left hip/ass cheek. I had to position my legs pretty far apart before I felt the hip and back muscles start to engage. I had the bottoms of my feet planted firmly on the ground, and was slowly but powerfully driving my pelvis forward and back… and just when I got to the point where I could really feel the muscle engaging and stretching, I heard a noise. At first I was only subconsciously registering the mouse like “uhh hummm”. My eyes were mostly open, only they were slightly squinted with concentration. Teeth clenched, and brow furrowed. I softly heard it again…. “uhhh hummm”. Slowly but surely the sound started traveling from the back of my subconscious, to the forefront of my mind… louder and louder I heard it build… “UHHH HUMMM”. Finally I came to the realization that someone was trying to get my attention. I looked up to see 4 gorgeous younger mothers standing in front of me, with less than inviting expressions on their faces. What have I done, I wondered? Do I know these women? Did steal their parking space? This is when I realized that the stretching area of my gym also happens to face the rooms where Yoga, Barre, and Spin take place. My therapeutic routine had been doubling as an unappreciated all pelvis thrusting show about 6 minutes before a yoga class was set to start. As is the norm, a group of women had gathered outside the class waiting to be let in. It hit me that I was rolling back and forth with my ass directly on top of the foam roller, my legs split apart at about a 45 degree separation, with an extremely intense look on my face, all while slowly thrusting my pelvis in the direction of these women and grunting like a perverted reimagining of Billy Bob Thorton’s character in Slingblade. It was wildly unpopular.

Long story short, I feel like I sort of assaulted these women. Do I need to take an offenders class? Do I need to notify my neighbors when I move? They absolutely weren’t happy with the show I was forcing them to watch. It was like they were forced into a sort of Clockwork Orange style viewing of my angry/grunty/thrusty stretching routine.

The best part is that my back is sore, and I need to go roll it out again. Just remember ladies, the 7 oclock show is completely different than the 3 oclock show.

Let Stephen King be your guide

2018-06-21T19:56:00.000-07:00

Stephen King is the master of horror. I also think he may be a weight loss genius. Does anyone remember “Quitters, Inc”? “Quitters, Inc” was a short story published by Stephen King back in the late ‘70’s. Part of the "Night Shift" collection. The basic plot of the story surrounds a man who enlists a company to help him stop smoking, and then lose weight. There is some early ambiguity as to what their tactics will be, but the basic idea is that the company follows the man and spies on him, and as he acts outside the best interest of his goal they torture the people he loves. Shocking people, cutting off peoples fingers, etc... It’s a great story. As is the case with most Stephen King stories, it slowly builds and becomes creepier and creepier. Or, at least that’s what I hear. I have never read it. I have seen the movie though. Reading is for fucking idiots. I have shit to do. If any book is worth reading, it will eventually be made into a movie anyway. Once the movie is made, only an asshole would choose the less efficient story delivery method. If you need to read this story, rent “Cats Eye”.

I need this. I have been lacking focus of late. I am super busy, and while I have been able to stay on track, I can feel some momentum slipping. Sometimes I get my priorities out of line. Today is a great example of this. I have become friends with a few of the people at the gym. By “a few” I of course mean I am friends with every dumb shit in the place. I have worked out 4 days in a row and was contemplating taking today off from my workouts. Let my body rest, eat some chicken thighs, watch college baseball, JO. Basically the high school “sick day” agenda. Instead, I decided at the last minute, to go in and workout. I had a hard day of work and needed to decompress a little and felt that maybe getting my blood flowing would help. I intended to do some core work and concentrate on areas I have been neglecting. This is where the relationships I have developed at the gym come in to play. I ran into one of my buddies, and he was having a hard day physically. Sore, bloated, aching… I think he was menstruating. His list of ailments read like a Midol ad. He said he had intended to lift today, but decided to spend an hour walking on the treadmill instead. When I ran into him, he was adamant that I walk on the treadmills with him. The problem is, the treadmill makes my back stiffen up. It’s something about the way my feet strike the platform. It makes my lower back lock up. So what did I do? I allowed that whore monger to talk me into walking on the treadmill with him. In order to save my back, I walked at a slower pace. My friend found my pace pretty funny. He made a few snide comments about the fact that I was walking so slowly. So how did I respond…. Fuck, this is how I get in my own way… I responded to his idiocy by going even slower. It was my version of a middle finger. To answer the inevitable question that this statement created; Yes, I fully understand this only hurts me. I also understand that I have a tendency to act outside my own best interest.

This is where “Quitters, Inc” comes in. I need this. I need someone, or a group of people, to run surveillance on me and scare me straight. I had this happen once before. Back in my early 20’s I found it funny to disappear from parties and return missing articles of clothing. My buddies didn’t find this as funny as I did. Come to think if it, I don’t know that this was appreciated by anyone at the time. I was like the Vincent Van Gogh of unexpected ass showings. No one appreciated my art form during my time, but now it’s the stuff of legend. Jerred tried to go “Quitters, Inc” on me circa 1999. Once during a nude incident at a camping trip with my friends, Jerred sternly announced two things:

1) If I see it, I kick you in it.

2) If you take your pants off again, I will proactively start calling you “needle dick” in front of everyone we meet. As the night went on Jared shortened “needle dick” to “Deedle” as we discussed the impending punishment during a very professional meeting of the collective minds.

What was the end result of this very real series of threats from my friends? Later that night my scrotum was reflecting the camp fire like a damn drive in movie screen, while Jared sang “Deedle” to the beat of every pop song in the last 20 years. I also don’t know that this new nickname of “Deedle” had the desired deterrent effect. I ordered 100 pairs of sunglasses with “Deedle” on them, and handed them out to anyone who wanted some. I quickly ran out, and have now ordered my second hundred pairs.

This failed attempt at aversion therapy doesn’t mean the system is broken. It means I am not easily embarrassed or frightened. I do think that this aversion therapy could work for me. I am asking you all for help. How? How can you help me? If you see me acting outside my own best interest, assault me in an appropriate manner. Don’t be lazy and just default to slapping my face or kicking me in the groin. Be creative. Have some god damn ingenuity. For instance, if you see me drinking a diet soda, bat it out of my hand. If you see me eating a meatball sub, push Abram to the ground. If you see me dogging it at the gym, cut Myles pinky off. The point is, be creative… be mean spirited.. do something that you think will be in my greater good. Think Stephen King meets Saw 2.

He was the dirtiest son of a bitch anyone ever loved.

2018-06-17T21:28:00.002-07:00

That is my dad. That’s Dave. Yes I am describing my dad with this title. He has been gone for 11 years, and I actively miss him every day. Maybe this sounds odd, but I still talk to him daily, only now the conversation is one sided. And anyone who knew Dave will tell you, no conversation with him was ever one sided. The problem is, talking to him was never a big deal to me… its his side of the conversation that was SO important to me. Its his words that I miss.

I wont lie about who Dave was. I do not speak for my brothers and sisters, or my mom, or my aunts. Dave was the god of mischief. He was too smart for his own good. But I am not one who finds value in counting a dead mans demons.

Dave had an interesting way about him. He was the most conflicted man I ever knew. Wildly intelligent, while lacking any ability to apply it to his own best interest. He once told me that he was most proud of the fact that while he was in prison he could speak to any group, any gang, any clique.. and walk freely among the inmates without fear of being able to adapt. They called him doc… and he was so proud. It wasn’t odd to me to hear him speak so cavalier about such a personal and dark period. He spoke often about the importance of being able to relate to anyone. That was Dave. Describing him has always been hard for me. How do you summarize a man like Dave. He was a WW2 vet who was a control tower operator on the Burma hump at 18. He was a Doctor. He survived the great depression. He was an alcoholic. He was a prisoner. He was a migrant worker, with a medical degree. But for me, he was just dad.

I feel like as the youngest of his 7 children, from two marriages, I have a view of him that most don’t. Ours was the only relationship he never set on fire. He was no angel, but more of a loveable cautionary tale. By the time he got to me, he had burned through a lot of his mischievous energy. I got to see the best side of him. Sure I picked him up from jail after a DUI at 16, but even that was funny. Seeing him walk out of the holding facility with one shoe on, convinced the police “lost” the other one. As he opened the door to my car he said “keep your mouth shut and your eyes to the lord, you insolent little shit”. I could barely speak through the laughter in my heart, as I tried to muster a straight faced response of “Well, I am not proud, Dave”.

Sure, he once grounded me for telling my youth leader a that my dad kept me home from church because we couldn’t figure out why Buffalo was laying points to Houston AT Buffalo! But he also split the winnings with me when Buffalo came back to win (it was an 80-20 split though, dick). On the other hand, I also watched this man cook breakfast for me, my brother Jef and two of our best friends every Friday from ages 18-20. Dave’s famous biscuits and gravy. We sat around and talked about life, and joked, and laughed and horked down the most delicious breakfast in town.

The things he was proud of were not things typical kids heard. While my friends were telling tales of touchdowns their dads threw back in high school, I was hearing how Dave was expelled from BYU for showing up to a campus event in nothing but six shooters. By the way, he would be red faced as he smirked his way through that story. Whether it was the first time you heard it, or the 4000^th time, he would cackle and grin the entire time. He was as proud of this story, as he was his degree.

I don’t know if I ever met anyone as polarizing as my dad. Not “polarizing” in the traditional way, where some people loved him and some people hated him.. he was universally loved, but he left many people hating themselves for loving him. This is a man who once got tired of hearing my brother David complain while they were helping someone move buckets of river rocks, in the pouring rain in January… knee deep in water, rain pounding off their hats and my dad looked up at the belly aching son of his and told him “David, you need to take some of the faith you have in Jesus, and put into moving those rocks”… to which David responded by walking off the job and telling the homeowner, “My dad is the dirtiest son of a bitch, anyone ever tried to work for”, before proceeding to walk 15 miles home. When my dad told me this, he could barely compose himself long enough to choke the story out. He was in tears, and so pleased with himself. Most men wouldn’t take so much joy in telling this story. But this is what was so endearing about him. And my brother David tells this story with just as much glee as my dad tells it.

Dave was and still is a topic of conversation among my friends. We still tell stories of things he said to us, and interactions we had. Dave was shockingly quick witted in a way that I dream of being. I sometimes get depressed knowing I will never be as smart or have as sharp a whit as him. When he told a story, the audience of friends would jocky for the best position to hear him from. He had piercing blue eyes, and a devilish grin. Very handsome. Intensely intelligent. Terribly troubled. Undeniably lovable.

Having a dad who was 53 when I was born, and didn’t live.. well, a well calculated life, meant that I always knew that my kids may never get to meet my dad. I remember being in 7^th or 8^th grade and knowing that my dad may very well be dead before I have kids. Jesus, what junior high kid thinks about this?!? Regardless of any of his demons, I loved him so intensely. He had this big chair in the living room that he sat in every evening. I kissed his head good night every night I lived there, and after I moved out, I did the same when I would leave. And I kissed his head as they closed his casket. I read so many peoples social media posts about how their dads made them who they are. I read story after story of what great men they were. I am not interested in pretending my dad was anything other than what he was. He was my best friend. He was my hero.

I want this for my kids. I want to be a man they can be proud of. I want to be open and honest with them. I want them to celebrate my victories and laugh hysterically at my defeats. Last month Abe came home from school and asked me “dad, someone on the bus called another kid a dildo… what’s a dildo?”. I asked him “what do you think it is”, to which he responded “I think it’s a kind of bird”. I easily could have said “yup, a bird.. also known as a Vagina Eagle”. But its 2018, and he isn’t a total dipshit. He absolutely would have found a way to search what a “dildo” is. So I just told him “a dildo is something a woman uses when she is craving something she would usually get from a committed partner.. do you understand where I am going with this?”.. .his wide dead eyed stare made his nodding acknowledgment unnecessary. I continued “dang, it sounds like being called a dildo is almost a good thing.. a mindless pleasurer… a pleasure bird of sorts”… I can still see that little 11 year old fucker laughing.

That’s what this is all about. This is why I am on this journey to regain my health. Not to be a pleasure bird, but to be here long enough to create a legacy for my kids. Just because I wasn’t 53 when they were born, doesn’t mean I don’t run a real risk of not living long enough to meet my grandkids. I will never be as smart, or funny, or witty, or fun as Dave, but I will live forever trying to be. I want to be my kids antihero. I need to live long enough to make this happen. I want to be open, and honest, with them. Abe and I lay in bed and discuss girls, and he asks me about stories of my life. I do not hide. I DO NOT LIE. I tell them about my insecurities. I tell them “always ask me whatever you want to know, do not google it”. I do not want google formulating their knowledge base. I am open about the role my insecurities played in formulating who I am.

On July 17, 2017, JD Taylor, Jerred Hermann and I snuck through my moms house, and stole the urn of my dads ashes. We drove them into the woods, to my dads favorite spot at Kingsley Reservoir, and sat him in the rocks with his fishing pole. It was the same place he drunkenly told a forest ranger, who had asked why Dave was illegally fishing with two poles, “well sir, I don’t think I could handle a third one”. The three of us drank ourselves stupid on gin, and listened to Jerred explain how Gordon Lightfoot effects his dogs demeanor. They retired to the tent and I sat alone and cried for a minute. This is what I want. I want my kids to smuggle my ashes somewhere for a weekend of fun. I just don’t want it to be next weekend.

Tank tops, Beyonce fights, and Cabana boy duties.. its been a big week

2018-06-15T16:44:00.001-07:00

Perception is reality. Sort of. This phrase is over used and misunderstood.

For my entire life I projected emotions and ideas and insecurities into the minds of everyone I have met. I haven’t eaten a meal in public that I didn’t imagine the entire restaurant was critiquing. I haven’t shopped for clothes without thinking the cashier was judging me for the size of clothes I was buying. I distinctly remember shopping for jeans two years ago, and realizing I was at the bottom of the stack… mens jeans are always displayed in a stack, with the smallest size on top, and the biggest size at the bottom… and I was buying the biggest size of pants at the store. What was next? No pants? Was I one taco bender from no longer being able to buy pants? FUCK!!! I haven’t stepped foot into a gym without being sure that everyone was judging me… questioning my right to be there among the fit.

Its an interesting juxtaposition to feel simultaneously invisible, and also like the focal point of everything strangers do.

My entire life, I have been torn as to how much of my perception was based in reality, and how much was me projecting my own insecurities. I have been trying to be cognizant of this. I have been trying to give people the benefit of the doubt, and not assume the negative perception, is their reality. This goes for everything from the looks that fly around a room, to the verbal interactions that happen day to day. Phrases can be as nebulous as a look. It is so easy to get lost in your own negativity, and paint the rest of your interactions with that tainted brush.. smear anger and sadness into your daily picture. I have had 3 interactions this week that have shown me just how much of life is influenced by our own perceptions.

- Check in’s

I have not been writing as much the last 3 weeks. I honestly didn’t realize I wasn’t. I work in sales and this last month was my year end. I have been dedicated to wrapping up a few deals, as well as setting up this year to start off fast with some early contracts. I am pretty good at prioritizing my life and applying time to what is most important. I haven’t slacked in my workouts… I have been hitting the gym regularly, and eating well. I just haven’t been writing about it. This being said, I don’t have the best track record of fortitude. It would be easy to see how a slide in writing, would be due to a slide in my dedication. During the past few days, I have had 41 messages/texts/emails to check in to see how things are going (yes, I really counted)… to say that they have noticed I am not writing, and ask if I was ok. This means a great deal to me. I have often felt that I fit a role in people’s lives. I am a born jester. I am a fucking good time.. but I am also the jolly fat man. I have felt that some people have rooted against me. That people need a lovable, safe, nonthreatening friend. But as my writing volume slowed, so many people reached out to check in and make sure I was still dedicated and doing ok. Some of these people are strangers… some are friends… and some are professional trainers who make no money from my journey. How rad is that. It just goes to show you how much people root for each other. My perceptions are not their reality. My perceptions are ONLY my reality.

- The Beyonce Incident.

On Monday I was having a great lifting session. I felt like a super hero. I was repping out weights that were my PR’s just a few months ago. I could feel my blood coursing through my veins. Near the end of the workout, I could feel my body starting to give out a bit. At this point, ‘Single Ladies’ came on. Why did I never learn this dance? Why did I never learn any pop music video dances? WTF have I done with my life?!?! ‘Every little step’ by Bobby Brown… ‘Billy Jean’ by Michael Jackson… the mother fucking Dougie!!!! Why do I not now any of these dances. As I pondered this miscarriage of self-justice, I realized I was staring a murderous stare across the gym. I am 5’10”, 250, and wear an oversized baseball hat pulled down low across my face. If you didn’t know I am a passive guy, it would be easy to assume that I am an asshole. The reason I realized I was mean mugging across the gym, was because another guy was glaring back at me. He had his chest puffed out, his brow ruffled, and he kind of shrugged his shoulders at me. I realized “this guy thinks I am glaring at him… like I am posturing”… Jesus, if only he knew that I was actually deep in thought about how I am going to have to limber up my hips if I am going to pull off the single ladies dance. My very next thought was, “I wonder how many times I have seen someone looking at me sideways and felt shitty about myself, and they didn’t even know they were doing it”. The truth is, the idea that strangers are judging us is incredibly narcissistic. Not every sideways glance is based in judgement of me.

- Chris’s Cabana Boy

I wrote about Chris before. Chris is the embodiment of everything I hate. He is pretty, and tan, and endowed, and ripped, and handsome, and he wears tank tops, and he is so happy.

http://bigfateddie.blogspot.com/2018/03/chris-is-low-class-no-account-worthless.html

When I wrote about Chris, I did so from the angle of my own insecurities created a relationship arc that didn’t exist. How he had everything I was working to have, tank tops included (although he cant high five for shit… the last time he tried to high five me, I almost passed out from how disappointed I was in him. BE BETTER) so I projected my own jealousy on to him. In a twist of fate, Chris and I have become friends. He even read the above post, and liked it. Turns out I was right. My disdain for him was 100% due to my unhappiness with me. Chris is actually the type of guy who is always first in line to help people. My post was accidentally about the perfect person in order to maximize the impact of my intended message. I had spent so much time venting my frustration onto him, and projecting insecurities at him, and it turns out he couldn’t be a better guy. In fact, I have met a bunch of people through my new friendship with Chris. There is a little clique of us now… Ty, Phil, Tom, Chris, Ryan… a group of guys who lift together, discuss everything from weight lifting tips… to how our aging peckers are starting to lack cooperation. That’s a real conversation we had. Jesus, I bet those 5 guys own 200 tank tops between them. Fucking tank tops. Anyway, this is a group of big strong gym guys, ages ranging from early 30’s to late 40’s, discussing how testosterone replacement has changed our lives. Hell, we also spend a lot of time at the pool, and in 2 months I went from day dreaming about watching Chris get hit by a bus, to being the one who applies sunscreen to his rippling cocoa colored back. I had labeled and judged these men as meat heads and idiots, but in fact, they are great guy... and once I let my guard down I was able to meet a group of people who have bettered my journey.

Its funny how little thought I have put into “perception is reality”… my perception is only my reality. It wasn’t Chris’s reality. And conversely, other people’s perceptions aren’t my reality. In fact… I don’t know that other people have perceptions.. but if they did, I need it not to matter. My perception needs to be my only reality.

I got hate mail! I am so happy! I had Kevin Smith answer though.

2018-06-06T19:08:00.000-07:00

I can be mean with words. Lebron can dunk, Nolan Ryan had a lightning bolt for a fastball, John Elway could throw a football through a barn door… and I can talk shit. I have had some inner turmoil based around this. I have a quick wit and I don’t know if I have ever met anyone who can tap into a steady stream of idiocy with more surgeon like precision than I can… but is this good? It has been an ongoing internal struggle. It’s a big part of why I am so self-deprecating. I like utilizing my quick wit to be funny, and I feel if I use it against myself, I am less likely to hurt someone’s feelings (although I have hurt my own feelings before, which is fucking absurd).

I default to being kind. I don’t like being hurtful or leaving people unhappy. The fact that I can be funny at other peoples expense, doesn’t mean I actually do it. I also don’t have an aversion to criticism… I welcome criticism and will discuss anything so long as the criticism is in good faith and not just an excuse to attack me. I believe that no topic should be off limits. Growth happens with the spread of information. With this in mind, I had my first piece of hate mail today. I was called a misogynist (sort of), and told that I am unkind to my fellow humans, and I have never been happier. Having this type of exchange thrust upon me, is like a present being handed to me. So the restraint I showed today, was Herculean.

From the very beginning of the exchange, I knew I wasn’t dealing with anyone who’s company I needed to keep. Had she made the comment she made in the comments section of the blog, or even posted the comment to the Instagram post publicly, I would have glossed over it and moved on… but I feel that having her actually send me a private message meant that I felt compelled to engage in a discussion. I wont lie to you.. part of me was hoping that I was opening a door to tomfoolery.. and my hopes were sort of answered. We were about to engage in a bout of idiocy. I was left feeling a bit dissatisfied because I wont fully engage with a moron. I feel guilty doing it.

I have hidden her Instagram name out of respect… we will call her Crystal (because that’s her name and I am not giving up her identity by using it)

Crystal: I’ve been reading your blog for a few weeks and I never should have started. Your so mean. You need to learn some kindness, and acceptance of weight issues. Maybe be kind to your fellow humans. Your so misogynist. Its people like you who create anoresics.

Ed: Im sorry you feel this way. I’ve never said a misogynistic word. I’m a man expressing my personal struggles. I don’t know that I’ve demeaned or belittled women… and I’m not that guy. I don’t do that. I disagree with your assessments, but that’s what’s fun about having these discussions… we can look at a situation and evaluate it from every angle. I’m sorry I come off to you as negative, but appreciate you reading along. Thanks for the input.

At this point, I could already tell that she was not interested in engaging in a meaningful conversation. I am all for people telling me off “at me”… but not “with me”. I also understand that men have weaponized physical appearance since the beginning of time. I can see how these issues could have a certain connotation to some women. Therefore, I was thinking maybe she projected her personal bias on to what I was saying. I am not naive.. I know the depth of hurt that comes with this topic. I was hoping to defend myself as well as engage in a conversation about how these issues can effect all of us.. and it is not just a woman's issue.

Crystal: You don’t get “it”. Look up missogonistic. And I’m done reading this filth. You pick on women and heavy people. Your a bully.

Game over. That was fast. She hit on all of my bugaboos in one misguided paragraph of idiocy. The quotes around “it”, made my blood pressure rise to heart attack levels… but then when I saw how wildly the word “misogynistic” got away from her, I instantly replaced the anger with pity. I feel like she is either a child, or she types with her elbows. Her complete disregard for “your vs you’re” is pretty humiliating as well. I decided that I didn’t want to actively engage in the discussion, so I started replying with nonsensical quotes from the movie “Clerks”.

Ed: There’s a million fine looking girls in the world. But they don’t all bring you lasagna to work. Most of them just cheat on you.

Crystal: Thanks for reinforcing my argument. You just don’t get “it”.

I don’t fault her for this. She obviously hasn’t seen Clerks 4500 times like I have, and out of context, that does feel like a pretty wide sweeping generalization about women. Well played, Crystal. I literally put zero thought into that comment, but that’s the whole point. I just wanted to see how long I could make this woman argue with movie quotes.

Ed: I hope it feels good to be right. There’s nothing more exhilarating than pointing out the short coming of others, is there?

Crystal: You deserve this. I’m trying to help you. It is like you are proud of how you talk about women and fat people.

The arrogance and stupidity in this comment made me sigh. First off, bull fucking shit. You aren’t “trying to help”. You are trying to vent your anger. You are trying to attack. I feel you are being disingenuous about your intentions. Also, when telling someone they are mean to fat people, maybe… just maybe… avoid the term “fat people”.

Ed: I’m stuck in this pit, working for less than slave wages. Working on my day off, the goddamn steel shutters are closed, I deal with every backward ass fuck on the planet. I smell like shoe polish. My ex-girlfriend is catatonic after fucking a dead guy, and my present girlfriend has sucked 36 dicks.

Crystal: Your anger toward woman is embarrassing. It comes through in every blog write up. Missoginist!!!

My shock at her willingness to engage in an argument with unrelated movie quotes, is boggling my mind. This is the best thing that ever happened to me.. it barely squeaked past “birth of my first child”. I in no way expected that she would actually argue with the movie. In fact, she is arguing with movie quote, and ‘Clerks’ is winning the argument because Crystal is getting angry. The movie is being calm and collective. I was curious how far I could take this. Could I work my way through the entire script? Unfortunately I had to get back to the real world, so I decided to end things.

Ed: A) sigh. B) I love you. C) I looked up missoginist: that act of ignoring when autocorrect tries to help you write fucking “misogynist”.

Randall: You’re not allowed to rent here anymore

Jay: YEAHHHHHHH

At this point I blocked her and hid my profile from her. I no longer was having fun. I am proud of myself for not unloading on her and actively engaging in a war of words. I know the old adage “Never argue with a fool, onlookers may not be able to tell the difference”.. but this doesn’t apply here. Crystal was not looking to engage in a conversation, or argue a point, she was looking to brow beat me. It’s funny how someone can be so violently and aggressively stupid. This is a great life lesson about being careful about what hill you die on. She was so off base… everyone is entitled to an opinion, but her accusations and comments have very real definitions, and I do not meet them. My posts are in no way misogynistic. This could have been a great open discussion… maybe we both could have learned something, but it was obviously not her goal in messaging me.

Having an opinion is everyones god given right. I don’t get to have a say… and I don’t get to decide how my message is received when I write my blog.. but when you message it to me, and it draws definable conclusions... I will retort. And if your comments are well constructed, I will take the time to engage in a real and honest discussion. Opinions are easy, but some thought should be used in creating them. And once you make your opinion a weapon, be prepared for the fall out. I wonder what Kevin Smith movie I will use next time. I wonder if I can get someone to argue with “Mallrats”.

Negativity of Body Positive

2018-06-05T13:50:00.001-07:00

Lets be very clear… accepting yourself is job 1. I am a firm believer of understanding who you are, and accepting that only your opinion matters.

Now that I have qualified my point with understanding, I am going to say something that may not sit well… I feel the Body Positive movement is extremely dangerous to the health of people.

I am not saying its bad… the intent is great. I am saying its dangerous. I see “body positive”being used in a negative way too.

What Body Positive IS…

Judging yourself in regards to your personal character… and not basing your sense of self worth on your physical appearance.

What Body Positive ISN’T

An excuse to allow yourself to give up on your health.

Redefining what is beautiful and what is seen is “beautiful”… is important. There isn’t one universal standard of beauty, and trying to make one view of what is “beautiful” does harm in many ways.

1) People outside of the societal definition of “attractive” can struggle with identity and self worth issues.

2) People who are not attracted to the “standard” can develop complexes based around being separated from what is viewed as the “norm”.

I had this conversation with a woman at the gym yesterday, and she was part of a much bigger experimental conversation than she knew she was having. In fact, I didn’t realize what I was doing, or why I was doing it, until it was done. This woman is by all traditional main stream standards “beautiful”. She is strong, independent, intelligent, and possesses physical features that she has worked hard to maintain and create. She is smart, attractive and hard working… she was probably the woman who ignored us at lunch in high school, but as an adult she is super fucking cool and fun to talk to. She is a better looking Mary Louise Parker. Our gym has a seating area out front with a small fire place. Both of us had a few minutes to kill after our workouts, and before returning to our day to day duties, so we took a few minutes to chat about the high school style drama that takes place with our friends at the gym.. and rehashing previous funny convos. At some point she mentioned that she wants to set one of her friends up with a guy at the gym, and she was trying to take creeper pics of him to pass along to her friend. The gentleman in question is very handsome… he is very athletic and in amazing shape. He is what I am hoping my “after” pics will be. When I told her this, she mentioned that she isn’t attracted to him… not that he isn’t attractive, but that she prefers dudes who are taller and pale and have a less chiseled body. This got us talking about the differences in what is and isn’t attractive to each person. Being the piece of shit arrogant child that I am, I decided to point at random dudes that walked in and see whether or not she found them attractive. I was purposely picking men I thought fit a standard definition of “handsome”, but did NOT match the definition she gave me of her type. I didn’t realize it at the time, but I felt she was lying to me. My instinct was to think she was skewing the truth so as not to hurt my feelings, which is a very narcissistic view of a conversation, but one I believe most of us have. How could I not compare her words to me… its human nature. I felt she was saying she didn’t find super fit men as attractive, because she didn’t want to hurt the fat kids feelings. Even though she was clearly not referencing me in anyway, and her definitions of what she found to be “beautiful” were meant for her… not me. But I would point to men that I assumed to possess what women felt was attractive, and one by one she shot them all down. It became clear to me that my perceptions where born in my insecurities. My neurosis were monsters of my own design. Most of my issues with self esteem and appearance were born from definitions I created and then projected on to other people. At some point in my life I decided that all women wanted to be with chiseled men, all these men had to be 6’2”, and if you don’t have a gorgeous head of hair.. just kill yourself. I was projecting my preconceived notions and bias on to the women of the world, and then thinking less of them for having those opinions. My psyche is a fucked up maze of idiocy. I lost hours of my day to contemplating how, regardless of your appearance you are someones “type”, and then it hit me… IT DOESN’T FUCKING MATTER… My value isn’t determined by my appearance at all. I am using the wrong map to guide my journey. I need to be allowing my health and physical comfort to guide my journey. I was falling victim to the trap of the dangerous side of “body positive”… I was trying to change my definition of what is attractive, instead of working to lessen the importance I put on appearance. OK OK.. it’s a bit disingenuous to say “It hit me”… truth is, Mary Louise Parker Jr told me “its hard to tell how attractive any of these guys are until I talk to them… what if they are a moron, or a dick, or lack confidence”… this is when I had the ah ha moment usually reserved for 15-16 year olds “MAYBE WE SHOUDLNT JUDGE BOOKS BY THEIR COVERS, IS ACTUALLY A METAPHOR FOR NOT JUDGING PEOPLE BY HOW THEY LOOK”…

Maybe our self worth shouldn’t be wrapped up in how we look, but in who we are. Our physical presence should be defined by “physical health” and not “physical appearance”. Being fat is ok… allowing yourself to be unhealthy to avoid the work involved in improving your health isn’t. Feeling attractive regardless of shape, and loving yourself, is absolutely necessary. However, using this to excuse poor health is NOT OK. Allowing yourself to be unhealthy because you are comfortable with how you look, is still defining your self worth by your appearance. Just because your definition of “beautiful” is more inclusive and realistic, doesn’t mean it should be used to validate your value. Its still a superficial value system.

If I couldn’t read, I wouldn’t just change the value I hold on reading and claim that I am “illiterate positive” and scold people for “idiot shaming” me.

If I had cancer, I wouldn’t claim I am “malignant positive” and scold people for “tumor shame”…

So being obese shouldn’t be rebranded as “body positive” so we can stay in our unhealthy comfort zones and fail to progress our health. It needs to be part of a bigger journey of self acceptance.

Obesity is killing you. Killing me. Associating weight to physical appearance is missing the point of why we should have an emphasis on getting in shape.

There is no question that people are developing unhealthy obsessions around eating. Depression is very real and can absolutely be triggered by a lack of feeling value due to not fitting in to the standards of beauty. But the answer isn’t just to change the definition of “beauty”, the answer is to change the importance we place on the definition… and who we allow to define us. I think “body positive” is a dangerous, and important idea. Over simplifying “body positive” to just cover physical appearance is every bit as harmful as allowing narrow definitions of what is beautiful.

My new definition of body positive is:

Accepting who you are, and removing the value we put on physical beauty, while we work to meet our own personal standards of worth.

Step 1: Acknowledge that your self worth is not defined by your appearance

Step 2: Decide the values and measures that you want to use to judge your worth against (morals, values, strength of character)

Step 3: Work to be the person you want to be, and be the healthiest you possible

(notice that at no point did I include allowing other peoples definitions or opinions dictate your value)

If you can’t read, learn. If you have cancer, seek medical help. If you are obese, fight to improve your health. And do all of this with the knowledge that you can be an amazing person while still working to improve yourself.

Medical, mental, and physical issues play no part in defining us… the way in which we work to overcome these issues does. It isn’t just about redefining what is “beautiful”… its also about disconnecting our self worth from our physical appearance. And people judging your based on your appearance, says more about them than it does you. But using the fact that you are comfortable in your own skin, to not remedy the fact that you’re obese, is missing the whole point. Obesity leads to heart disease, diabetes, structural support issues, some forms of cancer. It is hard to be change the current course your body is on, and to repair your health, but it is necessary. The removing of the stigma of being overweight can not become something you use to allow yourself to continue being unhealthy. I so often confuse the message in my own brain. I dwell in what is attractive, and trying to feel value in spite of my own perceived inadequacies, but I lose sight of the two main points of why I am doing this… regain my health, live up to the definitions of what I want to be. Allowing “beauty” or “appearance” to be a major factor in this journey is shallow and vapid, regardless of my definitions of what is “attractive”. This is about my physical and mental health… I define every aspect of this process, and my opinion is the only one that matters. I am not living the life I intended. I am not fulfilling my potential as I see it.

“Definitions belong to the definers, not the defined” – Toni Morrison

Unintended me

2018-05-28T20:30:00.002-07:00

Not every day is good. Not every emotion during this process is healthy or motivating. I often call myself “cloyingly optimistic” but the fucking guy I saw in the mirror today did not have an optimistic expression. He looked weak. He looked small. He lacked promise. He had spent years of his life working for a goal he couldn’t achieve. I watched him grand stand about his strength while out with friends because he ate the healthiest options, only to see him eat in secret when the judgmental eyes of his support system were off of him. I have seen him eat until he felt worthless. I have listened to him come up with every excuse as to why he couldn’t increase his activity. I have heard him excuse away the wasting of his potential. I have watched him crave foods that he knew were killing him. I have watched him try to smash through barriers to his health that he easily could have stepped around.

I am not proud of him today. I am not sure I wish him well. He has every advantage, and nothing to show for it. He has information, and acts stupidly. I sometimes forget what he looks like, because he refuses to look in the mirror. A little secret, when he is unshaven, it’s because he doesn’t want to look in the mirror that day. He isn’t comfortable with the man looking back at him. I have seen him work out with his eyes closed, because the weight rooms mirrors mock him. The man watching him in the mirror, does not like him, and he knows it.

I’m told he is too hard on himself, but he is not at his goal. Is his self-loathing a mask? Does he say mean things about himself to beat others to judgement of him? Does he believe he is fooling anyone?

Sometimes I don’t recognize myself. I look in the mirror and see a stranger. I look at my actions and patterns and feel disconnected. Like a stranger has power of attorney of my life. It isn’t an exaggeration. I have distracted myself in order to do things I knew were not in my best interest. Intellectual dishonesty makes hard things easy. Some days I don’t feel like being light hearted. I don’t feel funny today. I feel lost. Nothing even happened. I didn’t stray from building my habits. I didn’t skip the gym today. I played for hours in the pool with my kids. Nothing can explain today, other than sometimes I don’t feel like pretending I am ok with how out of control I have let myself become. The mocking tones and sideways glances I get at the gym aren’t real… I am projecting those thoughts and looks on to them. They are mirrors for my self-loathing.

I have received so many messages from people who have felt that I am too hard on myself. That I need to cut myself some slack. People are making excuses for me… as if excuses are something I have struggled to make for myself. While I appreciate the support, and understand why people feel this, I need accountability. I don’t want to admit that I am being defeated. I don’t answer to a master that commands me to do things that hurt me. I answer to me. I need to let days like today happen, and not fight them. I need to let the feeling wash over me. Let the disappointment sink in.

I don't feel like the loser I saw in the mirror today. He is not me. He is someone I cant relate to. He has not acted in his own best interest. He has not loved himself enough to be disappointed in himself. He is silly. I don't even recognize him. I know his every move before he makes it, but I don't feel I know him at all. He is not who I intended.

The man in the mirror today is not me. He is a man that I neglected for too long.

Meth Prescription: Drastic Fat Requires Drastic Measures.

2018-05-25T10:27:00.001-07:00

I think my doctor hates me. Hate is a strong word. Let us start again… I think my doctor hates me. Fuck it. The truth is the truth. He’s really nice to me, and accepts my appointments, and gives me great care. But I know he has no time for my antics. I told a story a few months ago about when he prescribed Testosterone replacement for me. He sat and tried to professionally tell me about why I needed the injections, what the lack of testosterone was doing to me, what to expect in terms of side effects… and all the while surfing in my sea of idiocy

“Will I get back acne?”

“Will I get ‘roid rage?”

“Will I grow beautiful jugs?”

“How glorious will my erections be?”

“Will I rip my house apart like Ben Affleck in that after school special?”

He simply looked at me and politely said “I don’t think you understand what is happening here”. And he went over the list of side effects and benefits for me again, knowing full well that the smile on my face was due to me imagining myself running the streets, punching out car windows, all while sporting the most awe inspiring erection, with my glorious bouncing cans (BTW, 2 months in, and I have yet to go on even one 'roid induced rampage… which is fucking bullshit). I know he thinks I did not notice how agitated and dejected he was by the end of our appointment, but HEY, I always notice his dejected and exhausted look.

During that appointment, he mentioned that I had another road block to health that I needed to monitor. I have a mutated MTHFR gene. Mutated? Gene? Of course this prompted more tomfoolery from me.

“Dr., are you telling me that I am a mother fucking Xmen?”

The silence produced by my question was deafening. After writing something in his note pad, which was probably mean spirited and would roundly be rejected by me, he eventually went on. He informed me that my body can’t process folic acid. He said that 1/3 of people suffer from this, all with different levels of impact… mostly related to the type of mutation. Apparently, I have a severe type, which means… fuck it, here is the professional explanation

What is MTHFR?

MTHFR is an enzyme that adds a methyl group to folic acid to make it usable by the body. The MTHFR gene produces this enzyme that is necessary for properly using vitamin B9. This enzyme is also important for converting homocysteine into methionine, which the body needs for proper metabolism and muscle growth and which is needed for glutathione creation . The process of methylation also involves the enzyme from the MTHFR gene, so those with a mutation may have trouble effectively eliminating toxins from the body. Folic acid not only can not be utilized to complete this metabolic chain, but can not be properly processed by the body and will be stored by fat cells as a toxin.

Side effects of a faulty MTHFR gene can include: Heart disease, anxiety, toxicity, chronic pain, strokes, fat storage. And folic acid is vital in brain development of gestating babies during pregnancy.

Of course, I had only heard of folic acid in terms of pregnancy. So hearing that my Xmen power is that I cannot effectively carry a baby to full gestation was kind of a letdown. Everything my doctor had explained to me was lost as I mourned my missed opportunity to be a super hero. I do know that he prescribed a cure… well, a pill and a process. The “pill” is methylfolate... which is a naturally occurring form of the man made folic acid. My body CAN process methylfolate, and this will allow my body to reverse the impact of not being able to complete the above metabolic process. The “process” is to avoid foods that are labeled “enriched”. When bread, rice, raw grains, cereal are “enriched”, most likely they are enriched with FOLIC ACID, which is what my body cant process. Because my body can’t process this folic acid, my fat cells will pull that folic acid in and store it as a toxin. Not only is my body unable to utilize the folic acid to complete the metabolic process, but my body will also store the folic acid as a toxin.

The best part of this fun fact, is that I didn’t absorb any of it during my doctors visit. Oh sure, at his suggestion I purchased the methylfolate. However, my extent of "using" the supplement was to call all my friends and tell them my doctor prescribed meth, and that I was an Xmen. To make this even worse, I set up auto delivery of my supplements and was receiving them on regular intervals, only to place it on a shelf and never use it.

Then I had a moment of kismet. I was sitting at the pool with some friends, and the topic of the mutated MTHFR gene came up (as I am sure it does for everyone on a daily basis). Apparently, both of my friends that I was speaking with, have this issue too. Both of these individuals have had struggles with anxiety and found relief in the methylfolate supplement. One of these friends said he was ready to begin taking anti-anxiety medications but found that the methylfolate helped stabilize his anxiety… and he said “I feel more comfortable and more like myself than at any point in my life”. The other gentlemen added that not only did he stabilize his anxiety with methylfolate, but that he also noticed the increased weight loss effects of his exercise programs.

Needless to say I have spent the past 48 hours researching this topic. I am absolutely going to start adding in the supplements and avoiding anything with “folic acid”. This may or may not be something I am having issues with in my life. This is hard for me to measure. I am one of the least anxious people I know, and I cant be 100% sure of the role this lack of completion of the metabolic chain is having in my weight issues. However, I don’t see a down side to cleaning the folic acid from my diet and utilizing the benefits of the methylfolate. This is a “pro’s v con’s” scenario. I don’t see a down side to eliminating enriched foods from my diet, and the possible upside is huge.

As I type this post, I know that the reader will draw two plausible conclusions about my progress.

1) Eddie is making growth in terms of understanding that biology and genetics play a huge role in personal health.

a. CORRECT. Genetics play a pretty universally accepted part in a person’s predisposition for cancer, heart disease, diabetes… why is the focus of weight loss so heavily believed to be just habit related for fat people. Fatties are sold pigeon holed remedies and we eat them up. Diet plans, meal replacements, books, ab rollers… how much money will we waste on these things before realizing that the first step in losing weight, is using science and studying our minds and bodies to determine what the cause of our weight issues are. There is no “one fix”… we need to treat this as a complete rewiring of our habits.. study our minds, bodies, family histories, and personal habits. Humans have unique body chemistry's, and we need to understand our unique biological make up before we can accurately repair our issues. This is not a matter of smashing our way through barriers… this is a process of understanding why our barriers exist and permanently removing them with calculation.

2) Eddie is learning to focus on his targets and the importance of paying attention to professionals and utilizing everyone’s time and efforts to the best of my abilities. Have less of a dreamers mentality.

a. NOPE! Not at all the case. My brain works the way it works. I enjoy the benefits I receive from my dreamer mentality. I feel the struggle to allow my dreamer mentality to coexist with intellectual focus is a battle worth fighting. I never want to lose my inner Lane Meyer (if you don't understand this reference, you are whats wrong with this country). I am willing to tolerate some lack of efficiency, to enjoy the fun derived from my wandering mind.

So remember boys and girls, if you want to be lean/healthy/and anxiety free, study your body, explore your mind for reasons that may be behind why you act outside your best interest (understand why you have an unhealthy relationship with food), and make sure to take your meth twice a day.