Physical Fatness

I know I have written about this before here and here, but my efforts to maintain some sort of non-blobiness continues and I feel compelled to write about it yet again.

It seems like everything I eat, drink, breathe, and think about seems to find its way to my torso. And when I say torso, I mean my Robert Paulson-esque man-boobs and my starving Rwandan's engorged belly.

I'm really trying to cut back on the carbs. Not cut out. I am Italian and love my pasta, but I'm very much trying to keep that, as well as potatoes and rice, under control. We eat a lot of salad, drink a lot of water, have a lot of veggies. I happen to also drink a lot of beer. Fuck off, I get thirsty. If I gasp, will you deny me air too, you heartless bastards?

Sorry, I just ran, so I'm cranky.

Anyway, despite you all fawning all over my K-Fed pic, I've been having some self-image issues and really want to make a concerted effort to slim down some. So, after having Chinese buffet lunch a few Mondays ago (fuck off, I get hungry. If my hair frizzes, will you deny my mousse too, you assholes?), Xteen and I decided to go bowling. Because, you know, that's exercise.

I rolled pretty well and Xteen actually got a strike and we had a blast during our four strings of exertainment. I felt pretty good. I worked up a bit of a sweat and, other than a slight tingling in the tip of my right ringfinger (the point of ball-release), I felt great.

I went home and stretched out on the rug (it really ties the room together) for a little while.

When I finally got up, my finger was red and throbbing like when Wile E. Coyote hits his hand with a hammer. Oh, and muscles called my "quads" hurt like the dickens. I always thought quads were the places I hung out in while at college instead of going to class. Apparently, there are muscles there. So, for the next two days, I walked like a 90-year-old man, grimmaced when climbing even the most modest stair, and extended my right ringfinger out at all times, so it looked like I was holding an invisible Tom Collins.

So, now fast forward to this past Wednesday and I decide I am going to play company softball. I'm sufficiently healed from my finger and college hangout area injuries, so I figure what the hell?

Those unfamiliar with work-related sports might not know it is a giant boozefest. At least it is on the team I play on. So, I'm sitting there downing light beer (fuck off, I get...uhhh...oh, just forget it) and getting ready to pitch. I pitch because a) it involves the least amount of effort and b) no one else wants to because 1) the ball comes back at you at speeds exceeding 5 miles an hour and 2) the pitcher stands pretty close so, 3) you tend to get hit a lot and 4) I have pretty decent reflexes for an out of shape guy because 5) I played goalie in hockey even though A1) my right shin might tend to disagree with that because A2) it still hurts and predicts rain after I got hit there three years ago because my reflexes weren't up to speed after B1) drinking too many beers and while we are at it: B2) You sank my battleship.

So, we are playing and winning and I am feeling pretty good. Despite not playing softball for a few months, I pitched well, got a couple of hits, and basically didn't embarrass myself out there. Mission accomplished.

I wake up the next morning and my right arm is completely immobile. My pre-game "airing out of the arm" resulted in the entire arm, muscle, bone, tendons, ligaments all turning to concrete. And any effort to move it from whatever position resulted in what my limited medical knowledge referred to as "a fuckload of pain". This really sucks because now I have learn to hold the beer can in my left hand. I feel like Harrison Ford in Regarding Henry. Not good times.

Oh, and on top of it all, the muscles in my upper leg feel like they have been put through a cheese grater. From fucking SOFTBALL!!!

Anyway, I rest up from that debacle and decide to go running this morning. The horrible spate of rain we have seen in these parts, coupled with a nagging cold I have had, made it difficult for me to go bouncing up and down (with very little forward movement). But I decide to do it today. Oh, let me mention that it friggin HOT out there. You know that sketch on Saturday Night Live where a senile Harry Caray (played by Will Ferrell, whom I allegedly look like) says, "Have you ever been to the sun?" Well, yeah, I have...I ran on it today.

I strap on my armband radio and switch it from the AM sports radio talk show I usually listen to because I don't want to hear them slamming my favorite Sox pitcher because he got rocked last night. The first FM station I can find that comes in is a classic rock station that is playing Hendrix's "Foxey Lady". I can jog to Hendrix, so I leave it on and start going.

Next song is completely putrid: Aerosmith's "Living on the Edge". And like an idiot, I start running faster, thinking I can outrun its suckiness. No luck. Around this time, I notice that it is REALLY hot out and my legs are hurting from lack of conditioning and my lungs are burning from my asthma, but I persevere. Along the way I encounter people walking who look at my face, crimson, with spittle flying out of my mouth trying to breathe and a grimace on my face like I am getting a prostate exam from Edward Scissorhands. They reach for their cell phone and I see them dial 9-1...and their other finger is hovered over the 1 in case I keel over before they pass me.

I keep going and I am seriously running out of gas. I know this because I run past one of the many bunnies that populate our apartment complex. I see it and I know it sees me, because it stops what it is doing and gives me a disrespectful smirk. Now, when I am walking to the apartment from my car, bunnies scamper in fear because of the speed and stealthiness of my gait. I'm fucking JOGGING and this bunny doesn't move a muscle. In fact, I am so unthreatening to him, he stops eating grass, pleasures himself to what was undoubtedly a mental image of Jessica Rabbit (or Kate Beckinsale) and takes a looong time to finish. He then busts out a cigarette. I think it was an Eve Light 120 because he wanted a longer smoke and, upon finishing his last puff, he blew two and a half smoke rings and he then sang the entire song "Freebird", including verbalizing the dual, infinite guitar solo, and completed the insult by doing two Suduko puzzles. This was all before I could even reach him. He fell asleep in orgasmic and nicotine-inspired slumber and dreamed of carrots of unusual size and girth as I plodded right by.

So, here I sit, in a puddle of sweat, muscles burning, trying to figure out how to get fit enough to make a bunny scared of me.

But I think I'll take a break. My fried mozzarella, onion rings, and Guinness lunch is ready.

Working on it,

- Dim.