Tuesday, March 25, 2014

1,500. 7:35. 50. 25. 25. 50. 700. 7 1/2. 6 1/2. No, you’re not trying to solve some Da Vinci Code bullshit, nor are you witnessing the genesis of premium Lost fan fiction. These are the numbers that mark my waking moments: 6 1/2 hours of sleep at a minimum, for instance, or 700 calories for my lunch bowl at Chipotle. 50 is the aspirational sum of crunches I’d like to do in a set. And the reason why this number even materialized is because my current routine seems to be plateauing.

The human body is amazing in its capacity to adapt to new situations. It’s so adaptable, in fact, that when you offer it just a smidgen of regular exercise, it demands more. The elliptical alone no longer suffices, and I need to build a full-body workout. A few weeks ago, I apologized to Cheshire for the way we dined in Charlotte. I was truly contrite, too, because counting calories led to the realization that we used to consume our entire daily allowances in a single meal. We ate like shit, I suppose, but at least we were happy.

I’ll tell you when I wasn’t happy. Today, for starters, when I tried to emulate her regimen: 150 crunches, 160 squats, 1.75 miles jogged, and other assorted torments. On crunch 39, I gave up, at which point my abs–hidden as they were–revolted in spasms. I probably should’ve expected this, in retrospect, because I haven’t done a crunch in years. It was like my body was saying, “What is the meaning of this?”

It’s going to be a while, then, before I work up to 150. The results are starting to manifest, though. These days, I regard hunger as the pull of a shrinking stomach. Once upon a time, I could pack away a whole burrito for lunch, but no more. Now, such consumption feels gross–a violation of years of tradition, yes, but a crucial milestone nonetheless. 7 1/2 happens to be the most important number of them all: number of pounds lost. And 1,500? That’s the number of push-ups I did yesterday, as you may have surmised.