Thursday, October 1, 2009

The secret to a solid, sustainable health regimen, as any dietician will tell you, is a complete lifestyle change, a total overhaul of your fundamental beliefs about food and exercise, reinforced by small, rewarding milestones. Or some such shit. You may recall how I inaugurated my recent push for better vitals with a four-mile walk, and since then I’ve made significant progress in forgetting about the greenway. The path may have collapsed into a sinkhole, for all I know, and I will be left to forever wonder what it would be like to walk another four miles.

I’ve turned instead to some reliable staples these past few weeks: stress, forgetting to eat meals entirely, fistfuls of vitamin C drops, and tonight, nine evaporated pounds later, it feels like momentum’s finally on my side, rather than in my sides. There’s still a long ways to go, of course, and I’ve caught myself thinking a lot about fries lately. Cheddar fries. Chili fries. Waffle fries. Curly fries. Steak fries. Fries with barbeque sauce, garlic remoulade, or even fries left marinating in the leavings of other fries. But thinking it shall remain, because with a health screen right around the corner, one that may affect my insurance premiums down the road, I’d do well to remain on my best behavior.

What I have been working back into my existence–and doctors may even approve of this–is exercise. Nine golf clubs have been relegated to the closet, traded happily for one trusty tennis racquet. I clocked in two hours last Sunday, and I’m looking forward to a few more this weekend. I’m still trying to find my serve, which I suspect has atrophied under the weight of a hundred nachos, but there’s been progress. I remember why I like this part of the ritual–two nervous bounces, the quiet, then the sudden crack.

Even the grueling moments are strangely appealing. I’m still royally out of shape, winded within minutes, and yet there’s something about being a set and a half deep, arms heavy, legs on fire, and steeling myself to play another point. It’s the satisfaction of perseverance. That reminds me of a new phrase I learned last week. It’s a linguistic curio fresh from New York that’s simultaneously coarse and delicious, if only in a figurative sense.