Tuesday, April 22, 2014

15 pounds in the bag. That would be the bag of exercise and caloric consignment, and with only two pounds left until I hit my target weight, the chief concern on my mental checklist is what’s next. Part of me is incredulous I made it this far. I know in the wide world of fitness, shedding 15 pounds is eminently doable, but the bigger hurdle for me was making peace with metabolism in my ’30s. You know what I realized? Exactly what you’d suspect, actually: it’s a fucking trawl through sweat and stomach acid, and it’s here to stay.

The hope is I’ve changed my lifestyle enough to keep pace. I don’t crave rich foods as often. Seeing the elliptical no longer wracks me with unease. I’m less sedentary, too, and tennis with King Calm on the horizon can only help this cause. There were certain to-dos, too, that were dependent on making goal. I can finally get my Texas driver’s license, for instance, and renew my passport. A non sequitur to you, perhaps, but I can’t recall the last time I got a government photo without wondering why I didn’t slim down prior to the snap.

The next step in this revision of self is securing some new threads, specifically a bespoke suit. I’m going through all the motions, including ordering swatches. I don’t even know what you’re supposed to do with small patches of cloth, but I guess I’ll just play it by ear. I’ve gotten more cautious with purchases lately. There was a run-in with an insurance shyster, which I narrowly escaped. Wasn’t so lucky with the I ordered, though. The hype and the top-down photo sold me. But what arrived in the mail was a small, sad affair, no thicker than 1/3″, and in an instant, the baking process was laid bare before me: 100 Heath bars sacrificed in service of fine cuisine, bonded by paste, and melted in disappointment.