I can’t remember the taste of pizza, nor the crunch of nachos, nor the texture of cheesecake. There are flashes of recollection, sure–flitting, sometimes oblique glimpses of foods I once enjoyed without a second thought. I recall how pizza crust occasionally coats your fingers in a fine powder, for instance, or the slight resistance you feel when you put fork to cheesecake. And then there’s the paradoxical “master” nacho, whose fundamental nature of crispiness is compromised by the sheer tonnage of toppings it bears.
That’s how I remember things, at least. These days, very little is memorable. Food is merely the conveyance of calories–1,500 max per day, to be exact–and weekdays are always the same. Two eggs in the morning. Banana. Chipotle bowl. Soup. Maybe some popcorn or clementines. Water. Carbonated water, if I want to get really crazy. Dining experiences are devoid of texture and joy, and there is only the regimen.
But the tide is turning. The gnawing hunger is gone, and after comparing notes with the Professor, this reduced stomach capacity is perhaps the most significant milestone. Six weeks into my routine, I’m 10 pounds thinner, afflicted by food amnesia, but buoyed by the strength of momentum and conviction. I find myself asking the impossible questions, too: if 10, why not 20? And if 20, then why not 30? Can man truly live without nachos?
Butter and hair gel: everyday goods for most, synonyms perhaps for some, and here, in the wilds of Dallas, precious commodities on occasion. A few weeks ago, I wrote off the lengths it took to procure a bar of Kerrygold as a freak occurrence–who could pass up Irish butter, after all? Indeed, who has time anymore to make their own by churning up real Irish people? But when a tube of hair gel proved equally elusive, I had to figure out why.
When I think of a city, I tend to do so from tried-and-true angles. Urban, rural, or somewhere in between. Type of weather. Good places to eat. Shitholes to avoid. Stuff to do. Number of Targets. Traffic. I’m not sure I’ve ever paid much heed to one of the key factors behind traffic, though, and that’s density. Dallas is dense. It’s also big, which diffuses the density, but there’s no getting around it: there are a lot more people here than in Charlotte. It just took a depleted supply of hair product to help me realize this.
I’m starting to settle into the pace of life here. The fact that weather’s been fantastic doesn’t hurt a bit. Allergies haven’t kicked in yet, despite the full-on flower bacchanal going on now. Haven’t used the GPS in weeks, either. There’s so much good food around here, too. Sure, I can’t partake in any of it, given my current caloric allowance, but it’s comforting to know it’s there for the resisting. Deep down, however, I’m bracing for the summer. This is the closest I’ve lived to the equator, and time will tell if I’ve moved to the Chicago of heat.
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.