WoolGatherer

See Darren run

Two weeks ago, my boy Darren ran in his first-ever 5K race, the Minnesota Ovarian Cancer Alliance's Silent No More fundraiser. He ran in memory of my mom, who lost her life to ovarian cancer on August 30, 2004.

Since I'm barely able to walk this year (still wearing the boot), I was really pleased and touched when Darren suggested that he would run in my place.

He spent the summer training, often taking Hudson along on this route, and two weeks ago he finished the race in 29:19, meeting his goal of a sub-30 minute time. And more importantly, he raised over $1300 to help fight ovarian cancer.

I documented his successful racing debut with snapshots and a few videos.

Wearing a sticker with my mom's name on it. That sort of choked me up.

Here's the start of the race. (Notice how I totally jump when the starter pistol is fired.)

 

The race course was three laps around Lake Cornelia, in Edina, MN. Here's Darren passing me on his second lap. He looked really relaxed and comfortable.

 

At the finish line!

 

All in all, it was a great success, and I'm super proud of all the work Darren did. I really hope I'll be able to run with him next year!

Lots of weird soup

Until today, I haven't mentioned this here on WG, but for the last six weeks I've been working really hard at dropping weight.

After a come-to-Jesus visit to my doctor in July, (high blood pressure and the highest number I've seen on the scale in five years) I decided I need to get really serious about shedding the excess pounds I'd piled on since last fall. 

Under my endocrinologist's supervision, I started doing Medifast right after I got back from my trip out to New York (where I indulged in every culinary vice I could squeeze into one week.)

Medifast, which combines five very low-calorie mini-meals spaced throughout the day with one "real" meal of 7 ounces of lean protein and two cups of veggies, is a lot like being on the Atkins Diet--without the fun of eating bacon and cheese.

It's low carb, low-calorie. 1000 calories a day. No booze.

No, it's not very fun, especially when I want to sit on the deck with a margarita. But it's not terrible, either.

And more importantly, it's working extremely well. I'm rarely very hungry, and I feel great. I'm down 26 pounds since I started the program. My blood pressure has dropped, and my pants are falling off my hips. My plan is to stick it out until I lose a total of 50 pounds.

I hope things keep moving at this pace, because honestly I'm getting really tired of my food options--bars, shakes, funky pseudo-pretzels, and lots of re-hydrated soup. (I have given myself the occasional one or two day hiatus, just to keep myself sane.)

I know from experience that the real challenge of weight loss is keeping the pounds off. If go back to my life as it was in March, I don't have any chance of staying at a size I want to be. 

But I'm confident that I won't go hog wild once I return to people-food. I finally have achieved a level of success worth protecting, and I'm not eager to go through another summer of weird soup.

A walk in the park--and then some

On Sunday, Darren and I took part in the 2009 Minnesota AIDS Walk. The weather was perfect--temperatures in the upper 60s with bright sun and clear skies.

I can't really imagine slogging the whole 10K (6.2 mile) course in rain, because even with the best possible conditions, I was dead tired by the time we crossed the finish line. Blisters, sore ankles, and sunburn--but all in a good cause. I raised $600. Not as much as last year, but still a good chunk of cash. I thought today I would just post a few pictures from the day.

Here's I am with Darren, who's caffeinating as we wait to start the walk. (And yes, we do care, as the T-shirts suggest.)

 

My company team, nicely posed before the start of the Walk...

We walked the route with our friend Jay and his little dog Chelsea, whom we've babysat several times. Here are the handsome boys and the dainty lass.

 

It was a real relief to get home and take a nap after the long trek along the river. Now, three days later, my legs are still a bit sore. Worth it, though!

2009 Minnestoa AIDS Walk

Hi dearies. Yes, this post is nothing more than a naked plea for your hard-earned dollars. On May 17, Darren and I will be walking for the second time in the Minnesota AIDS Walk. Didn't we look adorable last year?

I know money is tight in these precarious financial times, but with AIDS cases steadily on the rise, the need for for donations has never been greater.

As last year, we'll be walking with my company's team. If you're so inclined, you can make your donation on my secure web page provided by the Minnesota AIDS Project.

Thank you for your (tax-deductible) generosity!

The nose knows

The Tuesday before Thanksgiving as I left work and contemplated the drudgery of of 45 minutes at the gym, I said to myself, "Screw it, I'll just go back Monday."

Nearly five months later, after a surfeit of indefensible sloth, unrestrained indulgence in food and drink, and a concomitant mysterious shrinkage of every pair pants in my closet, I have rededicated myself--yet again--to a regular exercise routine.

I'm not at all happy with the physical state I find myself in, but I'm choosing not to dwell. Instead I've decided to return to the Couch-to-5K Running Plan that I did a few years ago with quite good success.

Today was Day 3 of Week 1. If you followed the link above, you'll see that I'm not doing much running yet. That's good, because I'm in crappy shape.

Today's workout was greatly improved by the presence of the strapping young man on the treadmill just in front of me. Watching his well muscled legs powering along, I quickly slipped into my little fantasy world, in which overtaking the hunk means I can possess him. (In the Judy Tenuta usage of the word.)

A minute or two after he started jogging, the most wonderful cologne wafted back towards me. I have no idea what scent he was wearing, but it was intoxicating without being overwhelming. (I have a very fine nose, not quite in the league of Jean-Baptiste Grenouille, but pretty damn good.) Ah, entrancing. Once I even forgot to switch back to my walking pace for my 90 seconds of walking.

I firmly believe if that young man were in front of me, I could run a marathon. Or at least happily croak while trying.

Skeezy glances

I have a retinal schisis. Now don't go freaking out. It's not as oogie as it sounds.

It's a little hole down in the lower right corner of my retina. According to the retinal specialist I saw a couple months ago, it's not likely to result in a detachment or other nasty thing.

The only way I would know I have this little defect is that about five times a day, a little point of bright light zips across my upper field of vision.

That's actually pretty annoying when you get right down to it. I'll just be working or chatting with a friend, and suddenly my mini-light-show goes off.

Positive sort of chap that I am, I've named these flashes of light "my little pixie." Somehow that makes it better. I don't have a defect in my eye--I have a special little magical companion who visits me several times a day.

Aren't I a lucky man?

"Dude, just put down the fork."

 

That was the helpful advice offered to me by my (smokin' hot) personal trainer a four years ago.

Was that bit of wisdom worth the $100 an hour I was paying him?

No.

Looking up his shorts as he stood above me making me do crunches was worth at most $40 an hour. (Boxer briefs, navy.) I would have gladly paid him the remaining $60 just to not make me see stars and nearly puke from over-exertion.

Since that day my weight has been down, up, down, up, down, and currently UP. I'm upset with myself, yet I'm doing nothing to make things better.

Crap.

Just put down the fork. Easy for a 25 year old rugby player/personal trainer with 3% body fat to say.

Massage day!

For Christmas, Darren gave me three one-hour massage sessions at Quantum Massage Works. It was my "big gift" and one that I had asked for specifically.

This was a big step for me. Until last month, I had never had a professional massage. At least not a full "take-off-your-clothes-and-relax-on-the-table" massage. Last winter, on a day when I was had a really painful knot in my back, one of the massage therapists at my gym gave me a ten minute massage in one of those chair thingies.

That short session was pleasant enough, but I couldn't really relax too much given the fact that we were in the hallway by the front desk with a constant stream of people traipsing past. I could only see their feet, but it was hard hard to shut the world out under those less than ideal circumstances.

As someone who has always suffered from anxiety, I'm exactly the sort of person who would benefit from regular massages. However, part of my anxiety has always centered around physical contact with other people. I didn't want intruding hands to brush against what my baggy sweatshirts were meant hide in the "chestal area."

Anyway to make a short story shorter, at the urging of my friend Going 40, I finally let go of that neurotic crap and had my first massage the week after Christmas. Ooh, baby!

As they say can happen with heroin, I was addicted the first time I tried it.

Counting the minutes until 2:45 this afternoon...

Condoms, condoms, and more condoms

One of the very cool things about my job is that all employees get sixteen hours of paid time each year for community volunteer work.

Last Friday afternoon several of my friends from the gay employee group and I spent a couple hours helping out at the the Minnesota AIDS Project. It was a great experience, and I definitely plan to go back again.

After an informative and interesting tour of the facilty, our pleasant volunteer coordinator put us to work assembling safe sex kits. Each little ziplock baggie got four condoms, a packet of lube, and a fact sheet on lowering risking of HIV infection.

I honestly don't think I'd ever seen so many condoms before. It was quite informative. For example, since I'm not really a connoisseur of condoms, I had been unaware that there was a a self-proclaimed "Official Hip-Hop Condom."

Yes, roll on a Rottweiler, boys, and you are the height of urban contemporary sexual fashion. (Somehow I find the combination of snarling dogs and willies off-putting, but maybe that's just me.)

We had literally a dozen types of condoms to choose from as we assembled our kits, and I enjoyed making fun combo-packs, e.g. a Rottweiler, a Lifestyles Kiss of Mint, a snug-fit, and a Dual-Pleasure with extra room at the tip.

Since I had no way of knowing the girth or favorite flavors of the people would be receiving these care packages, I thought it wise to cover my bases.

Apart from some seriously slippery fingers (some of the lubricated condoms' packets in the heaps we worked through had leaked onto their neighbors) it was a really pleasant experience. I plan to go back with Darren and some friends to volunteer again sometime soon. It's a great cause, and I can always use help fighting dry winter skin.

Walking in the rain

The weather on Saturday didn't really cooperate for the Silent No More ovarian cancer fundraiser, but even a soaking rain did little to dampen the spirits of the huge crowd that gathered on the shore of Lake Cornelia.

Darren and I arrived about 8:15 and got registered. Then we stood in the drizzle, had some muffins and coffee, and did a lot of people- and dog-watching as we waited for the walk to start.

Here people stand in line to register. I definitely could tell that there were more walkers than I saw three years ago when I ran the 5K.

Here I am sporting my official number (whatever that was for in a walk). I'm also wearing a tribute sticker saying that I'm walking in memory of my mom.

This is the tent where people could fill out their tribute stickers. Sadly, it was a very busy place. I got a little teary at this point, as I stood surrounded by so many other people who had lost loved ones to ovarian cancer.

The runners lined up at 9:00, just as a steady rain began to fall.

These women, who were dressed for "combat with cancer," happily posed for me.

This is the only shot I took during the walk itself, because I didn't want to get my camera wet. I was soaked to the skin when we reached the end of the route.

It's too bad the day was so wet and dreary, but people didn't seem to mind. We were there for more than a walk in the park.

And thanks to my generous friends and family, I surpassed my $1000 goal. Thanks again to everyone who was kind enough to donate!

Thanks again!

This Saturday morning, Darren are going to take part in the ovarian cancer fundraiser I've mentioned a couple times here on WoolGatherer.

I'm looking forward to the event, even though it will be heart-wrenching to see so many women, many of them just in their 20's or 30's, who are clearly undergoing chemotherapy. It's also very sad to see whole groups of people wearing shirts bearing pictures of a mother, a sister, or a friend lost to ovarian cancer.

My memory from three years ago, however, suggests that the sadness will be surpassed by a sense of shared hope and determination to do something--to fight, especially for those who have lost their own battles or are too sick to do more than watch the runners and walkers.

As I told you, my recalcitrant ankle has insisted that I give up the running, but the silver lining there is that now Darren will walk with me, and we can both wear my mom's name on our shirts.

Thanks to generous donations from a number of you great WG readers (most of whom I've never even met in person!), along with contributions from friends and family, I've raised just under $1000. (There's still time to push me over the top...)

I truly appreciate your generosity, and I know my mother would appreciate it to.

I'll post pictures from the event next week.

Again, many thanks!

~ Sean

Everybody walk your body...

Attention everybody! I'm gonna show you a brand new dance.

It's called The walk, the walk, just let your body talk 'til you're deep in a trance.

You don't need no partner, you can walk all alone.

Whenever you feel the groove just let your body move, walkin' to a beat of your own.

- The Time, The Walk

In addition to encouraging you to go check out Morris Day's sexy-cool vibe on a 1982 funk classic, this is my subtle way of informing you that I will be availing myself of the "walk" option in the ovarian cancer walk/run fundraiser I'm doing next month.

You see, I'm lame. And I mean that literally, as well as figuratively.

After each day that I train by doing some SLOW jogging to train for the 5K, I have three or four days of pain in my left ankle that has me hobbling like a 90-year-old and is bad enough to wake me up in the night.

Don't they say that pain is your body's way of saying "STOP what you're doing?" Well, unless "they" are the Marines, in which case pain is "weakness leaving the body." I'm not a Marine, so I'm going to listen to my body and stop.

I really did want want to do the run again, but I don't think my mom would want to see me spend the fall in a cast (or an iron lung for that matter).

The central points remain the same.

• Cancer sucks, and I want to do my small part to fight it.
• These boots were made for walkin', and that's just what they'll do.

PS: What's the last blog you visited that quoted Morris Day and Nancy Sinatra in the same post? I'm surprised it happened, too.

Slow and painful progress

I haven't written much about my preparations for my 5K fundraiser.  [At least my donation page is more accessible, now though.]

That's because there hasn't been much to talk about. I bought the ugly running shoes, and then I sort of stalled out when it came to doing the running part.

With August nearly half over and September 13 looming, last week I finally got myself into gear and started training by jogging near my home.

Wow does it suck. I had forgotten how much I hate running. My body is deeply offended by it somehow.

It's pretty embarrassing to admit, especially when I have friends preparing for a marathon, that running a mere 5K seems nearly impossible to me. I've done it before, so I know I can do it again, but nonetheless I often think that I will literally croak before I reach that 3.2 miles.

The amazing thing is that as much as I dread putting on my running shoes and heading out the door, I am making progress.

Tortuous, miserable progress.

I'm running about three times farther at a stretch this week than I could last week. My body never stops feeling like an enormous leaden weight that I have to drag forward step by laborious step, but each time I head out on my carefully measured training course, I find that I can haul my bulk a bit farther.

I'm not quite sure if I'm progressing at a rate that will have me ready to run the full 5K in a month, but I would like to make it most of the route without having to walk too much.

I know that the real point of doing the 5K is to raise money for cancer research, but I don't want to look like a complete tool, either.

I'll keep you posted.

~WG

Some damn ugly shoes

These are easily the ugliest shoes I have ever purchased. (However, they are not by any means the ugliest shoes I saw in the store where I bought these lovelies.)

They are also the second most expensive shoes I own, but it's really the ugly part that has got me down.

I'm not kidding. I even feel slightly nauseated looking at them.

I think the nausea stems in part from the fact that the soles of these running shoes appear to be made from squid tentacles. I mean, don't those look like suckers to you??

As I have no doubt mentioned, I'm extremely allergic to squid (and octopus and for that matter), and even though I strongly doubt that any squid went into the construction of this pair of shoes, even the most tenuous mental association with vomiting after eating squid in black bean sauce is enough to make me feel a bit oogie. (Come to thin of it, running makes me feel oogie, too.)

Then there's that hideous greenish-yellow color that's reminiscent of the acid blood of the aliens in the Alien series of sci-fi movies.

That alien blood is some nasty stuff. Do I really want molecular acid on the soles my shoes? I already have enough trouble with blisters as it is. (Why not diamonds on the soles or my shoes? Wouldn't that be much nicer all the way around?)

I suppose these aesthetic considerations should really viewed as secondary to my athletic need for a really good stability running shoe that corrects my severe over-pronation.

Yes it seem I'm going to try to try to start doing some running again.

You heard right. Running. With my 41-year-old tree trunk legs.

I assure you that I am not even remotely considering running a marathon like my friends Scott and Eric. (Okay, I suppose that could happen someday, and when it does, I'm sure my wife and six kids will be there to watch me cross the finish line...)

No, I'm hoping to run a meager 5K race in September. I've registered to run in the Silent No More Walk/Run 5K, an ovarian cancer fundraiser that I participated in once before, three years ago, to mark the one year anniversary of my mother's death. Last time I ran (jogged) the 5K, I raised over $1000. I also lost a few pounds, and I got my gams looking a bit leaner. 

I figure that: 1) I know twice as many people now as I knew then (hence greater fund-raising potential); 2) I still need to lose a few (many) pounds; 3) my gams could stand to look even better; 4) and most importantly, ovarian cancer still claims far too many women's lives.

So after work on Monday I went to the mall, and after some hemming and hawing and consulting with a very friendly young salesperson, I bought these blue and green abominations.

Ugly though the shoes are, they feel great on my feet, and I need to keep that point firmly in mind.

In the next few weeks, I'll share more about the upcoming fundraise and I will shamelessly ask for your donations to the worthy cause of fighting ovarian cancer, a horrible illness that just really really sucks.

Slow of foot but steadfast in purpose,

~WG

(Not doin') The Jitterbug

About two years ago, my endocrinologist (whom I like enormously, even though he is usually running 45 minutes behind), in an increasingly direct effort to spur me to lose weight, put me on Phentermine.

Phentermine is a time-released amphetamine that suppresses appetite and modestly boosts metabolism, helping to increase the rate at which calories are burned.

I'm told that it can be abused by crushing and snorting it, thereby circumventing the time release and delivering the full kick all at once. That sounds dreadful to me; as someone who has suffered from anxiety since childhood, my stress needle is always hovering perilously close to red. And that's with anti-anxiety meds.

So it was with some trepidation (naturally, as I always have some trepidation) that I agreed to take a drug that can jitters and heightened anxiety. When I expressed such concerns to my doctor, he told that I would feel like I'd had shot of espresso.

I love espresso, so that didn't sound so bad.

So I started on a fairly low dose. The only side-effect that bothered me at times was dry mouth, as in having my lips stick to my teeth when I tried to talk. That passed after a few weeks, though, and I did notice that I had much less appetite.

I didn't lose weight, but I didn't gain.

So, my dosage was upped several more times over the last year. I lost a few pounds.

During that year, I moved from a job that consisted of sitting at a desk and doing literally nothing to sitting at a desk and scrambling like mad all day to accomplishing a thousand tasks from--complicated and time consuming to quick and routine. The new job is fifty times better than the old job, but it actually has elements that would produce stress in a normal person. And I'm not even a remotely normal person.

In the past few weeks, I've found myself sitting at my desk with my heart racing wildly, even when nothing much is going on. That feeling is usually coupled with a near-overwhelming need to shriek and run in all directions at the same time. So far that hasn't happened (nor do I even know how to run in all directions at once), but the feeling is extremely unpleasant. It's not panic attacks, because I know what those are like. It's just my mental motor revving way, WAY too fast.

When I told Darren about how I've been feeling, he suggested that I should consider going off the Phentermine to see if I felt less frantic. Sure, why not, I figured. It wasn't like the pounds were just melting off anyway.

I'm now five days off the pills, and I do feel somewhat less shrieky. I'm also hungry and sleepy most of the time. That's not so cool.

However, work week has been insane, and it's only Tuesday night as I write this. I'm not quite sure how I'll get through three more days without going koo-koo for Cocoa Puffs.

Running for the shelter of Mother's little helper,

~WG

Straight to the bottom

If you must know, I can't swim.

I mean I can only sort of swim.

For twenty or thirty seconds.

As long as my face stays out of the water.

And I can put my feet down at any time and stand up.

But if I ever fell off a boat (say on a lake or river cruise), or even tumbled into the deep end of a pool and couldn't reach the side, I would be totally screwed.

Sure, I can float on my back. But panic would soon set in, I'd start flailing my silly little hands, and before you know it, I'd be in Davey Jones' Locker, even in nine feet of water. (Yes, I know that drowned people float, but I have a feeling I'm different.)

For over twenty years, my inability to swim didn't bother me in the least, because I'd have sooner set myself on fire than take off my shirt in front of other humans and hop into a pool. It was completely out of the realm of possibility. (Although I suppose that at some point in the self-immolation, the water might start to look more appealing.)

It was three years ago that I first set foot in a pool again. It was already several years after my mastectomies and chest liposuction, but I had still never worked up the courage to go swimming. Darren's sister had a pool at her house, and since it was basically a private setting, I finally was able to take the plunge, as it were.

I immediately remembered how much I liked being in the water, but it also struck me that I really have no clue what to do once I'm in it.

Even when I was a kid, I never learned to tread water or do real strokes. I just splashed and bobbed around the shallow end of the pool to cool off on hot summer days. I've never gone down a water slide, jumped off a diving board, or dived head-first into water. (It's still beyond me how anyone can do that last one.)

In third grade I did take beginning swimming lessons at the YMCA, but after foundering one day in the deep end while struggling miserably to traverse the pool (and subsequently needing to be rescued by the teacher), I begged my parents to let me drop out of the class. My pleas fell on deaf ears.

I was forced to concoct a devious plan.

The next day I changed into my swimsuit (with a little picture of Flipper on the right hip) but then hung back and hid in the locker room when the other kids headed down to the pool. I figured I'd just wait out the class, then wet my hair with water from the sink, and meet my dad in front of the YMCA in an hour. No one would be the wiser. Since the class only lasted two weeks, I figured I only had to pull my scam six more times and I'd be home free.

Much to my chagrin, the instructor came back to the locker room to find me. He asked me if I wasn't feeling well, I told him tearfully that I was too scared to go back into the water.

He crouched down to look me in the eye and said he would make sure nothing happened to me. He was very kind, and he called me "Sean Connery," which made me feel cool. (I also remember being very intrigued by his muscular thighs and hairy stomach. I was one very queer third grader.)

I let him walk me to the pool where the other kids were waiting impatiently for class to start. I have no memory of the class itself, and I don't recall if I ever went back to the YMCA. I don't think I did, because if I had finished the class, I'd probably be able to swim at least a little better today. Honestly, the last thing I remember about my swimming lessons is that guy's legs.

Anyway, thirty-two years later, my gym workouts are boring me to tears, and my calf, shoulder, ankle, or some other part of me is always in pain these days. I starting think it might be nice to try a form of exercise that is gentler on my body. (Not to mention that it would be cool to know how to stay alive in water if I ever had to.)

So I'm considering taking private swimming lessons at my health club. Just considering, mind you. Frankly, water remains scary to me, and it's also really hard to contemplate having to interact with a stranger while I'm shirtless.

All that makes me feel super lame (especially when I have a studly friend who's a triathlete), but I have never claimed to be other than an anxiety-plagued neurotic mess.

Pity poor Darren. He puts up with so much.

~WG

Boys (Would Like to be) Boys

(Continued from yesterday's post)

Of course, the doctor had been right to worry about my sexual health. My disgust with my own body crippled my self-confidence, and by my mid-twenties, I avoided even the most casual physical contact. I couldn’t risk a hand accidentally brushing against my abnormal chest.

Years passed.  I excelled in college, got a masters degree from Princeton, lived in Europe, and made lifelong friends.  Still I lived in a constant state of shame.

May of 2000 found me sullen and depressed. Minnesota’s short, glorious spring was in full bloom, yet I furiously resented the arrival of warmer weather and the need to wear lighter, more revealing clothes.

And suddenly, I’d simply had enough. Enough shame, enough hiding. It was time to act—I would finally seek out the surgery I had rejected as a teen. Two weeks later I listened to a handsome plastic surgeon explain how surgery could reshape me. I left his office with new, unfamiliar hope. I hadn’t lost my fear of surgery, but I had found a determination inside myself that fear wouldn’t prevent me from changing my body and my life.

A month later, my surgeon removed four pounds of excess breast tissue, performed a breast-lift, repositioned my nipples, and contoured my chest with liposuction.  This was no minor surgery, but it was the best $7000 I ever spent.

My recovery was slow and painful, but the transitory physical pain was much easier to bear than the emotional anguish I’d endured for twenty-five years. 

Do I have a perfect body today?

Certainly not. I’m forty-one years old, and I’m thirty pounds overweight. In other words, I’m an average American male, and I couldn't be happier about it.  I have a loving partner, a brilliant dog, a great job--and a swimsuit.

~WG

I was saving this for Oprah, but...

The following is a an essay that I submitted to Newsweek's My Turn column four months ago to no response.

Fine, I can handle rejection. But there's no reason you great folks shouldn't have to read this piece anyway.  Hope you find it interesting.

Boys (Would Like to be) Boys

On a late August evening in 1978, a classmate and I enjoyed a dip at the city pool. A cool breeze hinted at autumn’s approach, but we paddled languidly through the silky water and savored the dwindling days of summer.

As we stood on the warm asphalt and toweled ourselves dry beside my dad's rusty Dodge Dart, my friend proclaimed, "You sure have big boobs!”

Flushed with shame, I wrapped my towel tightly around my chest during the ride home.

I didn’t swim again for nearly thirty years; after that night at the pool, I saw myself as a freak. I even coined a secret, hateful name for myself: Tit-Boy.

For months, my breasts had been swollen and tender, but I had no clue what to do about my problem. So, from puberty on, I did my utmost to hide my feminine chest.

Gym class posed a serious challenge, but I had an exemption from showering—a precious doctor's note describing the potential peril of water entering my perforated right ear-drum. If I was always first into the locker room, I could quickly change without being seen.  Problem solved.

It was a good system, but a bum ear couldn’t excuse me from the annual scoliosis check.

“Shirts off and line up, ladies!” bellowed my bull-necked gym teacher.

With no means of no escape, I waited with the other boys, who had flat,  muscular chests.

Finally, my turn came.  The verdict was swift and brutal.

“Nice jugs, Dilley!” 

The dank locker-room echoed with my classmates’ raucous laughter.

For men with gynecomastia—abnormally large breasts caused by hormonal imbalance—life is a series of such mortifying moments.

For twenty-five years, I lived in constant fear of being “discovered.” I hunched my shoulders, shunned the beach and the locker room, and sweltered under bulky clothing that obscured my hated man-teats. Even a simple game of pick-up basketball became a source of panic, as players were divided willy nilly into “shirts” or “skins.”

It never occurred to me to ask my parents about the troubling changes in my body. In my strictly Roman Catholic family, any subject remotely related to sex was taboo. Even if my parents would have talked about such matters, my shame about my physical abnormality would have silenced me.

For years, I successfully hid my gynecomastia from my mom and dad, but that changed abruptly with the physical examination required for college admission. 

“Well,” said my doctor somewhat disdainfully, “you’re not exactly normal, are you?” 

Six weeks later, I was at the Mayo Clinic being prodded by a brusque, icy-handed Filipino endocrinologist and a gaggle of medical students who discussed me as though I weren’t even there. I counted the discolored ceiling tiles above my head and wished the earth would swallow me up. 

I received a clean bill of health, but to my dismay, I learned that only a mastectomy could give me the flat chest I desperately craved. Surgery terrified me, so despite the doctor’s awkward, well intentioned advice that the operation would “make dating easier,” I firmly rejected the idea.

“Oh, this won’t affect my dating,” I blithely assured him.

Sadly, that was true. 

At nineteen I was resigned to celibacy. It was far preferable to a life of ridicule.  (Even now, if Viagra commercials are any indication, men suffer less stigma for having permanently flaccid penises than needing a sports bra when jogging.)

Reassured that I was physically healthy, my parents never mentioned my “problem” again. I started college and found a baggy sweatshirt to drape over myself for the next four years.

Essay concludes tomorrow...

~WG

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze, squeeze

No, I'm not doing kegels.

I'm just sitting here watching my left calf do its annoying little spastic dance.  It's been going more or less non-stop since yesterday afternoon. It's not painful, but I find it very disheartening to see that big lump of muscle jumping incessantly in a little syncopated rhythm all its own.

I'll try to distract myself by thinking pleasant thoughts. Hmm. Let's see:

• It's just 22 days until Darren and I get our  iPhones.
• I'm going out for tapas with four brilliant, witty friends a week from this Friday night.
• I'm nearly finished knitting another pair of socks.
• I'm getting to use my German at work with a client in Switzerland.
• Ryan Reynolds has never dumped me, causing me to write achingly beautiful songs of loss like the ones that fill the new Alanis Morrisette CD.
• Two cute, brainy gay boys are coming to dinner at our house on Sunday night.
• They will be dazzled by the no-knead bread I'll bake for them.
• I never paid money to see the awful movie Miami Vice in the theater. Colin Farrell or no Colin Farrell, it's unwatchable.
• Tomorrow is Friday.

Squeeze, squeeze, squeeze,

~WG

(Okay, those last ones were kegels...)

Bugger.

In sporting news, DAMN, SHIT, and HELL.

Yesterday morning as I swung my feet out of bed at the luxuriously late hour of 5:02 (thanks, Hudson--who needs those last 18 minutes of sleep anyway?), my habitual offender left calf muscle contorted itself in an extraordinarily painful spasm.

I tried to keep my yelps and curses from escalating to the point that they would wake Darren. I hopped on one foot into the bathroom, gritting my teeth along the way.

I closed the door and did my best to loosen the knotted muscles by stretching them in a couple of the ways my physical therapist showed me. After a minute or so, the calf was loose enough for me to put my weight on it, but it hurt like a son of a gun.

A ate my breakfast (a bowl of Special K and two Aleve gel-caps) with my calf resting on a heating pad, and by the time I left for work, the muscles were just aching, not throbbing.

Five hours later, I went for a walk at lunch with my pal Jay, and when I got back to my desk I was dismayed not only by my overburdened Outlook inbox, but also by a persistent series of muscle spams in that accursed calf. They continued on and off all afternoon. The calf had been sore at the gym on Monday, but I didn't expect a full-on flare-up.

On the way home from work I bought myself a six-pack of consoling Erdinger Hefeweizen, and as soon as I walked in the door, I called Park & Rec and canceled my enrollment in the evening tennis league that starts tomorrow. Since the first session hadn't started, I was able to get all my money refunded.

That's small consolation, however. I'm really discouraged today. I was so looking forward to playing tennis again this summer, and right now I don't know if I'll be able to. My biggest fear is to take the court, play for a few minutes, and then hear that sickening pop as my tendon tears loose. That would pretty much spoil the rest of the summer.

At least this way, I can keep exercising, even if my routine at the gym is boring me to tears. The last thing I want to do is end up with sitting around with a gimpy leg and gaining back the five pounds I've shed this spring. (Plus an additional ten.)

I suppose I could consider adding--I can't believe I'm saying this--swimming to my routine. I'm pretty sure that no one at my gym is prepared for the ghastly sight of me in swim trunks, but the elliptical machine is slowly driving me mad. I may need to test the waters, as it were.

In conclusion, BUGGER!!!

~WG

A walk in the park

It was a fairly long walk in the park (10km), but the MN AIDS Walk last Sunday was a really uplifting and enjoyable experience. We had bright sun, comfortably cool temperatures, and large crowds of exuberant walkers who turned out to help raise money to fight the spread of HIV/AIDS. 

Darren and I left our car at a park-and-ride and took light rail to the event to avoid fighting for a parking spot. Minnehaha Park was already filling up the by time we arrived at 9:45.

People people everywhere

We soon found the team of walkers from my company, and we stood around chatting while we waited for our team picture to be taken prior to the start of the walk.

Darren and I do our Minnesota Twins impression

Darren with our friends David and Jason. (Jason had completed the 10K run in 46 minutes--the same length of time it took me to run my 5K a few years back. WG has quick wits but slow treetrunk legs.)

The starting line

I had intended to take pictures during the walk, too, but I got so caught up in talking to other walkers that I plumb forgot. D'oh!

We finished the 6.2 mile course in just under 2.5 hours, and then we enjoyed some popsicles that Whole Foods volunteers were handing out.

It was a really great way to spend a lovely Sunday morning, and between us, Darren and I raised $1000 in donations. I'll definitely do the Walk again next year. 

With sore feet,

~WG

Twenty-three-year-olds can be really stupid

It's 1990, and I'm playing an enjoyable tennis match with my friend Susan on a perfect late August afternoon.  Susan rips a flat forehand down the line and comes charging into the net behind it. 

As I spring like a little impala to return her approach shot, I actually hear the loud POP that accompanies the explosion of pain in my left calf muscle.  I collapse on the searing-hot court, holding my calf and writhing in agony.

It seemed I had done something not-so-terribly-good to my leg.

Bu did I go to the doctor?

No. 

For you see, I was stupid.

I iced, I elevated, and I rested my leg as much as I could. But I did not go to the doctor.

For you see, I was stupid.

My ankle turned a livid purple.  Purple later faded to sickly yellows and greens.  But I did not go to the doctor.

For you see, I was stupid.

Within a month, my leg was pretty much back to normal.  At least as far as I knew.

Jump ahead to fall of 2007.  That calf has decided to make me pay for my youthful stupidity with cramps, spasms, and painful tightness.

So, finally, after putting it off all winter, I'm getting physical therapy to soften and stretch the scar tissue that formed back in the '90s when I tore some things apart that were better off remaining attached together.

As I've been instructed to do, I heat my calf twice a day, stretch it carefully throughout the day.  I really hope I'll be able to play tennis this summer.

As I sit here with the heating pad under my calf, I think to myself, "Damn was I stupid when I was twenty-three."

~WG

Feeling stale at the gym

Words cannot adequately express how bored I am with my workout routine. I really hate going to the gym these days.

Not that I've been to the gym terribly often in the past few weeks. 

(Hmm.  Perhaps the two things are related?)

Lately at the gym I more or less force myself through thirty monotonous minutes on the elliptical machine, I do a few sit-ups and push-ups, and I high-tail it home.  It's better than doing nothing, but only barely. 

Each day as I leave work at 3:00, I try to convince myself to put on my gym clothes and go to Lifetime by thinking about how good I feel after I work out.  I know part of that feeling is from the endorphins released during exercise, but lately it's more like the old joke:

Sven:  Why do you hit yourself in the head with a hammer?
Ole:  Because it feels so good when I stop.

I try to use the time at the gym to clear my head of the events of work that day and think up possible topics for blogging. (What was on my mind yesterday, I wonder.) Failing that, I can at least admire the rich display of male pulchritude.  Or course, now with the arrival of warm weather, more of the hotties are exercising outdoors.  That lowers the crowding at the gym, but at the cost of making the place even less interesting.

At the very least, I'd like to switch the cardio machines I use, but my always-ready-to-flare-up-or-rip left calf muscle won't let me do the treadmill or the bike for more than a few minutes.  Right now the only thing I can do that doesn't hurt is the elliptical.  Swimming would be an option, I suppose.  If I knew how to swim (and had a pool all to myself so no one could see my fleshy form.)

This morning I'm finally being evaluated by a physical therapist.  I really hope I can get some help for my calves, because tennis season is upon us, and right now I don't think I could play without hurting myself.  I was so happy to be back on the court last summer, and I've been looking forward to playing again this year.

Not only is tennis the only exercise I've ever really enjoyed, but it's one of the only things that makes me think it might be nice to live someplace that's warm all year.  (Otherwise, I'm quite fond of the cold and the dark of Minnesota's seven month winter. Let's not forget I was a German major.)

I guess I'm just feeling crabby, doughy, and sorry for myself.  Why couldn't I enjoy eating and drinking 50% less, and exercising 50% more?  Is that so damn much to ask?

Thank God the trip to Germany is less than two weeks away.  I always walk off a few pounds when I go to Europe.

Sorry to have no real point while simultaneously being whiny and self-absorbed.  (What is this, a blog??)

~WG

Maybe this will help

Well, I saw the doctor yesterday, and to my boundless amazement, I weighed exactly the same as I did at my last appointment six months ago.

So, instead of the kind-hearted chiding I expected to receive, I was literally patted on the back for managing to maintain a steady weight through the holidays and my last eight weeks of sloth and excess.

Oddly enough, for the first portion of my appointment, we spoke German.  (His is really good for a "layman.")  During our chit-chat, he mentioned to me that his son is a dancer, is gay, and will be moving to New York to start college.   I thought it was very cool that he volunteered the information about his son. 

Anyway, I never had to drop my britches for the socially awkward you-know-what check, and more incredibly still, I didn't have to leave a single drop of my precious, precious blood behind.  (Many more exams like this, and I'll start to think the spark has left our relationship.)

We did talk about some strategies for adding more activity to my day (e.g. going for a two-minute walk every thirty minutes during the work day), and he praised me for my habit of printing out the weekly menu at the company cafeteria and highlighting the lowest calorie choices.  (And yes, I also eat those--I don't just highlight them.)

None of this changes the fact that I'm totally bored with my workouts lately.  Maybe the tiny gren toy I ordered from Apple will change that.  It's one of the new 2-gigabyte iPod Shuffles that just came out this week.  It won't be here for ten business days, but over the past weekend I put together a new 500-song workout smart playlist (with Darren's help setting up the parameters).   

A $69 Shuffle isn't as thrilling as an iPhone (we're waiting for the second generation to come out), but it's still pretty fun.  Plus, I also got it laser engraved with a line that I find amusing but am keeping to myself.

So, in summary: not as fat as I thought.  Could be thinner.  Tiny iPod purchased.

Now I must close, because the "bone" Hudson has been chewing for the past five minutes appears to my one of my USB thumb-drives. 

Peace out,

~WG

Bo shuda *

I'm feeling a bit like WG the Hutt lately, and it's not because I've sent bounty hunters chasing after Harrison Ford.

For a variety of reasons, some of them weak (e.g. it's -20 outside, and I can't bear to leave the house and go to the gym), some of them utterly farcical (e.g. my left thumb sort of hurts), I haven't been good about working out over the past few weeks. 

No, not good at all.

That hasn't meant, however, that I've been extra careful about my caloric intake.  The past week in particular, with the various birthday treats I've allowed myself (culminating in a truly wondrous tapas meal last Friday night), has left me feeling doughy and slightly too large for my skin.

I'm also constantly surrounded by food at work, and despite my best intentions, I find myself nibbling on cookies, bagels, and other pointless things, just because they're available.  Bad, bad, WG!

I know from past experience that after one good week back at the gym, I'll feel much better, both physically and emotionally, but unfortunately I have a doctor's appointment today. 

I would love to postpone it by two weeks, but since I've already done that twice, my conscience (and Darren, whom I told about the canceled appointments) won't let me wiggle out of it again.

Normally what I hate about these appointment with my endocrinologist is the blood draw (at least five vials), but this time what I'm really dreading is the weigh-in.

It's not that my doctor (a fellow Macalester grad, as it turns out) will shame me or scold me if I'm up a few pounds from six months ago, but he'll express kind and reasonable concern, and that's actually worse, because I know he's right. 

He'll encourage me (again) to take the clinic's four week course on nutrition, and I'll counter (again) that I know all about good nutrition, but I often choose to ignore what I know in favor of what I want.  (If only I had the iron will of some bloggers.)

On the other hand, I suppose I could luck out... 

If the doctor and I spend enough time discussing my dietary and fitness transgressions, maybe he'll forget that I'm due to have a certain, ahem, "non-analog" exam.

Oh, to face such humiliation on a Tuesday.  Sigh.

~WG

* For those of you who don't have every bit of dialog in the first three Star Wars movies memorized, "Bu shuda" is Jabba the Hutt's first line in Return of the Jedi.  But just FYI, there are bigger geeks than me.  Who knew?

I don't want to jinx things...

...but I think I have finally defeated the migraine that had kept me company since last Friday morning.  I've had a few twinges in the last 24 hours, but nothing like the constant hot-nail-in-the-side-of-the-head that had me feeling spacy, grumpy and super-duper gay (okay, that might not have been the migraine) for more than five days.

I guess I shouldn't brag--I did nothing that drove the headache away.  Apparently it finally wearied of me and moved on to torture some other poor fool. 

Nothing I tried seemed to have any effect.

I took over-the-counter painkillers.  Nada. 

I took my migraine medicine.  Worse than nada--chest pain, dizziness, and a flushed face.  Usually at least one of the three prescriptions I have does the trick, but not this time.  Grrrrr.

At least this wasn't like the migraines I used to get in junior high and high school.  They were truly incapacitating.  Once the initial partial blindness and subsequent puking stopped, I'd be in bed for days of noggin-throbbing misery.  That really sucked.

So, I'm more or less back to normal, though I still feel somewhat fragile and diminished at the present time.  Like Superman recovering from kryptonite exposure, something like that.

Now, if today were only Friday.  I'm really ready for the weekend. 

Peace out,

~WG

PS.  Sure, there's not Laundry Fairy to help me out around the house, but there's a freakin' Migraine Fairy?  Hardly seems fair.

Put that thing away... (cont.)

I was gratified, if somewhat surprised, by the number of responses I received to last week's post about my locker room neurosis.  It's nice to know that I'm not alone in feeling ill at ease in that peculiar, damp setting.

As I was reading your various comments and emails, it occurred to me that I've endured mercifully few experiences like the awkward one I described, and I've never had something truly mortifying happen to me in the locker room. 

You know what I'm talking about. 

When I was a teen, a poor guy I knew at the public high school, suffered an involuntary physical response that earned himself the indelible moniker of "Shower-Boner."  (Fortunately, with the help of the Federal Witness Protection Program, he and his family were able to start a new life in another part of the country.)

On the other hand, in the last couple years, I've seen men strolling casually through a packed locker room at 5:00 p.m. on a weekday, towel in hand (NOT around waist), sporting what looks suspiciously like, well, wood.  (Or something very close to that, at least.)

So what gives?  Are these guys exhibitionists?  Are they looking to hook up?  Or (as I would be be) are they desperately reciting state capitals in their heads, hoping that the mental exertion will draw blood upwards from the scene of the crime?   I suppose it's possible that they just don't give a damn what people see or think, but for an uptight Nervous Nelly like me, that's nearly impossible to grasp.  (C'est la vie has never been one of my catch phrases.)

I would love to ask the men next to me, "Did you see that?!?", but there appears to be a code of silence about such moments.  So, I just ponder the possible explanations as I walk, dazed and confused, to my car with my sweatpants on backwards and shoes on the wrong feet.

After witnessing such sights, at home I greet Darren with "You won't believe what I saw at the gym today!"  (He thinks it's weird, too.)

What bizarre gym behavior perplexes you?  Please share with the group...

~WG

1/11

Today is the one year anniversary of a not terribly fun event, my chest to crotch liposuction procedure.  The past year certainly zipped by quickly.  (But don't they all?)

For eight weeks post-op, I had to wear an incredibly tight compression vest over my chest, a wide wrap-around velcro band to squeeze my stomach and hold things in place while I healed, and--best of all--women's bike shorts, size SMALL.  (If you think that sounds extraordinarily uncomfortable, you're barely scratching the surface of what it was really like.) I was a vision in surgical white, let me tell you.

Anyway, I'm supposed to make an appointment with my surgeon for my one year follow-up visit.  I guess I'll be a good little patient and set up the appointment, but I dread it. 

As soon as my jolly surgeon comes into the office, he'll whip out the horrible Polaroids (yes, actual Polaroids in 2007!) that he took of my naked, magic-markered-up bod just before I was wheeled into the operating room. 

I know the point is to remind me of how different I look now, and it's true that with the passage of time I have sort of forgotten my old shape, but I still hate seeing the nasty "Before" pictures.  (The lighting in the prep-room was not flattering, either.) 

There's just something slightly pervy about having someone show you naked pictures of yourself. 

My other fear is that he'll offer to perform a free touch-up on some part of me.  Sure, I'd love to have a little more fat removed, but for the surgery to be free, it would have to be performed under local anesthesia in his office.  That just does NOT sound fun.  (And I have confirmation that it's not fun from someone who experienced it first hand.) 

I also have very little desire to go through the recovery after another surgery, even a much more minor one than last year's. So I'd probably say no if he offers a touch-up. 

Probably. 

Get thee behind me, surgeon!

~WG

Cheek by jowl

When I got to the health club yesterday afternoon at 3:20, cars were already circling the lot as New Year's Resolution exercisers descended in their hordes.  I gritted my teeth and braced myself for an hour in a miserably packed gym.

Miraculously, I found a parking spot the moment I got into the lot.  Still, I was in a pissy mood after a stressy day at work wading through a project both tedious and complicated (sort of like learning German adjective endings, except this didn't take two years to get right).

"Fine, I got a parking spot, but all the damn machines will be taken," I groused to myself.

And so they were--except for my favorite elliptical machine, the one by the window, far away from the TV tuned to Fox News.  (I guess I should have bought a lottery ticket yesterday, too.) 

So, I hopped on the machine and did 40 minutes of good cardio.  There was one fly in the ointment, however--I was stuck next to Big Red Baby, who seemed to have spent his holidays growing both bigger and redder.  He passed much of his workout chatting on his cell phone in his strange piping voice that one might expect from a much smaller man (or an eighth grade girl).

On the upside, I was directly behind Mr. Buns of Steel 2008.  (I know the year is young to be handing out such an award, but the title is his in a walk, believe me.)  It's beyond my comprehension how anyone can do a solid half hour (or more) on a stair machine.  Not that I'm complaining about his gluteal stamina, mind you, but stair machines are my idea of hell.

When I wasn't admiring the display in front of me, I entertained myself by watching a mother/daughter duo to his right.  The mom was a bit on the chubby side, but she clearly knew her way around the cardio machines.  Her daughter, a surly looking girl of sixteen or so, was borderline morbidly obese and clearly less than enthused about being at a health club.  (One imagines the membership had been a Christmas gift of the unwelcome "Please take the hint" sort.) 

The mom got briskly to work, climbing stairs to nowhere and encouraging her daughter to get moving.  For five minutes, the girl struggled with the coordination required to operate the machine.  (I grant you, steppers are a little trickier than one first expects, but still, she was pretty lame.  She kept sinking to the ground with both feet flat on the floor.)

"My machine is broken!" she whined. 

Her mother assured her that it was in proper working order. "Watch me, hon--it's easy!"  [So not true--it completely sucks and it's a hell of a lot of work.]

Finally, the daughter got the hang of left-right-left-right, but within several minutes exhaustion set in and the whining returned with a vengeance. 

"Aren't we done YET??  I can't stand this!" 

I sympathized with her, even as I judged her for her foul temper.

A moment later she fell off the machine, and even Mom had to recognize that the workout was over. 

I doubt I'll see them there together this afternoon.

~WG

On the disabled list

I have been betrayed by my stupid COUS, and now it looks like I'll have to give up tennis until spring. 

Crap.

About a month ago, I was playing tennis when my left calf suddenly felt tight and painful.  I couldn't push off quickly with that leg, and it hurt when I moved my weight forward on my serve.  It wasn't excruciating, but it felt pretty bad.  Fortunately, I only had about five minutes left in my match, and I was able to lose and then hobble home without further incident. 

Once I sat down on my couch, though, I started having really bad spasms in that calf.  I iced it, took some Aleve, and skipped a couple trips to the gym.  Within a few days I felt back to normal.

Two weeks later, the same thing happened again at the very start of my tennis match, even though I had been resting the leg.  That wasn't fun.  I probably should have quit immediately, but since it was doubles, I decided to keep playing but be mostly inert rather than have the match end for the three other people.

This is familiar territory for me.  Back when I was in grad school, I twice tore that calf muscle very badly (picture a purple and black ankle that turned yellow, green, and then finally back to normal), and I could barely walk for weeks.  I'd rather not experience that special sort of fun again. 

I was supposed to play tennis last Thursday, but I found a substitute for myself.  I hoped that in three weeks, I'd be ready to play my next match.

I guess that was overly optimistic.  Wednesday night, after my coffee with Michael, I was walking briskly in the freezing cold, and suddenly that left calf seized up again.  It's still pretty sore today, too.  I'm definitely going to take a tennis hiatus rather than risk a more severe injury.

I guess you could say that my calf is my Achilles heel. Pretty discouraging. 

Well, at least it's Friday.  Have a good weekend, kids!

~WG

PS.  Crunches peformed this week: 550

Bunches of crunches

In response to my recent rant about how I detest working on my abs, I received an intriguing comment and challenge from fellow blogger knitguyla.  He wrote:

"So I've got an idea. Have you seen the 100 miles in 3 months challenge on some of the knitting blogs? Basically, everyone commits to run or jog 100 miles in 3 months and post their progress on their blogs. I say we create a challenge of our own. We already do the cardio but won't commit to the core work, right? 4,500 crunches in three months, that's approximately 50 sit-ups a day for three months."

I thought that was a cool idea.  I've been doing at least 50 crunches (and leg lifts, which for our purpose we will count as the same thing) for the past two weeks.  I might as well tally them up for a while and watch the numbers climb.

If I can find some sort of widget to my blog to add things up for me as I go, I will.  Otherwise, I'll just present a weekly tally.  Feel free to join me.  Of course, I'm sure many of you have ripped abs already...

~WG

PS.  I thought it was pretty cool of me to find a guy doing crunches in such a way as to let us peek down his shorts.

 

Oh my achin' stomach

Unlike this remarkable specimen on our left, I don't spend much time at the gym working on my abs. 

Well, any time, when you get right down to it.

Yes, I know how important it is to have a strong core.  I knew that years prior to watching a Pilates DVD for five minutes.  (I then shelved it forever without even once getting down on the ground and exercising like the creepily smiling, steel-bellied automaton women in the video.)

See, I just hate doing abs.  I mean really, really hate it.  I don't mind "feeling the burn" in any other muscle group, but for some reason, feeling my stomach all tensed up and on fire makes me think I'm going to croak and puke.  (Though perhaps not in that order.  Hard to say.)

I have gone through phases where I do my crunches like a good boy, but somehow I always fall off the wagon. 

It starts innocently enough.  "Oh, look at the time!  I better get home and let Hudson out and start dinner.  I'll do some crunches or flutter-kicks tonight at home." 

But do I?  No.  And within weeks, my stomach is just along for the ride when I do cardio.

Well, that has to change.

With the return of my personal trainer from his Army deployment in Iraq, I've decided it's time to get back on that damn exercise ball and do crunches until I just wish someone would shoot me in the neck. 

Because here's the deal--I plan to sign up for some training sessions after Christmas.  If I haven't been working on my abs for months before C. starts putting me through the wringer, I'm going to end up in a full body cast.  This guy is hard core.

So yesterday I did the full the strength training regimen he designed for me three years ago.  I was careful not to overdue it, so I hit all the muscle groups, but only one set of each.  (I've also been skipping my legs.  And lower back.  For a couple years.)

Forty-five minutes later I could barely drag myself out to my car.  My arms, chest, shoulders and back felt fine, but my legs were like Jello and my poor flabby tummy was NOT happy with me.

Fine, I'm not happy with it either.  Steps must be taken.

I just wish that I could be put under general anesthesia for two hours a day and be forced to do crunches while making those bizarre twisting motions people do while holding a ten pound medicine ball.  Is that too much to ask?

In conclusion, crunches suck.

~WG

PS.  At least this meandering little rant provide a good excuse to publish more eye-candy...

I never forget a sexy calf

Yesterday, after an invigorating workout at the gym, I received a pleasant surprise that really made my day. 

I was stretching near the trainers' desk, and as I glanced to my left, I saw one of the personal trainers seated with his back to me, talking on the phone.

It stands to reason that most of the personal trainers have nice bodies, but this fellow--at least what I could see of him--was particularly scrumptious. 

"Wow, those are some damn fine calves," I thought to myself.  Defined, muscular, but not COUS, either. 

I continued to admire the shapely fellow as I finished my stretches.

Hmmmmmmm. 

Did I recognize those sexy gams? 

I was overcome by a strong sense of deja-cruise. 

Hadn't I done crunches with those shapely legs standing next to me?  They looked a lot like the sturdy legs of my smokin' hot personal trainer, C., who was sent to Iraq two years ago with his Army Reserve unit.  Could it be him?

Lo and behold, the hottie turned around, and it was C.. 

He gave me a wave and a big smile.  "Hey, Sean, how's it going'?"  he called out.

My heart skipped a few beats.  He was still exceptionally dreamy, even though two years seeing horrible things in the desert heat had roughened his formerly boyish face. 

He was still chatting on the phone, so I wasn't able to talk with him beyond our quick greeting.  But it's good to know (1) He wasn't killed or maimed while on infantry patrol; (2) He's back working at the gym, so I'll get to talk to him sometime this week.

You know, maybe my workout routine could use a little professional guidance, just to shake things up... (Though for $100 an hour, I suppose there are handsome men out there who would offer services more pleasant than forcing me to do crunches until I puke.)

Do you think he noticed that I weigh twenty pounds less than the last time he saw me? 

~WG

C.O.U.S.

The other day at the gym, as I sweated for thirty minutes on the elliptical machine, I observed a very fit young man who was focusing an enormous amount of attention on his calves.  His right calf sported a large tattoo of an upsilon; the left was unadorned, apart from a sexy dusting of light brown hair. 

With a heavy stack of weight on his shoulders, this twenty-something hunk did set after set of calf raises: up on his tippy-toes, and down, over and over and over.  This went on for a good twenty minutes (with short rest and water breaks between sets).

Apparently, though his shapely calves looked rather delectable to me just as they were, attaining greater bulk was very important to this little stud muffin.

As his intense calf workout dragged on, I wanted to hop off the elliptical machine, interrupt him, point to my own tree-trunk legs, and warn, "Stop now, before it's too late!"

For you see, I am cursed with COUS.

Calves Of Unusual Size.

I don't owe my meaty calves to hours at the gym.  They're simply part of my genetic inheritance, like my dazzling blue eyes or my slightly crooked ring fingers. 

I have never worn a pair of cowboy boots in my life, but in high school I was forced to wear "boot-cut" jeans, simply because any other style was too tight in the calf.

It was Darren who was kind enough to bestow a fitting name on my lower extremities.  We were watching The Princess Bride at that time.  (Just as an aside, I still find that a charming film that holds up well to repeated viewings.  Moreover, were Cary Elwes and Robin Wright ever again quite so perfectly beautiful?)

If you recall, among the many obstacles that dashing young Wesley and lovely Buttercup have to overcome in their attempt to escape the vile Prince Humperdink are the dreaded ROUS, or Rodents Of Unusual Size.

After Wesley bravely dispatched these over-sized vermin, Darren looked at me with a sly grin and said, "Do you know what you have?  COUS!" 

I knew immediately what the C stood for. 

Hey, I'm fine with that.  Too bad the first letter isn't a P, though.

~WG

Huh.

Well, it appears I oinked too soon.  Yesterday, to my pleasant surprise, my endocrinologist complimented me on my weight loss progress.  I had dropped five pounds since my last visit.  That was something of a shock.

But hey, good for me, right?

I told my doctor that I had recently been to Las Vegas, and while what happens in Vegas may stay in Vegas, I'm pretty sure what pounds you pack on at the great restaurants out there do come home with you.

The doctor has assigned me a new goal of dropping five more pounds in six months.  That's totally doable, even with the holidays coming up not so long from now.

So I left the doctor's office feeling really good.  I didn't escape the needle jab (those endocrinologists love blood, I tell ya), but at least I didn't feel like a big blimp as a got into my car to come home.

Small victories.

~WG

Oink

Does anyone else find it odd that for decades, Porky Pig has gotten away with wearing nothing from the waist down but a pair of black pumps?  Hell, he's not even wearing a shirt--just a jacket and a bow tie.  That's one pervy porker.

Anyway, I'm feeling a bit porcine as I contemplate a 4:00 appointment with my doctor today.  If were on the schedule he suggested for me, I would weigh at least five pounds less than I did when we met in February.  Instead, I think it's likely that I will be up three or four. 

Damn.

I was down those five pounds a couple months ago.  Interval training at the gym, tennis, lifting, all of these things helped me drop some weight without too much trouble.

Then came July: a debauched Las Vegas vacation that kicked off a couple weeks of celebratory dinners and good-bye lunches as I left my old job.  Then the new job, with a great cafeteria and the anxiety that tends to make me snack.   I was still working out, but not enough to make up for pigging out. 

Sigh.  Food is so much nicer than sweating.

Once again today, I'll be pressured to sign up for nutrition classes at the clinic.  No thanks.  I know exactly what I need to do to lose weight.  I know what a carbohydrate is.  I know that my servings of lean meat should be the size of a deck of cards.  I also know that sometimes I just don't care.

And that's all, folks.

~WG

Treading water

I had a doctor's appointment yesterday that has left me feeling discouraged, frustrated, and pissy. 

In the past year I have worked out an average of four days a week, had six thousand dollars worth of liposuction, and not eaten a tenth of the all stuff I would have dearly loved to eat.

As a result of my strenuous efforts and not inconsiderable physical suffering, I weigh exactly what I did one year ago at my first appointment with my doctor.  That number on the scale is still approximately forty pounds too high.

To quote the Bard, D'OH!

I do know that my bodacious bod has a more appealing contour than it did a year ago.  Thanks to my surgery, my waist is several inches smaller, as are my stomach and chest.  I no longer have love handles.   Regular strength training has built up my chest muscles and shoulders.  These are all good things, and I'm grateful for the positive changes I see in the mirror. 

Still, it's utterly maddening to me that had I NOT spent all the hours at the gym in the last year, I would have likely gained God only knows how much weight.  That's the part that really freaks me out.  It's like my body has some secret, devious plan to reach 350 pounds, and if I'm not constantly starving myself or sweating on some horrid cardio machine at the gym, my cells are busily squirreling away adipose for some erroneously anticipated future famine.  It's all so dreadfully unnecessary.

So, what is my response today?  I'm sitting in a cafe, whining to you when I should be at the gym sweatin' to the oldies.   I've had a decaf coffee.  I wanted a scone.  And now I'd love to go have a beer.

Instead I'll go home and sip some ice water.  Mmmmm, satisfying.

Sorry to bitch so self-indulgently,

~WG

The Mummy Returns

Just a quick update from the surgical ward.  It has been a pretty unpleasant, boring few days here at WoolGatherer Central. 

I'll spare you the gory details, but I'm still wrapped up snugly in my sexy-sexy compression garments, and most of my torso glows in vibrant shades of purple and yellow.  My body is sort of like a swollen, corpulent sunset, if you will.

Darren has taken great care of me, despite my narcotic-fueled demands for him to entertain me by single-handedly performing the entire musical Mama Mia.  He's a trooper, that Darren.  A Super Trooper. (But he's still missing his cues on Voulez-Vous.  We'll have to work on that.)

This afternoon I have my first post-op appointment with the surgeon.  I dread the alarming denouement when the bandages come off--I went through hell to look like THAT?  (Yes, yes, healing takes time, I know.  Still sucks.) 

Once I have the surgeon's stamp of approval, I'll finally be able to take a shower.  Hurray!  This poor old body of my mine has been through a lot since last Thursday morning, and sponge baths of my non-bandaged areas simply aren't cutting it in the hygiene department.  As a consequence, I don't feel (or smell) terribly, um, fresh.  No, Precious, not fresh at all.

Tomorrow is supposed to be my first day back at work.  Given how uncomfortable I am today, it's difficult to imagine lasting all day sitting at my desk.  It's hard enough spending time there when I'm not bruised and battered, for Pete's sake.

So, that's the latest on your pal WG.  I look and feel like hell, though a slightly better version of hell than yesterday or the day before.  One hopes this will be the trend.

Happy MLK to those of you lucky enough (like me) to have the day off.

~WG

Say hello to my little friends

I'm up at 3:30 a.m. because my Percocet wore off in the night and I forgot to keep more pills on my night stand.  D'oh!

I had read that day three after my liposuction would be the worst  for pain and swelling, and so far that appears to be true.  I could barely hoist myself out of bed. 

I'm amazed that I was able to sneak out of the bedroom without Hudson immediately hopping up and thinking he is owed his breakfast. Those two days at daycare really worked their magic on him, it seems; he's one tired pup.

Ah--I spoke to soon.  Hudson started whining at the bedroom door to be let out. Now he's lying on my lap, sound asleep.  Since it's just 2 degrees outside right not, I hope he'll sleep until his other daddy wakes up.  I really don't want to go out in the cold.  I dread the thought I trying to get into my winter coat.  So much moving around, lifting of the arms, etc..

Oh thank god, my pain killers are kicking in.  Guess I'll climb back into bed.  Sorry to be so Judy Garland / Valley of the Dolls in this post.  I hope to be back to my usual chipper self soon.

~WG

Home safe and sound

Hi all.  Well, it's all over.  I'm home, high as a kite on Percoset, and wrapped up like a mummy.  The surgery went well, I'm told.

I'm quite sore, and I can't keep my eyes open. 

WAY too many people saw my naked body today.  The male surgical nurse who washed me all over before the operation was a knitter, so as he swabbed my nooks and crannies, we talked about yarn.  Helped distract me from the indignity of it all.

Thanks for the many kind words, everyone!

~WG

A bit of body-work

It's a something of a nervous morning here in the WG household.  This morning I am having some outpatient cosmetic surgery, a preemptive strike against the ravages of time before the big 40th birthday, which looms just a few weeks away. 

No worries, I won't be changing the elegant structure of my chiseled, manly face.  (I hear you heave a sigh of relief.)  Instead, I'm having a few pounds of icky, jiggly exercise-resistant fat suctioned off my torso. 

I have felt a little sheepish about mentioning this on the blog.  I'm not quite sure why, really.  I'm not ashamed of wanting to reshape my body this way.  It's something I've considered for some time, and I'm really looking forward to shopping for pants and other clothes that have been ill suited to my somewhat lumpy body up until now. 

Darren has been very supportive of my decision, even though he tells me often that he loves me just the way I am, lumps and all.  (That Darren is quite a fella, let me tell you.  I plan to keep him around.)   He's taking the day off to help care for me, though I'm hopeful that I won't be too needy when we get home this afternoon.  Mostly I'll just sleep, I expect.  Hudson is going to have a short vacation with his canine buddies at daycare, so I can convalesce without him walking on me this first day or two.  He's a sweet pup, but I'd rather not have him jumping on me while I'm trying to sleep.

So, that's the scoop.  I may not post for a couple days, but then again I might.  I'll just play it by ear.  Wish me luck.

~WG

PS--Ten extra credit points to anyone who can explain the allusion to Fight Club...