You bet your BOTTOM dollar, you SHOULDN'T read this post

I have written and deleted, and then rewritten and redeleted this post 100 times. For the most part, I think it is a fine post… 60% of the way through. That’s when the story becomes unreadable. After much thought, I have decided to write the post, in its entirety. However, because I have a conscience, I am doing so with a warning.

Warning: Only read the first half of this post. Do not read the second story! Seriously… don’t read it. You wont like it. Its awful from start to finish and I don’t want it getting into peoples thoughts. So only read the first part, and then when I say… yes, I will clearly mark when to stop reading… STOP READING.

Part One: Ultrasound

I have spent my life in a constant struggle to keep my midriff hidden. I know I am not alone in this endeavor. This means my tummy must be covered by clothes, but it also means much more than that. Every t shirt I wear has to be just long enough to extend past my belt line, but also made of fabric flexible enough so as to prevent the bottom from coming up when I move my arms. There is also an art to how I handle the tuck of a dress shirt… I wont get into it, but its labor intensive and created to form an optical illusion to hide the fact that I am out of shape. Fuck, I lost my virginity wearing nothing but a cummerbund in attempt to hide my tummy... I also wore a bow tie, so as to stay classy. 

Suffice it to say, I am always cognizant of my weight issues. So it is probably for the best that I was getting my ultrasound during the beginning of the coronavirus outbreak, because I was sufficiently distracted from the details that go in to getting an ultrasound.

For approximately a year, I have been dealing with an umbilical hernia. It doesn’t cause me much trouble, but once in awhile it protrudes for a bit then recedes again. The fear is that one of these days the hernia will not recede and my intestine will end up strangulated.

When I walked into the waiting room at the hospital, there were people coughing and wearing facemasks, and I was fighting the urge to freak out every time anyone made a noise. WE ARE ALL GOING TO DIE!!! I was obviously distracted from the details of my own impending procedure. When the ultrasound tech came out to usher me back for my procedure, the process I was about to face instantly flashed before my eyes and caused a moment of terror. See, the problem was that this tech was maybe the best looking healthcare professional I had ever met. She had dark shiny black hair, pulled back in a ponytail, to reveal her gorgeous olive skinned face and bright green eyes. A Greek goddess. As we walked back to the ultrasound room, I INSTANTLY remembered the two different methods of ultrasounds involved in the births of my kids… and I was almost 100% sure I could eliminate the method in which she inserted a wand into my vagina.

This only left the option where she would be maneuvering my tummy all around the room, covered in jelly. I barely remember removing my shirt and getting on the table, because I was so fixated on the fact that she was holding a giant clear bottle of what appeared to be lube. Now, I have seen my fair share of porn, so I knew one of two things was about to happen… and as I heard the farty sound of goo being squirted from a half empty bottle, and felt cold liquid pouring down over me and making a pool in my ample belly button, I realized she was using the lube for the thing I didn’t want her to be doing.

I can't tell you what was on the screen as she worked.

I can't tell you how her face looked as she worked.

I can only tell you that there is a blinking green light on the ceiling about 45 degrees behind the head of the table I was laying on, because no part of me was strong enough to bring myself to make eye contact with the woman who was gently kneading my tummy like a cumbersome toddler trying to roll out playdough. Bless her heart, she tried so hard to make this experience less suicide inducing, but there is no way to make that pleasant. I could feel this gooey monitor pushing my tummy back and forth, as my pride slowly drained out through my butt. She was asking me what I was going to do this weekend, and how work has been going… and all I could do was day dream about driving into on coming traffic on the way home.

OK!!!! NOW!!!! STOP READING NOW!!!!!! TURN AROUND AND GO BACK TO WHERE YOU CAME!!!!!

Part 2: Ultra POUND

My hernia isn’t the only issue I’ve been dealing with. I have had some issues with urination, and some unpleasantness in my taint. A few weeks after my ultrasound, I had an appointment to get my prostate checked. Now, I know what you ALL are thinking… “Dude, I am sure your taint is always unpleasant”. I don’t mean its unpleasant for the audience, I mean its unpleasant for me. I am referring to sensitivity behind the taint. Being a 40+ male, I know that these are warning signs of prostate issues, so I went in to get examined… but no good deed goes unpunished.

As soon as I walked in the examination room, I knew I was not in for a smooth experience. While this wasn’t my regular Dr I was seeing, I have been seen by him. His demeanor is much like a humorless David Puddy from ‘Seinfeld’, very dry and monotone… but he looks like Bluto from the 1980 Robin Williams ‘Popeye’ movie, and just as surly.

I wasn’t in the room for more than 5 minutes before Dr. McSmilesAlot gruffly informed me “you know how we check prostates, just bend over the table and step out of your pants”. Dude, so much for romance, Jesus.

Its funny how blank your mind becomes when your resting on your elbows, bent at 90 degrees over crinkly butcher paper covered hospital bed.

I was oddly calm as I was fixated on the yellowish wall as the exam began. I could hear frustrated sighs from my Dr. SOOOORRRR-RRRRY!! I hate to be putting you out like this. Is this not pleasant for you!!! Because I am having the best time ever. Thats when I found out my Dr is humorless.

Dr: “STOP CLENCHING” he exclaimed angrily

Now, no matter how indignant I wanted to be in my response, there is nothing more humbling than someone chastising you while playing “hide the finger” at your expense. 

Ed: “sir, I am not clenching. I assure you I am not trying to delay the completion of this process”. 

He didn’t seem to be buying what I was selling.

Dr: “Than you must have the tightest anus ever”, he snapped back. 

I slowly looked back over my shoulder and made eye contact with him

Ed: “Thank you?” I said in a questioning tone.

This was the last straw as far as Dr SausageFingers was concerned. He pushed forward with the power of 1000 charging rhinos. I kid you not, he ended up tearing my anus. I went in to the Doctor anticipating an antibiotic prescription, and ended up leaving with what will eventually be 3, 21 day antibiotic prescriptions for a prostate infection, and a topical for my now expanded bottom. This Doctor seems to lecture me every time I see him, but I still wasn’t expecting him to tear me a new butthole.  

Thought; creations and manifestations, and sexual hubris

I have decided to use my period off of work, to my advantage. I have been researching theories of how our own thoughts and ideas effect our ability to act in our own self interest. This goes beyond just weight loss. We self sabotage in many ways… career advancement, sexual pursuits, finances, addiction… the human mind is so complex and our own neurosis cant be boiled down to one or two simple factors.

I listened to a podcast on NPR called “Invisibilia” and the episode was called the “Secret History of Thoughts”. The basic premise surrounds the question of “Do our thoughts define us”… do the dark, or hurtful thoughts we have, dictate our action.. or do all people have dark and self-destructive thoughts, but only some people are compelled to act on these thoughts. One point that really stuck with me is how our thoughts can be molded by what we audibly inundate ourselves with.

Do songs, movies, regional slang, education level, dialogue with loved ones, shape our thought patterns. Of course they do. So I decided to dissect the songs on my gym playlist. See what is subconsciously being fed to my brain. I picked a few songs and over the past month, I would play them on repeat and truly dwell on the lyrics, and see the thoughts that where in my head by the end of the workout… monitor my mood… see how I interacted with people… did I peacock around the gym, mean mugging people? I really needed to break down the lyrics to see what the true context was.

Work it – Missy Elliot

DJ, please pick up your phone, I'm on the request line
This is a Missy Elliott one-time exclusive, come on

Is it worth it? Let me work it – This is the problem with so much of my fitness attempts… I cant know if its worth it, until I work it.
I put my thing down, flip it and reverse it
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup
If you got a big, let me search ya – Full disclosure, Big is relative. This feels like a gamble. If you let her “search ya”, and you have misrepresented the girth of yourself, this could go very very wrong. Missy doesn’t have a “I have come this far, I might as well finish what I started vibe”… nor do a vast majority of todays discerning females. They will send you packing with your “tail” tucked between your legs. Maybe she is telling me that I need to be more confident. I need to “say yes” at any of lifes big dick statements.
And find out how hard I gotta work ya
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup
Ti esrever dna ti pilf, nwod gniht ym tup

I'd like to get to know ya so I could show ya
Put the pussy on ya like I told ya – Integrity… Fuck.. .this is a good start. She said she would put her pussy on ya, and by god, she followed through. This is good. My music is going to give me good pussy ethics.
Give me all your numbers so I can phone ya – This is a sticky wicket. I don’t get to just demand numbers. I feel like this is not a behavior I should mirror.
Your girl acting stank, then call me over – a healthy sense of self. Huh… I don’t seem to have this. I tend to operate from a subservient role. I need to see myself like Missy, I am the alternative to a stank ho, I MYSELF am not the stank ho.
Not on the bed, lay me on your sofa
Call before you come, I need to shave my chocha Missy… come on. Be game ready at all times. My chocha is freshly shorned before I even brush my teeth.
You do or you don't or you will or won't ya?
Go downtown and eat it like a vulture – Ugh… Missy… NO… I have an unhealthy relationship with food as it is. I need less aggression at the dinner table.
See my hips and my tips, don't ya?
See my ass and my lips, don't ya?
Lost a few pounds and my waist for ya – Fuck yes. Inspiration!!!! Losing weight SHOULD be done for ones self, and not for ya… but being healthier is good regardless.
This the kinda beat that go ra-ta-ta
Ra-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta-ta
Sex me so good I say blah-blah-blah
Work it, I need a glass of water
Boy, oh boy, it's good to know ya – Ahhhhh, thanks. I like knowing ya too.

If you a fly gal, get your nails done
Get a pedicure, get your hair did – These lines feel exclusionary. Even if you aren’t a fly gal, you can get your hair did.
Boy, lift it up, let's make a toast-a
Let's get drunk, that's gonna bring us closer – Fuck! I have used this line 1000 times, and it has never felt as charming as it does when Missy says it.
Don't I look like a Halle Berry poster?
See the Belvedere playing tricks on ya
Girlfriend wanna be like me, never
You won't find a bitch that's even better – I feel like this line is a bit braggadocios. A healthy ego is important.. but come on.
I make you hot as Las Vegas weather
Listen up close while I take it backwards I have never been able to talk a woman into this. I feel like this is Missy proving her last point of “you wont find a bitch that’s even better”.

I'm not a prostitute, but I could give you what you want – I am listening.. this is like the best attention grabbing lead in sentence ever. I don’t give a shit what I am doing, or what is happening, I will listen to what comes next.
I love your braids and your mouth full of floss
Love the way my ass go bum-bum-bum-bum
Keep your eyes on my bum-bum-bum-bum-bum – HUGE let down. This is a bait and switch. Great lead in sentence is totally wasted.
You think you can handle this badonkadonk-donk – No. I don’t. Nothing in my life has lead me up to the point where I could begin to handle Missy Elliot’s Bodonkadonk-donk.
Take my thong off and my ass go boom
Cut the lights on so you see what I could do

Boys, boys, all type of boys -
Black, White, Puerto Rican, Chinese boys – Puerto Rican feels oddly specific.
Why-thai, thai-o-toy-o-thai-thai
Rock-thai, thai-o-toy-o-thai-thai
Girls, girls, get that cash
If it's 9 to 5 or shaking your ass
Ain't no shame, ladies do your thing
Just make sure you ahead of the game – These 5 lines are very important. I think “shame” can be healthy, but can also be illogical at times too. Why do we worry so much about the opinions of others. Do what you fucking need to do.
Just 'cause I got a lot of fame super
Prince couldn't get me change my name, papa – Pride seems to be a theme. Confidence.
Kunta Kinte a slave again, no sir
Picture blacks saying, "Oh yes'a, massa" (No!)
Picture Lil' Kim dating a pastor – This feels like an attack. Shouldn’t we be rooting for each other. Lil Kim could marry a pastor. If you see your fat fucking friend trying to run on a treadmill, run next to him… don’t say he cant do it.
Minute Man and Big Red could outlast ya
Who is the best? I don't have to ask ya – Her prideful boasting is beginning to feel like sexual hubris. People gravitate towards confidence, but come on.
When I come out, you won't even matter – Sigh
Why you act dumb like, uh, duh?
So you act dumb like, uh, duh – MISSY… you're losing me. I need more confidence but I don’t want to be arrogant. This feels like a short sighted over compensation.
As the drummer boy go ba-rom-pop-pom-pom
Give you some-some-some of this Cinnabun – You just lost me. Now all I want is a cinnabun. Fuck.

While I was listening to the song, I could feel my confidence growing. The beat, the lyrics, the bravado… it was all so good. I was stomping around the gym, batting water bottles out of peoples hands, and being untenable. I pulled my thing out, flipped, and reversed it, much to the chagrin of EVERYONE in the weight room.

It is funny how we listen to music, and podcats, and TV shows, and the news and we never stop to think about what we are programming our thoughts with. We hear people hurting people, and we are inundated with messages of boastfulness, and its no wonder so many carry feelings of intimidation and fear. Self doubt. Social media does this too. I do think I need to be more careful with my thoughts and how they manifest themselves into behaviors. Part of this is to be mindful of what I listen to

Drama and Silence.

The last 4 months have been crazy. That’s an understatement. Well, actually, no it isn’t. That’s probably exactly the best way to sum it up. I have had a crazy few months.

When I set out to document my journey from fat guy, to svelte vixen, I had some rules I sort of outlined in my mind. One of which was that I would be 100% open to the world about everything. My struggles with health are monsters of my own design. This struggle has primarily been a mental issue. Of course, we all need some physical adjustments. However, most of the reasons I am fat, revolve around the fact that I make bad decisions. So documenting my struggles has been good for me. Every time I write a post, at least one person messages me to tell me how they relate to part of, or all of, what I said. Some people have advice, some people have similar experiences, and some people just contact me to say “thank you”.

One person in particular stands out. One woman reached out to me, and I found it to be a somewhat unlikely connection. Her name is Krysta, and I know her because her sister was once married to one of my best friends. I feel I need to set the scene a little, with some back-story on Krysta. Krysta is fucking stupidly smart. She always kind of intimidated me, so when her name popped up in my Instagram messenger, I was a bit nervous. I was a worried she was going to point out some holes or contradictions in one of my posts. She is very good with words too, so I would be outmatched if she wanted to call me to task on something. I am so glad she reached out to me though. We ended up discussing my blog for a while, and she had some great points for me, all in regards to my own possible effect on myself. The conversation was long and covered her view on this topic well, but it was one of her simplest comments that gave me pause; “I wonder what would happen, if you talked about yourself with kinder words”. This is so simple… but it has sat in my brain for weeks now. Am I the reason I struggle with self-esteem? Do I subconsciously sabotage myself by being overly self-deprecating? The answer may be yes. I am the first to celebrate other people’s accomplishments, and the first to make jokes at my own expense. I need to strike a better balance. Yes, I can be a total shitbag.. I can be lazy and do stupid stuff… but I can also point out when good things happen. I think there is something to this. I think this may be part of why I face such big setbacks in my progress, as well as why I tend to withdraw when truly impactful things happen to me.

This all leads up to my crazy few months. I was toying with the idea of glossing over this period. I was going to begin writing again as if nothing had happened. As if I hadn’t disappeared for 6 months. However, this spits in the face of why I started this in the first place. I feel that sorting out my thoughts and being transparent, makes me better. Humor, and relating to people, and sharing my life are the best way for me to regain perspective. I feel most of us over inflate the gravity of serious issues, and it’s healthy to take a step back and focus on the rewards of getting through the hard times.

There were two major issues that I faced these last few months. I tend to be a bit dramatic, so I will try to discuss these issues in a sensible way.  

1)      Back in May, I almost fucking died!!!! Fuck. That’s already a bit dramatic. Also, somewhat incorrect. Lets try that again. Back in May, my blood tried to kill me!!!

a.       I had been getting nose bleeds for a few weeks, and had some headaches… neither of which happen to me. But it wasn’t until my assistant manager noticed my eyes were actively getting blood shot in front of him, that I decided to go to the Dr at lunch. Turns out my blood pressure was 230/190, which is well above what their charts called “Hypertensive Crisis”. Within minutes the nurse had my shirt off (BTW, porn has lied to us about what comes next after a nurse demands you take your shirt off)  and they were hooking me up to electrodes to monitor my heart. I wont give you all the details, but it turns out I had a blood infection that was causing my kidneys to malfunction and cause my blood pressure to sky rocket. I had to take medications and refrain from exercising for 2 months. It was a bit scary to be honest. My doctor was very clear that I was in real danger of strokes or heart attacks. I was on the blood pressure meds for 4 months before they were confident enough to take me back off. After months of antibiotics and Lisinopril, I am officially healed. I have been cleared

2)      I lost my job

a.       I guess saying “lost” is a bit disingenuous. I mean… I know where it is. I didn’t misplace it. I know where the physical job is located. I just don’t occupy it anymore. I was asked politely to leave and never come back. This part is true. It was a polite process. The owner of the company actually hugged me on the way out. I was relieved on some level, because I wasn’t happy with this job. The atmosphere was awful, and I was already looking for employment elsewhere. So while the separation was mutual, it was still stressful to be sent out on a career ice float to die in the abys. No matter why a job separation occurs, or how long it lasts, there is some uneasiness that accompanies this kind of transition. I felt like I was in the middle of a shit storm. First, I had a health scare, and then I become unemployed. This was a low period for me. Although from point of termination to accepting an offer for 2.5 times the wage, was 23 days, which made lessened the stress.

This is why I have been absent for a while. I was a bit scared. I spent a few months being worried about my health due to the ups and downs that accompany trying to regulate my blood pressure, as well as fight an infection. My body felt insane. Internally schizophrenic. One second I felt fine, then all of a sudden, I would feel jittery and uneasy for a few hours, and then immediately start falling asleep and becoming foggy brained.  Then as soon as I dodge that bullet and started to feel better, and feel the relief that I wasn’t going to die, I lost my job and I was unsure that surviving the health scare was the right move. However, this is exactly when I should be writing. I need to gravitate to the catharsis that comes with being open. Both of these incidents caused a great deal of stress to my life, and both ended up being ending perfectly fine. Life has a way of figuring itself out. I could have been dealing with the stress as well as keeping my mind in a better place, had I just been writing and making sure I spoke about myself with kinder words.

America and God have set my expectations

Lifestyle change. Lifestyle. Change. I can’t really put my finger on it, but something has always felt odd to me about this phrase. I don’t care for it. It feels insincere. I have been dissecting the roots of all the words involved, as well as the inferences and implications of the phrase as a whole, and I realized why I am uncomfortable with this term… because this expression is the fat people equivalent to masking something with a stupid fucking made up term. It reminds me of  ridiculous office speak, or terms like “sanitation engineer”.

Just by definition this term feels disingenuous, “Lifestyle change” infers that my previous course of actions were dictated by some set policy or routine. I understand that technically any manner of existence is a lifestyle, but the term has a societal based implication that some semblance of thought goes into ones actions when those actions are classified as a “lifestyle”. Whether inspired by religious, political, health, or financial terms, when a person refers to a “lifestyle”, there is an inference of structure. I have spent the first 41 years of my life operating 100% from the id. Impulse, react. I am a god damn cave man. Structure didn’t lead to me eating 5 microwave burritos for an after school snack in 7^th grade. This physique was not created by a well thought out plan, but instead by a lifetime of gross negligent and a complete disregard to common sense. I have body by chaos.

I am typing this entry with a sandy vagina mentality. Being a person is dumb. The human body is a fucking nightmare. I spend a lot of money every month just to maintain this shit physique.\

-       Fish oil for my heart, $20.

-       B vitamin to maintain enough energy just to get through my day, $10.

-       Testosterone so my pecker and muscles work, $25.

-       Estrogen blockers so the Testosterone replacement doesn’t give me delicious titties, $65.

-       Metamucil so I can clear my system and not die of colon cancer, $15.

-       Apple Cider Vinegar to make sure my digestive system works, $5.

That’s a grand total of $140 a month to aid my body in doing what I think should be basic functionalities that come with just being alive. Boners, energy, and pooping.. those things are promised to us in the Bible and the Deceleration of Independence. America and Jesus promised me these things, yet here I am paying $140 a month on supplements just to MAINTAIN this shit body. Not improve it. Not make it better. Just for maintenance purposes. Just to help my body perform basic functions.

Calling what I am doing a “lifestyle change” is definitely intellectually dishonest. A better name for this process is “pleasure center deprivation”. Everything that is good in life is being stolen from me, by me. This is some self-induced sadism. I am eliminating all of my favorite things in life in an attempt to make this life last longer, like some sort of deranged unhealthy behaviors snuff film. I am watching myself kill all the things that made me happiest. If eliminating these things doesn’t make my life last longer, it will absolutely make it feel like it is lasting longer.

-       Diet Coke, gone

-       Peanut butter cups, gone

-       Pizza, seriously, drastically restricted

-       I am sore every day from working out

-       My back hurts all the time

-       Booze? Nope, none for me

-       I am hungry all the time as I retrain my bodies idea of “caloric need”

That list comprises almost everything good about being alive. If I find out that the next things I am losing are baseball, smelling flowers, and masturbating, I am going to jump off the Vista Bridge.

I need to get  back in the positive zone. Going through a pleasure center deprivation process is hard on my demeanor. Yesterday in traffic, I was behind a car accident, and I actually said “Someone better be dead because this is going to make me late”… I said this out loud, to no one. I was alone in the car. To make this worse, I was on my way to the grocery store with no time line for when I needed to return home. I was requiring an exchange of life to make amends for me being mildly inconvenienced (in my air conditioned Q5 with leather seats and listening to podcasts). This is what caloric restriction and constantly being sore is doing to me. How is this a thing? How have I become this much of a cunt? I need more moderation.

Between my new job, which is requiring long hours as I get my feet under me a bit, and having to drastically change my workout schedule, as well as being extra strict with my calories, has me off balance. I need to add in some indulgences. So tonight I will drink some gin and debate cutting out my estrogen blockers for awhile… at least if I am going to be  angry and sore, I can ease my soul by doing so while sporting the best cans in the county.

Assault? Incident? Or nothing at all? We will never know.

I think I may have assaulted a woman at the gym, Sort of. “Assault” is a weighted word. It may not really be “assault”. There was an incident though, this much I am sure of… I think? Am I? Fuck, I don’t know the correct adjective to use here. Or even the correct verb. There are very few parts of speech I feel comfortable assigning to this thing that may or may not have happened. I have two nouns… Me, and the poor woman that may or may not even have known I was at the gym with her.  Every other piece of the puzzle depends on which perspective you view the event from. Was there an event? Ugh

I don’t honestly even know if she is aware anything happened. I wasn’t about to ask her. What would I even say? “Hey, did I come off like a terrifying shit bag right there?” My perception is that she was not pleased with my antics, but its not like she screamed or blew a rape whistle. How do I really know? I am extremely cognizant of my actions. Probably to a fault. I don’t gawk at women at the gym. I am one of those guys who knows women are not at the gym for our amusement. They are there to work out. Of course every frat boy, sideways glancing, eye fucking, slack jawed dip shit thinks that he is the ONE GUY who doesn’t sexualize every person at the gym… but I am comfortable that people would agree with my interpretations of my demeanor.

Here is how the “incident” unfolded. Remember, this is a monologue.. Anecdotal.. I don’t actually have any intentions of course correcting… this incident is funny to me. I like the antics caused by my hijinks and socially awkward idiocy.

I walked into the gym with an especially high dose of whimsy. I could tell by the lack of vehicles in the parking lot, that I was going to have a lot of room to roam on the gym floor that day. This is a special kind of rare treat. Usually the place is packed. I was not about to waste this treat and go in to this particular workout saddled by a formalized plan, or any of your Judeo-Christian ethics. I was going to strut in like I owned the place. The staff at VillaSport was lucky I had a shirt on. I was feeling cocky. The only other person I could see was my buddy Chris, and he is always up for my antics, and also looking for any excuse to pop his top. I knew that I had the support of crowd on this day.

The gym I go to is more of a health club than a gym. The workout floor is actually located upstairs, and the spa and basketball courts are accessible downstairs. I was not there for a wax or to play horse by myself, I was there to pick up heavy shit and put it back down, so up to the gym I went. As I walked upstairs, I rounded the corner to see that the weight room was completely empty. Not a single soul in sight. I instantly was hit by a powerful inspiration.. I was going to have 80’s dance party workout. I found my 80’s pop mix on my phone, and hit “shuffle” and off I bounded into the day. I walked out past the weight machines and towards the free weights while fluctuating between the opening dance sequence from “Flash Dance” and Emilio Estevez’s fist pumping overly masculine version of a skip from “Breakfast Club”… all while “Take on me” reverberated through my head.  The only problem with my gym is that it has abbreviated sections of walls to separate cardio equipment from the weight room floor. This lends to blind spots. Sure enough, when I was midway through my 4^th pas de bourree while gliding across the floor,  a beautiful woman rounded the corner. I almost exploded my knees from putting the brakes on my dance moves so quickly. I had to get back into character ASAfuckingP. I pulled my hat down over my eyes and turned my whimsical dance routine into a “go fuck yourself” style strut.  I am 5’10” in every direction, and with my hat pulled down and my brow furrowed, I can look pretty intimidating. If only people knew that behind my mean mug, “Gloria” was blasting through my headphones.  I only mention her appearance because  there is a direct relationship between the embarrassment from doing stupid shit, and the level of attractiveness of the sole audience member for the show.

I felt confident that I had recovered without being seen, and I was honestly relieved that the near miss had centered me. I was now focused and ready to work out… which lasted for about 3 songs. I was quickly becoming bored with my aggressive and effective workout, and had switched into full “bro dude” mode. I could slowly feel my mind wander. I was back to day dreaming and bobbing my head to forgettable 80’s pop classics. I was only going to do squats, curls, and bench press and then I was planning to follow that up with a smoothy from the café while I sat in the hot tub. It was not shaping up to be my most intense or productive day at the gym.

That’s when it happened… I was starting the second chorus of “Only You” by Yazoo when I realized I was screaming out the lyrics to every inch of the room. I knew this only because my voice cracked a little causing me to have that oh noooo moment where I realized “You are signing these lyrics out loud, and not in your head, dumb shit.” I was mid set on incline press, and instead of racking the weights like a right minded individual, I just surveyed the room as I kept repping out the weights all while still singing audibly. That’s when I saw that the beautiful woman was NOT looking at me at all, and appeared to be not doing so in that “Holy shit, don’t look at the crazy butthole who is singing”.

Did she see me? Did she not see me? Was it possible that she didn’t see me and I had dodged yet another bullet? There was only one way to find out… attempt to lock eyes with her and increase your volume. Serenade the fuck out of this poor woman. The thing is, I kind of know her. We had the same trainer 18 months ago and ran into each other a few times. I have a nearly eidetic memory for faces and names, and I love everyone. So I tend to believe everyone is my best friend. And usually everyone feels that way with me too. This may not have been one of those reciprocal “we are bff’s” moments. I cant count the times I have been at the store and started talking to someone only to realize they have no clue who I am. How do they not remember going to that party that my friend dragged me to in 2003? We talked for 3 ½ minutes!! How do they not remember!!!

I was hitting every note, I think… and as I hit the last chorus and was midway through, I realized this was one of those moments. She had no clue who I was or that we had ever met. No I know how the hobo feels when the strangers on the train frown at his antics. I was undeterred….

ALL I NEEDED WAS THE LOVE YOU GAVE!!! ALL I NEEDED FOR ANOTHER DAY!!!!

When she re-racked her weights and wandered off toward the stairs so she could leave, she was not noticing me more than women usually don’t notice me. Fuck that’s a sad sentence to write… ooff… but what I am saying is she felt very deliberate and very manic in her calmness. My buddy Chris had wandered over from the squat rack section of the gym, and was looking me as though he had just seen me stab someone in the brain. He was wide eyed and just shook his head back and forth slowly, with shameful disapproval.  

I guess we will never know. Did I ruin the gym, and serenades, and Yazoo for this woman? Was she left with a “fuck I hate the dudes at the gym” feeling? Was she left feeling uncomfortable and unsure exactly why? Or is this a case of me creating both sides of an interaction.. did my mind play out both sides of the exchange that didn’t exist? Only one way to know… SCREAM OUT THE LYRICS FROM ANOTHER HAM HANDED 80’S BALLAD TO THIS POOR WOMAN AGAIN!!!! I hope she likes Kim Carnes, because she is going to get the best god damn unsolicited version of “Bette Davis Eyes” that anyone ever had sung straight into their unsuspecting heart.

We buy the clothes we barely fit in, so we can fit in, barely.

I remember it like it was yesterday. That’s how deep the scars of degradation can run. Time doesn’t heal all wounds. Who ever said that lived a pretty unscathed life. Time heals scratches. Wounds bleed out.

I remember it like it was yesterday, but it actually happened Wednesday. 1/9/19 is a day that will live in infamy. My own personal pearl harbor. 1/9/19 will forever be known as the day that Ed Kiester wore a crop top at the gym.

My list of goals on that chilly day did not include “soaking the underpants of every women in a square mile with my bare midriff”. In fact, Wednesday was supposed to be my day off from working out. When I went in to the gym, I came with nothing but a sense of whimsy as my guide. Hell, the only reason I had gone to the gym was to vent out some steam. Work, kids, friends, life, all of these things are dumb. Some days, the only way to decompress is to sweat out the angst. Wednesday was this day for me.

On days in which we feel beaten by life, sometimes we put on a false bravado. There is absolutely an inverse relationship between how secure I am feeling, and how cocksure I present myself. On Wednesday, I walked into the gym as if I owed the place. 2 Pac was entering my head through my ear buds, and blasting through my glances and into the souls of everyone around me, like I was the vessel delivering his divine message to the unwashed masses at VillaSport.

When I entered the locker room and saw my buddy Chris, inspiration darted through my body. Today would be a “bro dude” workout day. Bench press, curls, triceps… we would basically just haphazardly lift heavy shit and grunt.

Sure enough as soon as we entered the weight room floor, we both walked for the incline bench. Does this exercise aid in my attaining my goals? Who fucking cares. It combines my two favorite activities; 1) Sitting 2) lifting heavy things. It was during this first set that my shirt sprung to action. As I was grunting out reps, I could feel my shirt crawling up my stomach like it had come to life. Once you are lifting, there is little you can do to run interference as your shirt starts inching upward. As soon I had completed what I assumed was an adequate number of reps to impress the legions of backward hat wearing miscreants, I decided it was probably time to re wrack the weights and pull my shirt down. As I stood up and adjusted my clothing, it occurred to me that I might be fighting more than just my clothing that day. I glanced around the room, and there must have been 10 soccer moms staring at my midriff like I was a piece of meat. Not cool “ladies”. My eyes are up here.

Of course, I figured that I had sufficiently handled the crop top dilemma by the time my next set started, but I assumed incorrectly. Sure enough, as I started lifting, my shirt started its way back up. However, this time it was painfully clear that my shirt was playing a game of cat and mouse with me. This time it seemed as though she had crawled a little further up my torso. My shirt was gaining confidence and felt as comfortable increasing the distance it would creep up my body. Also, as I stood up to adjust my shirt, I couldn’t seem to get my shirt down as far as I would have liked. I was hoping  that my crop top was making me look like one of the Alpha Betas from “Revenge of the Nerds”, but I have a feeling I looked like one of the dudes from the first half of the Olivia Newton John “Physical” video.

I instantly understood that I was doomed to spend my entire day in an unwinnable battle for my self-respect, against my shirt. For awhile I thought that I was going to be a worthy adversary against my clothing, however my shirt had a secret weapon. It appeared as though my sweat was working as a double agent. I kept thinking that as my sweat saturated my shirt, the added weight would help keep my shirt down. The opposite happened. As my shirt grew increasingly damp, it began to stick to me. Every inch of movement my body made, resulted in a disproportion amount of upward movement from my blouse. Up. Up. Up it went.

By the time I had moved on to the final set of incline press, my shirt had basically become a sports bra. I have often referred to myself as “buxom and flirty”, but this was going way too far. Every time I finished a workout, I pulled my shirt down, and every time I started lifted, my shirt worked its way back up. To make it even better, Chris is friends with every single person in the gym. People know him and ask him for tips all the time. He’s a really amiable guy, so he ends up helping a lot of people with their workouts, and in doing so, ends up with a lot of people who know him on a first name basis. Of course, and I shit you not, half way through one of my lifts as my shirt was doubling as a sports bra Chris started giving workout tips to the 25ish year old woman in front of us, and decided this was the perfect time to introduce me to her. I was too mortified to hear what he really said, but it felt something like this…

“Hey Syd, have you met my friend Ed? Or his bare navel? If you wait long enough, at his shirts current rate of reduction, I bet his nipples will be out too.”

You know who I blame for my shirt going rogue? Not myself… no no, of course not. I also don’t blame my shirt. I really don’t even blame the clothing company. I blame every self-loathing portly person. Why can’t people act in their own best interest? Here’s the problem, fat people won’t buy a brand of clothing made for overweight people. We all want to dress in the name brand clothes our physically fit counterparts are wearing. However, mainstream clothing companies expand their patterns equally throughout the whole pattern as they increase their sizes, but peoples bodies don’t work like that. We aren’t meat tubes. Men and women have somewhat universal “trouble” areas as our weight changes. We don’t gain weight evenly throughout our bodies. Name brands don’t really account for this. To be fair, I don’t think name brands want fat people wearing their clothes. I know Banana Republic saw some backlash, a few years ago, over their limited plus sizes.. and of course the CEO of Abercrombie said he they didn’t make plus sized clothes because they made clothes for “the cool kids”. Before you get too pissed, its not Abercrombie’s job to create clothes for you. Of course it was shitty of him to say that, but to be fair… fat people are usually fattists too. We judge each other and ourselves just as harshly as anyone else does. We buy the clothes we barely fit in, so we can fit in, barely.

What we need is a line of clothes aimed at actually meeting the body type needs of people who aren’t tiny or in perfect shape. I think there is a need, and a growing market for such a thing. A growing market for cool, fashionable, well made, and attractive clothing that isn’t cut to fit hanger type bodies. However, because overweight people are usually self-loathing, I have doubts that people would actually buy a line of clothing like this.  We fear that people would see the label and then judge our weight. Do we really think that people who are going to judge us, don’t know we are overweight until they see our clothing label? This isn’t a rhetorical question. The answer is yes, we actually think our clothing is hiding how we look, and that if someone saw us for what we really are, they would reject us. Just like how the heavy dude who wears his shirt in the pool thinks no one knows he’s overweight just so long as he leaves his shirt vacuumed sealed to his over abundant torso. The idea that people would reject you for being overweight is shitty too. It makes bold implications against people we don’t know. It is mean to think that people we don’t know, will reject us for being overweight. It is also narcissistic to think that the whole world is analyzing us. No one cares that you are overweight, or is judging you for it, as much as you.

Someone is going to see that the overweight clothing demand is growing. They will create a line of workout gear without a logo on them. The first; high quality, cut to fit heavier people, cool yet non-descript, clothing line… and they will make a fortune. Of course, the clothing would have to look good, but not have a logo that could be associated with unfit people. Otherwise, the brand would slowly morph into a punchline, and overweight people would allow fear to stop them from acting in their own best interest.

I admit I would struggle to buy a brand that everyone knew was for heavier people, too. However, hopefully whoever makes this clothing line, will not have the sick sense of humor that kids jean providers had in the 1980’s. I cant be the only kid whose parents scarred him for life by calling out across the store, “They are out of the ‘husky’ sized jeans”. Husky sized? Seriously! Why not just name them “little fat bastard jeans”. If you are going to murder my self-esteem, at least make it a quick death.

I dont want to yuk your yum, but for me, 2018 didnt suck, I sucked in 2018.

I love New Years. I love seeing peoples New Year’s resolutions. I love seeing all the "out with the old, and in with the new" posts on social media. I love seeing hope, and optimism and outright intellectual dishonesty that surround this arbitrary day on the calendar. I don’t want to yuck your yum, but why do we think that just because the calendar flipped, that anything is going to change this year.

New Year’s resolutions are pretty universally mocked as being delusional. Everyone knows the jokes about how the gym is packed between January 1, and February 1… and all the gym regulars love February 2^nd when the gym starts to empty out again. Just like Vegas wasn’t built on winners, and everyone who goes there dreaming of the big pay day is kidding themselves, I feel the New Year’s resolution makers are kidding themselves too. I use to be one of these delusional people too. I made the traditional carbon copy New Year’s resolutions too. I would complain about how the year before sucked, and then make some grandiose resolutions that I had no chance of attaining, and I am almost sure I made my resolutions with the intention of failing. The point is, what makes me think that at 41, this list of resolutions will be more successful than the last series of idiocy were. 

My list use to look similar to everyone else’s

1)      Lose 75.26 lbs by spring

2)      Help end homelessness

3)      Make 100k for savings

4)      Buy my first Ferrari in time for summer

People, here is a piece of information we all need. Are you listening… 2018 didn’t suck, you sucked in 2018. Own it. I don’t want to be a product of the time, I want the time to be a product of me. Do not bring me your anecdotal examples of life shitting on you. Yes, someone out there probably had a helicopter fall on their mom, or their husband fucked his secretaries dad, and those things are not your fault and are a total drag. Not fun. However, for the most part, the course of your life is up to you.

I know there are no universal axioms, and everyone’s journey is specifically tailored to their own experiences. However, this is the entire point of being alive. Growth. Maybe some of us will have a harder hill to climb, and some of us have inherently better starting position. Hell, I am a white male... Life is thoroughly easier for me than for anyone in any other demographic. I understand upbringing, and how life events and circumstances shape us, and will effect where we are in life as it pertains to where we would like to be. Somewhere out there someone who has significantly less financial security than me, and maybe even is in worse physical shape than me, and had a worse socioeconomic starting point than me, has overcome much more than i have to just get where they are. The key is, where are you in terms of where you want to be, and what did you have to overcome to get there. Growth. Be better today than you were yesterday. The best part… we get to set the definitions. We all get to set our own definitions of success, and we all know if we are doing what it takes to get there. 

All of this supports my views on New Years resolutions. Regardless of who you are, or where your life currently is in regards to your goals, maybe you should be reformatting your resolutions. Instead of end goals, resolve to set better life habits. For me, 2018 was rough, because I am a shit pig. Instead of creating magical finish lines for wants and desires, I am going to resolve to create behaviors that will get me too where I want to be. I am my only barrier. 

Another aspect of the New Years resolutions that I find detrimental, is the lack of small measurables. Instant gratification. If all of your resolutions are grandiose, then as you fall short on them, it becomes easy to scrap the whole list. I am a firm believer that self esteem is created. True self worth comes from achievement. From figuring out whats important to us, and then working to achieve it. Being less concerned with people being proud of us, and being proud of ourselves instead.

This year I am going to reformat my resolutions to focus on behaviors that will help me achieve what I want, as well as small pieces of deliciousness that will help give me little moments of happy.

Here we go… a lot of thought went in to these

1)      Count my calories with intellectual honesty

2)      Dedicate one day a week to financial industry analysis to help see trends in lending so I can become a more successful sales rep

3)      Food prep so I don’t end up hungry without healthy options

4)      Get payback on “likes to be naked guy” and put MY butthole on something HE owns

5)      Go for a one mile walk every morning at 9 am (that’s noon in my sales territories time zone and a perfect time to take a break). Make it routine

6)      Invest 2% of my income in a non 401k investment portfolio

7)      Keep a journal of how my body feels after working out. See what parts of my body may be being detrimentally impacted so I can avoid injury

8)      Strive harder to remove sexist or other derogatory terms from my lexicon. Go from almost never to zero tolerance

9)      Visit SF for a baseball weekend with Jared and JD. This is very good for my mind frame

10)   While in SF, volunteer at the soup kitchen run by one of my former high school classmates (Paul Trudeau for those of you who remember him)

11)   Learn to dance by taking a class this summer

12)   Find a yoga studio and work on my core strength and joint health 

These are the steps that will aid in my overall progression. This will help me be more successful at work, more financially secure, and help me lose weight while increasing flexibility (making my body feel better and be healthier).

Be honest. Evaluate yourself with the right kind of eyes. 2018 probably didn’t suck so much as you  just behaved like a dumb shit last year. Set your resolutions accordingly.