As I write this, I am home sick from work for the second day in a row with bronchitis, an infection that has become a nearly annual houseguest in my lungs, and I’m finally pissed off and scared enough to do something about it. I asked my doctor if there was something wrong with me other than my immune system being suppressed because I’m fat, and she looked me square in the face and said “Nope.” So all I need to do is to lose weight and everything will be better? Pretty much, was the answer.
Now I understand that it’s not that simple. Losing weight won’t make my beard turn grey and more slowly. It won’t do nearly as much for my retirement fund as winning the PowerBall last weekend would ave done, but it may very well help my writing.
Yep, I went there. I admit and understand that my health issues are directly related to the fact that as I sit here, less than 90 days from my 40th birthday, I’m nearly 100 pounds overweight, even taking into account that I’m too big naturally to weigh the 180-190 lbs, that some platforms say I should. I’m pretty good around 215-225. But 312 isn’t good for anybody. I’d have to be seven feet tall to carry this much weight properly. And because I’m fat, I’ve shown up with sleep apnea, which means that I snore like a freight train and neither Suzy nor I get enough restful sleep at night. So I’m tired all the time. So I struggle through a day at work, come home, eat dinner, and fall asleep in the recliner like some hippie version of Archie Bunker. Which means I’m making zero progress on my writing. As a matter of fact, some weeks the only writing I do is here on MW. And that ain’t right.
So I’m taking back my health. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not doing anything crazy like giving up meat or beer. Although I’ll still be on antibiotics at ConCarolinas, which may tame down the Literate Liquors panel substantially. But as soon as I can move without coughing, I’m on the treadmill.
Yes, like most fat people, I own plenty of exercise equipment. There’s a weight bench in my office and a treadmill in the dining room.
I’ll be on the treadmill every day for one month. Every day, because it takes that level of repetition to actually get into a habit and stick with it. And you, kind friends, are my accountability. Each week, in addition to whatever I’m spewing about writing, you’ll get an exercise and diet update. My approach to diet is a little odd, but it worked for me before, when I went from 265 to 212 in six months. Then I went from 212 to 312 in four years.
My goal weight is 220 lbs. I look good at 220. I mean, I’m a sexy beast at 312, just imagine the hotness at 220. The other hope is that once I get past the first week of ‘ERMAGERD WHAT AM I DOOOOING?” I’ll be able to get more energy and get back in the saddle with some writing again.
But now the hydrocodone-laced cough syrup is kicking in, so I’d better save this before I veer off into the truly chartreuse. I hope to see many of you at ConCarolinas, at the MW lunch, at panels, in the bar, at parties, and at the book launch party on Friday night!
Wow, look at the pretty colors on that hippo. Yep, time to lay down for a while.