FITNESS!

Saturday I kissed my prior life goodbye. Goodbye, coffee. Goodbye, clever drinks.

Bye, McDonald. See ya, Arby. Don't cry, Wendy. I've become emancipated, BK. The bell shant toll for me today, Taco. (ok, that last one was a stretch)

BUT, more importantly, Goodbye ELEVATORS. Goodbye, their retarded cousins ESCALATORS. Goodbye closest parking spot. Goodbye, saturday evenings.

I'm now under the complete physical training of my brother, Mike Lalane. :P

That day I went with him to the gym and saw what he could do. I was stunned. He lifted 110 pounds, 55 in each hand, up and over his head no fewer than 30 times. He did 12 - 15 pullups, unassisted, on a free bar. I, on the other hand, did 30 reps of 40 pounds, 20 each, and did 10 pullups on the Gravitron... at 30% my body weight. ;_;

There was more to it and it was pretty unnerving. I mean, there was nobody there but I still felt like I was being watched. And of all the "tests" I went through, I didn't leave any of them feeing proud or good about it. Yeah, I felt the "pump" and the "burn" and stuff, but, yeesh, God, throw me a friggin' bone here. Does EVERY muscle in my body gotta be a squinty bitch?

Well, it just boils down to be weight, also. The muscles in my legs, for instance, to do what I do, near 300 pounds pivoting on a compass leg, are probably good, but they're just at capacity lifting my fat ass up, let alone lifting anything else.

I had sweat a lot. I was sore for 3 days. I had caffeine withdrawl for the same 3 days. Both combined did not leave me a happy camper.

So far I've been "commanded" to eat no less than 5 times a day. Yeah, 5 times, maybe that works out for you, but I've got a steady job and I only get ONE lunch break. And, isn't that counter intuitive? Well, no. 5 small meals. All with green veggies, loaded with protein, and containing complex carbs. It's a sacrifice all right. I like to eat as un-frequently as possible. It's a hassle. Give me one, maybe two BIG meals and I'm happy. I can't live perpetually thinking about my next meal.

But, I want to. I guess. I want to because I'm supposed to want to.

I thought I was going to be dead in a month. But now that I know I'm going to live, I have to put thought back into my future. 5 years. 10 years. Hell, 5 weeks from now. "Living the rest of my life alone" all of a sudden turned from "Enduring the last 5 weeks alive alone" into "Enduring X number of YEARS etc etc etc."

And it's not even just that. I mean, yeah, I'd like to have sex again sometime in the future, but it's more than just that. I played In The Groove for the second time and I felt just god-awful tired in the middle of my third song. The sweat started to pour minutes after I STOPPED. My shins HURT. A lot. They still hurt. I should be kicking ass and taking names. I mean, if I had continued the way I did two years ago I'd be Julio by now, right?

But my clothes don't fit right. My bed creaks. Chairs creak. It's just, BLAH.

Maybe it's nature's way, you know? The way fat people are supposed to have shorter life spans. Like, "Oh well, look at how big you are, fatty. Don't worry, I won't prolong your social, physical, and emotional suffering."

At least I'm doing something about it. But I know it won't solve everything. It won't give me everything I want. That's what lead me to let myself go, after all. Because, in the end, it didn't matter.

Sometimes, I wonder, what's the point, then? Work hard for WHAT?

Just like you, I am allowed to lose my faith too, ok?