Did I mention I’m on yet another weight loss kick? Except it’s not really a kick, it’s more of a crotch punch. And it’s not really weight loss I’m after, it’s more a shape-up and second-butt elimination (I seem to have grown an extra set of buttocks below my regular pair to store all the excess fat. It’s like a cellulite butt suitcase with a handy saddlebag compartment.)
See, around the new year I’d finally (again) had enough of the mushy pockets on my person, the melting knees, and aforementioned double butt so I joined in on a fat loss challenge my friend’s fitness trainer organized. A six-week extravaganza of a food combination diet and regular exercise, this challenge called to me. And it asked to speak to my butt(s). And it said, “Hello. My name is Inigo Montoya. You killed my father. Prepare to die.” Or it said my butt (the second one) had to go. If it were in the Princess Bride. Or a 1987 movie villain.
See? All this new exercising is confuddling my brain! It doesn’t undersplain stuff anymore!
Once upon a time, my stomach fit into things like clothes.
At any rate, for this particular butt-duel-to-the-death, each woman who joined the challenge put in $35 in an effort to win the whole pool ($600) should she lose the most pounds and fat of anyone in the group. And so it began. To start, I was asked to wear as little clothes as possible and show up at the gym for “before” pictures, a weigh-in, and BMI measurement. (I had to borrow my friend’s gym shorts because I hadn’t worn anything above the ankle for years.) (I was 144 pounds with 29% body fat.) Then, I was given the diet, which consists of eating a carb and a protein every two to three hours. And finally, it was strongly suggested that I exercise.
I have pounds to lose. I’ve been watching what I eat for years and limiting my carb and sugar intake, but the scale has stayed firmly planted in the 140s. It seems like it doesn’t matter what I do, weight loss eludes me. I’m sure it can’t be the wine or the immobility; no, this refusal of my body fat to scram is surely a hormonal or thyroid conspiracy. Or the medication I take, or my age, or my sky high cortisol levels, or my wine and my immobility, but probably not that.
But still. For a month now, I’ve been truly amazing and an inspiration to all who know me or who should hope to meet me in the future. I’m cardioing nearly every day and strength training twice a week. I’m eating as well as ever, and I’m watching a lot of Princess Bride. Wait. That part happened in 2012 and is currently impermissible in my new diet and exercise regimen. Which really is INCONCEIVABLE! (Someone please give me a Princess Bride quotedectomy. Right after the buttectomy.)
But really, I haven’t felt much different, other than the extra energy thing, and my clothes are as snug as ever. So I weighed back in a week ago and GUESS WHAT? I gained a pound. I would just like to know what the hell.
I’m still really fixated on the whole “hormones are the root of all body evil” philosophy and even went to my doctor to postulate this theory. I arrived at my appointment fighting. I got on the scale! I catalogued all my exercising and not Princess-Bride-watching! I showed her my food diary! I pinched my other butt as a visual aid!
But she was unmoved. Seems I’ve gained four pounds in the last three years, which is a little different than the 20 I complained about and claimed was accurate. Seems I’ve also landed smack dab into middle age, which screws your entire body. Seems I should just be happy with “eating healthy and staying active” and not worry so much about pesky mutant butts and wearing shorts never again.
I doubted the sincerity and authority of my doctor. Surely I can escape the ravages of time and not be a hippotamic land mass?
But no. And so I left that office a defeated and inflated (see: butt) woman. A woman without $600 and with a cellulite butt suitcase/saddlebag compartment luggage set.
The challenge ends in 12 days.
Who wants to place bets on the second butt winning?
I can imagine its victory speech now: “You fool! You fell victim to one of the classic blunders! The most famous is never to get involved in a land war in Asia. And only slightly less well known is this: never go in against a Sicilian when death is on the line!”
Or something less Princess Bridey and more nonsensical.