I DON'T DO TRICKS FOR FOOD!

I took my wedding band off, the other day. Waved it in Dawn's face. "So? You're leaving me?" she asked. I replied, "You don't get it. Last time I had x-rays, they said to take it off. I couldn't."

I couldn't take my wedding band off. My gut is fat. My moobs are fat. My face is fat. My HANDS are fat. But...I was able to remove the most precious piece of jewelry I've ever owned, as a function of having taken the advice of the girl whose love it represents. (You KNOW that the roundness of the gold band describes the eternity of love, right?) Uncanny.

Another thing? I sleep better. I SLEEP! With small exception (nocturnal pit-stops, LOL!) I sleep all night long. My Garmin tracks that. Used to be, I'd go to bed (after playing online word games and card games and following stream-of-consciousness nonsense threads for a good portion of the night) and sleep for oh, maybe an hour. Then I'd go downstairs, open the dishwasher so the dishes would be dry, and start reading the paper. Of course, you can't READ without EATING, right? A bunch of grapes. Or an apple. Or a banana. Or some peanuts. Or a jelly sammich. Maybe (usually) all of them; it's only little taste. Putting the jelly back into the icebox, I notice there's some spaghetti in there, behind the pickles. Crap, no sauce. Well, there's olive oil and nootch (WHAT? I haven't mentioned nootch before? Later. Gimme a sec.) And, oh, yeah, PICKLES! And, an hour or two later, I waddle my overstuffed butt back upstairs. And sleep fitfully, on and off, until daybreak.

You think I'm kidding. Don't you? I'm not. I'll make this admission more than once, before I die. I need to, because...my name is Steve, and by the Grace of God, by the Power of the Holy Spirit, and the shed blood of the Lamb of God, I am a GRATEFUL recovering addict.

And all I've done is switch substances. And, what the heck, let's face it: food is a substance. Am I unhappy? Nah, I don't think so. Am I suicidal? Jeez-o-pete, no! Is there something missing in my life? Well...proximity to our kids, maybe. I love and miss them all. The ones in NY, CT, NC, and across town. But, that's all I REALLY 'want.'

I'm medicating with food as a nasty habit. Like I did with alcohol and other less savory things. Bad day? Tilt one back. Good day? Tilt one back. Mediocre day? Tilt one back. I only drank on days that ended in 'y.' I only used at times that ended in 'o'clock.' The same way I eat. Like an addict on the prowl for his next fix. Ask me some day about the wedding reception.

'Wants?' 'Needs?' I have none. Somewhere between "coming to believe in a Power greater than myself" that would restore me to sanity and actually WORKING a faith, not just following a religion, I've realized that I have exactly that which I need. I'm blessed beyond comprehension. I'm better off than I deserve. So...why stuff? I'm not a dog; I'm not Shamu the Killer Whale. I don't do tricks for food!

I DON'T DO TRICKS FOR FOOD!

So, why am I 'rewarding' myself like I do those things? Two words: bad habit.

When Dawn asked if I was ready to get serious about this thing called stewardship, 33 days ago, I didn't say "Oh, my gosh, I have to count calories FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE???" I approached it like I approached alcoholism: One day at a time. I set a goal: 2,000 calories. As I eat, I weigh the options of "this versus that" in MyFitnessPal. Do I REALLY want five Circus Peanuts, or do I want three apples? An order of fries, or a seitan sandwich. (Hey, I make my own seitan, with no added junk, and no fat-laden calories, that's loaded with protein and vitamin B12. Recipes upon request.) I make smarter choices, and fill myself with...goodness! I've eaten more grapes and apples and oranges and bananas and veggies as SNACKS than I ever have. I drink water! Robin and I just spent a weekend on that well out back, and it flows pretty heartily. Nice, double-filtered groundwater from a tested aquifer. And, at 2,000 calories per day, I'm pretty doggone full. Never 'hungry.' And, oh, yeah: I usually have 200-300 extra calories left over at the close of my daily diary.

And, all of this leaves me (unofficially, because TOMORROW is the clothes-on, VA Clinic weigh-in) at 233.4 pounds. Now, add about 4.2# to that, and you get a rough idea of my regular weigh-in. Doing the math, I've lost 16.4#.

Now, let's put that little bit of data into perspective. Doing what my wonderful, inspiring (and let's not forget pretty darned cute) wife has suggested/begged me to do for years, I've lost .49 pounds (translate: HALF A POUND!) per DAY, for the last 33 days. I look at MyFitnessPal and see where put in where I'd like to have lost half a pound a WEEK. And, in my head, and on the scale, and in my clothes fitting better, and being able to walk almost every day, and being able to tie my shoes without becoming short of breath, I'm seeing the big flash of Morse code: "See how EASY???" 

See how easy...?

Truth be told, I'm waiting. Waiting for the big, bright, pink cloud to pop like a cheap balloon. It's always that way. Pretty much everyone drops a mad ton of weight in the beginning, then plateaus off to a trickle. "That LAST ten pounds is on me like fur on a weasel." But you know what? That's tomorrow. Next week. Next month. If I work the steps, follow my program, and trust God, I can DO this. I can, because I KNOW I can do all things through He who is within me! 2 Corinthians 12:9 says so. I can slowly whittle myself down to where I'm supposed to be. I've already lost 6.4% of my body mass. My BMI HAD been 35.9. It's now 34.1. Big change? Not really. But, small bites eat the Tofurkey. The journeys of a thousand miles begin and continue with a series of single steps. I...WE...are a work in progress.

Oh; I'd mentioned "Nootch." If I haven't said it before, Red Star Vegetarian Support Nutritional Yeast (Nootch) is how we vegans get our B12, a necessary nutrient. It tastes pretty darned good, too.

That's the news from Carlisle: Persevere. Have patience. Have faith. Share love. Practice stewardship.

I am proof that pretty much anyone can beat what's holding them down, and do SOMETHING to enhance their existence. Eat a little better, do a little more...we are not helpless! Rise up, be strong, and share the joy we're destined to experience!

Be well; practice peace; see y'all at the next one.

Wow, I suck at this.

I started back in of September, and I've blogged twice...one of which went AWOL somewhere. And, to be honest, I have weights all over the target. Clothed weight, un-clothed (I know: now you need eye-bleach. TRUST me, I have mirrors, and *I* need eye-bleach.)

Short recap: I went to my VA doc, and she said  "254 pounds is...the heaviest I've seen you. And your triglycerides are a mess. Would you like to try the VA 'MOVE' Program? See the Nutritionist on TeleConference?"

Done them both, I have. "MOVE," TeleConference. I'm MARRIED to a Diet Tech (registered) and read her school books for fun, sometimes. I KNOW the rules. I KNOW the guidelines. I've watched Dr Phil's weight-management programs, Dr Oz's weight-management programs. "Less calories in than you burn, no eating after xx:00, more protein, more fiber, no inane snacking, no mindless, TV-watching meals, olive oil is a condiment, not a food group, no added sugar..."

Yada. Yada. Yada. All those bleedin' words meant NOTHING. Nothing. Bending over to tie my shoes and gasping for breath before I got one bunny-ear wrapped around t'other didn't do it. Looking up the few steps from the main floor to our upstairs as if it were Annapurna in a blistering snowstorm didn't do it.

I am the FATTEST I'VE EVER BEEN. EVER.

"254#" did it. Especially when the actuary charts say I'm supposed to weigh 170.

Now, in (vaguely) recent memory, I HAVE weighed as little as 185 pounds. Really; I was working at WENY Radio in Horseheads, NY. I was working nights, telemarketing. I was working nights and weekends as a clown (Yet another story, for another day.) I was living on cigarettes, coffee, happy meals and fruit. Do you see, in that list, anything that screams, shouts, states or even whimpers "I'm taking CARE of myself?" I don't. Oh...the fruit, sure, but not the fast food, not the smokes, not the gallons of coffee (or Mountain Dew)... Isaac Bashevis Singer once wrote "A man does himself more harm than ten of his enemies." In my case, make that "Twenty enemies."

So, I sat through Group that day, after Freesia (my VA physician) gave me that "LOOK" doctors have when the news isn't the best, and moped. I came home and got all weepy with Dawn, my wonderful, beautiful Princess. She asked (as a very good recovery friend once asked) "Are you ready to get serious?"

So, I downloaded MyFitnessPal. I bought a Garmin VivoSmart HR+tracker. And I tied into this thing. That afternoon I did a little walk. The next day I went farther. Then, I loaded a playlist of "Quickstep" songs. And went farther. And I tracked my food. And I modified my goals.

I stepped on the scale yesterday at the rheumatologist's office. I'd worn the same jeans, same shirt, same shoes, same suspenders (Red Green, "If the women don't find you handsome, at LEAST let them find you handy" suspenders.) Remember, I'd weighed 254. I looked at the scale, yesterday, and it read...

...240.
Which means I've lost fourteen pounds.
I've ditched almost three bags of flour.
Or three and a half bags of sugar.
Or 14 boxes of spaghetti.
Or 8 dozen large eggs.
Or 9.3 bags of Twizzler Twists.

I have to tell you, walking with both osteoarthritis and rheumatoid (psoriatic) arthritis, pain management is a bit of a job. One medication I can use (but shouldn't, because of the methotrexate injections) helps. Another I'd like to try (but can't) is illegal. WTH? Non-THC, hemp-based CBD shows promise, but is proscribed by law. So...I walk. Sometimes, almost "powerfully." Sometimes, "with vigor." But I need a serious recovery time, post-activity. Somewhere down the road, I'm looking at an inevitable surgery for the removal of an artificial joint, but we're not going to worry about that, are we? Because just the recovery/therapy time is like, six months. Bone grafts from one site to another, blah-blah-blah...I'm just a bit busy right now. And I can ignore all that. I have Gold Passes to Kings Island, and an eight year old little boy and beautiful wife to run with! PRIORITIES, man!

As a recap, let's just list the steps I've taken:

1: I track my food. I weigh the pro/con of "this" vs "that.

2: I have added, since September 28, 2018, ONE AND ONE THIRD TEASPOONS of sugar to my coffee. That's one half teaspoon to each of four cups of coffee. That, down from a HEAPING teaspoon (max angle of repose, BTW) per cup. Two to three cups per day. And they're saying "one teaspoon of sugar..." Mine? At least 2, bringing a 5-calorie cup to 32 calories. Let's do some math:

3 (assumed cups of coffee/day) x 32 x 7 days/week=672 calories. Per week.
672 calories/week x 52 weeks = 34,944 calories per year. Say 35,000.

It's hypothesized that one need burn (or omit) 3,500 calories to lose a pound of fat. Eliminating my ladle of sugar from my java is equivalent to a gradual ten-pound LOSS in fat per annum.

3: I (a) try to walk five times/week and (b) get 7,000 steps/day.

4: I assign it all to God. There's this thing called "stewardship." Not just money;
not just property; Stewardship of self is maybe the most important stewardship we can practice. I mean, if our bodies fail, we're not going to be able to take care of the stuff around us, eh? If we're healthy, we don't have illness/injury/infirmity to distract us from bill-paying, employment (unless you're retired, in which case you do what work you do around the house) home maintenance, getting the kids onto/off of the bus, etc. Every activity can be preceded with prayer. Every activity can be followed by prayer. We can pray while we're doing stuff.  As an aside, as you lift your heart to God, offering your energies and sweat and pain (weakness leaving the body) to Him, you stand taller. Stronger. Straighter.

I'm just saying what works for me. And, fourteen pounds in 26 days means I was one *fat* boy; I AM one fat boy. I have a way to go. I need not only cardio...and more OF it...but weight training and flexibility training. As I'd learned back when I started my AA journey: One day at a time. My wife inspires me. Our daughter Meghan inspires me. My niece Jennifer inspires me. And then there's always Philippians 4:13: "I can do all things, through Christ, who is in me." What CAN'T I do? HOO-ah!

Be well; practice peace; see y'all at the next one.

First full week, and...

Well, folks, I did it.

I dug in and actually TOOK the advice my wife proffered. No, I didn't just do the "guy thing" and nod my head half-heartedly. I downloaded MyFitnessPal. I bought a Garmin VivoSmart hr+. I STARTED.

We started, together, Dawn and me, by doing a measured mile at the park. Sunday. Sunny, humid. Thought I was gonna DIE!!! I'd pulled up my music and started out with what the Army used to call "Quick-time" pace. I was feeling pretty cocky, because I'd out-stepped my pretty Princess. Then I did extra steps while she played with Aiden. And more steps. I ended up with 8122 steps. At about 30 inches per step. We're talking almost 4 miles, with the day's total.

MEANWHILE, back at home, I'm using that MyFitnessPal tracker and LOOKING at what I'm putting in my mouth. You did know that three plain Twizzlers are 120 calories, right? And I'm a FOOL for Twizzlers. I can easily eat nine of them. Easily. Or...eat what I had for lunch today: Pasta, chick peas, mushrooms, onions, spinach, olive oil, nootch (Nootch: the OTHER food group!)

Nine pieces of candy? Or a bowl full of Italian-influenced food that even my Dad would have loved? I'm pretty sure it was worth not buying the Twizzlers, yesterday. Just as an example.

So, looking at the quantities and qualities of my calories, cramming water, walking (every day, each morning, except yesterday, when Dawn and I lapped Walmart a couple times at a very brisk pace) and not grazing at midnight and beyond, I'm officially (at least this week) a loser.

I'm a loser. Yessir-ee-Bob. I got dressed in the exact same clothes I wore LAST week to the VA (I DID get them washed, TYVM) and weighed myself. Remember last week? I weighed 254 pounds. This week? 247.

In one week of actually DOING the little things I've been hearing Dawn tell me for years,  I lost seven pounds.

I'm a little sore. I ache at night, but, hey! I ache EVERY night. That's the nature of the arthritis I have. The meds make the aching tolerable. Because, to paraphrase St Paul in 2 Corinthians 8-10, "all I need is Jesus; everything is gonna be alright."

And, it  is. Going to be alright, that is. Nothing pithy and insightful, this week; just a little 'share' to say that I'm less of a man than I was last week. Seven pounds less. Have you been thinking of doing something with your health? If I can, you can.

Below, my "game face." Working out won't kill me.

Here? The laziness leaking out.

God bless, encourage and protect you all.