Tomorrow I return to the gym and to the trainer who has proven he can make me throw up.
I spent some of the fall making a half-assed effort at working out and trying to get my 36-year-old body back to its 17-year-old glory (they say you should set realistic goals). Then I traveled out of the country for a couple of weeks, and had one excuse after another for falling off the workout wagon.
Back in my glory days, I was a slim 6’1”, played three varsity sports, and had legs that were so skinny even the football coach was afraid they might snap off.
I was also 50, yes 50 pounds lighter. I slipped so easily into 32 inch wastebands, I think I had cheekbones, my butt stopped the ladies in their tracks (ok, that part I always imagined)
Now, well, it’s a different story. I don’t have a stomach that hangs out. I’m just big. All around big.
And part of my unhappiness is that my mental image of myself is still that of a strapping young teen, so mirrors and photos of 36-year-old John make me very unhappy.
In the past I have tried and failed at operation slimdown.
Perhaps, because I’m going a little more public with it now, I might have more motivation to stick with it.
As if an ass that stops the ladies dead in their track isn’t enough.
Wish me luck.