Palletized Excess (Part 1)

No where in Western civilization has excess been more purified, ratified, and vilified than at Cosco (Sam’s Club for those in the South). Val sent me on a honey-do excursion last night to pick up baby formula… I thought, “Perfect! I can get some eggs, water, and dried fruit for the diet.” $100 later my life was changed for ever.

Unlike previous trips with my family, meandering through four story isles of bulk paper towels and five gallon jars of pickles, this trip would’ve made the Man Show highlight reel. Just image a speed-walk racer on meth, airport walking with a cart only Michael Keaton in Mr. Mom could’ve appreciated, and the background scene supplied by the Beyond Thunderdoom when the crazy mohawk munchichi dude gets 187’d by the train… you’ll have a good visual of my trip to Cosco last night.

I was slicing through the flow of cart traffic like a LAPD motorcycle cop getting his first cameo on TruTV – taking the corners on two wheel motion! Dane Cook ain’t got nothing on my Tarzan boy skills; climbing the four-hundred ton Incan tower of 36-pack Kirkland bottled waters like a rabid spider monkey, skowering the stake for the most virgin of packaging. The poor lady in the wheel chair who I gave a sharpened elbow quiver might still be lodged between the Gatorade and CranApple pallets. This night I was en fuego!

The water was bush league, I might as well been born on third thinking I got a triple because it was nothing compared to what laid ahead… the blue hairs on motorized carts in the fiber section.

…to be continued

I am Jarvis’s loathing Modus Operandi.

Since Labor Day of last year, my buddy J.B.K. has put me to task for wanting to slim down. Last fall I completed the P90X program and lost 20 bounds and bulked up a bit. He said to me, as he did when I started this little journey with Easy-E; “Dude, you’re married. You bought the farm, got the milk, and the property value is bound to drop a little.” Now I’m cool with him questioning my motive, he is single, loves to date cougars, and has been known to offend a majority of the female population. But when married guys start questioning my modus operandi, things start to get dicey. Not to mention my wife is having nightmares of me pulling a poor man’s version of Demi Moore in Indecent Proposal… Doze are one dolla billz weez mak'n it rain wit.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve rolled up to Wal-Mart in flip-flops, baggy b-ball shorts, and a shirt that should’ve made its debut in the shammy pile years ago. I’ve even been known to dabble in a little “You remember when we were fast…” nostalgia while pounding $1 McDoubles, backed by a cocktail of Raisinettes and Ho-Ho’s. But enough is enough! I gots to think about stretching this thing we call life out a few more years past the red zone. This is not about a mid-life, “pierce my ears with diamond studs, get photographed on the French Riviera with a so-so looking rebound, divorce the crazy mother of my eight children, and get bounced from TLC,” crisis. This is just me wanting to shed some L-Bs to live a more comfortable life.

I am Jarvis’s catharsis process.

Freaking eh!

5am came crashing out of my alarm clock like a 2x4 across the R.E.M (and that aint the boys from Athens). It was one of those jump in panic, not because of the alarm clock, but because your brain had not caught on to the fact the eyeballs are sending images but the hamster has not started the wheel yet. I have to imagine my face looked like Non in Superman II when he was trying to use his laser vision for the first time… but I was trying to figure out, “What the freak am I doing up at this hour?”

After realizing my plight, I shook the sleep out of my head and rolled over to found my son camped between us doing a predawn interpretive dance of “Guess Who Has The Most Real Estate On This Bed.” I was so far off the comfort top the drool had missed my pillow completely puddling under the nightstand. My poor wife fared much worse, she had a size 1-T upside her head giving her a little UFC good morning kiss. Fearing a possible beat down on Facebook by Brook’s wife for missing another “first day back in the pool,” the khakis and gazelles went on and I headed out.

Now I’ve swam for over 20 years, and have become accustomed to the walk of shame when reacquainting oneself with a group of chlorine junkies, but this morning was especially fitting since I was hitting the water after an eight month day-off. Only ex-swimmers will appreciate this; long course 100 IMs… I’ll leave it at that.

Now that my lungs are ripe, the back fat is in pain, and my head is full of thoughts of bedtime… I head to the closest chicken palace for grilled yard fowl and cold Lake Mead water.

Subway Saves Lives

Over the past ten years I have surfed the wave of weight gain and weight loss (most of the ride being on the crest), one eatery has been kept me company. Subway has been my primary ammunition to battle the bulge. When I lost 40 lbs in five months for our wedding, it was the foot long Oven Roasted Chicken sandwich that got me there.

As stated in an earlier post, hunger is my death spiral… so to combat the crippling urges to drop nougat centers like Mos Def drops conspiracy theories, I would partake in a sixer from the house Jared built around 10 in the morning and then repeat at 2 in the afternoon. The problem with 320 calories of goodness is the bloody rut caused by this day-in and day-out diet.

Not to say that I don’t eat other things during periods of weight lose – tuna, salmon, turkey, and pork are found on the family 40. Those animal groups are dinner products – Subway is purely a day tripper. Also, it’s the peace of mind knowing there are more Subways than Starbucks, Walgreens, and Wal-Marts combined in the lower 48.

There is nothing less motivating than staring down the Igloo’s contents of homemade salad and fruit bowl when the balance to the day is eight hours off. Inner 3rd grade Jarvis wakes up in cold sweat flash backs worried mom forgot his aluminum foil wrapped Dr Pepper and Twinkie on today’s field trip. Subway has talked me off of more Quarter Pounder #2 combo cliffs than memory serves.

Generations

My father and stepmother were in town for a convention this past week, which was great for them to see the kids and have some bounding time. However, I was sweating bullets when pops asked to go to breakfast yesterday… Now we Marlow’s loves some good old greasy belly fuel. So when he suggested Denny’s, my collective will power ran screaming down my rubber arm. Luckily they had a healthy choice selection with egg whites and turkey bacon, it was shaping up to be Kate Moss / Pete Doherty reunion.

As we were getting ready to leave the home of the Grand Slam my dad starts popping this medley of pills. Come to find out, a few weeks back the family M.D. informed our patriarch he was Type II diabetic. Great! My grandfather passed away because of undiagnosed diabetes, and now his son has it… This is one family heirloom I’m not accepting. Freaking Little Debbie snack cakes are killing the clane!

The Shakes

Having gone on the weight gain-loss roller coaster a few times in this Wally World excursion that has become of my life; one thing has become a cardinal rule… don’t get hungry!

When the shakes come on, not the meth slash alco detox kind, but the full body fat cell mutiny on the bounty, “I’ll kill a hostage every minute until I get food” type. Being on the run every minute of the day has lead me to some pretty crappy grease traps along to resort corridor.

There are many truths in Chubby Town population Me, Morgan Spurlock slapped me with one a few years back in his doc Super Size Me… Unhealthy food is cheap. In Fast Food Nation, they go on to tell us about the subsidizing of corn which is feed to calls instead of them grazing, resulting in higher fat content in the meat… I’m not one to get serious, but I gots to break this cycle of acting like a 16 year old with the metabolism of a humming bird.

Let the Game Begin

The alarm clock dropped a 5:30 am bomb... Luckily the drive to the gym was a straight mile from the house. It would've been hard to explain to the cops why I was driving with one eye caked in sleep and a bad knock off hair style circa Flock of Seagulls.

After a facilty raising 55 minute spin class, my lungs were drowning in flim and the fat thigh rub caused my club exit to be anything but a saunter. Where the freak is my egg whites and dry toast!

The Scope

Easy-E and I have decided to make this a no-holds-barred challenge… This will be the equivalent of the SNL skit “All Drug Olympics.” Our only exception is, if the winner dies within one month of the weigh-in, their body will be interred in a full maternity dress and the family’s name forever shamed for the disgrace of one.

The rules are simple; lose as much weight in 16 weeks, talk as much trash possible, and stay off the Malaysian Health Authority’s Top 10 most wanted list. Everything else is fair in love and war.

Unfortunate for me, moral and religious standards have removed an all cigarette and coffee diet as some have suggested. Unfortunate for Easy-E, he is a cop… Loves him some donuts and bear claws!

Please stay tuned to the posting of our official weigh-in and before photos (Easy-E is not pregnant, just retaining water).

JM

The Gauntlet

The gauntlet has been thrown down, and I accept it!

Scot “EZ-E” Eliot challenged yours truly to a 16 week crash diet, work out packed, trash talking weight loss juggernaut. Over the next four months EZ-E and I have placed several side bets on who will lose the most weight (percentage of course, E has a full two bits on me). We will explain the reasoning behind the wager and what E will have to do when I beat him… The lawyers are forcing me to use the correct wording, “What the loser will have to do when the other beats him.” Freaking blood suckers!

Stay tuned to the madness of two college buddies battling a decade worth of fast food, mid day naps, and general lethargy.

Jarvis "JT" Marlow