Is it the scale, or is it notching up the belt?

Stepping on the scales this morning before a rumpus good ole spin class, I was pleasantly surprised of the progress I have made -- down 24 pounds in three months. As great as that should sound to me, I have been more concerned with the ever looming next notch on my waist belt.

Even more pressing is my quest to go down two pant sizes, putting me just outside of my early 20’s waist line. Wow that’s soooo, chasing the past, high school hero, “you remember when I looked like that?” type of mentality. WHO CARES! My wife thinks I’m hotter when I’m skinny, which leads her to believe other women think the same thing, resulting in Mr. Marlow getting the ever desired “upper hand.” If you don’t understand, you’ve been married to long or still playing the dating game.

For those that subscribe to this theory understand that destruction and eternal damnation will be upon those who inform the one with no hand before they realize hand has changed sides. This is a shallow threat not to violate the Oath of U.H.

You have been warned!

United Thugs of Jarvis - Part 2

Late last night, some where between the retched smell of warm catch-up and R.E.M. sleep, I unconsciously decided to take on fat from a spiritual front. Tapping the other 90% of my unused temporal power for what was to be a savage fight. I take my lucid dreams very serious – some of my most prolific concepts spawned while night kaleidoscoping. It was so vivid; sights exact, smells pungent, and the touch of battle so near. I’m giving these fat cells a once over, tearing through them with the ease of a hot knife through butter. Then things got weird about 30 past the cows coming home.

All of a sudden the battle turned horribly wrong, they turned the hoses on my forces and unleashed a massive belly button assault on the metabolic strong hold. Next thing I know the thunder of cannon shots are coming all over… Nothing like cowards to bring artillery to a knife fight. Well it was good fight, so full retreat until tomorrow night. But no, they were still coming strong, and somewhere in the mix those thugs brought in non-lethal Israeli sound devise. What the heck, it sounds just like my alarm.

It was a well planned counter offensive put on by the thugs, using the alarm clock tactic. To my surprise they were able to co-op my one year old son into bringing the heavy thunder with rabbit heel kicks to my kidneys and then sacrificing his 4am bottle for a strategic placement just north of my skivvies.
Point, fat cells.

United Thugs of Jarvis

Backstroke at 5:30am can produce some twisted visions… Monday I was doing a dolphin kick set that was giving my stomach fat a go “how’s your father.” All of a sudden I realized my physical make-up stores most of my extra lard in the mid-section. If I could every get my body to disperse it around my body a bit more evenly, then I might not look like an Idaho potato with #3 lead pencils for legs and pipe cleaner arms. Those freaking fat cells are cowards of Jarvis County (note the obscure Kenny Rogers inspiration you country fans)

My fat cells are nothing but thugs. Their always waiting until I go to sleep to gang up on my operation - then they retreat every morning all Lost Boys style. You slobs wouldn’t have a ribs chance in Memphis one on one with me… But no, they reek havoc on my inter city highway system; spray painting the arteries with stank plaque. Word is they are even planning a Thanksgiving offensive on my double chin; looking to recruit additional cells after the beat down I’ve put on their safe haven these past few months. Who are these fat cells… the freaking Taliban?!?!

You are reading this correct; I am currently picking a fight with the squaters in my belly. I ain’t got shame in my game!

…to be continued

The Scales Don’t Mind

I have dropped 19 pounds since the start of this mad dash, and from inside sources Easy-E has secret plans to sever a major limp if the race is photo finish worthy. Can’t win E if you keep stopping at In-n-Out in route to All You Can Eat Sushi… Algebra won’t save that math.

In a contest where it’s all about the scale, I have begun tricking the ole pound counter. Instead of logging in the L-Bs before a work out, I’ll wait until the sweat has rolled and the buzzer’s sounded to step on. Nothing new there, it’s a complete mental game – like setting your alarm clock and car clock 12 minutes fast to continue the illusion of urgency.

My personal goals and aspirations are one part uncultured insincere narcissism and three parts “how the freak am I going to ever look as good as him!?!” So please understand intentions don’t necessitate a cheat to win… its money holding me back. Heck, I can’t afford the plane ticket to Tijuana and my Spanish is so bad Dr. Still Ur Kidney would probably double D my chest and Botox my eyelids closed. But understand, all-right minded slouches game the system a bit. For me, the pre-weigh-in required me to eat a major meal and Zeus the cosmic forces to increase galactic gravity to that of Jupiter (for those keeping score at home, that’s two and a half times that of our wet rock).

If I’m already in this state of mind, then fasting and purging a week prior to the final weigh-in should be expected. I am no saint to my holy flesh temple, so come November 7th, there’s a possibility the post-weigh-in will see my first non-Karen-Carpenter Heimlich, non-fluid meal of the runner up month of deuce double zero to the nine.

And haters to my grind may say -- J’s to laid back to compete… I scoff at the italic notation, and purge in their general direction!

Smokey Mountain Infidelity

My wife always says to me, “I have way too much faith in you. I would never think of you cheating on me while traveling.” Now that’s why I love my wife… But in the same breath she calls me a dirty dog - a walking euphemism for dietary monogamy on the road, especially when that road leads to East Tennessee. I spent seven days last week in The Motherland and like all scoundrels justifying infidelity, “Baby, it ain’t if there’s a gastric ring on, but how easy it comes off.”

It wasn’t one act of indiscretion that concerned me, but rather 38 with a little burger named Krystal, twice with Big Ed’s Pizza, some daily wake and Easy Bakes, and a risky picnic romp with some gut busting banana pudding. If there was a Dr Drew for unfaithful dieters, I would be on speed dial. How was I going to explain the musk of flame broil or the rapid expansion of my manzier?!? Manning up to the whole thing might’ve been the best course for some, hence my shallow ways forced me to avoid eye contact with the scales in hope complete denial and time would heal the wounds propagated by one man’s cheating stomach.