Jobless the Hutt...

Last fall, I left my job with the intention of moving to New York. If you've read the previous "Flight of Daedalus" post, you know how that turned out. What I didn't write was an account of the five months I spent not working. It was, at turns, restful, challenging, lazy, frustrating, solitary, and ultimately, indulgent. I was determined to take a break from my overly complicated life, from humanity, and from my normal routine. I was tired. I've been a part of the work force since I was sixteen. Actually, I started working the coat check at my grandparents night club a little earlier than that, but my point is, I'd been running in the rat race for over a quarter of a century. I wanted a vacation. In retrospect, I could have done without the "indulgent" part.


This divergence from my normal workaholic existence left behind it an unfortunate and appalling wake. I gained about 35 pounds. Mind you, these weren't 35 voluptuous, "more of me to love" pounds. Nooo. These were 35 "Oh my God, it's coming this way, and it's hungry" pounds. They're lumpy, bumpy, ugly pounds. Seriously, once you pass the age of 40, all of the rules change. It sucks, but as the song says, "That's just the way it is...". Indeed. The thing that did me in over the duration of my sabbatical was a steady diet of take-out Chinese food--with all of its sodium--and no-cheese veggie pizza. These things are fine in moderation, as can be said of just about anything, but when the bulk of your calorie intake comprises them for several sedentary months, with not nearly enough fluid intake, you're asking for Trouble with a capital T, and that rhymes with Z and that stands for zaftig. I'm also reasonably sure that, thanks to me, Nabisco weathered the stock market crash fairly well. It is both a blessing and a curse that Oreos are vegan. Just doing my part to bolster the economy.


Now, a normal person might be satisfied to to simply shrug off this predicament as part of the normal course of ageing. Ask anyone who knows me and they'll tell you--I'm not normal. I'm just getting around to having something of a life. I need this old bod' to hold up as looong as it possibly can. In that spirit, I took a deep breath, rolled up my sleeves, and started working out. A lot. I'm sure that there are gym rats in this world who spend a great deal more time at it than I do, but I'm just getting started. I've gone back to my habit of preparing all of my meals ahead of time. I drink about a gallon of water a day (yes, a WHOLE gallon). I'm taking my supplements, getting enough rest, and managing my stress as well as I can. It seems to be working. Granted, it's only been a few weeks, but I have the advantage of muscle memory. I was a gymnast, and then a dancer, when I was younger. This body has been through some extreme changes over the last couple of decades, but it does remember some of its old ways. Not a moment too soon, might I add. I'm very stubborn about not giving in and buying bigger clothes. In fact, I'm certain that button and zipper manufacturers around the globe are uniting as we speak to issue a fatwa against me.

I can't say how much weight I've lost thus far. I can definitely see that I have lost weight, but I threw out my scale about a month ago. I figured that if I was going to do this, I was going to do it for the right reason: My health. I didn't want to be a slave to a number. I know plenty of "skinny" people who are in horrible shape. That's not what I'm going for. I want this body to be a reflection of its health and well-being, not a reflection of some ridiculous, emaciated standard of beauty. I want to be able to do my job without feeling like someone needs to carry my tired, broken body home in a shoe box at the end of the day. I want to be able to participate in the world around me (eventually). I don't think that's asking too much. Especially considering that I'm not looking for any short-cuts. I'm willing to go "old school" and work for it. The lines of this body have already started to smooth out and draw up and in to their original(ish) positions. By my current estimates, I should be in glorious, glamazon shape by mid-July, at which point I'll go to a costume shop and buy myself a Princess Leia space bikini. You know, the one she was wearing when she strangled the crap out of Jabba. Yeah, that's what I think I'll do.


Just because the rules have changed, it doesn't mean that the game is over.