Reducing the Geeks
Sykes and Bear have both opened up about their ongoing fitness and weight-loss regimens, and I figure that's as good a sign as any to punch my shyness in the face and join the chorus.
My situation is remarkably similar to Bear's... after a few years of drifting comfortably away from most exercise and paying attention to what I ate (my fitness hit a sort of peak around late 2004, when I was in training before starting firefighting class), depression and other forms of misery came along to ramp up the self-destructive process.
In the late autumn of 2004, I weighed approximately 205 pounds. In April 2010, when my ex-wife and I separated, I had hit 285. I don't actually have any photos of myself at that weight, because I couldn't bear to take any, for the same reason I couldn't bear to leave the house. Oh, self-loathing! You carousel of wacky hijinks!
Implying a six-year progression doesn't quite capture the truth of what happened; I had gained perhaps thirty pounds by late 2007, but the next fifty came in just a year and a half.
2010 was a pretty awful year for several reasons, but out of that marital GAME OVER screen came a few signs of hope. I pursued actual treatment for depression, and eventually medication. I also began laying siege to my weight with a properly-researched diet and exercise scheme.
So, this happened:
On the left is the me of June 2009, at my youngest brother's wedding (photo by someone in my family). Note the classic Scruffy Temp Goatee, that panic-induced symptom of someone desperately trying to re-inject character into a face that has misplaced all of its angles.
On the right is me in June 2011, at 4th Street Fantasy Con (photo by David Dyer-Bennet). I have donated my double chin to science. My hair has actually lightened a bit from that arcane process called "exposure to the sun."
And that's where I am now, about 210, and more importantly, a great deal stronger and healthier. The 5.3 mile walks that nearly killed me last year are now a routine, six days a week. My blood pressure resembles that of an earth human again. I can do six wide-grip pull-ups at a time, even though I despise the damn things. My once-omnipresent back pain has faded. I fit into my fire gear with room to spare, and no longer feel that I'm speeding toward a heart attack every time I throw it on.
It's not about conforming to the insane standards our society sets for shape and beauty. It's about feeling comfortable in one's own body, about being healthy enough to be mobile and useful in a crisis (in my case, it had reached the point where I had only two real choices, get back in shape or immediately quit firefighting). It's about managing sugar and junk intake so that it becomes something to savor rather than something to shovel down without pleasure or consideration. It's about keeping depression in check, and recognizing that comfort eating has nothing to do with delicious food and everything to do with that goddamn demon at the back of your brain.
The plan has been boring, tedious, and occasionally painful. I keep a food diary, tracking calorie and protein totals as obsessively as possible. To say that I've ramped up my exercise is an understatement. I have barely touched alcohol away from conventions and special occasions. Sugary soda is something I have once every few weeks. But it's not so bad... the constant cravings for crazy junk* eventually fade. The sense of relief in my joints at not carrying so many extra pounds of me around is liberating. The ability to run, climb, jump, and bust ass on fire scenes is raw delight, and worth the inevitable aches and sprains.
And while there's nothing in life more important than beating Sam Sykes at everything, I have to admit I'm proud of the little tyke. I'll still give him a wedgie and take his lunch money at WFC, though.
*The occasional cravings never go away, of course. But those can be indulged... the point is not to live like an ascetic, it's to make the balance of your behavior positive enough that you can accept and thoroughly enjoy the occasional indulgence. Especially at conventions.
My situation is remarkably similar to Bear's... after a few years of drifting comfortably away from most exercise and paying attention to what I ate (my fitness hit a sort of peak around late 2004, when I was in training before starting firefighting class), depression and other forms of misery came along to ramp up the self-destructive process.
In the late autumn of 2004, I weighed approximately 205 pounds. In April 2010, when my ex-wife and I separated, I had hit 285. I don't actually have any photos of myself at that weight, because I couldn't bear to take any, for the same reason I couldn't bear to leave the house. Oh, self-loathing! You carousel of wacky hijinks!
Implying a six-year progression doesn't quite capture the truth of what happened; I had gained perhaps thirty pounds by late 2007, but the next fifty came in just a year and a half.
2010 was a pretty awful year for several reasons, but out of that marital GAME OVER screen came a few signs of hope. I pursued actual treatment for depression, and eventually medication. I also began laying siege to my weight with a properly-researched diet and exercise scheme.
So, this happened:
On the left is the me of June 2009, at my youngest brother's wedding (photo by someone in my family). Note the classic Scruffy Temp Goatee, that panic-induced symptom of someone desperately trying to re-inject character into a face that has misplaced all of its angles.
On the right is me in June 2011, at 4th Street Fantasy Con (photo by David Dyer-Bennet). I have donated my double chin to science. My hair has actually lightened a bit from that arcane process called "exposure to the sun."
And that's where I am now, about 210, and more importantly, a great deal stronger and healthier. The 5.3 mile walks that nearly killed me last year are now a routine, six days a week. My blood pressure resembles that of an earth human again. I can do six wide-grip pull-ups at a time, even though I despise the damn things. My once-omnipresent back pain has faded. I fit into my fire gear with room to spare, and no longer feel that I'm speeding toward a heart attack every time I throw it on.
It's not about conforming to the insane standards our society sets for shape and beauty. It's about feeling comfortable in one's own body, about being healthy enough to be mobile and useful in a crisis (in my case, it had reached the point where I had only two real choices, get back in shape or immediately quit firefighting). It's about managing sugar and junk intake so that it becomes something to savor rather than something to shovel down without pleasure or consideration. It's about keeping depression in check, and recognizing that comfort eating has nothing to do with delicious food and everything to do with that goddamn demon at the back of your brain.
The plan has been boring, tedious, and occasionally painful. I keep a food diary, tracking calorie and protein totals as obsessively as possible. To say that I've ramped up my exercise is an understatement. I have barely touched alcohol away from conventions and special occasions. Sugary soda is something I have once every few weeks. But it's not so bad... the constant cravings for crazy junk* eventually fade. The sense of relief in my joints at not carrying so many extra pounds of me around is liberating. The ability to run, climb, jump, and bust ass on fire scenes is raw delight, and worth the inevitable aches and sprains.
And while there's nothing in life more important than beating Sam Sykes at everything, I have to admit I'm proud of the little tyke. I'll still give him a wedgie and take his lunch money at WFC, though.
*The occasional cravings never go away, of course. But those can be indulged... the point is not to live like an ascetic, it's to make the balance of your behavior positive enough that you can accept and thoroughly enjoy the occasional indulgence. Especially at conventions.
No comments have been added yet.
