Chapter Eighteen: Weight loss

Of all the most difficult things in life to attempt, the one that tops the list has to be losing weight.

The problem is the process of convincing myself that food isn’t the single greatest emotional experience of my day. Because, you know, usually—it is. Some guys come home, and plant their asses on the couch, grab a brewski, and bury themselves three channels deep in a football game. Me? I swap in a soup-spoon and half-gallon of ice cream.

Well, 0.35 gallons, or whatever it is now.

I can lose weight, and feign disinterest in food. I can act as though I love parking in the far lot by the grocery store. I can rationalize that I love taking the stairs, and scorn the elevator. I can claim that I love corduroy and spandex. I can profess deeply false love for Miracle Whip over mayonnaise, and justify buying crap from Ikea because “it’s cheap, but it’s modern!” I can claim that I adore a good romance over a blazing romp between the sheets. I could likewise pretend that I’d cast aspersions at Demi Moore for rolling around on Egyptian cotton sheets, covered in hundred-dollar bills. But in the end, true colors will out, and it’s like keeping hefty genitalia from a nymphomaniac. My resolve weakens, and the drop from a 42- to a 38-inch waist gets reversed proportionally by the few inches it takes to swing open the refrigerator door.

I’ve tried finding logical solutions to address the issue. My favorite is the idea that, if you’re serious about dieting, you toss the crap food in your house, and buy only healthy food. That works great if you’re a deaf-mute shut-in without any friends, and no car. Otherwise, caramel-coated failure is just a short trip to the corner store away.

It finally dawned on me that success in dieting goes hand-in-hand with going to the gym. Apparently, though, it’s not enough to just sign-up. After months of testing, I discovered no significant progress.

So, after more months of half-hearted spending on quarter-hearted gym attendance, I finally decided to show up at the facility.

A jaunty blonde name Nick greeted me, and showed me around the equipment. He was, typically, without an ounce of fat anywhere on his body, and I spent the duration trying to waddle around with my stomach sucked in.

“You see, we like to keep our environment low-key, so that the muscle-heads stay away. No grunting and groaning, and no dropping the weights. Just quiet fitness.” He ran his thumbs under the elastic of his track pants.

I nodded. “Well, the price certainly is right. What is it, like, ten dollars a month? I’ve been with other places where I could have ended up with a car or college tuition after I paid off the up-front and monthly fees.”

Nick smiled knowingly. “We dropped the price, because the industry’s already made so much money off of you, that we actually couldn’t think of anything else to spend it on. Sure, we replaced machines yearly for a while, and renovated the building. But then we ran out of stuff to add on. After the Roman Baths wing and the uphill waterfall complex, we just figured we’d reached the end of the road. So, we decided to coast on our cash reserves for a while.”

“Really?”

“Really.”

“That’s amazing. Here I thought you’d go and make some huge charitable donation, or fund a PAC, or sponsor another child for Angelina Jolie, or something.”

Nick shrugged. “Who do you think led the way for funding the end to smallpox?”

My eyes boggled. “Gym memberships?”

He nodded shyly.

“Incredible. So all this stuff about the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation…?”

“Just a front. We thought that if we sort of laundered the funds, you wouldn’t feel so self-conscious about it. After all, we really are excited that you’re here, and we’re looking forward to seeing you achieve your goals.”

I smiled. “What if I don’t have any yet?”

Nick glowed like Mother Teresa, and put a hand on my shoulder. “Can I show you the hydromassage and anti-gravity lounge?”

* * *

I use the circuit-training equipment, because the idea of being finished in an half an hour appeals to me. However, it’s rather like opting for fifteen-minute open-heart surgery. Sure, it might get the job done, but there’s something to be said for the delicacy afforded by time.

It’s not that I hate the gym per se; it’s just that I understand—and have come to terms with—my own propensity to lie to myself. “Legs on Monday, then Tuesday off, then arms on Wednesday, followed by a free Thursday, and lastly, torso on Friday” translates into “Legs on Monday, then maybe come back next week, because Wednesday was free-pie-slice night at the Village Inn, and Friday night, my cellular mitochondria shut down, and I didn’t do a damned thing. But keep Tuesday and Thursday evenings free for recuperation.”

Circuit training involves combining two detestable activities, cardio and strength-training, into one totally deplorable workout segment. It’s designed for people like me, who need a stern ass-kicking because they simply can’t be bothered with trying to pace themselves.

The first week I tried the circuit, I set each machine to just a tiny bit more weight than what I could easily lift. The catch of circuit training is that you don’t function in sets—none of this “I’ll do ten of these, then rest for a minute, then try ten more.” It’s sixty seconds of balls-to-the-wall, crushing repetition. Do it, do it again, over and over, rinse and repeat as necessary. By the end of each portion, what seemed like a light but challenging load destroyed me. I felt queasy when I rode home (David drove, mercifully), and the next morning, I needed help donning a T-shirt and combing my hair.

Yes, this is what we, the middle-aged, call “getting in shape.” It’s all the crap that used to handle itself when we ran around outside and played, and now we have to do it methodically, devoid of any pretext of play, or fun. You go into it knowing that this is going to suck. It is supposed to suck, and the depth of its suckage will give you more profound appreciation for the accomplishments you may yet make, before you dissolve into a pool of tears, and bury your chubby little sausage-fingers into a basket of steak fries, to try and wash away the pain in a sea of triglycerides.

Victory is fleeting and psychosomatic. When I work out the night before, the next day—if I played my cards correctly—I feel great. I feel thinner. Defeat is swift, and punishing. If I slip up two days later and eat a bowl of ice cream, I can’t roll the elastic waistband of my tighty-whities above my thighs, and I have to go to work with my belt curling out at the edges, like the disgruntled petals of a leather flower. I know that I can’t possibly go up and down in weight that much in the course of a few days, but I certainly feel like I could. Suddenly, I realize why there’s such a market in diuretics for women. This has to be as close as a man can get to having a period.

Across the gym, Nick is showing new prospects around. One of them is a deeply over-tanned woman in possibly her late forties, who looks like she’s just crested seventy. Her skin is a naugahyde mockup of itself, textured in leathergrain and patterned with melanoma. Excessively white teeth glint nervously from a mouth that has lost its last shreds of collagen, and her hair, frail and dry, nonetheless shows loving dedication to peroxide to preserve the illusion of blondeness. The skin around her collarbones looks like the tired headliner from a seventies Cadillac. Nick takes her in, and smiles sweetly again. “I’d bet you’d like to see the tanning beds.” Off they go.

I finish up a cooldown on a treadmill, which is codespeak for trying desperately to lower my heart rate after the circuit course so that I can drive home without having a stroke. Nick fidgets behind the cash-register, and waves good-night to me. He remembers my name without fail, every time. He remembers everyone’s name, in fact. The only thing scarier and more mystical than his body to me is his mind.

“Have a good night!” he cheers.

“Oh, I will! I just stabilized my blood pressure, so I feel just peachy and rarin’ to go. Dontcha go crack too many walnuts with that ass of yours; you’ll fray the fabric of your pants from the shells.”

Nick smirks. “I have spares.”

“Nuts, or pants?”

“Pants. By the way, if you start with pecans, you don’t get the bruising. It’s all about working your way up.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

Nick starts to say something, then thinks the better of it, and his eyes lead the way to a slow and spreading smile. “You have a good night.”

I smile awkwardly, and turn to go out the door, clipping the handle and almost walking into the glass.

I so very much love-hate the gym.

“You all right?” Nick calls.

“Fine. See you Wednesday.”

“Next Monday it is!”