What did you do this summer? Travel? Swim? Tan? Work? Post four thousand Facebook statuses? Nothing?
Well, that's all better than what I did.
I, Bone, gained weight. Between the months of April and September, I packed on not nine, not ten, but ELEVEN pounds. Thus putting me at the heaviest weight of my life. Which would be great if I were a boxer and trying to move up a weight class, but I'm not. I thought briefly about boxing when I was younger, but I have a fear of getting punched. So I stuck to Mike Tyson's Punch-Out on the Nintendo. Don Flamenco, Bald Bull, Soda Popinski -- those were more my speed. But anyway, I'm getting off track here.
Thus was the summer of my stomach's great content. I did not exercise much. Well, I played lots of Word Mole and online Scrabble, but apparently mental exercise doesn't count so much when it comes to weightier matters. All the while imbibing carbonated beverages like they were about to make them available by prescription only. What did I expect?
My abs have gone from not-quite-six-pack to she's-just-starting-to-show. The taut pre-teen Swedish boy body is no more.
So where do I go from here? I mean, Richard Simmons is not walking through my door. Believe me, I've tried. I've written him like three times.
It wasn't at all a surprise to me that I had gained weight over the summer. I knew. I was dreading and putting off stepping on the scales. What has been a surprise, however, is how immensely difficult the pounds have been to shed.
I started eating (slightly) better and running (a lot) more. I've been doing that for three or four weeks now. Grand total weight loss in that time? Three pounds. Double-you-tee-eff? Has gravity increased or something in the last few years? They really should do some research on that.
I'm starting to think this may be the hardest thing I've ever done. I'm not even kidding. To understand that, you must understand something about me: I tend to shy away from anything that appears even slightly difficult.
Oh, also, for years, I lived in a carefree world where things like calories and the future were something for other people to worry about. I had a metabolism somewhere between an Olympic swimmer and a hummingbird. As long as I ran two or three times a week, I could pretty much eat anything I wanted. And indeed, I did.
But now it appears that era of my life has come to a close. My hummingbird days are over.
Let us mourn the death of my metabolism.
"My next thirty years, I'm gonna watch my weight. Eat a few more salads and not stay up so late..."
