6 I will lose 20 pounds by July 1st
First of all, I need to correct a most unpatriotic error in this resolution. I hereby properly assert that I will lose 9.07185 kg by July 1st. It’s high time we Canadians fully embraced the metric system we’ve been halfheartedly flirting with for the past forty-five years. Trudeau the First brought it to Canada so it’s only fitting Trudeau the Second make it ubiquitous. Besides, losing a smidge more than 9 of something seems easier to do than losing 20 of something.
Furthermore, since I’ve made such an issue about vagueness in my previous resolution attempts, when I say I will lose 9.07185 kg I am, of course, referring to body mass. Or, if you prefer a layman term, fat. I technically could lose nine kilograms of Lego quite easily as nearly half that seemingly gets vacuumed up in any given year around here anyway. Ten solid flushes of the vintage 14 gallon toilet in our house loses 9.07185 kg of “mass” on a roughly bi-weekly basis. And a quick peak at the lost and found of any elementary school reveals that children are exceptionally skilled at losing 9.07185 kg of clothing daily. Losing 9.07185 kg is easy. Losing 9.07185 kg of body mass, fat, is much more difficult but that’s what my resolution is for 2016. And I’ll do it by Canada Day.
This final resolution for 2016 is two parts vanity and one part sanity. I am by no means obese, but I am hardly svelte. These formless, spindle-like arms give a false impression of thinness prevailing where actually a regrettably frumpy body reigns. The muffin top look just doesn’t appeal to me no matter how you dress it up with cutesy phrasing like “Dad bod”. I have been incredibly blessed with an unconscionably forgiving metabolism which compensates for a much too ravenous sweets addiction (see resolution 2), but the amorphous arms, jiggly belly, and junk-filled trunk just isn’t the body I wish I had.
Damn You Musclebound Guitar Players
Then there’s that unmarried, childless, former high school classmate who at 43 looks better than any of us ever did at 18. As if being a superlative guitar player in his teens hadn’t made me envious enough, now he has the physique of a Greek god! Whenever a picture of his bulging biceps and grooved abdomen appear on my Facebook feed I instinctively grab two fistfuls of belly fat before crying into the bowl of Smarties I was “lightly snacking” on. Yet another reason to hate Facebook and strive for resolution 5.
Now I don’t expect to replicate his feat of muscular cultivation. There are limits to what a man can do with kids to nurture and chronic illness to combat, not to mention binges to ingest and furniture upon which to lounge. My muscles are exceptionally resistant to even modest growth. You could juice me up with enough anabolic steroids to transform Stephen Hawking into The Incredible Hulk and you wouldn’t see even the slightest upwards inflexion where my biceps reside. Oh my head would probably double in size, and my nose. God knows that damned thing would expand like a teenage phallus stumbling into a sorority house lingerie party.
I would, however, relish the experience of just once being the cause of discomfort rather than displaying the effect of discomfort. We live in a lake community. Forty-five years ago a developer got the genius idea to dig a 53 acre, sorry 21.4483 hectare, pond in the middle of the prairies, fake beach included, at which the local homeowners would gather and pretend to be Malibulians or, I don’t know, Southern Ontarians. As a middle-aged father of two, I can assure you there is nothing more uncomfortable than taking my kids to the beach, plopping my gluteus flabulous into a lawn chair and noticing strikingly curvy bikini-clad women engaged in a gleeful and bouncy game of beach volleyball only to discover, upon their passing afterwards, that they were a bunch of fifteen year olds! In 2016 I would like nothing more than to have these scantily clad girls notice a glistening, rippled young man building sand castles and beach rivers with two young children only to discover, upon their passing afterwards, that he is a thinning-haired, halfway to death dad! Their mothers noticing too, would make it all the better.
My Body Is Basically A Ford Pinto
Perhaps this is not the noblest reason for getting into shape but one must take incentive in any form offered. A little vanity never hurt and a dream, unrealistic though it may be, is still worth chasing once in your life. Alright, fine, let’s focus on the sanity aspect of this resolution then. Getting a little fitter and with that, lighter, might help in keeping me sane. My body is deteriorating faster than a Ford Pinto. Joint and muscle ache are a daily companion, not to mention the suitcase full of other symptoms that come and go like post-Sarcoidoidal herpes. Fewer pounds would mean less stress on the joints and less effort from the muscles and maybe that would help alleviate some of the irritation. The exercise required to lose this weight will undoubtedly help my heart, not to mention my brain, another organ experiencing sudden onset design flaws.
I’ll need to be vigilant so as not to trigger a Sarc relapse. This is my greatest fear and admittedly has become a bit of a crutch in avoiding exercise over the years. But a slow, methodical fitness routine should be able to get me healthy while remaining, well, healthy. Resolution 2 will help in achieve this resolution though I expect a monumental two steps backwards occurring on my birthday. This is a challenge that has bested me for most of my post-pubescent life. From improved fitness for hockey tryouts to belly flap depletion, getting active for any meaningfully extended period of time has outwitted me forever. I would love to finally set a fitness goal and actually achieve it. I hope 2016 will be that time.
But mostly it’s the beach thing. I want to freak out the bikini girls. I want to freak them out and have my wife get a little jealous and try to lure me back by whatever means necessary. That alone will be worth all the chocolate I am forced to avoid in getting there.