I am absolutely amazed that our four-day Thanksgiving bacchanal only resulted in a two-pound weight gain. Between 18 adults, we ate—no shit—twelve pounds of bacon. More like a baconnal! Bwahaha!
In any case, a very good time, and I didn't eat nearly as poorly as I could have, all told. I stayed away from beer and ate fruit for breakfast and did some floor exercises and went for a polar bear twin in Mary's Lake and took a four-mile hike and was altogether more active that I could have been. But still, time to start anew that weight-shaving, today with a lunchtime trip to the gym and then kickboxing again tonight. The good news that I've learned from my Batman-ing so far is that I'm capable of taking weight off, and with surprising alacrity, when I stick to my diet and work hard. I will lose another seven pounds before the week is over. This is my goal. I will also run tomorrow, which I failed to do today because I could not be bothered to wake up early enough.
And go.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
It’s not Batman that makes you worthwhile, it’s the other way around. Never tell yourself anything different.
Kickboxing was a rough one yesterday. We eschewed our usual amount of bag time in favor of circuits. Circuits go like this:
There are six stations set up, at each of which you are to perform a specific exercise. Examples include box dips, squats with a 40-pound weight, cherry pickers with a heavy-ass medicine ball, box jumps, etc. Simple, right? You are allotted one minute at each of these stations, in which you are to perform that exercise with full intensity. (Stopping to catch your breath is the enemy.) Then, quickly to the next station! And to the next! And the next! Don't stop! And so on, until you've done the full circuit. Then you get 20 seconds to get a drink of water, and then you do another circuit. And then another one. And then you fall down on the mat and cry like a child.
Needless to say, a very good workout, and I did another one after work, with half an hour on the elliptical and some weights. I also showed my wife some of the circuit exercises, and she looked at me, the sidelong glint saying, You are crazy. Why would you voluntarily do this to yourself? It's happening—the obsession with my mission has already begun to alienate me from others. Don't worry, though: my secret identity of Thousandaire Playboy Aaron Retka is still safe. For now.
Anyway. I'll hit the gym again today to help preemptively squash the zillion-calorie meals I'll be eating this weekend. And if running at 9,000 feet ain't good for the heart, I don't know what is.
There are six stations set up, at each of which you are to perform a specific exercise. Examples include box dips, squats with a 40-pound weight, cherry pickers with a heavy-ass medicine ball, box jumps, etc. Simple, right? You are allotted one minute at each of these stations, in which you are to perform that exercise with full intensity. (Stopping to catch your breath is the enemy.) Then, quickly to the next station! And to the next! And the next! Don't stop! And so on, until you've done the full circuit. Then you get 20 seconds to get a drink of water, and then you do another circuit. And then another one. And then you fall down on the mat and cry like a child.
Needless to say, a very good workout, and I did another one after work, with half an hour on the elliptical and some weights. I also showed my wife some of the circuit exercises, and she looked at me, the sidelong glint saying, You are crazy. Why would you voluntarily do this to yourself? It's happening—the obsession with my mission has already begun to alienate me from others. Don't worry, though: my secret identity of Thousandaire Playboy Aaron Retka is still safe. For now.
Anyway. I'll hit the gym again today to help preemptively squash the zillion-calorie meals I'll be eating this weekend. And if running at 9,000 feet ain't good for the heart, I don't know what is.
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
All men have limits. They learn what those limits are and then they learn not to exceed them. I ignore mine.
Well, I thought for sure that I'd come home to Florida to find that I'd regained a few pounds, and damn if I wasn't correct. The problem was lack of exercise, too much beer, and unhealthful airport food, all of which conspired to tip my scale back up a few pounds. But it's okay, since I jumped happily back onto the wagon yesterday and felt subsequently great. I've found that I am more animated, more active, and of a much better disposition when I'm eating well, working out and not drinking, and the Florida trip enforced that nicely.
I worked out yesterday at the non-combat gym during my lunch, and the elliptical and weight sweat felt like coming home, even if I had to deal with the Dilettante. The Dilettante is a familiar figure at the office building gym where I work out for free, courtesy of my wife. He's a middle-aged man who resembles a hobbit, with little legs and a round, round belly, and he always wears a sweatband, though the colors of those sweatbands tend to change. I call him the Dilettante because he will not stay at a machine or weight station for more than a minute, ever, just bopping merrily from one thing to the next—doing five reps at the chest press, five at the leg press, five at the rowing machine, and so on. If this sounds cute, it sort of is, except that it's difficult to get on any certain machine because he's seemingly at all of them simultaneously, and cute morphs into annoying. "Jesus, just pick something, Dilettante," I want to tell him. "Anything. Just spend more than five minutes doing one thing. Please?" That's the Dilettante.
Another figure is the Gym Cop, whom my wife tells me is actually chief of security for the Alamo Building and Plaza of the Rockies and who is, she assures me, actually quite a nice guy. My problem with Gym Cop is that he, a brawny, brush-cut dude with a Taz tattoo, likes to stare with apparent menace at any man in the gym. He is warm with the women, of course, but any man he views as a rulebreaker, or a vandal, or possibly a rapist. Rulebreakers all, in other words, and he'll be damned if rules will be broken on his watch. He tends to hover near the free weights, staring, while I huff and puff and finally just decide to leave because I don't like him staring. This means he wins. Both the Dilettante and Gym Cop will be my archnemeses when I become Batman.
So, that aside, I had a great kickboxing session last night. My endurance is increasing and my technique is getting better, thanks to helpful little asides from the instructor or those more schooled in the form. Last night, it was two Special Forces guys who did the whole class in weight vests who helped me along, showing me the proper way to curl my toes back during a push-kick, which feels a lot more balanced and powerful. I go back during lunch today for some more, and then tomorrow I go up to Estes Park for the annual nerd Thanksgiving outing we call Gobblerfest. During the Gobbles, I'm going to try my best to stay on the diet—except for, duh, Thanksgiving dinner, since I'm doing three different birds and I will under no circumstance miss eating stuffing. But if I can watch my alcohol intake and try to eat well and go out for runs, I should be good. Better than good, cuz I'm en route to Batman.
I also started, per the request of a few different people, taking photos to monitor my progress. None of you will ever see these photos until I'm in shape, and possibly not even then, since I'm terrified you'd sell them to the groundbreaking porn site, Shirtless Fat Guys With Psoriasis. But the photos are good to have, if even just for myself.
I worked out yesterday at the non-combat gym during my lunch, and the elliptical and weight sweat felt like coming home, even if I had to deal with the Dilettante. The Dilettante is a familiar figure at the office building gym where I work out for free, courtesy of my wife. He's a middle-aged man who resembles a hobbit, with little legs and a round, round belly, and he always wears a sweatband, though the colors of those sweatbands tend to change. I call him the Dilettante because he will not stay at a machine or weight station for more than a minute, ever, just bopping merrily from one thing to the next—doing five reps at the chest press, five at the leg press, five at the rowing machine, and so on. If this sounds cute, it sort of is, except that it's difficult to get on any certain machine because he's seemingly at all of them simultaneously, and cute morphs into annoying. "Jesus, just pick something, Dilettante," I want to tell him. "Anything. Just spend more than five minutes doing one thing. Please?" That's the Dilettante.
Another figure is the Gym Cop, whom my wife tells me is actually chief of security for the Alamo Building and Plaza of the Rockies and who is, she assures me, actually quite a nice guy. My problem with Gym Cop is that he, a brawny, brush-cut dude with a Taz tattoo, likes to stare with apparent menace at any man in the gym. He is warm with the women, of course, but any man he views as a rulebreaker, or a vandal, or possibly a rapist. Rulebreakers all, in other words, and he'll be damned if rules will be broken on his watch. He tends to hover near the free weights, staring, while I huff and puff and finally just decide to leave because I don't like him staring. This means he wins. Both the Dilettante and Gym Cop will be my archnemeses when I become Batman.
So, that aside, I had a great kickboxing session last night. My endurance is increasing and my technique is getting better, thanks to helpful little asides from the instructor or those more schooled in the form. Last night, it was two Special Forces guys who did the whole class in weight vests who helped me along, showing me the proper way to curl my toes back during a push-kick, which feels a lot more balanced and powerful. I go back during lunch today for some more, and then tomorrow I go up to Estes Park for the annual nerd Thanksgiving outing we call Gobblerfest. During the Gobbles, I'm going to try my best to stay on the diet—except for, duh, Thanksgiving dinner, since I'm doing three different birds and I will under no circumstance miss eating stuffing. But if I can watch my alcohol intake and try to eat well and go out for runs, I should be good. Better than good, cuz I'm en route to Batman.
I also started, per the request of a few different people, taking photos to monitor my progress. None of you will ever see these photos until I'm in shape, and possibly not even then, since I'm terrified you'd sell them to the groundbreaking porn site, Shirtless Fat Guys With Psoriasis. But the photos are good to have, if even just for myself.
Saturday, November 21, 2009
And when you're sitting here alone in the middle of the night, unsleeping in the dark, remember—every breath you take you owe to me.
Whee, Orlando. The town so nice they named it once, built a shitload of theme parks and chain restaurants, slapped a smiley face on it and called it a day.
So. I just got back from the hotel's exercise room, which has hilariously, semi-dangerously outdated equipment. I was happy to see an elliptical, so I climbed on the thing and starting working, only to hear loud clunks coming from the floor. I peered down and saw huge, heavy iron gears, rusted and massive, like something you would have seen during the Inquisition, upon which this thing was balanced. The sound was so loud that I was sure I was waking up the adjacent rooms' residents, so I opted for the creaky treadmill instead. My knee is feeling better, but even so it hurt a bit to run and I didn't want to aggravate it, so I settled for the exercise bike, did about half an hour on that and exited drenched in sweat. Go, humidity.
This is the first exercise, save for some sit-ups and stretches, that I've had since being here. I'm sure I'll return in worse shape, even though I'm doing my damndest not to drink and to eat well. That being said, last night I had something called "Shrimp Cargot," my thinking that it'd be simple and not too unhealthy. Imagine my surprise (and secret delight) at seeing the dozen shrimp covered in about a pound of cheese and butter. Did I eat it? Yeah—I didn't want to be rude, after all, since this was an expensed meal.
The night before was more of the same: an overpriced seafood place where I went for a mixed grill and got about $12 worth of grilled fish and shellfish for about $40 along with some steamed vegetables (only $6 extra!). But hey, expensed, right?
A vignette from last night: We finished dinner around 9 PM, and we were both exhausted and not wanting to head out to the very drunken conference parties going on around town, so we came back to the hotel. While I didn't want to go out, I thought drinking a beer by the pool sounded nice, so I headed into the hotel bar and ordered one (a Michelob Ultra, thankyouverymuch). The hotel bar was, first, completely empty, and very, very brightly lit, like a Walmart. Second, a club remix of the new Lady Gaga song was playing very, very loudly. And third, the bartender was so flamboyant, so mincing and lispy, that I assumed he was either A) Making fun of me; or B) Trying on a character, perhaps for the Orlando Dinner Theatre Players' version of The Birdcage. After being on my feet all day, surrounding by flashing lights, this was appropriately surreal. But I drank my beer quietly out in the dark by the pool was was in bed by 10:30.
Now, back to the tradeshow floor. Good times.
So. I just got back from the hotel's exercise room, which has hilariously, semi-dangerously outdated equipment. I was happy to see an elliptical, so I climbed on the thing and starting working, only to hear loud clunks coming from the floor. I peered down and saw huge, heavy iron gears, rusted and massive, like something you would have seen during the Inquisition, upon which this thing was balanced. The sound was so loud that I was sure I was waking up the adjacent rooms' residents, so I opted for the creaky treadmill instead. My knee is feeling better, but even so it hurt a bit to run and I didn't want to aggravate it, so I settled for the exercise bike, did about half an hour on that and exited drenched in sweat. Go, humidity.
This is the first exercise, save for some sit-ups and stretches, that I've had since being here. I'm sure I'll return in worse shape, even though I'm doing my damndest not to drink and to eat well. That being said, last night I had something called "Shrimp Cargot," my thinking that it'd be simple and not too unhealthy. Imagine my surprise (and secret delight) at seeing the dozen shrimp covered in about a pound of cheese and butter. Did I eat it? Yeah—I didn't want to be rude, after all, since this was an expensed meal.
The night before was more of the same: an overpriced seafood place where I went for a mixed grill and got about $12 worth of grilled fish and shellfish for about $40 along with some steamed vegetables (only $6 extra!). But hey, expensed, right?
A vignette from last night: We finished dinner around 9 PM, and we were both exhausted and not wanting to head out to the very drunken conference parties going on around town, so we came back to the hotel. While I didn't want to go out, I thought drinking a beer by the pool sounded nice, so I headed into the hotel bar and ordered one (a Michelob Ultra, thankyouverymuch). The hotel bar was, first, completely empty, and very, very brightly lit, like a Walmart. Second, a club remix of the new Lady Gaga song was playing very, very loudly. And third, the bartender was so flamboyant, so mincing and lispy, that I assumed he was either A) Making fun of me; or B) Trying on a character, perhaps for the Orlando Dinner Theatre Players' version of The Birdcage. After being on my feet all day, surrounding by flashing lights, this was appropriately surreal. But I drank my beer quietly out in the dark by the pool was was in bed by 10:30.
Now, back to the tradeshow floor. Good times.
Wednesday, November 18, 2009
Broken things inside me grind together like loose gravel as I stand. Or wobble, whatever.
I've discovered, with the help of the kickboxing instructor, why my knees have been hurting: poor technique. I am not sufficiently pivoting when I kick, which means that my legs are hitting the bag at an angle that is hyperextending my knee, over and over and over again. So now I pivot more, really throwing my hips into the kick, which requires about 10% more effort and feels about 70% more awesome.
Kickboxing yesterday was brutal. I walked in with a smirk, high off my performance from the night before, to find that I was one of only two students—the other being a guy who sorta/kinda works there and who has been remarkably encouraging when I'm huffing and sweating and positive I can't continue. This meant that I got the full brunt of the instructor's attention and that the workout rendered me blind from sweat in my eyes, doubled over in exhaustion. "Okay, this time, I want a burpie, six punch/jabs, two right kicks, two left kicks, burpie, until I say stop. Got it? Go!" "Now I want you to do touch-kicks for sixty seconds, a sixty seconds that will seem more like five or ten years and will leave you wondering how you will ever walk again. Go!" Needless to say, a great workout, and I subsequently dropped another two pounds. For those of you keeping score at home, that's 15 pounds I've lost since I embarked on this little experiment. I'm doing well.
I fly to Florida tomorrow for work, so I'm hoping to fit at least one more good workout in before I do. Although the hotel has a gym, I'm not altogether sure what sort of time I'll have to use it—but I'm relatively confident I can find half an hour a day to get on the elliptical and make sure my Baby Batman muscles don't soften. If anything, my four days away from the combat gym will let my knees heal up a little bit.
Yesterday, I was carrying around a bucket of water (I was soaking my feet) and had to run upstairs, bucket in hand, to show my wife my new muscles, bulging as they were from toting said bucket. I also lifted up my shirt and showed her my stomach, to which she commented, "Are you sucking in your belly?" I wasn't. I'm seeing results, and if you probe in just the right spots, you can feel tumescences there. What are those little bulges? you might wonder. Does he have a tumor? Is there an alien living in his gut, about to burst forth and shower bystanders with gore before scuttling off into the ducts? No, cherie. I will tell you what it is: I am getting a goddamn six-pack.
Kickboxing yesterday was brutal. I walked in with a smirk, high off my performance from the night before, to find that I was one of only two students—the other being a guy who sorta/kinda works there and who has been remarkably encouraging when I'm huffing and sweating and positive I can't continue. This meant that I got the full brunt of the instructor's attention and that the workout rendered me blind from sweat in my eyes, doubled over in exhaustion. "Okay, this time, I want a burpie, six punch/jabs, two right kicks, two left kicks, burpie, until I say stop. Got it? Go!" "Now I want you to do touch-kicks for sixty seconds, a sixty seconds that will seem more like five or ten years and will leave you wondering how you will ever walk again. Go!" Needless to say, a great workout, and I subsequently dropped another two pounds. For those of you keeping score at home, that's 15 pounds I've lost since I embarked on this little experiment. I'm doing well.
I fly to Florida tomorrow for work, so I'm hoping to fit at least one more good workout in before I do. Although the hotel has a gym, I'm not altogether sure what sort of time I'll have to use it—but I'm relatively confident I can find half an hour a day to get on the elliptical and make sure my Baby Batman muscles don't soften. If anything, my four days away from the combat gym will let my knees heal up a little bit.
Yesterday, I was carrying around a bucket of water (I was soaking my feet) and had to run upstairs, bucket in hand, to show my wife my new muscles, bulging as they were from toting said bucket. I also lifted up my shirt and showed her my stomach, to which she commented, "Are you sucking in your belly?" I wasn't. I'm seeing results, and if you probe in just the right spots, you can feel tumescences there. What are those little bulges? you might wonder. Does he have a tumor? Is there an alien living in his gut, about to burst forth and shower bystanders with gore before scuttling off into the ducts? No, cherie. I will tell you what it is: I am getting a goddamn six-pack.
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
There are seven working defenses from this position. Four disarm with minimal contact, two kill, and the last one ... HURTS.
Quite an ego boost last night at cardio kickboxing:
I showed up to find the entire gym crammed with people, all of whom seemed to be using the class as one of their trial sessions. Many of these appeared to be CC kids, who apparently have followed me from the junior-high track to PPCS. I sort of rolled my eyes, wrapped my hands, gloved up, and got into it, and was surprised to find that these kids, as young and strapping and healthful as they all were could not keep up with me. Over the course of the hour, one of them, a tall and muscular young man, had to go lie down, as I continued to punch and kick and kick and punch and kick, and the rest of them, no matter how lithe, were panting and sweating and shaking their heads at how ridiculously hard they found it all.
Then, because I wanted to give back some of the encouragement others had given me, I told a small cluster of girls at the water fountain: "You guys are doing great. This is only my fourth class and I'm already finding it a lot easier. Plus, I've lost 12 pounds." The stared at me for a moment. "You're kidding." I shook my head. "Nope. Over the course of about two weeks." I then went to my cubby to put my shoes and hoodie on, and when I emerged, they were signing up for extended agreements. I should probably get a kickback for this.
So I skipped running this morning, since it only seems to aggravate my knees. Instead, I'll do cardio kickboxing again during my lunch, and then head to the regular gym for some more elliptical and weights tonight. This will be my last class for the week, sadly, unless I can slip in a quick one before I host pub quiz tomorrow night. Then I'm winging my way south to Florida for a regrettably punch-free weekend. I will somehow survive this and only grow stronger and more terrible.
I showed up to find the entire gym crammed with people, all of whom seemed to be using the class as one of their trial sessions. Many of these appeared to be CC kids, who apparently have followed me from the junior-high track to PPCS. I sort of rolled my eyes, wrapped my hands, gloved up, and got into it, and was surprised to find that these kids, as young and strapping and healthful as they all were could not keep up with me. Over the course of the hour, one of them, a tall and muscular young man, had to go lie down, as I continued to punch and kick and kick and punch and kick, and the rest of them, no matter how lithe, were panting and sweating and shaking their heads at how ridiculously hard they found it all.
Then, because I wanted to give back some of the encouragement others had given me, I told a small cluster of girls at the water fountain: "You guys are doing great. This is only my fourth class and I'm already finding it a lot easier. Plus, I've lost 12 pounds." The stared at me for a moment. "You're kidding." I shook my head. "Nope. Over the course of about two weeks." I then went to my cubby to put my shoes and hoodie on, and when I emerged, they were signing up for extended agreements. I should probably get a kickback for this.
So I skipped running this morning, since it only seems to aggravate my knees. Instead, I'll do cardio kickboxing again during my lunch, and then head to the regular gym for some more elliptical and weights tonight. This will be my last class for the week, sadly, unless I can slip in a quick one before I host pub quiz tomorrow night. Then I'm winging my way south to Florida for a regrettably punch-free weekend. I will somehow survive this and only grow stronger and more terrible.
Monday, November 16, 2009
There is something out there in the darkness, something terrifying, something that will not stop until it gets revenge: Me.
I think I am running out of awesome Batman quotes. Alan Moore and Frank Miller and Chris Nolan need to hurry up and write some more for me. Anyway.
Just hit the regular gym for a nice little lunchtime workout, and now I'm enjoying a delicious and hearty lunch of celery and Muscle Milk. My workout yesterday consisted of going to see a movie (sans popcorn or nachos, sadly, but with a delicious 12,000-oz. Coke Zero no doubt full of carcinogenic sweetener) and then doing some exercises on the bedroom floor while my wife watched Kill Bill and the dog licked my face. I've definitely gotten better at these little floor exercises, most of which I've taken from cardio kickboxing, and I'm no longer in the kindergarten-age-girl class for pushup reps, due to my nascent chest muscles.
Tonight is cardio kickboxing, and I might stick around for muay thai, depending on how dead I am after the workout, and how my knee is doing. The knee, yes, is bothering me, to the point that I couldn't even run much this morning, although I did do half an hour on the elliptical without too much trouble. I bought a little brace for it last night, which promptly slipped down around my ankle while I tried to run today. It started really aching after two days of relative inactivity, so here's hoping some motion will limber it up. Otherwise, it's cybernetic limbs for me.
Just hit the regular gym for a nice little lunchtime workout, and now I'm enjoying a delicious and hearty lunch of celery and Muscle Milk. My workout yesterday consisted of going to see a movie (sans popcorn or nachos, sadly, but with a delicious 12,000-oz. Coke Zero no doubt full of carcinogenic sweetener) and then doing some exercises on the bedroom floor while my wife watched Kill Bill and the dog licked my face. I've definitely gotten better at these little floor exercises, most of which I've taken from cardio kickboxing, and I'm no longer in the kindergarten-age-girl class for pushup reps, due to my nascent chest muscles.
Tonight is cardio kickboxing, and I might stick around for muay thai, depending on how dead I am after the workout, and how my knee is doing. The knee, yes, is bothering me, to the point that I couldn't even run much this morning, although I did do half an hour on the elliptical without too much trouble. I bought a little brace for it last night, which promptly slipped down around my ankle while I tried to run today. It started really aching after two days of relative inactivity, so here's hoping some motion will limber it up. Otherwise, it's cybernetic limbs for me.
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