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.