Halfway there?

About a year ago, I set down the Broodje Shoarma I was having after stumbling home from God-knows-where doing Lord-knows-what and for some reason I waddled over to my bathroom scale. I had to squint long and hard to read, finally holding a hand over one eye to make out the digital display. As the numbers coalesced into readable data and my brain rediscovered basic arithmetic I heard a drill sergeant in my head - "YOU ARE A DISGUSTING FATBODY PRIVATE PYLE!"

I stepped off the scale and felt a sudden sharp pain in my right ankle and I bent down to rub said ankle I was treated to an an audible creeeeeeeek coming from my other leg. Now maybe it was the beer, maybe it was the sudden rush of blood from my out-of-shape ticker to my muddled brain or maybe my mind was still reeling from the sudden realization that I was 50 pounds heavier than I was 15 years ago! 50 pounds! That's more than a bag of dog-food!

Another thought filtered it's way up through my consciousness as I began focusing on strange noises from the living room. Suddenly it hit me - I left the Shoarma on the table? Noooooooo! One or both of the dogs had managed to pull it off the table and the sounds I was hearing were grunts of pleasure from the two mutts as they finished my bedtime snack. Damnit!

The next thing I know I was laying on the floor of my bathroom, looking up. It couldn't have been too bad of a fall, I was laying in a pile of dirty clothes, my head safely resting on a damp towel. Maybe I hadn't even fallen and had only laid down to morn the loss of my beloved Shoarma. Either way when I tried to get back up everything in my body ached and groaned. After struggling for what seemed like an eternity to lift my body off the floor and failing I laid back down in defeat - panting. Since the towels did not yet smell like mildew I just laid there and began to think about how I got there. Not the floor per se, but that precise moment in time.

Several hundred years ago, when I got out of high-school my personal mantra had been "Live fast, die young, leave a good-looking corpse and do not take any of this **** seriously!". Now there I was, unable to measure up to even my own reckless ideal I was a fat, forty-something male - granted I was dying faster than most, but not looking so good lying in his own dirty laundry. It had been a wild-wild-ride up to that point of my life, and a lot of fun to-date but I decided right then and if I sucked it up, I might just have few more miles in me.

Well, here I am today 25 lbs down, 25 left to go. It's been a long year of retarded progress punctuated by motivational gaps, injuries and the *cough* infrequent bender weekend. Despite the roller coaster ride of rolling-cellulite I have been trending down(ish) and about six weeks ago I really seem to find my rhythm. I have moved my goal-posts again, and hope to shave off 12 more pounds before the end of the year but today is a milestone and thought it worth reflecting on.

Now I don't know how this story ends, but I know that today I feel like a million bucks. Also since I can bend over a little easier these days, there are no damp towels on the bathroom floor at Casa de Me. I wish the before-after shot was a little more dramatic but feeling better than a year ago is plenty of reward for this old man.

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