When I work out, it's usually the same process. I put on my blue polyester Starter-brand shorts and a 4XL plain red shirt.
I walk over to the YMCA with something motivational or energetic playing on my iPod. Even with my over-sized headphones, I get myself into a zone with the help of Jay-Z, U2, Rage Against the Machine, Oasis, Lupe Fiasco, Kanye West, Talib Kweli, Green Day, Blink-182 ... the list goes on.
I usually buy a bottle of water from the Aquafina machine at the basketball court before walking upstairs, where the elliptical machines are.
But before working out, I take off my headphones, set them in a nearby chair with my towel and step on the scale.
For about 10 months now, the scale -- whether it's at Kaiser Permanente, 24 Hour Fitness or the YMCA -- readings have been getting smaller and smaller. What started at 372 pounds in November 2005 became 293 pounds at the end of August 2006.
So tonight, for the first time since coming back from San Francisco and walking about 30 miles (including treks up 2 of San Fran's famous hills), I started the process. Took my shirt out of the closet. Grabbed the shorts out of my dresser. Retrieved my iPod from the charging dock. Headed to the YMCA. Bought my bottle of water. Stepped on the scale.
Now, while I walked 30 miles, I also indulged in whatever sounded good. Coldstone Ice Cream? Why not! Fish and chips? Sure! No, I never went anywhere near soda pop, and my breakfast the first three days was little more than a bagel or two Eggo waffles with a glass of orange juice.
So I stepped on the scale, hopeful that my eating habits were balanced by my walking in San Francisco.
Well, the habits weren't balanced. If anything, it went the other way.
Since August 31st, I've lost 8 pounds, which puts me at 87 pounds lost on the whole. You can't pry the smile off my face right now.
It's a huge leap for me. Since falling below 300 pounds, I've held this fear that I was fooling myself if I thought I could keep going. Like, somehow, I would wind up at or above 300 pounds again, no matter what I did. But with every pound I lose, I get further and further from that number. It's a feeling comparable to how I felt when I started losing weight and went in the opposite direction of 400 pounds.
I can't tell you how happy I am about the progress and the fact that all my efforts have paid off to date. This has been the single most difficult but rewarding thing I've ever done, but it's not over yet. Don't think that for a second.
I was listening to sports radio this morning when the host, in a point that only tangentially connected to something sports-related, said something that made a whole shitton of sense. You can't rely on others for happiness. You need to make your own happiness.
For years, I thought, "wow, if only I could go out with "Girl X," I would be happy, and everything would be great." Well, it's not true. As happy as that relationship might make me, I would inherit all the problems that came with that (yeah, I said it).
So this blissful future that existed in my head would never come to pass, and in my blindness, I wouldn't see the problems that inevitably arise.
Instead of planning or expecting the worst, it's easy to sort of plan for it. Expect the idiot driver on the way to work. Know that the boss will be mad some day. It's all part of the package. So when it comes down and the shit hits the fan, at the very least, I can see the small things and know what's really important and know what makes me happy.
And it's true. I could hope and wish to lose weight from here until I had a heart attack, but nothing would change the fact that no one besides me would lose my weight. Weight loss brings happiness, so I needed to make my own happiness. And I've done it.
No, scratch that. I'm doing it.
It isn't over yet.
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