The woman who manages my gym asks me this on Monday, followed after a beat of silence by, “I haven’t asked any of my members that before.” “I’m not trying to lose the weight. I stopped back in May.” Which is true. I’ve donated five bags of clothes to the local Salvation Army and homeless shelter -- all perfectly fine clothes that simply no longer fit. Pants at size 34 to 32, large and medium sized t-shirts, dress/collared shirts at size whatever those sizes are, medium sized underwear.... no, gross, those went into the garbage. I’m not so callous as to pawn off my dick support to the needy. Around mid-May, when the closing of my now house was certain, I noticed that the total effect of the donations was an entire closet space. More importantly, an empty closet space once housing my office-appropriate garb. In other words, I gave away all my fucking work clothes. Off to the local Gap Outlet I went, gift card in hand. $150, and a ‘feeling’ of numb shock later, I came home with for all intents a new wardrobe. For the first time since 10th grade, I owned (and fit into) a size 30 pant, size small t-shirt and same for underwear. I’m a 30 year old in a child’s body, celebrating at his kitchen table with a glass of Spanish white wine. The next day, the gym scale read 147.
She wondered whether I wanted to lose more in response to the news that, according to the scale, I currently weigh 141. “Maybe cut out the cardio? Use that time on weights,” she suggests. That’s not bad advice. Giving up the 2.5 mile run isn’t a difficult choice if only for selfishness. I hate running. Hate it. But, because this world is goddamned cruel, the running played the largest role in shedding the fat. Switching over to a weight-dominant regiment makes me anxious that the fat will creep back under my skin. I’ll give it a shot, though; she’s a trained fitness instructor and I’m a lazy academic. Listen to the experts, eh?
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