I’ve been trying to lose weight on and off for years. Never really knowing what the hell I was doing and no doubt making an arse of myself in the process. Over the years all that lack of effort has changed my position on the Dadbod scale significantly.
Fighting the Flab
I used to be a slender, athletic son of a bitch and a competitive swimmer. I used to have abs like a cartoon super hero and enough stamina to swim miles without rest. The slow ingress of laziness has changed all that for the worse. It’s got so bad that climbing a big hill is enough for my Fitbit to think I’m doing cardio. Even my watch is taking the piss out of me.
As for my looks well, lets just say my body is now more King Louie these days, causing me to stare in amazement at my muscular friends and exclaim “Oh, obee do, I wanna be like you”. On the dadbod scale where one is a muscular, godlike wonder and ten is a pile of greasy kebab meat crammed into a sack, I’ve got to somewhere around a twelve.
I hate what I’ve become. I hate that I stopped doing regular exercise and most of all I hate myself for not looking at my choices sooner and not doing something about it before it got this bad. I’ve done the odd half arsed attempt at a diet over the years with little success. I’ve essentially allowed my laziness to win and done who knows how much damage to my health in the process. I’m turning thirty this year and I’ve decided something has got to change.
My Dadbod Comrade in Arms
Several months back I was offered help by a chap who over recent years has become one of my most treasured friends. He saw that I was floundering in what looking back, I can only describe as some sort of depression about the way I look and feel. Chris is the sort of man I aspire to be. He’s turned himself around over two years of hard work in the gym and learned a heck of a lot along the way.
It’s taken some time since the offer for me to actually do something about it, but as the end of April loomed I signed up to the gym and made arrangements with Chris for joint sessions. Yesterday I completed my fifth two hour session. Not two hours of wondering around a gym floor aimlessly fiddling with machines. Two hours of quality structured work outs that Chris designed to achieve both our goals.
The man put a program together that has given me the confidence to see that I’m stronger and fitter than I thought I was. Under all the repulsive flab that adorns my body, there is still some potential. He’s made time and adjusted his schedule to make sure that we attend the gym together. If I don’t go, I’m not just letting myself down anymore, I’m disappointing my friend too. That’s a powerful motivational tool.
Diet to Dispose of the Dadbod
I hate diets, especially fad ones and the supposed miracle shakes and products that often go along with them. This time I decided that rather than strictly adhere to a set of rules I’d do what I know works. High protein, plenty of varied fresh veggies and a mixture of the right whole grains, plus healthy fats like nuts and fish.
There’s been a few small hiccups over the past few weeks but for the most part I’ve done quite well. I’m not allowing myself to be a slave to the scales either because as any experienced gym goer will tell you, they simply don’t tell the whole truth. I’ll continue to make refinements to my diet as the weeks progress and try to cut out more and more of the bad stuff.
Seeing the Difference Already
I’m pleased to say that so far eating better is having visible consequences. I feel more energised and I’m not getting hungry often at all. In fact the only times I’ve felt like eating the nearest edible object has been after one of those aforementioned gym outings.
I’ll take that as a good sign I’m working hard enough while I’m there. That and the delayed onset muscle soreness (DOMS) that’s been making simple movements hilariously difficult. Climbing stairs after leg day results in a wobbly circus show in which my legs are replaced with bundles of overcooked noodles, causing me to swing comically from side to side as I scale this every day mountain.
Chest and shoulders day turns the simple act of putting a jacket on into a bizarre interpretive dance. My garment has become a wild animal that I’m wrestling into submission. In desperation I struggle to find the right angle to get that second arm hole in the right place.
Lessons Learned and Wrapping Up
The most important thing I’ve learned from my escapades with Chis so far is that I can do more than I gave myself credit for. I just needed the motivation and a kind soul to guide me in the right direction.
The second lesson is buy the right bloody shorts. Box jumps require plenty of stretch. Get it wrong and you too will be walking through a busy city centre as I was, with nothing but a thin patch of inner short netting stopping your valuables from popping out for public scrutiny.
There’s many gruelling months ahead. Let the games begin.