Day 51-54 - A Little Help, It's All Relative, and Actively Being Lazy

When does it become acceptable to mention to someone that they're getting a little heavy? If it had been mentioned to me that I looked like I was gaining weight, I may have taken action before my waist size hit the half-century mark. Not that I'm completely relying on the observations of others to affect my decisions, but sometimes all it takes is a good kick in the pants. The last time I recall a comment being made regarding my weight, it was from a complete stranger. I was around the 295-300 mark for the second time. My wife and I were out for a walk, and a random cretin thought it would be amusing to comment on my weight as he drove by. The actual remark escapes me, but it affected me to the point of initiating an effort to be more active and healthy. A casual observer, likely with more insecurities than myself, made a flippant and hurtful observation in an attempt to dishearten me, but it did the opposite. For some reason, that moment is etched in my memory, and drives me to succeed. When I look at old pictures of my heavier self I still see that image as accurate today, that there hasn't been much change at all. Preposterous, I know. Some of those pics were over 60 pounds ago, yet I don't feel as though I've made a significant transformation. However, when I look at pictures of myself from not that long ago, in the 220's, I notice how much weight I've gained since then. I have to overcome that "glass half empty" mentality, where I'm continually using negative reinforcement to motivate myself. My loving wife has never once drawn attention to my size. Even in our mentally underdeveloped younger years when we would occasionally spit venom at each other, she would never use my obesity as a personal attack. As we reflected on these same pictures from our past, she remarked at the tremendous transformation. When I was at maximum density, the word "fat" was never uttered by her, but looking back, we both freely comment on my vast waistline. So to answer my initial question: When does it become acceptable to mention to someone that they're getting a little heavy? Apparently after they lose weight. Pretzel logic, once again.

I've got a friend that's a little shorter than me, and weighs around 220. He'd be the first to admit that he's a little out-of-shape, but comfortable. He gets ribbed for having a bit of a tummy, but it doesn't get to him, because if he really wanted to lose the "muffin-top" it wouldn't be much of a problem. Cut to me, 30 pounds heavier, and people tell me I look "great". That's really not fair to either of us, but it seems to be the way it is. Sure our bodies display our excess baggage differently, and our muscle development probably differs from each other, but is it legitimate for one person to be vilified and the other praised? I am striving to achieve the same number that he currently resides at, but when I arrive there, there will be celebration. When he arrived at 220, there was no party to be had. I fully realize how ridiculous this may sound, but there are valid points to be had. This comparison has once again reaffirmed why the scale should not solely affect my opinion of myself. I'm striving towards a goal, and that goal does involve a certain number, but I'm finding smaller goals along the way that are much more pertinent. Such as wearing a smaller size of pants, revisiting a shirt that hasn't fit for a while, running up the stairs without gasping for breath, or staying in the ice for one more shift than last game. I remind myself that I've been placing far too much importance on that number, but soon after I find myself relying on it for gratification. It's the last place I should be turning for inspiration, because I always come away from the scale thinking, "There's a long way to go.". I may sound like a broken record, but if I don't keep reminding myself that it's about how I feel, I'll fall back into the cycle of disappointment that has plagued me throughout my life. I have no reason to be upset with myself, but I have to make a point of not pummeling myself into the ground for every minor setback I may face.

It's been lazy around the house this past week. As this journal is a brutally honest account of my progress, I must state, for the record, that I've performed nearly zero physical activity this past week. I'm not happy about it, but fatigue has been occupying most of my waking hours. I could point a finger at many reasons why it has been that way, but it all boils down to motivation. I've been waking up tired, coming home tired, and nodding off on the couch. All it will take is one good night's rest to spring my body back into action, or perhaps a brisk game of hockey. What I do know, however, is that I can't remain dormant for long, for fear that I'll fall back into my old routines. The dread of failure is so powerful, so intense, that it provokes me to snap out of any self-loathing funk that I may be in. I've said it before, and no matter how cliché it is, I'll say it again. Failure is not an option. I had a nice, relaxing week, but it's time to bear down again for the next big push.