six pack abs

ripped pants (embarrassing)

For years I had been blessed with a metabolism that allowed me to eat an entire pack of fun size Snickers washed down with a liter of Dr. Pepper and feel perfectly normal afterwards.  Despite the warnings of my mother and father I continued to eat this way until about five years ago when I noticed that my six pack abs had become six fleshy stomach rolls.

Because I don’t believe in “fad” diets I knew that the only way to get rid of those hilly rolls of flesh was a proper balance of less snickers (much less) and more exercise (much more).  The problem here being that I love Snickers and I hate exercising.

Whatever that endorphin rush is that people claim to get while working out... I don’t get it.  I get no thrill from pushing myself to do fifty pushups and not ten, nor do I find it a stress reliever to run seven miles.  For me the act of working out is one big orgy of awkward uncomfortableness.

I have had a membership at Bally’s for two years now and have used it for less than a quarter of that time.  The main reason I have a hard time is that whenever I go there I am forced to execute my pathetic workout amongst dozens of men and women who would rather exercise than eat an entire pizza by themselves.  I can practically hear them whisper to one another as I pass by;

“Why is that guy running like that?”

“Should someone tell him he’s doing that wrong?”

“Why is he so sweaty?”

“He’s going to hurt himself on that machine.”

This makes it easy for me to put off working out in favor of the eight thousand other things that I would prefer to do with my time.

I recently noticed that since moving back to Seattle, I have stored a fair bit of fat for the winter, or at least that’s the excuse that I am using.  Unfortunately this is all in the stomach region.  It is difficult to button my hipster skinny jeans and t-shirts which had looked good were beginning to look like I stole them from a baby. 

Then, the other day while walking out to the mail box I dropped a letter on the ground, when I bent down to pick it up my pants ripped.  Not a tiny tare, a rip from ass crack to taint seam.  This was the last straw, I needed to do something before I really embarrassed myself.

I am not alone in this weight gain, my dog has been packing on the pound and she could stand to lose that as well.  So under my wife’s watchful eyes, we will be dropping our winter fat stores.  Not for a glistening six pack like I had when I was eighteen, but rather just enough to make my pants fit again and maybe to erode those hilly rolls of flesh.