The Meat and Cheese Party Pack

I haven't even started exercising properly. This crazy train went off the rails before it got on track, and my growing midsection is Exhibit A. My diminishing endurance is Exhibit B. There is no Exhibit C. I don't need an Exhibit C. I can hardly walk up to my front door without getting winded anymore.

So, here it comes, the inevitable reflection and analysis. My self-loathing and regret.

That's over dramatic. I'm not loathing anything, especially myself, and there isn't anything I've done in the time since the RockNRun that I regret. Though I'm not full of regret, I am full of various cheeses and meats, generally in the form of pizza and sandwiches. Just this past Friday, I accidentally got hammered before I went to my parents house, then proceeded to drink with (and slur at) my lovely mother and father while slamming down piece after piece after piece of cheese and meat. My blurred vision during that time gave way to a smorgasbord that looked something this...

The title of that image is "meat and cheese party pack," which is, incidentally, one of my nicknames.

This is probably also one of the reasons for my 1:13.22 time on the RockNRun. That's one hour, thirteen minutes and 22 seconds, the equivalent to a 23:41 mile. This time was good enough to come in at 596th place of 1625 5K runners. Which means I finished before 63.3% of the field, two of which were Elly and Sean. This percentage is roughly equivalent to every grade I received

Now, to lament. I haven't really exercised in the two weeks since the RockNRun. For a while, it's because I was too sore; already a sign I need to get back on track. Then, it was because I had too many plans to get out and run. On top of that, I've been stingy about going to the gym, because I have to drive there and I need to be frugal with cash until the next paycheck because I decided that since it was my birthday last month, I would spend beyond my means. Hashtag: oopsie. But really, who can afford to drive with gas prices like this?! (He says as he slowly turns into his father.)

However, there have been points of exercise lately. I played soccer twice, and that's a lot of hard work. So what if it's a mere 4-on-4 pick-up game? I was sprinting like a cheetah!

(My friends and I. Ferocious. Fast.)

That is the obligatory cute animal photo. I could have used a photo of a cheetah running in the Serengeti, but they look so menacing with blood on their jowls and whatnot. If there's one thing I'm not, it's menacing.

During soccer, I ran so much that I could wring the sweat out of my shirt. It was mesmerizing and disgusting at the same time. I did it twice, and got another half-squeeze of sweat afterward. I am disgustingly awesome.

On top of that, I celebrated a bit by drinking on a balcony overlooking the lovely Manhattan Beach, and then I walked a bunch. I broke up a fight betwixt a 6'2" brute and a 6'0" somewhat twiggy man. That takes effort. It takes gall. It takes strength. It was almost exercise.

This past Saturday, I partied and drank on a rooftop in Venice Beach to celebrate a dear friend's birthday. It was perfectly bourgeoisie, and I finally got to do what I've always longed to do when I saw groups of friends schmoozing it up, four stories high in a beach city. I got to schmooze it up with friends, in a beach city, on the rooftop balcony of a four-story house. And then I walked the four miles home at 3 in the morning. This was fucking excruciating. I generally walk everywhere, only using my car for longer distances. However, this pair of shoes were not built for long-distance, brisk walking. My feet were killing me, and I was huffing and puffing like a beast.

(I swear, this shit is real. I'm not even embarrassed. You can see 

where the strap trapped sweat on my left shoulder. Impressive.)

I don't know how I started sweating that much. I'm not sure why. It wasn't even a warm night. It was actually somewhat chilly. My backpack must have trapped all of the heat my body was producing, concentrated it in a Frosty the Snowman-shaped area and made me perspire. I can try to attribute this to the meat sweats but that's a bit flimsy because I only ate six pulled-pork sandwiches. On second thought... it might have been meat sweats.

And then I worked my second job all day on Sunday, and walked all over the place. By the end of the day, my feet felt like ground beef, and I think I somehow got fatter.

There's a term for this, when someone partakes in anything excessively and then exercises. It actually works when they happen separately, like a lifestyle. I present to you, Excessercise. This is what this blog is about. It took me a whole three posts and three weeks to find a term (really credit should go to one Josh McBee) that adequately describes exactly what it is I'm attempting to do here. I drink in excess. I party and play in excess. I lazy in excess. I try to exercise. Excessercise.

So now that I've been successfully excessing, I need to start exercising. Realistically, this will happen after the Halloween weekend and when I receive my next paycheck. For starters, I will attempt to eat healthier, and in portions.*

JESUS CHRIST. That looks like a daunting task. How boring will eating all those green things be? Maybe exercising will be easier. For now, I'm shooting to run Wednesday and Saturday. Why the delay? Well, because I'm feeling a bit under the weather as of late, and would like to be fully healthy before I set myself back. Thursday, I'd normally play soccer, but this week I will be at a concert. And Friday, I will be dressed as a zombie in a lab coat, catering from 6 p.m. to 4 a.m. That's a bonus, because I will be walking all over the place for hours on end. Then I will ruin all that by eating rich and indulgent foods at all hours of the night.

Next week, I will be back to running and attending the gym, because that's what I need to do. I also, at some point the the near future, will be working out at the jungle gym/monkey bars/rings/ropes just south of the Santa Monica pier, because they will simulate the tasks needed for the Tough Mudder. Look at me fly!

(Dramatization. This graceful woman is not me. Photo Credit: Zachary Cole)

Given my primate tendencies, this should not be a problem. My focus should be on running. By February 9th, 2013, I'll need to be able to run 12 miles. Considering there are plenty of obstacles and my wardrobe will be weighed down by 20 pounds of mud...I should try to hit a goal of running about 15 miles without ending up in the hospital or a morgue. Seeing as I can run about 4 miles right now without being chauffeured home by emergency services, I really need to step up my game, and each week, add about 1 mile to my total runable distance. This is gonna hurt, and require a lot more motivation and discipline than I have been utilizing.

Signed,

The Meat and Cheese Party Pack

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*These are relative terms. For me, healthy is eating fewer than three fried things each week, and portions will vary depending on food rations. Basically, every goal I've set in this post is a complete crock of shit considering none of this is going to happen. I ate a baloney and cheese sandwich today, after eating bacon-wrapped jalapeno poppers. I am a champion of setting goals. I am a failure at reaching them.