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No Way To Lose Weight
Dropping tonnage on deadline just feels wrong
The problem with weighing in each Tuesday a.m. is that weekends are made for partying. I convinced my editor to switch this report from Monday to Tuesday, supposedly because the weekend's sports action demands to be recapped. And there's a lot to that. But, honestly? The extra days come in hella handy for making sure my scale numbers go down, not up.
Between my own natural inclination to indulge and the habits that accompany settling in for loads of football, it's difficult not to pack on pounds by Monday night. This week was no exception. After weighing in at 196 last Tuesday, I went hard at my mistress gym, including a 45-minute, level-12 stationary bike episode.
And I swam with as much gusto as possible. Sleeping in until 5:30 a.m., I missed out on the one free lane in my home gym's undersized pool. Space constraints forced me to share a lane with my swimming inspiration, the zaftig beauty with an impeccable stroke. That shit wasn't as cool as it might sound, and I overdid it, tried way too hard, and a couple of times found myself breaking down mid-lap. I looked like Joe Frazier when he nearly drowned on The Superstars.
Every little bit of this grueling labor was required. My magazine deadline's this week. When the time crunch hits each month, ye olde eating habits go as shoddy as my swim stroke come the point of exhaustion. (Sinking comes just as quickly. The shit ain't cute, not in the least.) Rally's will be the death of me. If it's not the double-burger specials — four patties, $4 — it's the two-for-a-buck fried apple pies. Breaking a single 10-spot, last week I came close to undoing every bit of good I'd done at the gym.
Between my own natural inclination to indulge and the habits that accompany settling in for loads of football, it's difficult not to pack on pounds by Monday night. This week was no exception. After weighing in at 196 last Tuesday, I went hard at my mistress gym, including a 45-minute, level-12 stationary bike episode.
And I swam with as much gusto as possible. Sleeping in until 5:30 a.m., I missed out on the one free lane in my home gym's undersized pool. Space constraints forced me to share a lane with my swimming inspiration, the zaftig beauty with an impeccable stroke. That shit wasn't as cool as it might sound, and I overdid it, tried way too hard, and a couple of times found myself breaking down mid-lap. I looked like Joe Frazier when he nearly drowned on The Superstars.
Every little bit of this grueling labor was required. My magazine deadline's this week. When the time crunch hits each month, ye olde eating habits go as shoddy as my swim stroke come the point of exhaustion. (Sinking comes just as quickly. The shit ain't cute, not in the least.) Rally's will be the death of me. If it's not the double-burger specials — four patties, $4 — it's the two-for-a-buck fried apple pies. Breaking a single 10-spot, last week I came close to undoing every bit of good I'd done at the gym.
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