Everybody relax. I say this tongue-in-cheek, mostly trying to scrape the last remnants of peanut butter from said cheek. But, I found out this morning that indeed, I have gained nine pounds since the New York City Marathon.
My suspicions began long ago, right around Thanksgiving. Right around the time I poured myself another Belgian Trappiste Triple and went back for thirds. Right around the time I deleted the Greg McMillan e-mail, “How to avoid the holiday bulge” with a dismissive sniff.
I ignored the warning
“You’re just full,” my kind wife would say. And normally, I’d believe her. I tend to get the food baby after big meals. Then I entered my second trimester. Then I ordered the eggs benedict. Then I ate a second lunch of coldcuts at Rachel’s grandmother’s (little known fact: the Boston roads are actually paved with Italian coldcuts). Then I finished everyone’s dinner…and dessert. Then I went to bed full…again. Wash, rinse, repeat.
“I may not be running 60 miles a week anymore, but I’m still eating like it, yuck yuck yuck. Speaking of which, you going to finish that?” I would say to anyone who hadn’t already heard me say it, as I reached across the table with my fork. Then I’d tweak my ankle and softly sob into my fully loaded baked potato, reminded that I actually wasn’t running any miles anymore.
This morning, I signed in at the gym, my friend standing behind me. “Oh, look,” he said, eyeing up one of the signs on the counter. “The Tannita scale is back…today! We should do it.”
I put the pen down and rolled my eyes toward him. “I don’t know,” I said, already knowing the prognosis. “I’ll think about it.”
So we went on with our workout. I hoisted weights and thought about how nice it is to finally be doing some real work again. I’ve ridden over 25 miles on the stationary bike the past two days and think, think, that I can start running again on Monday…and not a moment too soon.
On my last set, my friend walked by me and hopped up on the scale to get his reading. The Tannita scale calculates your weight, body fat, BMI, and hydration. Though neither of us could quite remember exactly what our numbers were last time, I did know that my weight was 158 and my body fat was in the single digits. I touched at my sides looking for those ribs to pluck.
My friend stepped off the scale. “Did you pass?” I asked, snickering as he pulled his shoes back on.
“I think so. I also think you should do it.”
And so, I started to untie my shoes. The trainer went on about doing it at the beginning of our workout next time because of the hydration factor, and blah blah, I’m sure these are valid points, but my workout time won’t affect my weight. I stepped on and watched the numbers climb. They skipped right over where I had been back in November.
First the digital confirmation. Then she kindly printed out the paper for me with all my readings.
I, of course, am perfectly healthy. My weight and other readouts actually fall smack in the middle of the “normal/recommended” range. It’s just, well, I’ve felt healthier. And I’ve certainly eaten healthier.
“How was the gym?” my wife asked when I got home.
“I’m fat,” I said holding up the paper for her.
“I hate you,” she said, before softening. “So, you gained a little weight. If it’s any consolation, you still look emaciated to me. Idiot.” Then she kissed our food baby.
So, I sit here (part of the problem), longing to stoke the fire and get the furnace hot again. And no, you can finish that.