A new decade

So here's something you don't want to do: look for pictures of feet on a scale on the interwebs. If you ever thought feet were strange looking, browsing through dozens of pictures of them won't do anything to change that.

What am I saying? Feet. Not a pretty picture.

But contrary to what you've read so far, I'm not here to talk about feet. I'm here to talk about the scale.

Historically the scale has not been my friend. Whether it's my expensive digital bathroom scale, or the twenty-year old beam scale (yes that's what it's called, no I didn't have to look it up) in the doctor's office, they always come up with a number that shocks me. Of the two, I look more forward to the bathroom scale, because that one is usually off by three or four pounds in my favor. But the doctor's office scale pops that balloon real fast.

It's a number that says, "Well, looks like we're not keeping that resolution again this year."

Everyone has a different way of assessing their weight. Mine is in decades. Not the years, the increments. I call every ten-pound increment on the scale a decade. And here's the bad news: I thought I was in one decade, but come to find out I'm well into the next one.

It made me so mad at myself I had to have some sugar cookies just to calm down.

When I enter a new decade on the scale, it's not easy to deal with the shame, embarrassment and disappointment. Something my high school girlfriend used to tell me all the time.

And it's not like I don't have inspiration all around me. My close personal friend Rich Siegel—Peleton evangelist, proprietor and editor-in-chief of Round Seventeen—has recently undergone a physical transformation, dropping a ton (not literally) of weight. He looks great, feels great and is currently in the market for a newer, less tenty wardrobe.

When I ask him how he did it he said diet and exercise. Like I'm buying that.

Another close friend, the formidably talented copywriter, screenwriter and bronze medal winner in curling at the 2014 games in Sochi, Cameron Young is constantly encouraging me and generously making himself available to go for long scenic walks, where we can speak of things that matter, make fun of strangers and burn calories at the same time.

Walking. Isn't that what I do between the bedroom and the refrigerator? At midnight?

One problem is I can carry a lot of weight without looking too awful. But I can only kid myself for so long. It's a numbers game, and sometimes the numbers just decide to slap you across the face and call you Sally.

Anyway, seems to me there are really only two solutions. One is to give the scale a twenty-pound head start so I don't feel so bad. The other is to let it keep starting at zero and get serious about lowering the number. After all, it's not a lot to lose. I've done it before and I know how.

And since I've been measuring the ups and downs in decades, I'll have to do what Superman did flying counterclockwise around the earth, and Cher did singing on a battleship.

Turn back time.

Going bananas

I broke a girl's heart today. Actually, more like shattered her world. I didn't take any pride in it. But it's not the first time it's happened and it probably won't be the last.

The why isn't the important part. It's the how. I told her how many calories are in a banana.

It's not something I planned, but somehow the truth always comes out. Especially when you're having casual office talk—as one does—about edible fruit that grows in bunches produced by several kinds of large herbaceous flowering plants in the genus Musa.

Did you know the banana is actually botanically a berry? You're welcome.

Anyway here's the thing: I've started logging all the food I shove into my piehole on an app called My Fitness Pal. The reasons are varied, everything from being tired of my doctors telling me to lose some weight (I get that a lot) to the three pairs of pants I can barely squeeze into looking at me, smiling, and saying, "Tight enough for you fat boy?"

One of the things this app does is break down the nutritional make up of the items on my daily menu. And because I happen to like a little Potassium In My Diet—capped because it was also the title of my first album—bananas are a morning staple.

When I entered it in the app, come to find out a medium sized banana is a 110 calories. I told this to my friend Nicole. Apparently, I've altered her world forever. And not in a good way.

Her thinking, and I have to say I agree, is that if there were any justice in the world bananas would only be around 60 or 70 calories. It's unimaginable they can cross over the century calorie mark. Yet the facts are what they are.

And if we start denying facts, it's a slippery slope (see what I did there?).

Anyway, on the bright side, there are many other ways to consume bananas that are a lot worse for you, calorically speaking. While you're looking at pictures of the high-calorie banana items below, I'll be in the kitchen drinking my eighth glass of water and choking down my third and last Ak Mak cracker for the day.

And swearing like a drunk longshoreman.

Body of work

When my pal Rich Siegel first saw this picture, his reaction was I should wear a hat more often. I know (think) he was kidding, but the funny part is even though I know that fabulous looking, thin, brutally handsome, dark haired guy on the left is me, or a former version of me, in my mind's eye I see myself as the guy on the right. I have issues.

Anyway, what you're looking at would be the before picture of me. Today's after picture would be an older—and by older I mean more distinguished and attractive—grayer (my dad went gray at 25, I never stood a chance), fuller version of myself. But nowhere near as full as the gentleman on the right.

Of course I'd be wearing black in both pictures, because, you know, black.

In my head, I've always felt like I was overweight, even though much to my everlovin' surprise I keep stumbling on to more pictures that prove otherwise. So the question is if I was that thin once, could I be that thin again?

And I'm starting to think the answer is fuck yeah.

For starters, it's not like someone stuck an air hose up my ass, tattooed Goodyear on it and sent me flying. I'm carrying slightly more weight than I should be, and might I add carrying it quite well. But I am getting tired of my doctor and my pants telling me to lose a little. So I'm making small, manageable changes to my routine I think will result in slow, steady progress towards getting me back into my 32-inch 34-inch waist pants that have been hanging in back of my closet since, well, that's not important right now. I know it's an ambitious goal, but if we can put a man on the moon...

Here are a few of the steps I'm taking to look as thin as Chandler did on season 3 of Friends.

Soda is off the menu. Mostly.

I've always loved Coke. And I used to drink a lot of it, but not so much anymore. I now go almost all week long without having one, or any soda for that matter, and try to stick strictly to water (preferably lemon flavored and carbonated). Sure I might have a sip or two of my son's soda at the movies on the weekend, but he gives me the side eye when I ask, doesn't like to share, and lets out a disapproving, judgmental sigh because I know he thinks it's just hastening my demise and he doesn't know where the insurance policies are. I'm just kidding. He knows exactly where they are.

Timing is everything.

Grazing used to be a 24/7 proposition. I think the electric bills were so high because of all the times I'd stand at the refrigerator with the doors open just staring, hoping something I wanted to eat would appear since the last time I opened the doors and stared. Ten minutes ago. Now, mealtimes punch a clock. Breakfast, lunch and dinner happen, with healthy snacks in between. But when dinner is over, the diner is closed and it's only water and Lipitor until morning.

Up the down staircase.

I work on the 2nd floor of my office, but I park on P2. I'll do the math for you—it works out to six flights of stairs. I'm excellent going down them, and getting better going up them, except when the weather is hot and humid. Since I sweat like Albert Brooks in Broadcast News anytime it gets over sixty degrees, I haven't abandoned the elevator just yet. But I do try to think about Rosalind Shays in L.A. Law when I press the up button, and that seems to motivate me to make the climb manually.

Staying in for lunch.

I'm a social animal. I like going out to eat, and spending tons of money I don't have on lunch. But the lunch hours they are a changin'. For a more than reasonable price, my friend Maria prepares clean meals for me to eat everyday. If you don't know, clean meals are just like healthy ones except they have flavor, fill you up and leave you excited about the next day's meal. Other people in the office have seen the meals Maria has been making for me, and asked if she can make meals for them too. She has a built in market for her budding business, and I'm ready to pony up the bucks to invest in her commercial kitchen. She's a clean-eating food empire waiting to happen.

Skipping is a good thing.

This three meals a day, food pyramid, five food groups bullshit is just the man's way of keeping you round. I'm learning to listen to my body more, which is good cause lately it's been doing a lot of talking. And it's saying, "Hey chubby, maybe you don't need lunch today." Maybe I don't. The new rule is if I'm not hungry, I'm not eating. And if I'm only a little hungry, then I just eat a little. Then I burn off some calories getting mad at my body for calling me chubby.

In addition to those steps, I'm making it a point to exercise more. I have an expensive mountain bike with flat tires sitting in the garage. I also have an expensive air compressor sitting there with it. I don't need a roadmap to see I'm minutes away from getting back in the saddle and biking all around town. Although I won't be doing it in bike shorts. No one needs to see that.

While I'm talking about exercise, I may as well mention I'm finally joining a gym. When I used to live in Santa Monica, I'd get up at six in the morning, walk over to the legendary Gold's Gym in Venice and work out surrounded by world-class body builders and steroid abusers. In fact my former personal trainer was a Mr. Nebraska. I could've found it intimidating, but instead it was inspiring. Being the Hollywood kid I am, one of the things I loved about Gold's was the occasional celebrity I'd see working out there. During the Gold's years, I like to say I worked out with Jeff Goldblum, Laura Dern, Jennifer Connelly, Keanu Reeves and the late, great Gregory Hines to namedrop a few. I'm not sure if they bragged about working out with me, but I like to think so.

Inspiration also happens on the local level. My once and always neighbor Sebastian just lost 35 lbs. and is still going. Other friends have lost weight as well, and somehow their lives seem to be going on just fine and no one appears to be going hungry.

So there you have it. I don't usually like to share about this particular topic, but I felt the picture called for it. I'm uncharacteristically optimistic, and looking forward to the new me.

But just in case things don't work out, I did ask Mr. Red Hat where he got his pants.

The weight is over

I've written a few weight related posts on here. Like this one. And this one. Or this one. Maybe this one.

I know what you're thinking, because I'm thinking the same thing. "Why doesn't he get off his fat ass (literally) and just lose the weight and quit talking about it?"

Okay. That's what I'll do.

I'll do it because I'm tired. I'm tired of the running joke I have with my daughter every time we see a morbidly obese person (the joke is "Look it's my new best friend." because by comparison, well, you get the idea). I'm tired of the other joke which is "I have to ask him where he gets his shirts." Tired of the vast wardrobe choices I have between my remaining two pairs of jeans that fit. Shopping knowing nothing is going to fit? Really tired of it. I'll do it because I'm tired of reading about my copywriter friends like Rich doing things like this.

Most of all I'm tired of being tired from carting all this lard around.

Hey, you know what I'm not tired of? That joke about Oprah sitting "around the house." Still gets me every time.

I think about organizations like Fat & Proud and Fat Liberation and the propaganda they spread about how you can live a happy life if you're overweight, and still be just as healthy as if you weren't. I imagine it's easier to spread that philosophy than lose the weight. A low-fat spread if you will (I know, but it was right there).

It would be easier to believe their company line if it wasn't being drown out by their hearts screaming bloody murder and their scales yelling at them to make it stop.

By the way, just for the record, I'm not grossly overweight. But I do need to lose a significant amount. The problem, besides constantly shoving food down my piehole, is that I can carry a lot of weight and not look like I'm carrying as much as I am.

But it's a numbers game. And I know the numbers.

So, once again, I'm writing a post about losing weight. The difference this time is I'm on it. This year, unlike too many years past, I'm not waiting for New Year's to make the resolution. I'm putting it out there for the world and my friends to see, and hopefully hold me to.

Weight gain is a slippery slope, and I don't want to wind up like Orson Welles in his later years, weighing over four hundred pounds and dressing in black all the time.

Although I wouldn't mind knowing where he got his shirts.