Isn’t Fatness Getting An ‘A’ In Fitness?
By Doug Miller
September 2003
If you're gonna binge, you better purge. – The Simpsons, Episode number 9F02
For some, enlightenment comes during a vision after fasting in the desert, for others it comes from the dedicated study of spiritual texts, for me it came stapled to my pay stub. The company had teamed with the Chamber of Commerce to provide us with a new benefit, a member-to-member discount. For the most part the discounts were worthless; even at my most frugal I’m not going to hold up the 2:00 a.m. drive-thru at Jack-In-The-Box to get 10% off my 99-cent Jumbo Jack. A dime may have been big money to J.D. Rockefeller but I don’t stoop to pick up anything less than a dollar anymore.
And that’s really the problem, isn’t it? For the second time I’ve reached my drinking weight of 275 pounds and for the second time I have to decide whether to stop worrying about it and allow myself to venture into the uncharted territory of 300 pounds and beyond or else do something about it. Last time I bought a NordicTrack and dropped 52 pounds in four months, but that was seven years ago. Four years ago I discovered apathy in seductively addictive, nicotine laced, cool, creamy menthol cigarettes and gave up all forms of exercise in favor of sweet, Carolina smoke. My runners high from the Mule Mountain Marathon gave way to the siren song of instant stress release that wrapped me in a death-defying halo.
My friend Mike, upon seeing the post modern sculpture that most people would call an eighteen speed Scwhinn Range Searcher bicycle that I display under the laundry cluttering my living room/dining room/kitchenette (okay, it’s a tiny apartment) had been pestering me for several months to start riding with him. The bike has over 2,600 miles on it, all of it from endless laps around Sierra Vista, but my riding days seemed behind me. Then he pointed out the offer of a $19 a month membership at the fitness center. I realized that I spent more than that per month on Internet service, which, due to some inexplicable irregularity in the Huachuca City phone system, fails to connect when it’s dark out. Before I realized what I was saying I agreed to sign up with him.
Step one: The fitness assessment. Our trainer, MarcAnthony (it’s all one name) started us on our journey to fitness by measuring us more closely than a tuxedo shop in a federal prison. Technology has combined with the fitness center to make this experience slightly less pleasant than a full body cavity search. Mike was the first to slide his thumb into a portable blood pressure/pulse rate measuring device to find out that his BP was slightly elevated but his pulse rate was normal for a healthy 26-year-old male. The same device failed to register both a systolic and diastolic reading for me, instead flashing an error code that, upon calling the tech support line, indicated “non-human life form.” Despite having slouched in a computer programming chair all day and being fully rested after four years of a sedentary lifestyle my pulse rate was thrumming along at a hummingbird paced 115 beats per minute. “That’s good, isn’t it?” I asked MarcAnthony, “I mean I’m not doing anything and I’m already at the target heart rate for a 39 year old male.” He gave me the same look the waitress at Denny’s gives me when I salt my bacon.
Next was the body fat analysis device. Once again Mike breezed through this and was told he was in the normal range on the chart and his fitness goal was to lose eight pounds. Gripping the device in both hands, I glanced in the mirror and thought, “I look fabulous in this workout outfit.” Then MarcAnthony, in the tone of a first grade teacher, had me grade my results. “Okay, that number is your percent body fat. Find your age across the top and your weight along the side, and tell me where you fall on the chart. C’mon, where are you on the chart? You can't find it, can you? The chart doesn’t go that high does it? No. That’s not a good place is it? You’re not in a happy place are you?” Determined to put a good spin on this I point out that 33.2% is definitely less than one-third. Pulling out a calculator he begins punching in numbers but I estimate to within two percent before he can finish. Raising an inquisitive eyebrow I venture, “About ninety pounds, huh?” He replies, “Thirty three point two percent of two hundred seventy five is ninety one point three pounds. I want you to imagine ninety-one pounds of butter, can you do that? That’s a lot of butter, isn’t it?” MarcAnthony’s Romper-Room speech cadence and providing-the-answer-in-the-question style of interrogation is seriously beginning to get on my nerves. Mike and I pay the $38 first and last month membership fee and schedule our first training session for the next day. I’m not even out of the parking lot before a soothing menthol cigarette tells me that it’s all better now.
Searching for dish soap in the supermarket half an hour later a dulcetly toned voice asks, “Okay, what’s in the basket? C’mon, you don’t need to hide it from me!” I let the scream die in my throat as I turn to see MarcAnthony inspecting my selections. Curse this small town. Fortunately I went straight from the produce section where, in a spirit of optimism not seen in these parts since the days of the pioneers, I tossed a bag of salad into the cart and then decided to find the soap before I forgot again. Forget whatever you may have seen on old MacGyver reruns, it is impossible to synthesize dish soap from toothpaste and shaving cream. Like a priest in a bad horror movie trying to ward off a vampire with a crucifix I thrust the salad at him while frantically searching the bottled water to see if Gatorade is marketing a commemorative Harry Caray “Holy Cow” variety yet. “Salad!” I announce, “It’s salad! See?” A teenager stocking the shelves glances over to see what the commotion is about. I see the same kid fifteen minutes later as I sneak a bag of Doritos into my cart. He just shakes his head and walks away.
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