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So … Due to the circumstances, I’ve decided to purchase a gym membership.  The hope is that the observable monthly payment will hurt me so much that I get my dookie maker up and go work out to avoid wasting my hard earned green-backs.  Benjamin’s.  Dead presidents.  Cheddar, cabbage.  Cash money, if you know what I mean.

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All the signs are here.  I need to start working out.

My mom keeps throwing not so subtle hints at me:

“Oh dang son, getting fat I see?”

“Oh you decided to blow up since college?”

Even my aunt got in on the mix recently on a night that I was desperately trying to avoid her company:  “Finally getting thick ain’t you?”

Point being, I’ve always prided myself in facing hard truths and this is just another one of life’s harsh cheek-spreaded ramming’s.  To be honest, I actually haven’t even put on weight.  Apparently I’m just turning into flab according to all the people who can take unadulterated gut shots without consequence.  Plus, I found myself legitimately winded after three flights of stairs, recently, to the point where I chose to end the story I was telling out of the necessity for oxygen, which I had – honest to God – run out of.

So I got a gym membership.  It helped that a friend was kind of the inspiration for not wasting time picking out a gym.  Because that excuse alone would have delayed my working out another 12 years I’m sure.

But here’s where it gets real fun.

I’ve never actually gone through the process of signing up for a gym membership, so I had no idea what to expect.  Obviously a swell chap gave me the tour of the establishment, trying desperately to sell me on the place even though I had already made up my mind that this was where I’d murder myself because of the ‘work,’ probably.  Then there was the contractual stuff that you roll your eyes at.

And finally, the guy brought over a personal fitness trainer.  Now this is where it got interesting.

“When’s the last time you’ve been in ideal shape?” she asks.

“Um, oh Jesus Christ … 2009?”

She regarded how I looked like I run because – suck it mom – I’m pretty sleek and appear to carry my physique well.  Politely, I explain that I’d rather swallow a bag of hair than run, or exercise for that matter.  But if I want to live past 30 I probably should start now.

Everyone had a jolly ol’ laugh.

Then she started pressing me for answers.  I’m not sure why, but I think she thought I was joking when I told her that my “condition” was rock bottom bad.  Like, I get that I don’t look it purely because of genetics, but finally, I had to lay it out for her plain and simple.

Based on my weight, height, and other info that they took at the beginning of the process, I needed to consume about 2,760 calories a day.  The trainer jokingly remarked how I’m probably well under that.  This is where I laid a few hard truths on her.

“Listen, for the last six months I’ve began my day with McDonalds Big Breakfast.  That’s 1090 calories (a number they earned national news attention for) to start the day.  I literally consume about 39% of my needed sustenance during the meal most people opt to skip.”

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I had her attention there.

From breakfast to lunch, I explained, is a smattering of eating whatever is edible with the political amnesty of calling it “snacking.”  Donuts, Chex Mix, Cheetos, Rib-Eye Steak; doesn’t matter.  Then there’s lunch; and for lunch, I consider a Baconator Combo completely reasonable.  According to Wendy’s, that’s around 930 calories.  So before 11 o’clock – discarding the snacking, which you can bet your whoopie cakes I do – I’m like 3/4ths of the way through my needed calories according to healthy people.

Figuring I had their attention by this point, I moved on to different waters.

“Listen, meals aren’t even about the nutrients to survive, for me.  I eat without rhyme, reason or regard.  And every bowel movement is an emergency.”

Basically, I explained to them that my digestive system has been like a Star Trek battle scene ever since I’ve come into adulthood.

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Eventually, we stumbled upon the conclusion that I should probably be exercising.  You know, to stay alive at this point.  In the end, the personal trainer tried to politely suggest that I change my eating habits.  Bless her heart.

So contradictory to my Now What? blog post, I’ve gone out and purchased a gym membership.  And thus far, I’ve made use of it.  As for my diet, it’s hard to say if I’ll make the necessary changes in order to avoid … well… death.

But hey!  Uncertainty is a fickle thing.

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