Ice Water Eliminates Fat

A corner of the basement is slowly being converted into a gym. I've moved the Nordic Track next to the treadmill. The old Everlast is once again hanging from a floor joist in the mechanical room. Three or four joists down you'll find a chin-up bar. There are various free weights lying around waiting for some action.

I've actually been using this stuff. Over that last couple of weeks I've oozed sweat all over the treadmill and Nordic Track eight or nine times. Allie spent one evening downstairs with me. During the commercial breaks in her cartoons she would act as my personal trainer. She counted push ups and barked words of encouragement. How you feeling, Dad? You're doing great! Let's get some exercise so you won't be fat.

I'm not in horrible shape. While I'm on the treadmill or the Nordic Track I'm working. There's no slacking because the little Polar monitor I strap on beeps at me every time my heart rate drops below whatever threshold it's decided I need to maintain in order to benefit from my workout.

I just edited that last sentence because I used the word fucking five times the first time I typed it. That how I genuinely feel but there's no need to bombard you with profanity to get my point across. But I really do hate that fucking monitor sometimes.

For two weeks I made myself healthy lunches and did a fair job of watching what I ate.

No results.

This week, I haven't done shit.

Deb tried to get me to go downstairs and workout last night. I've asked her to motivate me to get off my ass and usually she's effective. Last night I was having none of it.

So now I'm searching for motivation. There's the whole, teary eyed I want to be healthy so I can keep up with my kids and be around for my family later in life. That's not going to do it for me. I can keep up with my kids. In fact, I can wear their little asses out when necessary. And while the desire to be around for Deb and the girls later in life should work for me, long-term goals become wispy when confronted by a short-term double cheeseburger.

Fear. That's the key. The plan is Deb hires some goons to kick the crap out of me every time I miss a workout or eat ten BBQ ribs when four would do. Nothing extreme. No missing teeth or fractured orbitals. No kidnapping of relatives (read Stephen King's Quitter's, Inc.). I'd get thrown around a little, maybe the wind knocked out of me a couple of times along with a promise they'll be back if I'm spotted anywhere near a Krispy Kreme.

In fact, it wouldn't really even need to be taken to that extreme. All it would take would be a little ice water applied unexpectedly if Deb doesn't think I'm working hard enough. If I knew that having a week similar to this (no workout, no watching what I eat) could lead to being roused from bed in the middle of the night by a cup of ice water I might get to work.

Uh. Deb. Please let me know if you read this. I need to clarify a few things.