I’m writing this stream-of-consciousness style, plowing through
writer’s block. Well, more like babbling over it like a rock in a riverbed.
I really want to go tubing again. Let me clarify: while I was spending a wonderful Sunday morning with Belle and we walked my puppy Juno, she mistook my term “tubing” for being pulled behind a boat on an inner tube (a fun activity, for sure, though once I get knocked off I often cannot pull my bulk back on) when I meant floating lazily down a river on a raft or tube, shoulders, knees, and massive belly sticking out of the water, never out of arm’s reach of the cooler tube and a fresh alcoholic beverage.
A few years ago a group of us floated down the St. Louis River. It was handy that my long-time friend Chance lived on property that was brushed by the river on both the Northwest and Southeast corners. Between these two points, the river looped north and back south again, leading us on a ride that lasted nearly 4 hours with a walk of mere minutes to return home.
The ride was fast, apparently, but not as fast as Chance has seen the river. The water level was high, and the 6 of us climbed in and onto our tubes. We fastened the cooler tube to someone’s tube, I don’t remember whose, and we all floated on. I didn't drink beer back then, and trying to manage mixed drinks would be comical, so I picked up a 4-pack of Sparks and choked them down until they tasted good (coincidentally, I've since learned to like beer using the same methods). It was a sunny June day, warm as all hell, and we had taken proper precautions; I was wearing a t-shirt over my pasty white fat rolls and we had sunscreen slathered all over our upper bodies.
What I didn’t realize was that with my sizable ass sunk in the middle of a tube, my knees are high above the waterline. They cooked like lobsters and I was crippled for a few days with the pain of leathered skin.
We rode the river for these hours, sometimes all in one group, sometimes a few of us moving to the middle of the river and riding the faster current ahead for some private conversation. The sunlight twinkled through a canopy of green leaves and branches, and a cacophony of insects serenaded us from the shaded shoreline. Once we saw the overpass signifying the end of our ride, we moved to the shore to disembark. I lost a sandal that started floating alarmingly fast downriver, but thankfully Thor did his best Michael Phelps and dove for it, coming up victorious against the stream and rescuing my errant footwear.
Only once we were on dry land did I realize how inebriated 4 cans of Sparks made me. Combine stumble-drunk with leg muscles that ached from standing against the rushing waters moments earlier, and that short walk home proved more difficult than it should have.
We carried our tubes back to Chance’s house, deflated them and bagged up our wet clothes. The 6 of us piled into a car and drove out to Bimbo’s for what would become the worst service I've had in a restaurant, and so far, my last visit there. It was on this dinner trip that my legs started protesting their over-exposure to UV-B rays all morning. They remained painful for about 5 days, and I maintained a tan-line on my thunder thighs for a whole year after that.
We didn't get to go tubing this past summer. Chance lives in California now, and though she returned for a summer visit, the river was nearly dry and nobody wants to scrape their butt cheeks against the riverbed for hours on end. Maybe this summer will prove different, or maybe I’ll find another group of people to go on another river. I really want to go again, one way or the other.
I really want to go tubing again. Let me clarify: while I was spending a wonderful Sunday morning with Belle and we walked my puppy Juno, she mistook my term “tubing” for being pulled behind a boat on an inner tube (a fun activity, for sure, though once I get knocked off I often cannot pull my bulk back on) when I meant floating lazily down a river on a raft or tube, shoulders, knees, and massive belly sticking out of the water, never out of arm’s reach of the cooler tube and a fresh alcoholic beverage.
A few years ago a group of us floated down the St. Louis River. It was handy that my long-time friend Chance lived on property that was brushed by the river on both the Northwest and Southeast corners. Between these two points, the river looped north and back south again, leading us on a ride that lasted nearly 4 hours with a walk of mere minutes to return home.
The ride was fast, apparently, but not as fast as Chance has seen the river. The water level was high, and the 6 of us climbed in and onto our tubes. We fastened the cooler tube to someone’s tube, I don’t remember whose, and we all floated on. I didn't drink beer back then, and trying to manage mixed drinks would be comical, so I picked up a 4-pack of Sparks and choked them down until they tasted good (coincidentally, I've since learned to like beer using the same methods). It was a sunny June day, warm as all hell, and we had taken proper precautions; I was wearing a t-shirt over my pasty white fat rolls and we had sunscreen slathered all over our upper bodies.
What I didn’t realize was that with my sizable ass sunk in the middle of a tube, my knees are high above the waterline. They cooked like lobsters and I was crippled for a few days with the pain of leathered skin.
We rode the river for these hours, sometimes all in one group, sometimes a few of us moving to the middle of the river and riding the faster current ahead for some private conversation. The sunlight twinkled through a canopy of green leaves and branches, and a cacophony of insects serenaded us from the shaded shoreline. Once we saw the overpass signifying the end of our ride, we moved to the shore to disembark. I lost a sandal that started floating alarmingly fast downriver, but thankfully Thor did his best Michael Phelps and dove for it, coming up victorious against the stream and rescuing my errant footwear.
Only once we were on dry land did I realize how inebriated 4 cans of Sparks made me. Combine stumble-drunk with leg muscles that ached from standing against the rushing waters moments earlier, and that short walk home proved more difficult than it should have.
We carried our tubes back to Chance’s house, deflated them and bagged up our wet clothes. The 6 of us piled into a car and drove out to Bimbo’s for what would become the worst service I've had in a restaurant, and so far, my last visit there. It was on this dinner trip that my legs started protesting their over-exposure to UV-B rays all morning. They remained painful for about 5 days, and I maintained a tan-line on my thunder thighs for a whole year after that.
We didn't get to go tubing this past summer. Chance lives in California now, and though she returned for a summer visit, the river was nearly dry and nobody wants to scrape their butt cheeks against the riverbed for hours on end. Maybe this summer will prove different, or maybe I’ll find another group of people to go on another river. I really want to go again, one way or the other.
I definitely want to spend a lot of time out-of-doors this
summer. This record-breaking snowfall in April was enough to put the most
stalwart Eskimo deep into cabin (igloo?) fever. We were teased with a few warm
days before it dropped to freezing again, and after a glorious weekend, we’re
going to see highs in the 40s again. Ugh.
Soon enough it will get so warm that staying inside with air conditioning will prove an irresistible desire. I don’t welcome that kind of heat, even though a few weeks ago I joined the state-wide chorus of whining about how cold it was. See, I just despise being sweaty. I’ll shower multiple times a day and change clothes often, rather than rot in my sticky filth.
Soon enough it will get so warm that staying inside with air conditioning will prove an irresistible desire. I don’t welcome that kind of heat, even though a few weeks ago I joined the state-wide chorus of whining about how cold it was. See, I just despise being sweaty. I’ll shower multiple times a day and change clothes often, rather than rot in my sticky filth.
I don’t mind sweating, though. Well, I’ll continue saying
that until I believe it. I figure it this way: large mammals that live in the
Arctic Circle have thick insulating blubber to shield their organs from the
cold. At 315lbs, I too have large reserves of insulation which serve me warm in
Minnesota’s worst, but were you to transplant a sea lion to a summer’s heat wave;
you bet he’ll bake inside his Crisco skin! To try to eliminate that happening
to my most beloved body, I figured I need to shed at least 100lbs of sub-cutaneous
lipids. So I ran, I ran so far away. Ok, ok, so I jogged and walked for a mile.
But hey, it’s a start!
I hope I can keep this up and start shaping my body to how I
want it. Other people have started noticing the effects of my changed diet,
which makes me feel good. I can certainly see some difference in the mirror; my
face is much thinner now, though Zach R. from 6th grade would still
jiggle my chin and call me “turkey neck”. I’ve lost a few inches in my waist
and chest, have outlived one belt so far (I swear I bought it at a comfy 3-hole
fit, but weeks later it was loose on the last hole!), and have dropped from
size XXL to XL in both t-shirts and boxers. I’ve stayed below 320 lbs for
nearly a year now with minimal effort.
Humble-bragging aside, I’ve got a long way to go. I keep my
priorities in mind and try to push myself to beat my horrible habit of
procrastination and giving up. Of course I want a sexy body. I’m comfortable
enough in my own skin right now that if you ask me to take off my shirt, I’ll dazzle
you with the sight of my hairy shoulders and squeezable man-boobs! But I know I’m
not fit. I’m a tall guy with a broad
chest, though instead of a barrel of muscle above a 6-pack of abs, it’s more of
a couple of 40s above a keg. I want to be able to lift heavier things and not
strain. I want to be able to hit home runs at softball (mostly because, jeez I’m
not a fast runner and I think I’ve been thrown out at 2nd more times
than not)! I want to be able to end a fight if someone wants to start it, and I
want that fight to end quickly and decisively.
Aside from fitness, I also want to be normal in proportions.
Buying clothes right now is so hard: I’m either wearing button-straining,
curve-hugging shirts that would not come close to buttoning around my 19.5”
neck, or I’m swimming in tarps of a shirt that fits my neck but are inches long
in the shoulder and would fit a belly thrice the size of mine in the midsection.
And pants? I order Levi’s that fit my waist, hips, and thighs, and they look
like JNCO jeans around my skinny ankles.
So I decided I’m going to get some more exercise, try to get
into shape. I’ll be that guy who posts obnoxious things on Facebook about how I
trimmed a minute off my mile (which, shit, would still be like a 19 minute
mile). I’m looking through clothing company websites and their look books to
find clothes that I wish I could buy, and reviewing their size charts so I know
where I need to be. I’m setting off Richter scales when I jog. I’ve made my
puppy happier than ever with the increase of walks/runs/general outside time.
And maybe come Summer 2014, we’ll be back on that river,
floating lazily along, and I’ll be half the man I was that first time.
Don’t worry; I’ll remember to put sunblock on my legs this
time.