This all starts early yesterday when I fielded a call from my recruiter. I'm less than a week away from going off to Basic Training and he wants to touch base with me and see how I'm doing.
"So uh, you've been staying out of trouble, huh? No problems with Johnny Law, right?" He says. I haven't had any trouble with the Man, in fact I haven't even so much as sped on the highway in the last month. I back my car down when it touches 75 mph, which is super out of character for me. "Good good, and you've been staying safe, no stupid injuries or anything like that?" And he goes on to tell me about how another recruit that was supposed to be leaving with my group smashed his fingers all to shit while moving boxes, so he's a no go. I don't dare tell him about my bum hip/thigh and figure I'll fuel up on pills before and after work outs if necessary.
"Ok, great, good to hear everything's on the up and up. Oh, and how's the weight?" And it starts. Now I know what it's like to be a woman.
Let me explain the whole "weight thing." See, in order to be admitted to basic training, you have to meet a certain weight limit based on your height, neck size, wrist size, shoe size, whatever they do. I'm about 199 right now as I write this article, which is three pounds over my limit, based on those previously mentioned parameters. It's gotten to the point where I'm obsessing like a woman about my figure.
I was weighed twice before and barely made weight the first time and the second time got under the wire by three pounds by starving myself for a weekend. I don't want to have to do that again. It's madness. So what I've been doing, along with my daily hour-plus work outs is consuming about twelve fluid ounces of pure grapefruit juice and drinking tons of water through the day. Also, I've tried cutting back on carbs. Actually I've cut back on eating all together.
I'm eating like a chick basically.
So fast forward a couple of hours later and I'm having lunch with one of my friends. We're sitting in a pub in Portsmouth looking over the lunch menus and I'm complaining about what I can and can't eat. The roast beef, turkey and bacon club sandwich looks great, especially with a side of waffle fries, but my dining partner suggests I try a bed of greens with grilled chicken. I look at her from over my menu with a look that probably could cut a glacier, like out of a scene from "Sex and the City."
I order the club with the fries. I'm my own worst enemy.
I didn't get to the gym either yesterday which frustrates me. The whole day I feel fat and slobbish and have to keep reminding myself that I'm a dude, I should feel fine in my own skin. So what if I have a little beer belly, so what if I like to eat crap, I'm a guy, there's no societal rules established that say I have to be trim and sexy.
I can think of all sorts of stereotypical archetypes of grossly fat dudes with hot wives, based on sitcom television: Kevin James, Jim Belushi, Homer Simpson, Jackie Gleason, Bill Clinton (though his wife isn't all that hot, he can score top shelf pussy at will), Peter Griffin, etc. Granted these people's lives are all based on pure fiction, society regularly agrees that fat funny dudes score smoking hot wives.
So why am I obsessing about my weight like a chick? ...Oh, because I have to go to boot camp.
At Basic it's often said you'll drop (and keep off) at least twenty pounds. As I write that last sentence, I'm thinking of myself at a trim 185. Then I snap out of it and hate myself a little more.
Fast forward again yesterday, and I've left my friend at the pub and met up with another friend at the mall. We're in the GAP and I'm trying on jeans. I put on a pair of 35/32s, standard fit. They fit fine, but I can't get a good look at my backside so I step out of the dressing room where my friend is waiting and turn around.
"How does it look?"
"How does what look?" They ask.
"...My ass.... how does it look?"
"What? I'm not looking at your ass dude."
"C'mooonnnnn..." I catch myself wining. My skin bristles. "I can't see how it looks back there. Just tell me if my wallet sticks out too much."
"Dude." He stops himself. "It's fine, really, can we go?" I frown and shuffle back into the dressing room to change back. I buy the jeans hoping my ass will look hot in them.
I think this is why women are so fucking crazy. They starve themselves and obsess about standards set by Hollywood and society. Every time they turn around, there's another picture of some chick modeling jeans or a coat or whatever, looking stick-thin. I mean, that plus they bleed from their crotches every couple of weeks is enough to send anyone off the deep end. Of course they don't care about sports or which friend can drink the most beer without puking into a 50 gallon drum outside of a sketchy night club, they've got way too much pressure on them to fit into a frame that easily 1/1000 maybe fit into.
Now if you'll excuse me, I have to eat this pile of leaves.