What weighs 100kg, swears like a trooper with Tourettes and has hair like roadside hedge in Autumn? Yup, it’s me, One Fat Irish Dad. Whilst not a major eye-opener, my fitness test today at the beginning of the journey to well-being laid bare a few glaring issues.
I used to be a size 38(UK) in jeans. Then, for some unknown reason, probably due to stress at work and then stopping drinking every weekend, I dropped to a size 34. This was a shock to the system, albeit a pleasing one. However, it was a facade. A false dawn. I’d done nothing of any healthy persuasion to have caused this dramatic loss. The crumbling temple was falling into further disrepair regardless.
In January 2016, about two months before the kids came to live with me full-time, I went to Thailand for the second time in 6 months. The good old days when I had disposable income and the ability to easily pay back the Credit Union. Whilst there I decided to avail of some cheap dental care. A good cleaning and 5 filling cost the equivalent of around €38. Scandalous compared to Ireland and the work done was of excellent quality.
Anyway, before they would undertake any work they did some standard tests: weight, blood pressure etc. Back then I weighed 93kg and this was around the time I was losing the numbers on the waist size. Today I weighed 100kg exactly, which was a little surprising as I expected higher. Although I’m not fat in the traditional wibbly wobbly wonder sense, the unsightly belly is starting to play hide and seek with the old meat and two veg. And bending over to take a peek every now and again isn’t so kind on the old back.
Height-wise, old age has yet to start the inevitable shift downwards, remaining at a respectable 5,10 although from reading dating profiles in the past, that fecks me up if a tall lass specifically mentions that she likes to wear heels. Now I know bugger all about Body Mass Indexes, but apparently mine is over the limit. The instructor doing the test said however, that it wasn’t over by too much and was going to be manageable. Great I thought, except that I was still a weak, unhealthy geezer who couldn’t run the length of himself without barfing.
So we had a little chat about what I wanted to do. How I envisaged my new fitness regime would look like. Politely I advised I hadn’t a fucking clue otherwise we wouldn’t have been there. (Note: I really was polite. I’m hardly going to alienate the people who are going to help me get where I want to be, now am I?) I enquired about a few classes and mentioned two specific desires.
One was to lose the overhanging gut in the middle and secondly, to feel energised and kick lethargy to the kerb. In other words, just be a healthy bastard for once. And so, on Thursday at 8:30 in the morning, the regime will begin. I’ll be given my own little plan to follow and be shown how to use the machines and conduct the exercises required to reach nirvana.
Not turning back now. The real test hasn’t even started. As Duke Nukem once said, “It’s time to kick some ass and chew bubble gum and I’m all outta gum”.