My Story – Part Two

Body transformation isn’t just about looking better in the mirror. It’s about realizing a new life, a new reality.

In the middle of  my transformation everything seemed to flow outward for me. I looked better, I felt better, I even started acting better. By the end what that I now refer to as my “turbo manorexic phase” I was unrecognizable. Close friends who hadn’t seen me in a few months looked at me like I was crazy.

Researchers call my need to succeed and the obsessive drive fueling it the “rage to master.” Prior to my my big turn from fat kid to fashion model (hah!), my band garnered found some success in the local scene. We were being approached for gigs and receiving decent press. One of our friends had, as a gift for us, drawn exaggerated versions of  all the band members and in the process highlighted our most distinguishing traits.

You can probably guess how this turned out.

Yes, I looked like an ill-shapen mound of Play-Dough, and this massive, jiggly, round, shockingly disparaging caricature had the audacity to stare back at me. Oh, of course everyone else loved their paper iterations. But me, no, on paper I stood half as a tall and looked to be twice as wide as my three fellow musicians.

Disgusted and frustrated, I would come home days later after an afternoon of hot wings and beer-battered pretzels which, while delicious on the way down, seem to lack on the way up. I was determined to change. Me, my 44 inch waist, and flat soled Vans decided were going on a run.

This quickly turned into a  sad fat kid affair two blocks from where I started. I could feel buffalo wing grease sputtering up my throat amidst panicked breaths as I struggled my way home where hyperventilated for an hour. That’s right, an hour. The next day I did the same. But this time, rather than two stumbled blocks, I made it four respectable ones, and again, walked home to hyperventilate. Again.

You may notice a pattern here.

Within a week I’d made it close to half a mile through sheer willpower. I hurt incessantly. I had no clue what I was doing. All I knew was that so long as I was hungry and so long I was running I had to be getting unfat.

Dietarily, I ate shit tons of carbs limited fat as much as possible. I dropped my Coca Cola intake from roughly six liters a day to zero. Cold turkey. Withdrawal was brutal but I buried my cravings in exercise. And any time I would head to a restaurant I’d be sure to leave at least half the portion.

While writing this article I found an ancient Word document outling my daily intake. Toward the end of this ‘manorexia’ phase which lasted about a year I was running 8 miles every day. And not an easy jog – I was busting my ass throwing in sprints, even stopping to do push-ups on the side of the road. Atop that, if I had a free momemt I’d do sit-ups, push-ups, and dips where-ever I’d happen to be. Given my activity levels I was probably burning close to 5,000 kcal a day. So let’s take a look at how close my intake matched my output:

Breakfast
1 cup Special K cereal
1 cup Fat-free Milk

Lunch
Chicken Noodle Soup – 2 cups

Run

Dinner
Bagel w/jam
2 eggs

Snack
1 bag fat-free Kettlecorn

There’s quite the disparity between my caloric intake and expenditure, if you couldn’t tell.

My results? In eight weeks I’d plummeted, at a height of 5’7”, from 200lbs and a 42-44 inch waist to 140lbs and a 32 inch waist. Two months after this first massive drop I’d be hovering around 120lbs with a 28” inch waist which I’d hold until the following. I was all about the concentration camp survivor look.

Having been the literal and figurative ass of all jokes, I took a unique thrill in my newfound ‘look’. However, I’d soon realize you can’t just keep running to stay thin. Something had to give.

Tagged as: fat loss, fitness, lifestyle, weight loss