BODY TALK

If you’ve got a gut, enjoy it. Appreciate all the food that got you there. You may cringe when you look in the mirror or maybe you don’t. Maybe you are perfectly comfortable with the "imperfection." Bravo! If you long for a better body, one like those buff “avi is me” pics on Twitter, know that the price can be too high for a slimmer you.

I have never before posted a shirtless photo of myself. Not my thing. Wouldn’t even send it privately to a boyfriend. My body and I have a longstanding hate-hate relationship. Still, I included this photo of me from this week because, while I can savagely pick it apart, this is as good as it gets. Maybe if I document it, I can stop the madness. Been there, done that, movin’ on. Objectively, I know it’s not bad for forty-nine. I am acutely familiar with the natural belly inflation that occurs at this stage. I’ve fought it off, but it’s nothing to be proud about.

I’ve written about eating disorders before. (If you're so inclined, you might want to read this or this.) I have struggled with food and weight issues for most of my life—at least since I was eleven or twelve. Male or female, there is pressure to look perfect. I knew that in the ‘70s as a kid who sipped Tab while friends guzzled root beer to show off their belching prowess. They had their priorities right.

Women talk about the constant media exaltation of The Body Perfect. While they can’t fully ignore the pressure, they can sit together over skim lattés and talk about it. Men, not so much. Most guys would just laugh it off. What’s your problem, man? Have another beer. This leaves guys who are, for whatever reason, more susceptible to this body pressure to internalize their feelings of inadequacy.

I’d be envious of these other guys—if I had any fondness for beer. (I say I don’t like the taste. Subconsciously, I probably formed a strong resistance to the beverage because it spawned the term beer belly.) Pizza, ice cream, cheesecake, these are indulgence possibilities. I talk about them a lot. But it’s rare to catch me ingesting anything beyond nonfat cottage cheese, Melba toast and plain fruits and vegetables. I have maintained a strict diet for decades, typically with the same dull staples.

The only blip was a couple of years when my ex and I were together. I indulged and the relationship went sour. The sex stopped. He became terse, then abusive. Logically, I can say that the ten extra pounds around my waist—and that’s as extreme as it ever got—had nothing to do with the demise of a doomed relationship. But my nagging interior/inferior voice says, “Porking out couldn’t have helped.”

Oh, what a piece of work I am.

Things become most dire whenever I hit a time in life where things are out of control. I drastically reduce, I deprive and the weight drops. Fortunately, the last severe bout was about twenty years ago when I first moved to Vancouver, was underemployed and questioned whether the spontaneous move had been an act of pure stupidity. Friends intervened and insisted I see a doctor. He turned out to be clueless about eating disorders in men--no diagnosis, no resources or support--but somehow my friends shook me up enough to get me to change course...a little bit. I returned to never-ending dieting and wisely didn’t talk about calories or fat.

Last fall, as feelings of isolation escalated, I became especially critical of what I perceived as my bloating gut. Despite the regular workouts and the dieting, the Pillsbury Doughboy always greeted me in the mirror. Next up: Little Buddha. “This is 50,” I told myself. Single, fat, lonely, hopeless.

When my dog, Hoover, died in April, I went into full deprivation mode. The grief was so intense and the guilt so great that food deprivation constituted both control and punishment. Whenever the grief lapsed, a general apathy stepped in. Why bother? With food or anything.

It took five days before I acknowledged I needed to be admitted to hospital, for severe depression, not for an eating disorder. In the short term, it was the right thing, but I am still dealing with the aftermath. Nobody raves about hospital food. Especially not vegan hospital food. Plain bread, vegetable broth, half a canned pear. It made deprivation even easier. In the psych ward, everything was highly scheduled—all controlled by someone other than myself. Meals at 8, 12 and 5. Snacks at 2 and 8. I’m sure the intent is to help stabilize some people, but for me, it only intensified my desperation to exert control over the only thing I could: my body.

My food restriction does not get too drastic when I can exercise. I am fanatical about it. I over-exercise. I exercise when injured. In the hospital, confined to my ward, there was no jogging, no swimming, no cycling, no weightlifting. There was a Stairmaster that I would ride in my flimsy hospital bottoms and gown, but I worried too much about body odor. (We weren’t given soap for the showers; only tiny gel packets that failed to do much of anything.)

No one monitored my intake at meals. The food trays went largely untouched. I hoarded soda crackers, instant decaf coffee packets and apples from snack time. When I felt dizzy, I’d slowly chew a Saltine or lie down and try (unsuccessfully) to sleep.

I lost twelve pounds in the first six days. They didn’t bother to weigh me after that. More troubling was where the loss occurred. In the mirror, my body was unrecognizable. After all those years of building muscle mass, all was lost.

 

Biceps gone. Pecs gone. Quads gone. Welcome to a new kind of hideous.

The transformation only made me care even less about living.

In the three months since being released, I’ve increased the intensity of my workouts. I’ve lost a few more pounds but I’ve regained strength. I don’t have near the bulk from before, especially in the chest. My tight t-shirts are now roomy. Still, my body gets noticed. Gay guys are openly complimentary. It’s foreign territory.

But I am an example of how unrealistic body images are in our society. Yes, I am forty-nine and I appear fit. But my food intake continues to be tightly controlled even more so than before I entered hospital. No more breakfasts. I’ve cut lunches in half, dinners by a third. I look healthy. It’s an utter deception.

ALWAYS FIVE, NOT FOUR

Okay, I’m obsessing now. I’d love to blog about something else—anything else—but today's post is an attempt to clear my head. Not that it will work, but I can say I tried. It is safer to share in the virtual world. You, potential reader, can quickly click over to something more interesting—perhaps a YouTube video with crazy cats on catnip, an impassioned defense of Miley’s right to twerk or a how-to article on filing down the corns on your feet. Yes, there is so much competition for your time on the internet. I just need to purge myself of a weighty issue, namely, my weight.

To be clear, I am not a candidate for “The Biggest Loser” or some other televised humiliation approach to dieting. In fact, fully clothed, most people would think I am trim. But I have five pesky pounds to shed and, like unwelcome houseguests, they won’t take the cue from my looks of contempt and disgust and leave.

Oh, how I hate my five hangers on! They have led me to an existence of non-fat/low-fat, flavor-lite meals and six workouts a week. Nothing I do gets them to scram once and for all (or even for one blessed day).

Every summer I have to up the effort to trim the gut and every summer I have succeeded. Until now. A month away from 49, I fear that my body is changing. There are a few men with super slim physiques that are part of their DNA, but most men acquire Permabelly of some size once middle age hits. I don’t hear men talk about it. They continue to sit shirtless in summer chairs, swigging from a six-pack and downing Doritos while dreaming about the thick slabs of steak that will sizzle on the barbecue in a matter of hours. (I cannot relate to anything in the previous sentence.) I cannot stomach the notion of Forever Flab. It is simply not an option.

Part of it has to do with being single. Many of us let go a bit when we’re settled into a relationship. He loves me for my mind, not my midriff. Yes, I can recall a time when I was partnered and I had ten—maybe eleven—extra pounds to shed. How repulsive! It is hard to fathom. Five is plenty.

Not that I know it is five. That’s just what I’m going with. I never weigh myself. I went through years of trying to add muscle and then panicking over the increase on the scales, only to resort to radical dieting, thus losing all muscle I’d sought to gain. When you struggle with body image as much as I do, the mind lacks any sense of logic. I now go with what I see in the mirror rather than what shows on the scales. And what I see is a stomach making a spot-on impersonation of Jell-O.

I don’t just see it; I feel it. As I write this, I know it is there. My gut doesn’t have the grace to hang tight. It sits over my waistline, even on the shorts that I bought two sizes larger than I ever wanted. The larger size was supposed to keep things in check, create a laissez faire scenario as I grab a belt to prevent the saggy look.

As a single guy, first impressions matter. I cannot attract a man with amusing anecdotes about the life of Miley or an insightful analysis of matters in the Middle East if he is distracted—repulsed—by my belly. And, more to the point, I cannot confidently interact with a desirable single gay man (should one ever surface in my present Never-land) as long as I am repulsed by my belly.

Sometimes it takes repulsion to get a person to take action. That would be great if I weren’t already working furiously to trim the fat. (Okay, I suppose I should have done without Saturday night’s pint of Ben & Jerry’s, my once a month indulgence of my favorite food.) I will carry on with the extended workouts and continue feasting on non-fat cottage cheese each and every freakin’ lunch. I shall continue to deceive myself into thinking that spooning a cup of frozen apple juice is almost as pleasurable a dessert as Cherry Garcia. And I shall hope upon hope that in the days, weeks (months?!) to come I will finally clear the five-pound hurdle. I need to know that it is still possible.

FOOTNOTE NUMBER 1

My last post chronicled the ordeal of finding out I’d broken my foot. My first response was a feeling of validation. Not elation, but satisfaction that what I felt was real and not an overreaction over an ow-ie.

But a split second thereafter, reality set in:  I’m gonna get  fat.

That is a preposterous as an immediate thought for most, I realize, but one never fully shakes an eating disorder. I manage in normal circumstances. A broken foot changes everything.

The night before my accident, I’d bought new jogging gear after renewing my routine with a 12-kilometer run earlier in the week. Running with crutches? Highly impractical.

My swimming regimen is also sidelined.

Gym workouts? As I waited in Emergency, I visualized a gym tour, considering every machine, bench and free weight. What became clear was that most apparatus would be off limits.

I have been back to the gym three times since the accident. My two-and-a-half hour workouts are now forty minutes, during which I use machines that don’t seem to do much. I go through the motions, hoping the exercise will make the comeback trail a little easier when I’m cast-free.

It’s the lack of cardio exercise that generates the most despair.

I know I have already gained weight. I remind myself it is to be expected. There will be plenty of time to work it off come April. Still, I feel surges of panic. A pound is not a pound to me. It’s more like six. If I’ve already gained three, my reaction would be similar to someone who has gained eighteen. It’s more than a setback. It feels like I’ve lost control. I do not have the power I want and need.

Based on my visit to a specialist today, I will be out of commission for 8 ½ weeks.  And that doesn’t factor in any physio that will follow. If I’m lucky, I’ll get through this with 8-10 (48-60) extra pounds at most. I will have to up the intensity of my workouts right away. How long will it take to get back to a fitter me? Will I have the drive to do so? Why am I not dieting right now?

In moments of calmness, I remind myself that this is all temporary. I will work through this. If only I could fight the perception that my belly is expanding with alarming speed and that everyone sees it.

Clearly, navigating with crutches is the least of my worries.

BELLY FLOP

Curse you, Ryan. I'm talking to all three of you: Gosling, Kesler and Reynolds. You've set the bar too high. How am I supposed to have abs like that and hold down a day job?

I know, I know,...I shouldn't compare myself to world class athletes and actors with personal trainers and personal chefs. The Ryans do not belong in the realm of reality. And yet they taunt me. Ryan Reynolds has some new superhero movie due out this summer and he will once again put the rest of us to shame as he graces more magazine covers.

I tell myself that the extra weight in the middle region is natural for guys in their forties. We've earned it. That gut should represent contentment before our appetites diminish and we choke down a glass of prune chose every morning. Let the gut push beyond the pecs. The Ryans will be puffier too when the time comes.

And then there's that damn Rob Lowe to blow my rationalization. Stupid Vanity Fair cover. Forty-seven years old. The man needs a super-sized bag of Cheetos. Every day. And a puppy that chews up his sneakers. He's not a Ryan, but his name begins with the same cursed letter.

I avoid the mirror, but I caught a glimpse by mistake this evening. How can I have a beer belly when I don't drink beer? Not even during Canuck games! To be fair, I'm pretty sure the tummy has not inflated to beer belly proportions just yet. I've always been hypersensitive about my weight. People continue to say I'm thin but I worry I'm one Timbit away from a total body shift.

If I had a partner, he'd reassure me. He'd lie and tell me a little bit more weight just means there's that much more of me to love. And then he'd go back to "reading" his Vanity Fair.

Being single, I have to remain vigilant about my weight. Forties contentment must wait. For my online dating profile, I have indicate one of the following as my body type: thin, athletic, average, a few extra pounds, big and tall/BBW or prefer not to say. I don't even know what "BBW" stands for and I am fairly certain that most people will not admire my moral stance in opting for "prefer not to say". People may infer in the same way I do when someone chooses that language for the "Smoker?" line. I am athletic, but lately it's more like Kyle-Wellwood-after-summer-vacation athletic. Not outrageous, but not a draw either.

I know, I know,...I should get back to swimming 2-3 times a week. It's a catch 22. Swimming has always been the best way for me to stay slim, but I won't wear a swimsuit in a public setting until I shed a few pounds.

And, yes, I should content just to be healthy. However, I am not wired that way. I have dieted officially or unofficially as much as Oprah. I have never been considerably overweight; instead, I have ventured the other way...to the point where friends had an intervention with me in university after I discovered that eating only one (large) meal a day helped me shed the pounds to the point where I was fifty-five pounds lighter than I am now. All my fretting and Ryan hating is about 5-8 pounds. But I know see the difference. I feel the difference.

And, yes, I know that an easy place to start getting back on track is to change my Rewards Program. My job is intense and so I build in a couple of perks as the end of the week approaches. Thursday after work, I pick up a Blizzard from DQ. Friday on the way to work, I savor a Solly's cinnamon bun. (I do exercise restraint. I get it without the icing.) I am well aware that I should not reward myself with food, but soft ice cream with crushed mint Oreos mixed in holds so much more appeal than a whole sheet of scratch n sniff stickers or a pat on the back or a whispered, "Way to go."

I slogged away at the gym today and I'll do the same tomorrow...if all that syrup on my weekend reward pancake platter doesn't knock me out for the afternoon (as it usually does). At the very least, I'll walk my dog an extra block. Yep, that'll work off a chew or two.

I don't just curse the Ryans. Aunt Jemima, I curse you, too!