Riv editor Andrew Mole takes the next step towards losing weight.ANDREW MOLE August 25, 2014 3:04am
‘‘I’m sorry Fat Guts,’’ said the physician, in his best bedside manner.
‘‘It’s worse than we first thought,’’ still trying to soothe me with his most dulcet of tones.
‘‘Our first diagnosis was just the damage to your stomach area but tests show it has now spread and we are seeing early signs of lard arse as well.’’
The diagnosis could not have come at a worse time.
Already publicly humiliated by news I had joined the ranks of the obese I was now being told I was within a kilojoule or two of the morbidly obese.
Yet only that morning the scales had said just 116kg. When you used to stand 187cm and are big framed that can be spread a fair way.
But no, my confidence was being shattered.
All I wanted to do was flee home, get a mega pack of peanut M&Ms out of the freezer (once you eat frozen you’ll never go back) and seek comfort on the couch in front of the Lifestyle channel.
Or maybe some Twirls, another favourite.
The decision was a tough call and while still lost in my own little food shop I was rudely snapped back to the here and now by my medico.
Who suddenly was no longer cooing softly in my ear.
Indeed he was pushing me out the door of his office with some brochures tucked under my wing telling me I had to start exercising — and start it today.
He said I could begin with brisk walking, or if I knew what was good for me (hello, has he had a proper look at me?) I could get down to the nearest gym and get to work.
Gyms, in my extremely limited experience dear reader, are places to be avoided like the plague — or at least that pack of chocolate teddy bears I pulled out of the cupboard last night only to find it had long passed its use-by date. But they didn’t taste too bad.
To my mind most gyms look like sets straight from a Frankenstein movie, with machines, cables, ropes and all sorts of seriously nasty things hanging from the walls.
But with the doctor’s words ringing in my ears I thought why not? I’ve got nothing to lose. Except, maybe, my life.
“We’ll just put you through your paces, get a feel for your muscle tone, see how your cardio holds up, get you to do a few squats (personally, I thought that was a bit forward, until I realised he hadn’t said squirts), work those glutes, your pelvic area (my God, I’m not going to be delivering, despite a disgusting school boy in the street suggesting I was having a food baby the other day), and then try you with some weights,” this ghoul behind the counter at the gym was suggesting.
“Then there’s your rotator cuff (previously damaged in the line of work lifting a carton of Cherry Ripes from the top shelf at the supermarket) and do a complete musculo-skeletal assessment.”
“Not on my Nelly,” I said to myself.
“Listen mate,” I replied.
“I am thinking the light work might need to stretch over a couple of months, not weeks. Make haste slowly, if you follow my drift,’’ I opined.
“Fat Guts,” he replied.
“You have only got here in the nick of time.
“If we don’t get you cracking now it might be too late.
“A bloke of your proportions and age (by now the rudeness is just piling up) could blow up if we wait any longer. God knows what shape your heart is in.”
Now I know I have the heart of a lion, and OK, maybe his appetite too, but this whippersnapper was going on as if I had one foot in the grave.
If this was his best client manner, heaven help someone who was in worse shape than me.
At which point this muscle bound dynamo chimes in, cutting me to the quick, when he adds: “I’ve never seen a case as bad as yours”.
“But you keep at it and we will see you in a few weeks.”
“Mate,” I said. “If I can keep this up you will be seeing a lot more of me than you dreamt.”
And as I waddled back to the car I also thought if this keeps up I will need a psychiatrist more than I will need a physiotherapist or physical trainer.
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