Sticky Exercise

My hands are sticky. I've tried wiping them on my jeans, but they're still sticky. Possibly because I haven't washed these jeans since I got to Chicago. But that's neither here nor there.

My hands may have remained sticky because of my jeans, but they initially became sticky because of this Mexican mocha and almond croissant that I am enjoying. Set me back a cool $7.35.

It's a really good mocha. Well, it was a really good mocha. I finished it. None for you. In your face. It is (was) really rich and sweet. Not too scalding, not too tepid. So it's (was) warm. I think the fact that it's (was) not on the menu makes it even sweeter. I (secretly) combined the regular mocha with the Mexican hot chocolate. I went up to the shifty-eyed barista and quietly asked "Hey, could you make me a Mexican mocha?" and he said "Yeah, sure," under his breath. We exchanged terse looks, like we knew what we were doing was prohibited, but we were going to do it anyways because it's the year 2010. Obama is president and if a Mexican hot chocolate wants to mix with a dark chocolate mocha, then by Golly, we should let them.

It's the little victories in life that count.

The almond croissant was delicious too. It was stale, but the inside was filled with this incredible gelatinous goop. It's why my hands are sticky. And I want to say it's honey, but it's too thick to be honey, and if it WERE honey, then wouldn't it be called a honey croissant? You've got to think about these sorts of things, kid. Maybe it's almond butter. Or just butter. The whole package comes sprinkled with powdered sugar and a few almond slices. When dipped into the (forbidden) hot Mexican dark chocolate mocha, the stale almond (honey) croissant transcends space and time and reverts back to the day it came out of the oven. Soft, moist, flaky. Mmm.

I was stuffed halfway through the croissant, but for $7.35, I wasn't going to let any of that go to waste. That's how I usually am with food.

"Oh, man, if I eat anymore, I'm going to barf all over your checkered Vans. What do you mean you're going to throw away that last bit of gyro!? Give it here, grandma!"

Consumerism at its finest.

And that's the story of why I can't lose weight.

I've been going to Bally Total Fitness for nearly ten years now. Since 06/15/00, according to my membership card. I've had the same membership card longer than I've had my license. I've made some gains and a lot of progress. There was a period back in 2003 where I could consistently bench-press 180 lb. (I think I maxed out at 235). In mid-2007, I was close to having a six-pack. I'm back down to benching 135 now, but it's hard to bench a lot when you don't have a spotter. I've had bad experiences with benching without a wing man. It's also hard to force yourself to walk nearly a mile to the gym when it's under 30 degrees outside.

"I used to walk a mile in the snow just to get to the gym!"

I'm totes going to use that line on my grandkids.

It's not like I'm obese, or even overweight. In fact, from the chest up and from the waist down, I'm looking pretty good. It's just the jelly doughnut in the middle that makes me self-conscious. That, and my hairy nipples. And my receding hairline. And this little strip on my upper lip where, as of a week ago, I can no longer grow any hair. Annnd the chicken pox scars on my nose. Those I used to not care about so much until Laverne told my 8th grade Algebra class that my nose was like the moon (because it's filled with craters). But that's neither here nor there.

I've got that "old-guy-who-used-to-be-in-shape-but-let-himself-go-a-bit" look. My pecs are rock hard, but they sag a little around the edges. And my gut sticks out past my belt. If I've had a few beers, I tend to walk around and stick out my stomach and shout "LOOK, EVERYBODY, I'M PREGNANT!"

I've been leaning to the side every couple of minutes while writing this because I have a lot of gas. There's only two other people in this café, but I think they've noticed...

I also had my first prostate exam this week.

I think I'll end on that note.