The good – one month in, down 15 pounds, which has me feeling great. My body is starting to resemble a little something closer to an athlete (or if not athlete, an agile fat man), and the best news of all is I’m getting totally psyched when I see my reflection in the mirror (Abby manages to catch me staring at that more than I care to admit but it’s a life style-Nick Quan) but I’m seriously stoked, no more man boobs, a shrinking gut and I can keep an eye on my little guy now, which hasn’t always been the case.
The bad – I missed a blog week. I was chalking it up to laziness (as lazy as I can be with a full time job, a wife to catch up with and twins at home), but I fear it’s something more serious. I thought the one part that would be easy about this project was the writing. It’s what I love, what I’ve studied and what I think I’m best at – but truthfully, it’s been the hardest. Sitting down to chronicle each week has left me with a bit of loss for words. I feel pressure to make it engaging, funny and most of all do a good job of describing the experience. But what I find when I sit down to write is that I’m not as funny as I think I am (well that’s probably not true – I’m pretty funny, some say top 5), and my writing and vocabulary has gone in the pooper, which is not what an aspiring writer wants to realize. So I sought out a mentor from my past, my high school English teacher Papa Jack LaBonte. He brought me back to the awareness that to be good at something you have to practice it, and just like I neglected my body, I neglected my writing. This past week, after much thought, I have come back to one of the main reasons I am doing this project – I am story teller. And so tell the story I will. (On a side note, I will begin working with Papa Jack on “Lone Country Road” my debut novel, getting ready to cry your little hearts out you Dawson Creekers)
The ehh – one month in, but the project is just getting started and I have 8 more months left, but it’s already feeling daunting. Everyone has treated me and this project with open arms and well wishes, but now I have to see what I am made of (which up to this point hasn’t been hard work and dedication). I am 31 years old, with two 8 month olds, and something tells me that if I don’t accomplish this now, I will never do it. If you see me, rocking a Philly Cheese steak, a disapproving look is warranted. However, if you see me grabbing a salad and an iced tea go ahead and smack that ass.