For the majority of my life, Some would say my body type has been slight. Other might say twinkadelic; girlish; small. No matter what I did I could never seem to escape it. Through practically my entire childhood and adolescence I've been a Slim Jim, Tiny Tim, Bubba Gump shrimp, a Leprechaun, Napoleon, hobbity midget wimp, small fry, make him cry, back seat of the car, lil' brother, call his mother, won't let me in the bar. (Note: I'm rhyming like an Oompa Loompa.)
My God-given body type for a man of my height is what most doctors refer to as, "Well, aren't you adorable." I was too light for roller coasters, too weak for the shot put, too short for girls in heels, and always got extra lollipops at the bank. Though I'm not complaining about that last one, I'm flat-out over it.
At the start of this project I was weighed 154.4 lbs, a poundage technically proportionate to my height but a proportion that technically deserves zero props. I wanted my props. I wanted my douchey, meathead swagger. I wanted to lose my sad, pasty chicken legs and replace them with tree trunks worthy of my inner Guido. ...Are you there, God? It's me, NJ.
Ten pounds seemed reasonable. Humble even. I could probably manage two pounds a month for five months, and a lean 165 ought to suit my stature rather nicely. Non-minimum, non-unrealistic, non-greedy; the perfect goal weight. Today I stepped on that scale fully prepared for a reality check and, oh, I got a reality check.
After seventeen days diligent, disciplined protein shaking, carb loading, work-it-outing diet and exercise; two and a half weeks of emotional torment and online documentation; a veritable clusterfuck of man vs. sloth; I weighed in at... (drumroll please)
160.2 lbs.
Yup. That's right. Six. Motherfucking. Pounds.
At first I thought something had to be broken. The scale. My vision. The space/time continuum. I stepped off and tried again, but the second that digital number stopped doing that russian-roulette thing that only scales and guns to the temple can do... 160.2. All bets were officially off. Sweet balls, did I go to the moon!
...Though the moon's lower gravity would actually make me lighter... I went to Neptune tonight... Or possibly one of the other gas giants... Fuck off, it's an expression.
I immediately took my shirt off and bragged to every single person in the house. Suddenly my long sought, never before glimpsed fantasy of a body type is a mere five pounds away and already I'm considering trading up. My mind buzzed like a swarm of horny bees. If two weeks could give me results like this, maybe I should shoot for 175? Or maybe even 185. I could be like a football player! Well... I'd be the kicker, but still!
Call me easily pleased, but this is the first dream I've ever actually had come true (sadly, that weigh-in felt so much better than graduating college). All my expectations are being fulfilled in a satisfying and immediate way (the way everyone likes their dreams). I'm chock-full of instant gratification and someday soon I might get to be physically domineering toward normal-sized people. Maybe I can even be a little bit intimidating.
...Nah. After all my years of waifdom, I'll probably end up being a gentle giant. All I'm thinking right now is, They'll never call me David Archuleta again.
I feel lighter for such a noticeably fatter dude.
Day 17. Thanks for reading. See you tomorrow.
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