More stuff from the archives.

This post is probably 5 years old, and every word is still true, as much as I hate to admit it.

If the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, then I can be fairly sure that my road will be very well paved.

And no, that is not my belly.

That time of year has arrived again, when the success, or lack thereof, of my most recent diet makes itself known. Mostly it’s the latter. When I was younger, I had a washboard stomach, but I've kept up with the times. I now have a whole laundry room. It’s that addition which keeps me in trouble with The Spousal Inquisition, and as far as she’s concerned, the Fifth is only for medicinal purposes.

It’s not like I haven’t tried to follow the guidelines for a healthy diet. I’ve reduced red meat, and added salads. Going from double Quarter-Pounders to Big Macs counts, doesn’t it? After all, its less meat, and they do put lettuce and tomato on a Big Mac. I’ve also cut out some deep fried foods, and replaced them with a shallow fried variety. If that ain’t healthy eating, I don’t know what is.

I’ve also thought about starting an exercise regime. I decided to begin by writing down a plan to follow. Working up a sweat hunting for a pencil counts as an exercise program, I hope. Part two is hunting up some paper. But my wife seems less than supportive of my plans; even after I told her I was going to start training for next year’s Flying Pig Marathon.

She first ask just how fast I would have to run to earn the designation of a FLYING pig, and then reminded me I got winded the last time I drove 26 miles. She added insult to injury with a call to update my life insurance. She also inquired about whether or not a man of my age taking up running activated my policy’s suicide clause. As I said, she was less than supportive.

But I am committed to getting into better shape. All it takes is will power. I just hope old Will is still in my Rolodex. Like I said, I am committed to exercising. My wife just thinks I should be committed, for thinking I can become 18 again. I don’t want to be eighteen again, I just want to look like I’m eighteen again, and I think it’s doable. She thinks it’s possible for me to look that young again too, just not in this lifetime.

I have to admit a past littered with good intentions, aimed at physical improvement. I joined a gym once, thinking that being surrounded by healthy young men would goad me into becoming a little more inclined toward a healthy lifestyle. My second day there one of these young punks called me a fat old man, so I hit him. He didn’t feel it, but some busybody reported me, and I was asked to leave.

I’ve tried home exercise equipment too, but with limited positive results. Notice I said Positive. I had a folding treadmill in the corner of the bedroom, but the first night I stubbed a couple of toes on the darn thing and spent two weeks hobbling around it. I bought a used Stairmaster, and when I got it home, I found out it was too big to fit through the small doors in my house. It found a home on the front porch as a plant stand; a couple of hanging baskets on the handles disguise it real well.

I also went the free weights route. I got my weights free from some guy who said he’d found a better way to stay healthy. After a few days, I figured out that not messing with free weights was a good way to stay healthy. About the only spot I wasn’t sore was the sole of my left foot, and that was by accident, not design. I still use the weights, though. Every winter I put some of them in the trunk of my car.

But I’m not discouraged, believe it or not. I fully intend to lose some weight this summer, eat healthier, and be able to run out a homer without getting winded. I probably should scale that back to a triple. Maybe even a double. Realistically, my initial goal should be to reach first without slowing to a walk. I’ll save the rest for next summer.