The Hundred Kilo Coup

Dearest Rachel –

Another weekend, another day and a half of fasting, with all the attendant effects. Some of them are good – even intended, which I’ll get to eventually – but some of them can be a real test of willpower. I actually felt slightly bad on Saturday night when one of the guys in the booth asked “I suppose you’re not up for joining us tonight?” as he made informal arrangements with some (not all) of the others to go out for a post-service dinner. “You really need to socialize, too, now and again.”

As right as he is, I find myself thinking I wouldn’t have joined him and the crew back in the day, either. Not because I was trying to avoid the temptation of restaurant food, but just because I’d rather be home with you and Daniel as soon as my shift was over. And indeed, getting back to Daniel was more of my excuse that night than my now well-known habit (yes, it’s not as if I’m getting any spiritual reward for these efforts, since I make a point of letting everyone know what I’m trying to do. Then again, it’s not as if I’m trying to do this for any spiritual benefit – as if I’ve been able to figure out how that’s supposed to work in the first place); I needed to make sure that, even if I wasn’t bothering with dinner, at least he would be fed that night.

Not that I hadn’t already made sure that the both of us had eaten well enough that day. For whatever reason, I’d gotten an idea into my head about making something more for Thanksgiving than the standard green bean casserole; while I’ve given up on stuffing mushrooms like we used to back in the day (although I might still get a few store-bought ones, should the opportunity present itself), a single casserole doesn’t seem like a sufficient contribution. Why it occurred to me to make creole-style dirty rice, of all things, I’ll never know. But first, I thought I’d do a box mix version, just as a proof of concept. Besides, I had a casing of chorizo from a week ago or so that needed using up. While it wasn’t nearly the full pound of meat the mix recommended combining with it, the fact that the box created six servings for the two of us to eat would presumably be more than sufficient to serve as a late breakfast for the two of us. I even fried up three eggs, and minced them, Benihana-style, into the concoction. I’m sure it would have offended both Mexicans and Cajuns to combine them like that, but it made for a thoroughly robust meal; a perfect way to start a forty-hour moratorium.

Anyway, I mentioned that I had a specific benefit in mind to get out of this weekend, and here it is. I’ve mentioned the ‘coup’ system used amongst the Plains Amerind tribes, and while in my mind, such a practice would lend itself to a certain amount of self-aggrandizing exaggeration (after all, in the council meeting after the battle, one can tell all manner of stories of one’s alleged accomplishments in the chaos of the moment without being questions; at least with a scalp, one has proof of not only touching, but decisively defeating one’s opponent, literally in hand), there’s something to be said for even the act of reaching out and simply snatching something from an opponent (particularly a formidable one) and living to tell the tale. And for nearly the whole of this month, I’ve felt like I’ve been within grasping distance of another milestone. This one could even be expressed in either measuring system – whether 220 pounds or a hundred kilos, this would be an accomplishment.

As I’ve said before, it’s reaching these goals that make the process worthwhile (well, in the absence of Megumi coming along to encourage me in the way you might have, had I thought to do this while you were still here).

Granted, there are moments within the process that make it less so. Sunday night saw Daniel and I sitting up watching videos together. Nothing particularly out of the ordinary there, apart from my introducing him to a new channel about odd customs and happenings in Japan, to possibly interest him in some future trip up and down the country via Japan Rail. However, it probably wasn’t the best idea to watch the episode where the host and a friend of his spent the better part of half an hour ranking the best and worst fast food places over there. To be sure, it’s not as if I could have gone to any of those places and gotten any of that food (especially at that hour of the night – there are comparable places at Mitsuwa, after all, but they would have been long since closed by then), but still, it’s never pleasant to have certain cravings when you’re trying to exercise self-control.

Fortunately, it was late enough that I could have sent myself to bed, so that unconscious me wouldn’t be thinking of such things. Unfortunately (is that the right way to describe a situation I brought upon myself? I may be ascribing to bad luck what more accurately could be considered due to bad choices), I didn’t do that; rather, I ran a couple more videos – and promptly fell asleep during them, as I realized I’d seen them before, and tuned them out. It was, like on Friday, a scene you would have found quite familiar.

To be sure, it was still at least a reasonable hour when I accepted that I wouldn’t be able to stay awake for anything, and toddled off to bed. And I managed to fall asleep with relative ease, although perhaps not as much so as in the recliner. But when I did wake up, I looked at my phone, over to discover that it was only 3:30 in the morning. Sure, I had every intention of getting up early to hit the gym, but if it wasn’t going to open for another two hours, there really wasn’t any point. I rolled over to go back to sleep – and the next thing I knew, it was almost six already.

Well, at least I’m not on any schedule where I have to be somewhere (like, say, work). In fact, I’ve noticed that the place clears out shortly after seven or so, since everyone else does. So I figured that it wouldn’t hurt if I were to get a late start on things. Besides, it’s occurred to me that I need to shop for birthday stuff for Mom; since the shops don’t open until ten, a late start might be just perfect. I’d say that’s a story for another time, but since that part of my morning went off without a hitch, it probably isn’t even worth relating. Besides, there’s no point in having her find out about this beforehand, if she should happen to be reading this over our collective shoulders.

As I got into the car (and realized it wasn’t so cold as to require that I wear a jacket, thus reducing my burden in the locker room), I realized that I hadn’t had anything to drink since waking up. I didn’t want a repeat of that dizziness from a couple of Mondays ago. I contemplated going back inside to fetch a can of this alleged energy drink I’d been introduced to perhaps a month or so back. With an assortment of untested ingredients such as taurine, guanine and caffeine, it claims to be able to boost one’s metabolism and speed the burning of fat. At the same time, guzzling a carbonated beverage first thing in the morning is distasteful, even for me (and that’s setting aside the fact that what sweeteners it contains are decidedly artificial – I’ve learned to live with the taste of sucralose as the clear best of a collection of bad options); I decided that, if I really needed to hydrate myself, I’d avail myself of the drinking fountains in and by the fitness room.

Apart from the late start, there wasn’t much out of the ordinary about this morning’s workout. I found myself having to rest a couple of times during my rowing (thankfully, the timer eventually stops counting down when the row bar is hung up, no matter how briefly), and I lost maybe half a minute on the stationery bike because I had to hop off and adjust the seat mid-ride (I still finished the route twenty minutes ahead of my pacer), but between one thing and another, I’d burned over a thousand calories in an hour and a half, if the equipment was to be believed. Considering that, just before I’d gotten dressed and left the house, I tipped the scales at 222.5 pounds, I thought I’d have a chance to hit the mark. I didn’t bear any illusions that I’d be able to stay there, but just touching that level would be a ‘coup,’ so I was reasonably psyched when I got home.

I stepped on the scale and watched the LCD numbers spin. Did I make it?

Two hundred twenty… point five.

Now technically, that might be considered close enough; a kilogram is actually 220.46 pounds, and it’s not like the scale reports anything more granular than the nearest half-pound, so I might have hit the hundred-kilo mark all the same. And in either case, I could take solace in that this was a new low for myself. But at the same time, it was disappointing to not know for certain; plus, missing the 220 pound milestone was a worse result than I expected.

Still, what could be done? I hopped in the shower, and scrubbed all the sweat off. After drying myself, I figured I’d check one more time, just to make sure; it wouldn’t be the first time that there’d been a change simply from adding (and subtracting) soap and water.

So, that’s been my morning, honey. I’m going to go get on with the rest of my day, but until I reach out to you next time, keep an eye on me, and wish me luck. I’m still going to need it.