Indulge me a moment, if you will, my sports junkiness.

When I turned five years old all I wanted to do was go to a Los Angeles Kings hockey game. I had already fallen in love with the sport on TV, and my Dad was a former season-ticket holder so he would go to games from time to time with friends or my Mom. So my first game came at five on the nose, and it turned me into a fan for life.

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I am fatter now than I have ever been in my life. That is to say, out of shape. Sure I can run a 5k here, bang out couple of more miles there- but my eating habits have gotten out of control, and my exercising is far from a regular thing.

Try as I may to convince myself that all my clothes are shrinking, it time to realize that it is my belly that is expanding. I hide it okay, but even that’s getting harder and harder- what with the shrinking clothes and all.

Coming from a long line of diabetics, one would think I would be hyper-vigilant in keeping a healthy diet, and exercising. And it’s not like I don’t think about it — but it still doesn’t stop me from indulging yet again on some candy or cake or donut- I love junk food. And I love it in large quantity. And there’s the problem.

So I made a decision to join Weight Watchers online- just tracking points and paying attention to what I’m eating. Because not paying attention, and giving myself little (that turn into not little) “allowances” to eat poorly- has gotten me to where I am. For the first time in a long time- maybe ever- more than just feeling heavier, I feel unhealthy.

It seems simple enough. I get a certain amount of points everyday, and I learn what foods are worth what point values. I am hoping that having a tangible number to report will keep me honest and help me better understand portion control. It’s not denying myself things I like, just being smarter about eating them. And I hope that being smarter about my eating will spur me to getting off my butt a little more. Being a dad is tiring, and a great excuse for gaining weight. But it’s a better reason to be healthy and active.

So here’s to great unknown! Here’s to my health. Here’s to 15 pounds I found, that I certainly don’t need.

Bath Time tonight brought with it the creation a new game. K would scoop up some water in her purple plastic cup and look at me and say, “Want some?”

To which I’d reply, “No, thank you,” in various inflections and voices.

Then she’d say, “Nooooo,” and dump out the water. And laugh heartily.

(scoop up water)
Want some?
No, thank you.
Noooooooo….
(dump water)

This went on for fifteen minutes. With no drop-off in enthusiasm or laughter. And it could have gone on longer if not for the water cooling off, and the need for actual bathing to take place.

Simple happiness. Who doesn’t “want some” more of that?

(And this blog as well… sorry, blog.)

In the midst of a gluttony-filled vacation last week, I decided I should head out and do a few miles of the running variety- something I hadn’t done for over two weeks prior.

As I put my workout pants on, I found a folded up dollar bill in my pocket. All right! Then, as my wife and I headed up the street in the misty mid-morning, I found a damp, but serviceable ten-dollar bill on the sidewalk. Woohoo!

The universe was literally paying me to exercise. There’s incentive for you, right?

I have not run again since, going on six days.

Sigh.

*First things first- no elevator ride is so long that you can’t hold it until you get out. And you know what “it” is. I don’t need to be unwittingly floored by your left behind stench as I enter the elevator, and then made to feel like I need make it known that it wasn’t me if and when others get on (and thereby falling victim to the whoever-smelt-it-dealt-it axiom).

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As we approach the the two year milestone of our little wonder, speaking in code has become more and more frequent between the wife and I- so as to leave K out of the loop if we wish to. You know, spelling things out, or  calling things by just their first letter or the like.

The other night as we shared an elevator with our neighbor and her tweenage son, K mumbled something from the stroller to my wife. “She’s saying the c-word,” she said to me. Before the record had a chance to scratch— I looked to our neighbors and verified for them that C-O-O-K-I-E, is the c-word in question here, not any other c-word they may have been thinking of. These are very hip, open-minded neighbors mind you — but I don’t think anyone’s going to be all that proud to announce that their two-old is using THAT c-word. 

Sigh.

Lesson learned: sometimes the code works against you. Especially in mixed company. 

Snack time. ALL the time. That’s our little girl. She’ll come home from the babysitter’s having just packed away a full dinner, and the first thing she does when we get home is walk to the cupboard and whine, “Sssack, sseee-ack…” Which will turn whimper-ey, then cry-ey, and finally tantrum-ey if ignored. She’s a snacker. Her go to faves: Kashi cereal bars (c-bah), Annie’s fruit bunnies (bundies), crackers (kackuh), and cookies (cookies)- usually some sort of graham in some form, but also Oreos, which she’ll demand by name- sometimes even in her sleep.

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Mood music: Take the A Train

Living as I do in upstate Manhattan, the A train affords the the quickest possible public transportation route downtown. And for much of the way down, it runs express- stopping at 168th, then 145th, then 125th, then all the way down to 59th Street without stopping. Without the pesky sounds of the doors opening and closing, so as to rouse you from a morning or evening snooze as you ride. I am not usually one to completely sack out, as I see some people do- nearly or actually missing their stop- but I occasionally allow myself to nod off if I can’t keep the lids open while re-reading the same paragraph for the third time in my book.

Well the other morning, after Miss K decided the day would begin at 5:45am, I was more than a little bleary-eyed as I got on the train. Between 168th and 145th, I had already claimed defeat and shut my book, then my eyes. I want to say I vaguely remember the 145th and 125th Street stops, but if so it is a very vague memory. The next thing I know, through the fog of sleep I hear the conductor saying something over the loud speaker about being held in the station momentarily, and I look out the window and see we’re at 59th Street. Which should have triggered a “That’s my stop!” moment and flung me from the train.

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Quite out of nowhere, I have suddenly become a walk-down-the-street-eating-an-apple kind of guy. Until recently, I have maybe noshed a protein bar (or bar of the candy variety) or other snacky kind of thing as ambled the city streets. And I had seen people walking around eating various hand-held fruits- how free they seemed, how at peace with their surroundings; I just wasn’t that guy.

Until now.

Right before I leave work, I’ll grab an apple out of my desk and munch as I walk to the subway (Honeycrisp is currently the apple of choice, which has supplanted Braeburn and Jazz apples in my pantheon of appledom.). I did it with a pear the other day— if the pear is juicy though, it makes the walk and eat a little more cumbersome. Multiple napkins or paper towels get involved, thereby tangling up the hands needed to grab and swipe your Metrocard as you enter the station.

Important though, is to finish the apple before the train comes, giving yourself ample time to discard the finished product in a receptacle prior to boarding. I don’t want to be eating-apple-on-the-train guy (eating even somewhat messy foods on the train is pet-peeve of mine), or even holding-finished-and-now-turning-brown-apple guy.

I’ll probably never be walking-down-the-street-eating-pizza-or-meatball-hero kind of guy (though they are out there), although I have been walking-down-the-street-eating-a-hot-dog guy. I mean who hasn’t in NYC, save for maybe vegans or vegetarians… are there carts with veggie-dogs somewhere, I wonder? That way they can get in on the fun— of course they could be walking-down-the-street-eating-felafel kind of folks, I suppose. But I digress.

I have embraced my inner walking-down-the-street-eating-stuff guy. And if you don’t like it, walk on the other side. And pick me up a hot dog while you’re over there.

Trying to get on the ever-crowded 1 train today, I tried, along some other courteous passengers to let people get off the train before trying to board it. After the stream of people pour out, those of us on the platform start making our way in.

At which point the conductor proceeds to close the door on us. Merry Christmas.

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