Diary of a Fat Wimpy Cole

Remember that Get Healthy blog I said I’d committed to writing in on the daily? It’s for real. Where are the posts, you ask? Excellent question!

They’re hidden on my secret Facebook for Fat Kids site I belong to. All the gory details of my fitness adventures live there: what I eat every day, what active shenanigans I get up to, and occasionally minor temper tantrums when I can’t eat what I want…or when I do, and regret it.

I’m not going to blow up this blog with duplicate posts, but I am particularly fond of my introductory post, so I thought I’d post it here for funsies. Please find attached this entry imported directly from Fat Camp.

—BEGIN TRANSMISSION—

Friends, Romans, Countrymen, lend me your beers!

No, not really. I don’t mean that. My precious Irish Reds and stouts are officially on the naughty list. Empty calories + I’m a lightweight these days = no dice.

No, the reason I’m banging my gavel in the internet courtroom is to announce that, as a way to hold myself accountable and make my fitness goals a priority, I’m committing to writing a daily post here chronicling my weight loss adventures, and all yallz are my witnesses.

So, here we gooooooo! (Cue Peter Pan music.)

Captain’s Log, Stardate 42568.8:

Today was fairly easy. Then again, the first days always are. I’ve had roughly 500 “first days” in the past year (put away those calculators, it’s new math). This time is a little different, though. In the past, I’ve always given myself a window of cheatery to get the naughties out of my system before a new health kick. It tends to go a little something like this: “I really need to go on a diet. But it’s Wednesday. I can’t start a diet on a Wednesday, what am I, a farmer? No, I’ll start Monday.” Two donut binges later when Monday rolls around: “Well, time to kick off the diet! But wait, my Ladytime is going to start soon. I can’t stick to a new diet during Ladytime, that’s criminal! I’ll wait until next Wednesday.” Rinse, repeat ad nauseum, and cut to me exploding out of my jeans Hulk style.

You won’t like me when I’m hungry.

Anyway, this time is slightly different because instead of giving myself time to lead up to (and subsequently delay) a new diet, I jumped right in. It was late at night, my fingers were covered in cheesypoof dust and I’d been texting my marvelous friend Adam about needing to trim’n’slim. So, genius that he is, he suggested I download this site’s app.

And then I was hooked. It’s like Facebook and MyDailyPlate had a baby. A hungry, angry baby. I’m totally misusing that quote and non-Browncoats may take offense, so please note that in no way shape or form do I find this site nor any users therein to be hungry angry babies.

This caveat brought to you by your friendly neighborhood political science major.

So, in closing: felt good about today! Hoping to start waking up earlier to get a yoga session in before work since it’s impossible to fit a workout in at night, so if anyone wants to come drag me out of bed tomorrow morning, I’m game. I am slightly worried about this upcoming weekend: the 48 Hour Film Festival starts Friday evening, so I’m going to have to try and behave while writing and shooting. Throw all your luck at me, fellas, I’m gonna need it.

Signing off.

—END TRANSMISSION—

So, there’s some unmitigated (and frankly unsolicited) proof that I’m gettin’ my miserychunk removal on. I’ll sprinkle in a few of the more entertaining entries here as we go, but I don’t think you guys want to read my whining about breaking down and eating pizza during the 48 Hour Film Project.

Speakinawhich, I’ll be back soon with another Impossible Reflection on the 48HFP. I still can’t believe it’s been a year since that magical weekend. This time around (who else wants to start singing NO MORE TEARS? Anyone? No? Just me, I guess) was less magical, but with added hilarity, delirium, and a few tantrums. All in all, a terribly fun and exhausting weekend with a short we’re actually proud of (something that didn’t happen last year) and even more shiny new friends. Stay tuned, kiddos! Now if you’ll excuse, I’m going to go sleep myself into a coma.

Pirshafiey out.

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2 thoughts on “Diary of a Fat Wimpy Cole

  1. I love that you call it your miserychunk. My current chunk isn’t from misery, but I did have one of my own during my first marriage. Misery doesn’t love company… it loves Panda Express.

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