I embarked on a six-week Shortcut-to-Shred fitness program five weeks ago.
Why? So many reasons. Want to loose weight, want to feel better, want to reverse the aging process, want to drop body fat, wanting to try something new, wanting to kick-start 2014, wanting to proof something, wanting to detox, not having a life, seeking attention, not loved as a child, just plain bored or completely cuckoo. Pick one, or all of them. This is not the point.
The program consists of weight training and cardio six times a week and then an eating plan to support the effort. As any great sportsman will tell you, which is why I’m not telling you, results is based on 10% exercise and 90% of what you stuff your face with. You are in fact what you eat.
So when I decided to embark on this short six-week journey to hell, I had to suppress every single alarm bell that went off in my body. It was a cacophony of complaints from my feet to my brain. My body just went rogue for a week and I had to remind my legs how to walk. My mind evaporated into some abyss and the words why?… why?… why?… echoed loudly every time I got on a spinning bike. My stomach refused to co-operate and I was stuck with a very weird bowel routine. The final volatile reaction was when my liver got whiff of the fact that I was going to reduce my alcohol intake. I still don’t know where he went. But I pushed through with the plan, for I can be extremely spiteful.
As you may gather, the road to hell is paved with aching limbs, sore muscles, weird indigestion, long playlists, gallons of sweat and shitloads of misery. And finally at the end, when you see the smoke and fire and the smell of sulphur fills your nostrils, when you’re about to give up, then, and only then do you see all your lost fat lining the sidewalks and you dare break a smile, even if it is just a little one.
But then there’s the eating. Or maybe the lack of eating. Or maybe the lack of choices for eating. I’m so sick of eggs and tuna, that I’m convinced that once bird-flue hits South Africa, I will not only get it, but I will be able to transfer it to fish with one simple sneeze. I’m checking for fins every time I shower. The diet excludes anything remotely tasteful, for it would be the end of everything if someone dared to invent a food product that’s both tasty and healthy! God forbid! So other than the fish and eggs I’m also stuck with the excellent choices of fruit, nuts and broccoli. (You should check out my forearms!)
The weird thing is, under normal situations I’m not a sweet tooth. Stuff like chocolates and ice-cream doesn’t bother me at all. One of the lessons I’ve learned during this five weeks is that once you embark on a journey where you purposefully exclude that stuff, it WILL bother you. Immensely. To the point of looking like a crack addict every time you see a kid eating a chocolate bar. You will consider beating that little five year old to smithereens, just to take that damn bar from him. You will spend countless hours lying awake thinking of that ice-cream place you walk by every day. The tubs are screaming your name. Shut up! Shut up!
I resist, for I’m the man. For I’m strong and I’m forty. No little thing wrapped in paper will beat me and cause me to break my commitments to the gods of fitness and dieting. Who is actually a lot less popular than the gods of sex, drugs and rock-a-roll, by the way.
My colleagues, knowing that I’m in my fifth week of saying NO to basically everything they offered me, has (1) Stopped offering me anything and (2) Started to unhide their food. Now a wide array of pizza slices, cup cakes and chicken mayo sandwiches are flashed in front of me, like strippers at a bachelor party. I’m still strong, I will not falter. I will not be tempted.
But yesterday I fell. I toppled from my throne of sobriety and good intentions. I’m lying in the dirt. And it’s all because of that damn demon donut.
I was chatting to a colleague about work, for we are extremely professional, whilst behind her, tucked away in the corner of her table, was the box. I heard a faint whisper, just loud enough to draw my attention away from the lady. She was still talking, but I only saw her lips move and my gaze focused hypnotically on the box. The demon donut was getting louder. Shamelessly exposing it’s sugar and cinnamon covered body. A weird little twisted mental lapdance. Flashing and taunting. I couldn’t look away. I was weak.
The lady, realising I was lost to her, proceeded with the most vile act known to man. She offered me one… The heartless bitch. But I knew my anger was aimed at the wrong player on this stage of deception and lust. It was the donut. He was using the lady. And he was laughing loudly. There was only one thing I could do…
I grabbed the shocked little fuck and bit off a big piece. There was a milli-second of absolute silence, but as I was grinding his body between my teeth, he was bellowing in agony. I swallowed him with glee. And bit off another piece. His screams now turned into violent burst of pain and horror. I proceeded methodically, wanting him to feel every bite, every little piece of his body disappearing, slowly. Until there was nothing. And I smiled. I felt whole. For revenge is sweet.
Then I took a long shower, trying to wash the filth off my soul…