Life in the Fat Lane

Among the self-assessments I’ve taken, the Clifton Strengthsfinder has been my favorite. My top five strengths are Ideation, Adaptability, Learning, Communication, and Connectedness. It was a head-slapping moment of revelation when I discovered this natural skill set, and how little of it I was using in the jobs I held over the years. I learned that you are who you are and it’s best to try to be your best at that, not something else. Which is why my goal to go from 185 to 225lbs was a losing proposition from the start.

Gaining weight has never been among my strengths. In high school I was 6 feet tall and 155lbs. I was recruited by the track team to be a pole for the polevaulting event. In college I ballooned to 165 and had to put away my 28” waist pants. All of them. They rode a little high anyway. As the sedentary life of adulthood and middle age set in, my body seemed to settle at 183, give or take a couple. The biggest I got was a temporary foray into the high 180s. Didn’t matter how active I was or what I ate. That was just what my metabolism maintained. That and a general disinterest in food would be the main reasons.

Being in an odd mental state overall for the past 6 months, I was groping around for goals when 2015 rolled in. Gaining 40 pounds seemed like a good test of will, mind over matter. My hope was that, when coupled with my workout routine, I might see some weight gains in areas other than my middle. I’ve always had skinny, birdlike legs, which my daughter recently described as being “the kind that girls would like to have.” So I had that going for me.

I started at the beginning of the year, late January, I think. The exciting thing became wondering what Mike v225 would look like -- Chris Hemsworth or Jonah Hill? Day after day I ate as much as I could, indiscriminately. I ate until it hurt. “Second breakfast” was one of my favorite meals. Slowly, ever so slowly, the scale crept up into the 190s. But it was going too slowly. I was frustrated and nearly gave up. I turned to my wife for support and encouragement, but surprisingly did not get any. There I am, pouring my heart to her about all my effort, all that fried food and ice cream and steak that went in, without much to show for it. I could tell she wanted to say something, but instead she just shook her head and walked off. “I guess I’m on my own,” I thought bitterly.

Time to find out what I was made of. I kept eating, kept pushing myself, kept shoveling it in until I dropped from the table in exhaustion, which for some reason irritated my wife to no end. Then one day, I hit it – 200 pounds! A breakthrough! This renewed my spirits, and over the next few weeks I continued the battle until I plateaued at 204.6 pounds. That was it. I hit the wall, and that wall’s name was 205.

One look in the mirror gave me the answer I asked at the start, and the answer was “Jonah Hill”. Actually, Jonah Hill’s top half on Orlando Bloom’s bottom half. Win win! I resemble two movie stars. One of the drawbacks to gaining 20 pounds is that your pants don’t fit any more. I mean, not even if I sucked in my gut and held my breath all day. Why didn’t someone tell me about this before? Again I went to my wife for support and advice, and again she offered none. At least this time she was in a better mood and laughed as she walked off.

If I were to get a job now, I’d have to wear the only pair of dress pants that currently fit me every day.  Shirts are no problem, as the men’s clothing industry assumes that every man is shaped like a rain barrel. When I was at 185, tucking in a shirt meant wadding it up in the back to avoid having this bloom of bunching shirt material all the way around my waist. So now it was either buy a bunch of new pants or slim down again.

That was when I discovered something else: It’s hard to lose weight. Why didn’t someone tell me about this before?

Diary of a SAK University Newbie

My wife is starting to question what I really do on Monday evenings. Why, she asks, do I find it necessary to chomp on a couple breath-freshening gum pieces if I'm going to "improv class"? Fair question. But I'm sure my brethren at the SAK comedy lab appreciate the effort when I get inside their personal space.
That's just one of the challenges we face every week. "Personal space" is no longer personal. In fact, we're having to unlearn a lot of socially acceptable behavior in order to start to have a chance at becoming good at improv. Like, thinking before you speak. For YEARS we've been training ourselves to be thoughtful and not say the first stupid thing that comes to mind, and now Bob, our instructor, is encouraging the opposite. The less thought, and the more ridiculous, the better. Imagine your grade school teacher saying, "Are you being funny, young man? Gold star!" Or, "The next time you have something to say, I want you to not think first!" Or, "You call that a ninja warrior whoop? Louder!" Do ninjas actually whoop? They do in our class.
Last night's games involved a lot of pointing, loud noises, and rude comments. Again, things I got in trouble for my entire childhood, and now they are basic tools in my toolbox. I shudder to think that years of self-control training are coming undone. I'm currently looking for a job, and this experience should turn every interview into a nightmare. What happens if I slip into Emotional Response mode?
"Mr. Scotchie, can you describe a time when a supervisor suggested room for improvement in an area that you thought you performed well in?"
(long pause. finally:) "YES, IT WAS NEVER ENOUGH FOR THOSE PEOPLE. (SOB!) I GAVE AND I GAVE, AND THEY ALWAYS ASKED FOR MORE!" (Then I start clapping)
I felt good last night. It was partly the shirt. I was getting ready to head out and wasn't feeling like I had any mojo in the tank. So I thought, "The Orlando Magic are funny. They do it without even trying." So I put on my Magic shirt and immediately felt funny. I drew from that energy all evening, as well as that of my classmates, every one of them worthy of admiration for what they bring naturally and the effort they put into every class. It's getting more raw and unguarded, meaning our walls keep coming down, and we gird ourselves in a cloak of shamelessness when we walk thru that door. The shit is getting weird, my friends, and that is what we're there to learn.

If I had complete creative control over website copy

A while back I wrote some freelance copy for an AC Installation and Repair business. Not the most exciting topic, so I wrote the copy below to unfreeze my brain, which had refused to help me with this assignment. So what do you think -- would this copy be effective or inappropriate if actually used? 

Get Rheemed! 

Boring. Predictable. Monotonous. Normally these are not good words to describe something, but they fit Rheem air conditioning systems to a “T”. Day after day, they churn out the same, dependable service, keeping your home cool without you giving it a thought. You’ll even be bored by the monthly power bills. Sure, at first you’ll absolutely love opening the envelope and seeing how much lower your bill is. You may even show your spouse, kids, neighbors and co-workers for the first few months. But eventually, like most owners of a new Rheem system, you’ll resort to opening those statements with a yawn. Same old low power bills, month after month.

During your first summer with a Rheem on duty, you might think you’re hearing is going. That constant drone of the old unit chugging away night and day will be replaced by a quieter, more intermittent sound of a new, energy efficient AC silently beating back the subtropical heat that Florida is well known for. Gone will be the excitement of varying temperatures from room to room. The right system for your home will cool each room evenly, so that eventually you’ll forget to bring your sweater into the living room because it’s no longer 10 degrees cooler than the rest of the house.

One thing we ask you not to forget is your ABC Air Conditioning installer. Our guys love Rheems so much, well, they get a little attached to the units during the installation process. Listen closely and you might hear them talk to it, even calling it by name, like “Betty” or “Hoss”. Watch closely during the paperwork signing, and you might catch their eyes watering a little, because they know they’re not going to see Betty or Hoss for years and years. 

Sure, we recommend annual maintenance to keep your Rheem air conditioner running in tip-top shape, but they run so well that we know you most likely won’t call until something goes wrong. And it will – even the best air conditioners eventually need an assist. When that day comes, pull out your ABC Air Conditioning paperwork and ask for the installer by name, so that he (or she. We could have a female installer on our staff, eventually, but so far we’ve learned that women are smart enough to find better work) can come back and see an old friend. Better yet, go ahead and get that maintenance package, so that your family, your Rheem, and your installer will all be happy for years to come. 

No Teabagging at the Gym!

Ya know what? It turns out that not everyone is a good spotter at the gym. It’s a pretty easy concept – make sure the person you’re spotting for doesn’t get killed. But I found someone who had a different take on the role.

There were red flags, I admit. When I asked this young man to spot me on the weight bench, he answered, “I’d be happy to.” Without a trace of sarcasm. “Happy to.” I shrugged it off because the pickings were slim and I needed someone on hand if I got stuck benching a rather hefty load.

The second red flag was how he took instruction. Even after I said, “I don’t need help off the rack. Just step in when you see I’m not moving the bar anymore.” Pretty simple, eh? Not for my boy. When I laid back on the bench and set my grip, my man stepped in and also set his grip, both hands. And he’s crouching over me at this point, making me wonder if my time has come for a teabagging.

“I got it,” I said. “Just step in when you see the bar not moving up any more.”

So he stepped back and let me go to work. After 4 good reps, I said, “Okay, let’s see if I can do 5.” My new friend took me quite at my word on this. Down went the bar, and down it stayed. I put everything I had into it, but my arms were completely unresponsive. Usually, at this point, the spotter steps in and gives ju-u-u-u-ust enough lift to help you with that last rep. Not this time. I pry my eyes open and look back. My man is about two steps back, arms crossed like he’s posing for an Avengers movie poster while the equivalent of my body weight is resting on my chest. As I write this post, several hours later, my nipples still haven’t popped back out.

“I…need…a lift!” I manage to gasp out.

Finally my man steps in and lends a hand. Barely. Even with forces joined we are not raising the bar, literally. I started to worry. I mean, my daughter once spotted me and she gave me a better lift than this. FINALLY we get the bar up as far as the lower pegs and I racked it.  And then, AND THEN, my boy proceeds to lecture me on not using too much weight for a given exercise. This, after he nearly killed me. So I think I exercised a fair amount of restraint at this point in not getting upset. It was clear he was on the special needs spectrum somewhere and only had the best intentions, which is fine in most scenarios. Just not this one.  Sweet guy, good people. Just don’t ask him to spot for you.