I was 376 pounds on June 1.
I’m 289 today.
87 pounds. Gone.
That’s fucking crazy.
I knew I’d lost a lot obviously. I own a scale. I’ve watched it happen almost every day. But putting 376 and 289 next to each other really makes me realize how much has changed in a little over three months.
Because let’s be real about where I started.
I was a fat disgusting fuck.
I’m not talking about anybody else who’s fat. I’m talking about me. I knew exactly how I’d gotten there.
I sat on my ass constantly. I ate way too much. I did basically nothing physical. I spent years getting bigger while simultaneously bitching to myself about being big.
I’d look in the mirror and hate what I saw, then change absolutely nothing.
I’d see a picture somebody took of me and think, fuck, do I really look like that?
Yep.
Then I’d go right back to doing the same shit.
376 pounds wasn’t bad luck. I worked my ass off getting that fat.
Well, actually, I very specifically didn’t work my ass off.
That was kind of the problem.
I Kept Saying I’d Do It Eventually
That’s probably the part that pisses me off the most looking back.
I knew.
It’s not like 376 snuck up on me.
I knew at 300.
I knew at 320.
I knew at 350.
Every once in a while I’d decide I was finally going to lose weight. I’d make some changes, lose a little, stop giving a shit, and eventually end up right back where I was.
There was always another Monday.
Another month.
Another attempt.
Future Anthony would handle it.
That motherfucker apparently had a very busy schedule because I left everything for him.
Then June 1 came around and, for whatever reason, I’d finally had enough of my own bullshit.
No more “eventually.”
I was doing it.
So I Stopped Eating Like an Asshole
I went extremely low-carb and eventually pretty much carnivore.
Meat. Eggs. Cheese. Water. Keep it simple.
That’s basically been it.
I’m not going to turn this into “Anthony’s Guide to Nutrition” because that would be ridiculous. Three months ago I was 376 pounds. Maybe don’t make me your nutrition guru just yet.
I’m just saying what I’ve done.
And for me, it worked because there wasn’t much to think about.
I didn’t need to negotiate with myself all day. I didn’t need to decide whether I’d “earned” some bullshit. I had pretty clear rules and I followed them.
And holy shit did the scale start moving.
I remember getting into the 350s.
Then the 330s.
Then the 320s.
Then I started realizing that getting under 300 wasn’t some distant goal anymore.
The first time I saw 299 was fucking awesome.
Now I’m 289.
I’m closer to 276 and 100 pounds lost than I am to 300.
That doesn’t even sound real.
I Like This Version of Me Better
I’m still the same person. I didn’t magically become some disciplined fitness machine in three months.
I still procrastinate. I still spend way too much time sitting at a computer. I still have days where I don’t want to do shit.
And I’m still fat.
289 pounds at 5’7“ is fucking fat. We don’t need to play pretend here.
But there’s a massive difference between this fat guy and the one who weighed 376.
This one is doing something about it.
That’s what I’m proud of.
I don’t look at 376-pound me and think he was some horrible person. He was me. He was a dad, fiancé, son, brother, all the same shit I am now.
But physically?
Fuck that guy.
Fuck getting winded doing normal shit.
Fuck wondering whether I’m too big for something.
Fuck seeing pictures of myself and immediately wanting them deleted.
Fuck sitting around waiting to become somebody different while doing nothing differently.
I don’t want that life anymore.
And I’m not going back to it.
Here’s the Problem Though
I’m still horribly out of shape.
Turns out losing 87 pounds doesn’t automatically make you athletic.
Who knew?
I’ve spent years sitting at a computer. My endurance is shit. I’m not nearly as strong as I want to be. Running any meaningful distance right now would probably be pretty embarrassing.
That’s what I’ve started thinking about lately.
I’ve spent three months attacking my weight.
Now I want to attack that.
Because I don’t just want to be less fat.
I want to be fucking fit.
I want to run.
I want to lift.
I want to be strong.
I want to have actual endurance.
I want to eventually do pull-ups. At 289 pounds that’s currently a hilarious proposition, but whatever. We’ll get there.
I want to find out what happens if I put the same effort into becoming physically capable that I’ve put into getting this weight off.
I’ve already changed more in three months than I did in the years before it.
What happens after a year?
Two years?
I genuinely want to find out.
And Then There’s My Son
This is probably the biggest one.
I have a kid now.
He’s crawling everywhere already. He’s pulling himself up on shit. Every week he figures out some new way to make keeping him alive slightly more difficult.
Pretty soon he’s going to walk.
Then he’s going to run.
I want to run with him.
That’s it.
I don’t want to be the fat dad who has to sit shit out.
I don’t want to watch from a chair because I’m exhausted.
I don’t want him growing up watching me treat my body the way I did for the last several years.
I want him to see his dad doing hard shit.
And as he gets older, I want to be able to do it with him.
That’s a hell of a reason to keep going.
Anyway, I’m Down 87 Fucking Pounds
I have a bad habit of accomplishing something and immediately deciding it isn’t enough.
So I’m trying not to do that here.
I’m proud of this shit.
376 pounds to 289 pounds.
I lost 87 pounds in a little over three months.
That’s a fucking accomplishment.
I’m still fat.
I’m still out of shape.
I’ve still got a long way to go.
Good.
Because for once, I’m actually excited to see what the guy on the other end looks like.
Next up is 276.
That’s 100 pounds gone.
Eleven more.
Let’s fucking get it.