About a year ago I had an epiphany (this about to get really graphic, so bear with me): after having a tube stuck up my ass to diagnose why I was frequently shitting blood-soaked bricks, a resident med student apathetically diagnosed me with IBS and inflamed hemorrhoids. At the time I weighed a whopping 285 pounds, with a 44-inch waist, and a man butt that would put a rhinoceros to shame. I was fat. But more alarming, I was unhealthy.
Although I took part in weekly hoop sessions (because a fat shooter is still a shooter), my diet was hot garbage. I was downing at least two 20 oz bottles of Mountain Dew Pitch Black daily, consuming untold amounts of Powerade, and devouring any and every sweet concoction I could get my fat ass hands on. I was a junkie, strung out on sugary sweet goodness and delectable fats.
And as if my horrendous lack of proper nutrition wasn’t bad enough, my eating habits were worse. I ate like a caveman, stuffing my face as fast as I could like wildebeests were stalking me, patiently waiting for me to let my guard down so they could pillage my food. Although I credit Boy Scouts for helping me develop resourcefulness and character, it’s also where I perfected a hastiness for masticating oatmeal, animal carcasses, and canned vegetables. Thus, faced with the prospect of enduring more Freddie Kreuger porcelain throne sessions or curtailing my dietary nightmare to relieve my digestive system and lose weight, I chose the latter.
For the better part of 2017, I adopted an impressive healthy lifestyle. I replaced juices and pop (or what some of you wrongly refer to as soda) with high-quality H2O. I meal prepped. I ate clean. I meticulously monitored my caloric intake. I scheduled feeding sessions and methodically chewed my food. I became more active, replacing intermittent basketball with regular cardio and resistance training. I drowned my myself in gallons of green tea with no sweeteners. I even went full vegan for a stretch of time that I didn’t think was humanly possible—which, if you’re wondering is about six weeks. And for my efforts and sacrifices, I lost 65 pounds over the course of five months. (Note: this was the first time I was 220 lbs. with a body fat below 20% since my baseball playing days in high school.)
Life was good. I was stuntin’ on the ‘Gram with my shirt off, wearing fitted clothing that accentuated my muscles, and no longer willingly subjecting my rectum to painful bowel movements every 30 minutes. And for the first time in a very long time, I felt healthy.
But as I write this now, on January 23, 2018, I am currently 255 pounds and essentially fat again. How the fuck did I gain all this weight back?!
The abbreviated answer is life. Shortly after getting my shirtless Shamar Moore on, I suffered a severe ankle injury, then snagged a new gig that required me to live out of hotels and suitcases for two consecutive months. This meant eating out more, cooking less, and becoming increasingly more sedentary. Then came relocation, more travel, and a heavy work schedule that obliterated any chances of maintaining my laboriously stringent lifestyle.
If these sound like excuses, you’re absolutely right, they are. It’s also evidence that I am a human being. Although my health has drastically improved (pooping has turned into peaceful reading time), I still crave sweet concoctions and delectable fats. Only instead of mystery meat McDonald’s (seriously, nobody should be eating that shit) I’m now prone to scarfing down organic cupcakes and handcrafted sandwiches from hipster restaurants (shout out to Flour and Blunch in Boston).
Thus, I’m going to try this shit again. Because I’m tired of random dudes doubting my bonafide hooping skills in spite of my belly. And I’m secretly trying to go full Erik Killmonger for the highly anticipated premiere of Black Panther. And I superficially just want to stunt on niggas (there, I said it). To increase my self-accountability I’m going to post about my journey weekly for the next few months. Hell, maybe I’ll do it for the rest of the year. For some reason, the prospect of publicly sharing my exploits is weirdly motivational and frightening at the same damn time.
I’ll share some insights I’ve unearthed, provide a few recipes, and frequently vent about this process because losing weight is hard and frustrating as fuck. Hopefully, this time, the results stick. But if they don’t, or worse yet, I fail to lose the weight at all, at least this time it’ll be entertaining and you can impress your friends with some handy kitchen skillz.
Disclaimer: I’ve said this before, but if you’re fat, bask in your fatness. Love yourself, gotdammit, rolls, stretch marks, and all. And if you’re fit, that’s cool, but share the gotdamn equipment at the gym and stop yapping about fat people using it. Why the fuck do you think they’re there? Eat a lettuce wrapped air donut and be on your merry way.