I am avoiding exercises that strenghten what fitness dorks call the "core."
I can't explain it well, except that I really don't enjoy the way sit-ups feel. Like going to the dentist or picking up my dog's poop.
Consequently, there's this odd wave thing happening on my upper body. The fatty evidence of my poor diet is sloughing south, slowly but surely rolling toward my waist.
And there it sits, impervious to my workouts.
As I continue to go to the gym fairly regularly, doing chest and arm execises on the resistance machines, my muscles in these areas are becoming a little more defined. And as I continue to run on the treadmill for 30 minutes every other day, a couple upper ribs are even starting to show.
Which makes for an almost comical contrast to the gelatinous gut hanging out right below.
Since the gym isn't working fast enough to get me comfortably within two waist sizes of the 32 I wore before quitting smoking, I recently decided it was time to try a few other things.
I have moved from my usual assortment of fine Czech and other European beers to Coors Light - hoping that light beer will be, as the commercials say, less filling. (My fridge must be malfunctioning because the mountains on the Coors can never seem to get that "Cold Certified" blue.)
I am also trying to cut down on how many light-coloured, pasty things I eat. Hummus, peanut butter, goat cheese on crackers. I mindlessly stuff my mouth with these wonderful foods all evening, and that isn't helping my ponderous middle.
For the first time in years I bought khaki pants from The Gap. Because I can only seem to find jeans that are either too tight, making me look like a past-his-prime regular at the CNE's water pistol or whack-a-mole booths; or too loose, making me look like a 53-year-old named Tom or Bill who likes to tuck in his golf T-shirts. Sometimes you just fall in between blue jean sizes.