Fool in the pool

It all started back on May 1, the date of my daughter’s First Holy Communion.

This rapidly graying and rapidly expanding middle-aged man had to put on his suit for the occasion. As you might suspect about me, I only own one suit, and it is an all-purpose gray wool model – fittingly formal for weddings, awards banquets, and fittingly somber for funerals, memorial services and the like. I knew what was coming. Really. I might be goofy, but I’m no idiot. I knew how my jeans were getting increasingly tight – and I’m not talking about stylishly snug either, you know?

In fact, my loving and supportive wife even mentioned to me a few days before the Communion, something to the effect of, “you know, you should try that suit on.” It fit. Barely. It was snug. Baby, was it snug. I looked in the mirror. I saw a fat guy.

Oh sure. Not fat like “Biggest Loser” fat. But a skinny-armed, formerly lithe distance-runner’s build covered with layers of soft fat in and around what is everyone’s hot fitness topic these days: The core. My core has expanded. Greatly. My core is now my chore.

Again. I knew it was coming. A calf/Achilles injury curtailed my already pathetic running mileage greatly throughout the winter. No excuses. It happens.

When I stepped on the scale, I was astounded at what I saw. I was the heaviest I had ever been, by about 15 pounds. And I had been relatively heavy before. I immediately grew morose and depressed. This is it, I’m done. My former body will never be rediscovered. I’m too far gone.

This sort of self-pity is mostly useless. I only have myself to blame, and it happens every year, between January and May. During those four-plus months, we are on the road for track meets nearly every week. It’s also hard-core recruiting time. Busy. Busy. Busy. On the road. On the road. On the road. What does this mean? A lot of 20-ounce Dr Peppers. A lot of French fries. A lot of pizza. A lot of bacon-egg-and-cheese sandwiches.

And now, a lot of weight.

I need to exercise better self-control on the road. I've known this for years, but never seem to pull it off. If I have ever mooched a French fry or three off you, you know what I am talking about.

Now, it’s June. Summer time. Still busy – with Little League, youth soccer, recruiting, freelance writing gigs – but not nearly as much as January through May. So, I’m doing something about it. I’m going in the pool.

These past few weeks, I have rediscovered the joys of AquaJogging. Deep-water running. Or as my favorite lifeguard/swim team pal Patrick likes to call it: Water Walking. Thanks, buddy.

Back in the day, I used to AquaJog all the time. But alas, life got busy. And also, the Health Department rule at Marist is that we need two lifeguards on the deck in order to use the deep end. That does not happen during the school year, meaning the deep end is off limits – except late at night, when I am in bed. But during the summer, there are two guards on deck all day. I can AquaJog to my heart’s content!

I’m hoping that the water work (yeah, Pat, the Water Walking), combined with a few less French fries, slices of pizza and Dr Peppers, will mean I can lose the “Man Boobs” that some less-than-sensitive folks at a spring track meet described as the remains of my core.

So if you call or text me and I don’t pick up or reply immediately, chances are I am in the pool, trying to peel back the layers of what once was an acceptable body.