This isn’t the first time, and in the past, I’ve had canned responses to the issue. Basically, I’d run a lot. 4-5 times a week. And I’d skip lunch most days. It wasn’t so much a starvation technique as it’s been almost my daily cycle, recovering from dinners where I’d gorge on food. It’d go snack, skip, gorge. Yes, that’s the title of my next health-centric book. “Snack – skip – gorge, you fat bastard.” I expect readers will be even more disgusted with themselves after a thorough reading.

Anyways, recently I discovered I was mortal. Apparently this happens to a lot of 30-somethings.

Normally, I could break a 2 month exercise fast with a 6 mile run, no stretching, no problems. The next 4 days I’d be sore, but functional. This had been true back through my Marine Corps days through the worst of my training – if I was sober, I could perform. Sometimes even sobriety was optional.

Then, last week, my knee started acting up. Not cool, first off. I mean, why wait until I’m 32 to give me crap. But then it wouldn’t go away; my knee was a consistent nuisance for almost 2 weeks. I’d had a few points during this period when I woke up early to jog / run, only to give up until my joint was fully healed.

This morning was the final straw. I woke up, laced up, got outside and started one of my usual routes… only to crash to a halt before the first stop sign. That friggin’ knee.  I’d been feeling the effects of excessive laziness and consumption already, and a morning of no exercise would only exacerbate the mood. After a day of not “feeling it”, I came upon a lark. Why not commit to 90 days of exercise? Put my 24 hour turn-key gym to work!

Generally I despise discussing physical fitness progress, technique, or pretty much any other aspect of my well-being (this post is part of a brief departure). But for some reason I feel like there’s merit in committing to a “90 day challenge”. I think that’s likely the largest appeal of P90X, which I’ve had passing interest in so far. Folks cling on to personal challenges, so I’m going to try to do the same; commit to an harsh goal and add it as a blog post for some shred of commitment. It worked briefly with A Blue Screen (which was my previous webcomic that I’ve since lost all data and access to…. because Mochahost has terrible security).

So anyway, for the next 90 days, I will use the local gym for at least 30 minutes each day. Not exactly a mission to Mars, but more a modest proposal for consistent effort toward some physical betterment. Today was the first day. I’ve got a sheet of where I’m at on my various exercises, so it’s hopefully onward and upward from here. The next biggest hurdle is tomorrow.

Dad was born a serious man, and by 50 most of his youthful personality traits were shadowed by the tough exterior of career machinist. There wasn’t a lot of running around the park with our Dad; if he didn’t lack the energy, he lacked the disposition. Though he’s had plenty of moments of “kibitzing” around the house, he generally wasn’t playful. We’ve always known him better as the disciplinarian – or as I addressed him during my military life, “The First Sergeant.”

When we left high school and the folks moved to Pittsburgh, Dad slowed down to enjoy his well earned retirement. His salt and pepper mustache gave way to silver, and his glasssed became a more permanent fixture. In my adults years, he’s become less mobile, and more accustomed to spending the day typically seated at our ktichen table or in his “operations center” – a room he built down stairs in the town home basement where his computer, TV and CB radio are all within reach.

After I’d moved to Georgia in 2004, I’d lost track of my usual picture of Dad in his setting. So it was a visual stir to see him wheeled in a chair to the arrivals lobby of Atlanta airport during their late 2008 visit. He was pushed to our location in a courtesy wheelchair by a friendly airport attendant. He’d given me a heads up prior to the trip about his declining ability to walk distances, but the visual at the time was striking.

Two years later, a similar airport welcome and my father was even more chair bound, this time requiring escort all the way to terminal’s exit. Things weren’t looking good. He was 75.

This year, it became clear to his heart specialist something needed to be done. It was roughly 8 years prior that his first visit to Dr. Rocco revealed poor blood circulation and subsequent treatment that likely extended his life by most likely a decade. This time, his heart was clearly the culprit. After a battery of tests to make certain operation was necessary, all signs indicated a valve (or valves) in his heart was almost completely non-functional.

Tests performed, a date was set. He’d get a pig’s heart valve (or valves) 3 days after his 76th birthday.

My family has always leaned both pragmatically and optimistically. My Mom knew that were this 30 years prior, this could easily be my Dad’s last hospital visit, and that in today’s environment valve transplants were almost as common as hair follicle transplants. Her and I collectively focused on the 85% good of the matter, while the 15% fret ate her up inside. My brother also fairs more concerned in these types of family risks, so for him it was probably 30% fretting.

Around 5am, May 17th, we all Kovats’ met at hospital and welcomed my Dad to his cot. We hugged good bye, and he was off.

And we waited…

On the other side of the day, after a full afternoon of barely keeping up with my Mom’s brisk conversation pace (where I get my chattiness from), we get the heads up that a doctor will speak with us shortly. It’d been 8 hours since his entry to OR, and we were definitely getting both tired and antsy. Another nurse called us into a “discussion room” without any ominous air. Dr. Park was next. He walked in, and started with a cursory “He’s alright.”

The rest felt like the rundown you get at Jiffy Lube: smooth, dry and curt. This wasn’t a disappointment by any means; I’d been more concerned if he had lots to say and struggled through the details, troubled with emotion. “He’s got a lot of calcification. We had to do five bypasses and replaced the aortic valve, but the others were good.” It was so matter of fact, Mom and I searched for remaining concerns but felt like he’d allayed them all. We went home and waited for the next chance to check in on Dad.

The Next Morning

We got to the hospital a few hours before my flight back to Atlanta. We finagled our way in before visiting hours, and there he was. He wasn’t a visual shock; just a man in a hospital bed with a lot of tubes in him and gauze on his chest. Well, and a healthy dose of morphine, of course. He greeted us with a measured version of his usual boisterous “hello,” and it was a welcome sight.

Dad’s good, and it’s amazing how commonplace tinkering with his ailing heart has become. After the operation, a lot of folks shared their own stories about elder family members who got new heart parts. In fact, back at the hospital, I saw a lot of old people; they showed patient birthdays on the waiting board, and most the folks were Baby Boomers.

So, the take away, my dad needed a tune up and got it. And at 76, the same age as my grandmother, his mom, when she lost her life in the hospital after a broken hip, Dad’s getting a new lease on life. And even if it’s not another 20 years, at least when the soreness dies down, he’ll be the full-on, abrasive, overbearing Pollack we love and remember.

Like America, I had a weight problem growing up, generally because our family ate a lot, and because I would fit copious sums of food in my stomach when we ate. We had a cooked dinner every night at home, we didn’t know what fast food was and I didn’t see candy unless it was Halloween, but it was a lot of food. Put simply, you’ll never go hungry in the Kovats house. More likely, you’ll probably have to keep telling my Mom, “no, really Mrs. Kovats, I’m not hungry.”

When I was 15, I started to see a second chin forming on me, and it finally scared the vaJesus out of me. I knew I was “husky” (love that word – it’s mainly used by moms), but now I was nearing fat! I didn’t want to be the fat kid – I wanted a girlfriend and a pants size you can readily find in most stores, not painted Warcraft figurines and mint condition comic books. So, I started on a fat-free diet, which was popular at the time. It was really less a diet and more a witch hunt for all lurking forms of fat in my meals. Fat-free cheese, fat-free hot dogs, fat-free milk, fat-free margarine, fat-free salad dressing – wherever fat lurked, I was avoiding it. Then, I tacked on sugar to my enemies list, and before long, I dropped about 40 lbs in one summer. No kidding – it was pretty dramatic.

Of course, I inevitably stopped the nutty fad-diet and returned to more normal eating. Like many, today I enjoy being perpetually 5-10lbs over my ideal weight (OK, 15). Still, having gone through this experience, it interests me to see how others approach the topic of dieting and weight control.

For starters…

It amazes me how a group of gay men have convinced America that lanky, bone-thin women are attractive. You can’t explain it any other way – who else but people that have no idea what makes women appealing to the opposite sex would propose removing all their best traits? “Dammit Sheila, I can still see your figure – go gag yourself, you pig!”

The fallout of this is sad because it’s damaging to young girls, but it’s also hilarious because we get to see lemming actresses torture themselves so they can fit into clothing meant for second graders. For instance, did you know there’s a size 0 for women? Do you know that at one time, the concept of zero was a discovery that some cultures didn’t have until the middle ages? In this light, some womens’ very clothing size required a feat of mathematics. What’s the next size under zero?! Dead?!

Then, there’s the nutjobs who start out in life obese, turn a new leaf, and become health nazis, eating grape leaves and riding stair masters four hours a day. You usually see these walking time-bombs working as fitness trainers on TV programs, yelling at other fat people who are trying to lose weight. They always seem to come up with the most unappealing diets for people who are used to greasy, carnivorous, American meals. “Sam, I’ve replaced your baby back ribs and sweet cornbread with a dried rice cake topped with 2 skinless anchovies and a sprig of grass.”

Naturally this makes for great TV, because no human can make that type of leap without slipping up SOMEWHERE. And of course, as soon as the dieters break their all-natural torture diets with a single Reese’s peanut-butter cup, the frenzied nut-job trainer is right their to make the person feel like human waste. I’m just waiting for one of these trainers to snap like a rubber band and start beating their clients with a stale cruller, yelling fat slurs and crying about their childhood. You know at any given moment, it’s only a kit-kat away from happening.

All in moderation – including fitness

I appreciate fitness like the next guy or gal. I like to fake fitness myself, so I know how important it is. But, at some point, a gym routine can turn into a cult. Anyone that spends more than… I’d say, 5 hours a week at the gym is borderlinenuts in my book. Gyms are lousy places you pay to sweat inside of, lifting and moving weights to accomplish nothing and running in place to go nowhere. That’s why most people are either thinking about getting a gym membership, or have a gym membership that they’ve long stopped using. Their swipe cards makes a great accessory on your key chain.

Of course there’s always the fad diets. I knew the “no-fat” diet well, but that’s just one in a veritable ocean of diets. 98% of them generally work like this: To avoid the cause of all fat – which is enemy food – you must eat a strict regimen of packaged diet food brand everyday. If you’re good, you can eat a healthy 3 oz. serving of nonfat, sugar-free ice-milk after dinner. For some reason, fad diets never seem to point to overeating and lack of activity as culprits. They like generally like answers with more of a scientific mystique. “Most people can’t metabolize water completely. That’s why you need 8 servings of our special brand, engineered sawdust every day.”

An even creeper byproduct from weight obsession are these diet pills. You know – the commercials that show a guy who looks like an out of shape body builder, and then the same guy back in shape again, as if the pills gave him muscles and a tan. You ever see these pills in the store? They run in the ballpark of $30 – $50 for a 3 week supply. That’s some leap of faith you have to make in order to believe chemistry will harmlessly battle ho-hos in your body… and win. Anytime you see lab coats in a commercial, you should be immediately suspicious. The only “all-natural” diet aide I know of that can help you loose 10 pounds a week is a tapeworm. If the pill makes bigger promises than a parasite, you need to reexamine your shopping cart.

Fade to stock footage of fat people walking

You may aspire to live an organic, stress releasing, cardio-aerobic, fit-’n-free, 8% body fat lifestyle, but we’re Americans. We chew stress for breakfast with our morning coffee, and we close the day with enormous amounts of red meat and potatoes. That’s who we are – live hard, die young, red-blooded Americans. We didn’t become this way through spin classes and power walking. There were no vegans on the beaches of Normandy in the summer of 1944 (unless they were French). We age, we grow, and we wear sweat pants. It’s who we are. Sure it’s nice to keep your belt length under 10 feet and to be able to visually inspect your genitalia when the occasion arises, but you can’t live life beating yourself up over extra pounds. Get a Hawaiian shirt and move on, because surprisingly enough, the only thing worse than being overweight is losing your personality to the obsession of being thin.

As the only species that exercises for the sake vanity, we go out of our to do some pretty weird crap. Seriously, if someone said “I’m going to move the same weight around for 30 minutes” or “I’m going to run nowhere and end up right back where I started”, wouldn’t you think they were wasting they’re time?

And so, gyms and fitness clubs are where this odd behavior is carried out. Sometimes, the funny nature of exercising for no net gain produces some equally funny social behaviors, which you should be aware of in order to avoid.

1. It’s ok to compliment, but not too much.

“You’re really improving” is different than “your quads are looking good”, and even more different than “you look fab-ulous!” People like compliments, but no one is asking for your critique. Keep that crap to yourself, Liberace.

2. Yes, that woman is doing squats. Get over it.

Or at least be subtle when you gawk. Otherwise your workout schedule might have to fit in with her restraining order.

3. If you came for the big mirrors, just buy one for your home… and stay there.

What the hell is it about vain people that they figure every mirror is theres? You want to re-enact DeNiro’s scene from Taxi Driver, do it in your own home.

4. Breathing is good, grunting is weird.

Lamaze classes are down the hall, Hecter.

5. We get it. You used to be in shape. Gotcha.

Everytime guys get into a locker room conversation, it almost always turns to “Yeah, I used to be on the varsity team”, “Yeah, I used to run a 3 minute mile”, or “Yeah, I was in great shape when I left the special Black Knight Gamma Recon Forces in the Army.” Reminiscing is meant to be an ocassional thing,… but obsessing is another story.

6. Don’t sit at a machine and ponder life’s mysteries.

What are you, planning your weekend meals? Get off the machine when you’re not using it! Sit on one of the big blue balls if you’re tired, or even a stair stepper. I’ve got deltoids to blast!

7. Quit it with the lame body building lingo.

“This exercise really blasts your deltoids!” Using the lingo doesn’t make the same exercise any more effective. It makes you sound like sort of a gym geek.

8. Put a damn towel on, nature boy.

I’m glad you’re comfortable with your body, but some of us would rather not see your grandfather clock when we’re talking to you in the locker room. Don’t put a leg up and start chatting to friends while you air dry – put a towel on, and save your shame for the ladies.

Follow these steps, and you can stil participante in funny gym routines without being a total social deviant.

To follow up my post on one of the proudest things I’ve ever done, I might as well talk about one of the stupidest.

In my case, I started smoking when I was 23. If that’s not idiotic, I don’t know what is. I mean, it’s not like I had a bunch of Catholic school thugs around me in the boys bathroom pressuring me into smoking a Pall Mall.

I’ve been in smoker denial ever since my first puff. I run and stay relatively fit, but I continue to smoke a few cigarettes whenever I drink. Or get bored at work. Or when I’m on a road trip. Or… you get the point.

So, I guess that makes me a social smoker. Whatever. I guess everyone needs to be in a group, and the guidelines for “nonsmokers” are too strict for me right now.

As someone who’s able to see the other side of things right now, it’s amusing to somehow be grouped in with today’s social witch hunt for the evil smokers. Somehow, nowadays, lighting up a Marlboro is grounds for villainy. Try asking for an ashtray at Starbucks sometime, and they’ll look at you like you’re Adolf Hitler.

What’s really funny is how coffee and smoking were almost synonymous 50 years ago. Like Dennis Leary says, that’s exactly what people were about: smoking, coffee and more coffee. Today, everything is changing. Where once you could sit in your cubicle with a lit cigar, now you’re relegated to a smoking area outside the fire exit, next to the dumpster. You can’t even smoke inside a New York or L.A. bar anymore, as if a thick smog that hangs inside a club isn’t connected with the bar atmosphere. Please.

Flip the script,…

But, cigarettes have changed over the last fifty years. Today, smoking advertisements almost seem strange to look at. You usually have several healthy-looking people smiling about life, probably engaged in some outdoorsy activity with cigarettes in hand. You never seem to see the smoke from the cigarette or the teeth stains,… just happy, wonderful people having happy, wonderful times.

The illusion of pleasure and enjoyment has been long removed from smoking. People do it today for their own reasons – not because they connect smoking with fun or enjoyment, but because they connect smoking with a physical urge, a personal conviction.

Still, it’s just as ridiculous to consider smoking an act of evil as it is to see cigarettes as an instrument of style and fun. You can’t kid smokers or nonsmokers; they both realize how disgusting and harmful cigarettes are.

When I quit… or should I say, now that I’m quitting, there is nothing different about my affiliation with the smokers and nonsmokers of the world. Smoke if you got them, or don’t,… whatever. I still think the one thing more annoying than cigarette smoke is the one person who always flips out and whines about cigarette smoke. Sure, second-hand smoke may be harmful, but it’s not nearly as irritating as first-hand whining.

Related Links
Actresses who smoke (or have smoked)
Dennis Leary
How to quit
Social Smoking?
Old cigarette commercials