Bacon, butter, and beer. I love all three, preferably all at once, in excessive amounts. If only someone could invent the piece of broccoli that tastes exactly like a piece of bacon, I would be happy, healthy, and satisfied. Yet, this future does not exist. I cannot binge-eat a tub of pork lard. I cannot drink chocolate covered raisins like water. I can’t lower my blood pressure with a nice 30oz, 60-day dry-aged porterhouse. Don’t give me the flying cars. Give me the whole grain cheeseburger.

This future has yet to arrive and can’t come fast enough. I am merely stuck in this present with an abundance of fat across my body. The gut. The jowls. Those lovely love handles – divine. Nothing looks better when you throw on a t-shirt and it looks like you’re wearing a life preserver underneath. I can squeeze my man boobs. If there is a chance of lactation, you know there needs to be a change.

Growing up, I had the metabolism of a pile of burning books at Munich. I consumed everything. I had the pizza, the hotdogs, the chips, the chocolate covered sundaes, the burgers, the cheeseburgers, the double cheeseburgers, the triple cheeseburgers (if I was feeling fancy), the deep-dish pizza, the pizza bites, the good, crappy Chinese, more pizza, more cheeseburgers; and when I started cooking, I always made myself bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon, bacon. Bacon topped with bacon. Bacon with a side of eggs and toast. I was bacon-crazed well before the bacon craze. I was a certified bacon hipster.

Away at college, I ate quite a bit as well. Whether I was stress eating, easy access to a loaded breakfast, or because the wind blew funny that day and I had a craving, I was eating. Each summer, I would come home and work at a factory. Sweating my ass off day after day, the months of cafeteria food would just slip away. And I still ate like I always had.

I graduated, landed a good job, and continued on my merry way, dumping gallons of delicious Los Angeles fare and washing it down with pints of stout.

 

And then…

 

I hit 25.

 

Oh, buddy. Rough times. Things just sorta… caught up. It wasn’t pretty. It was like I was put on a pedestal and the fat was just attached like how Tony Stark dons the Iron Man suit. Once the exercise stopped… Winded going up the stairs, couldn’t really sleep, and ran out of breath tying my shoes. Yes. I would actually get tired from tying my shoes. I gained about 30 pounds in that short time. My peak was at 220.

Something needed to change.

It would be nice if I could go on and say how I changed my diet, exercised like a freak, and got into Adonis-like shape. Like the stock market, there were peaks and valleys. For a brief period, I did exercise like a freak, but rewarded myself for a job well-done with even more food. I was swimming a lot during this time and actually got into shape.

Then I messed up my ankle being a drunk buffoon on a skateboard one night. The activity grinded to a halt, yet the eating remained. I suited up again and off I slowly went, wheezing like a sputtering lawn mower.

After I healed, I tried again. I would do well for a few weeks then have a night out with the guys and throw myself back again. The drinking would be followed by some greasy food, followed by some more greasy food the next day, followed by the power of fuck it.

When I don the suit, I assume the power of fuck it. With great power, comes great irresponsibility. Work sucked today, I’ll have a beer or ten. Fuck it. We’re going out tonight? I’ll just have a few drinks. Ooo, happy hour. Fuck it. I’m up early Saturday morning. Should I go for a run or stay inside, play ARMA 3, and munch three sausage biscuits from McDonald’s. Fuck it.

There are people who come into your life and change the way you look at the world for the better. They get you out of your current mindset and let you look at yourself. When I met my girlfriend, she only said, “You are going to die if you keep living like this” and it got my ass in gear.

But habits die hard, my friend. Give up crunchy and sensational bacon, forgo the cold and satisfying beer, and stop cooking with butter? Butter?! Butter. My captain, my king. Butter. The grease that makes this engine move.

I’m 29 now. Since 25, I’ve taken a 4-year journey of trying to be a better version of myself. The different diets, the stupidly intense workout regimens, the weird mind-trips I would tell myself to stay motivated. All the rationalizations. My goodness. So many rationalizations.

Do I have some awesome before and after photos to show you? No. The gut is being stubborn and won’t move out. Damn squatters’ rights. But I have significantly changed my outlook and relationship with food.

I will detail the odd and bizarre things I did to lose weight and get into shape. I was a guinea pig for 4 years trying every single dieting program out there. It was tough. I learned many things about living healthy and about myself along the way.

 

©Michael Mazurek 2018