First World Food Problems - To Take-Out or Not To Take-Out

NYC-ers don't cook in their kitchens.

As a typical New Yorker, I'm used to ordering out for every meal.  My stove is basically a fancy metal closet for my non-seasonal clothing.  But no more.  Since I've been Snatched-ing it's seen more action  than Pamela Anderson's vagina.

If I'm not cooking up a batch of brown rice for the week, then I'm likely roasting some veggies or hard boiling eggs.  Unfortunately, all this culinary activity has left my poor sweaters homeless, forced to squat on the narrow strip of floor surrounding my bed.

The kitchen sink, once sparkling from disuse, is now a continually shifting skyline of crusty pots, pans and Ziploc containers balancing precariously over discarded avocado rinds and carrot peels.  Sure, it sucks to be in a constant state of dish-washing, but the positive effect on my bank account (and waist line) make it almost - almost - worth the pruned fingers.

Still, it's been a serious challenge following my Snatched nutrition plan and hitting my calorie and protein goals.  Who'd have guessed it would be so difficult to cram down 2200 healthy calories?

I'm a spoiled New Yorker when it comes to dining options.  Why bother cooking when there's every type of ethnic food just a phone call and delivery boy away?  But now that I'm counting every calorie and gram, take-out has suddenly become the devil.

It doesn't help that my previously tame OCD tendencies have blossomed into full out crazy now that I've hit my mid-40s.  The thought of ordering Chinese food while on my Snatched plan literally sends me into a panic.  I picture myself huddled over that white take-out container with a pair of tweezers, separating and meticulously weighing out each ingredient on my shiny new digital food scale, wondering if I should pat down the steamed chicken to get rid of the extra water weight, and then tossing everything back together to make sure I have an accurate calorie count.  I know, sick, huh?

Anyway, It's now the end of week 3 (of 6).  Thanks to my high daily calorie goals I'm rarely hungry, unlike some of my fellow Ninjas (that's how clients are referred to at MFF) who seem to be starving all the time.  But I'm also bloated and gassy as hell thanks to all those damn veggies.  I've learned to quietly and stealthily release while sitting in the subway and then immediately turn to the person next to me with my just-sucked-on-a-lemon face as if to say, "Did you do that?" thereby deflecting blame away from me.  I'm not proud of it.

The workouts have also gotten progressively more difficult each week.  Exhaustion is my new normal.  I'm resigned to the fact that my muscles will perpetually remain in ache mode.  At least the trainers have the decency to wear tight, skimpy clothing.  So even while I'm heaving for breath and just about to vomit up the protein shake I just guzzled an hour earlier, I'm also ogling their tight asses and muscular thighs and drooling like a cougar at a frat party.

On the bright side, my clothes are beginning to loosen up and I no longer have to do the "suck in" to button up my work pants.  And although my weight loss has plateaued over the last few weeks, I still see major shifts in my body shape.  The man boobs are starting to deflate and my flat ass is starting to get some J-Lo curve.  So I'm sticking to the plan and getting through the next 3 weeks by visualizing the plate of stuffing and gravy I'll be sucking down come Thanksgiving Day as my reward for finishing my Snatched journey.

Sweating with the Stars but Puking by Myself

If you read my earlier post, you know that I'm elbow deep in the midst of a full body makeover via Mark Fisher Fitness.  I know some of you could care less about my fitness life, so to keep slightly on topic, my Snatched in Six Weeks group includes none other than Lin-Manuel Miranda, Tonya Pinkins & an old colleague of mine from back in my NYGASP days, Heather Hill (who just happens to be in the current Broadway company of Phantom).

Yup, I'm glute bridging with Tony winners, bitches.

It's difficult to describe MFF and the Snatched program because it's just so...well, not like any gym I've ever worked out in before.  And trust me, after criss-crossing the country for years on one-nighter bus-and-truck tours, I've hit just about every grungy gym and cruisy YMCA between here and Yakima.  Yeah, that's a real city and sadly I've performed there TWICE!

But to quote an article from the Huffington Post, the MFF workout is "...a combination of theater camp and marine basic training..."  And if you've never been to theatre camp, well, let's just say there's lots of gay dudes, top hats and nudity involved.  Oh, and show tunes.  So yeah, it's not for everyone.  Example: at a recent Ninja Essentials class I attended (they refer to all us members as "ninjas") the trainer - probably the only straight guy in the room - asked us who was going to watch the football game over the weekend.  Crickets.  Then the guy next to me shyly spoke up, "I think you're talking to the wrong group."

I've just finished up week two of my six-week Snatched program.  And yes, my pants are a little looser and my neck is a little less stumpy, but the past two weeks haven't passed without a few challenges, mainly in regards to diet.  Actually, "diet" is probably the wrong word for the nutrition program I'm following since "diet" usually conjures up the image of a big, empty plate of sad carrot sticks huddling together for warmth.  

With five intense workouts a week, the MFF team asked me to consume a whopping 2600 calories a day.  I know for most people (and me before I started Snatched) quantifying calories is like watching those annoying guys who break dance on the subway for money - you ignore them and just hope they go away.  But let me put a greasy face on that number for you: 2600 calories = 5 Big Macs.  And a banana.  Sadly, Big Macs aren't recommended on the Snatched program.

After about a week and half of literally gorging myself to near-puking levels, I finally spoke up and asked the nutritionist if we could perhaps dial that calorie count down just a notch.  So I'm still grazing all day like ol' Bessie out in the field, but I now have a more realistic goal of 2200 calories a day.  

A typical day of eating looks like this:

Breakfast - banana w/ peanut butter, 2 whole hard-boiled eggs, cup of Greek yogurt w/ fruit and sunflower seeds
Lunch - large bowl of turkey chili, roasted brussel sprouts and brown rice
Dinner - grilled chicken and asparagus w/tomato salsa
Snacks - protein shake w/ almond milk, a couple slices of beef jerky, some mixed nuts, a protein bar and an apple

I'm obviously not starving.  And after two weeks, I'm 10 pounds lighter.  Only four more weeks to go!

Split squats and burpees and planks, oh my…

Dear Lord, my ass is aching.  And not for the reasons you’re probably thinking. 

I know I’ve been MIA for several weeks (I guess it’s now been months, yikes!) but I’ve had some pretty intense family shit hit the fan recently that I’d rather not get into.  But I hope to catch ya’ll up soon on some of my end-of-summer fun and finish up some reviews on a ton of shows.  Keep checking back.  

Now back to my ass.

About a month ago I decided to quit my bitching and moaning, get off the couch and do something about my middle-aged, saggy tuchus (It also seems I’m slowly turning into a grumpy, old Jewish man.  Who knew?).

With lipo pricing well above my meager means, I decided to do it the old fashioned way.  That’s right, folks, diet and exercise (insert audible gasp here).  For years I’ve faithfully paid my NYC fat tax - i.e. NY Sports Club membership - but somehow have not been able to drag my self-pitying ass the three blocks to my local branch.

After surfing the web for some motivation, I stumbled upon the website for Mark Fisher Fitness.  Like a drag queen to Ricky’s (very NYC-centric reference there, sorry my non-city friends), I was drawn immediately to the glittery menu tab and pictures of muscled hotties in bikini briefs.  Could this be the inspiration I’d been searching for?  I read further – founded by former Broadway dancer, group classes taught by foul-mouthed, half-naked instructors…unicorns, feather boas and tutus!  I’d stumbled upon fitness Brigadoon, only without Scottish accents.

Though quite a hefty financial commitment, I decided the more I spent, the less likely I’d be willing to skip workouts for a hot date with a bacon double cheeseburger.  So a day after stumbling upon the website, I decided to pay a visit to MFF’s Enchanted Ninja Clubhouse of Glory and Dreams.  Seriously, that's what they call their "gym."  You can’t make that shit up.

As it turned out, the day of my visit coincided with the first day of registration for MFF’s highly popular Snatched in Six Weeks program – kind of like a super intense, gay fitness boot camp with lots of talk about unicorns and "nailing it."  I took this as God saying, “You are a lazy whore.  Get your shit together and sign up now!”  And when God calls you a whore, you’d best listen up.

I plunked down my $800, cried a little on the inside, and committed myself to six weeks of "fitness glory" (another popular Mark Fisher-sim).  Good thing, too, because it turned out the program completely sold out in a matter of hours.  But how was I to satiate my newly awakened fitness hunger?  It was early September and Snatched wouldn’t start until mid-October. 

I’ve always been an “all-or-nothing” type, so on impulse (I may have been hypnotized by all the smiley faces and disco lights in the Clubhouse) I drained the rest of my bank account and treated myself to a month-long, trial membership.  Might as well have a little make out session with Mark Fisher before I decide to go legs up (metaphorically, of course).

After an initial consultation where trainer Geoff continuously told me - and rightly so - that I was awesome, amazing and sexy, I decided this was definitely the gym for me.  I then met with trainer Stephanie for a kettle bell (basically a cannon ball with a handle) primer and to learn the core exercises I’d be using in class.  We instantly bonded when she equated proper goblet squat form with trying to impale your butthole on a suctioned dildo on the back wall of the gym.  Finally, a trainer who speaks my language.

If you haven't realized it yet, cursing and sex talk is a main component of the Mark Fisher experience.  Fundamentalist Christians and Republicans, this may not be the program for you, though you'd be welcomed with open and loving arms.

I’ve now been taking class religiously (pun intended) twice a week for three weeks.  To be honest, it’s not even the exercise that keeps me coming back (or the loosening pants or increased energy).  It’s the simple fact that people there tell me I’m sexy and hot even with my belly hanging out from under my T-shirt, my face grimacing and pouring sweat, while I’m lying on my back glute pressing and grunting.  That's true love.

Though I realize in an office setting, such encouragement would seem a tad bit inappropriate (sexual harassment suit, anyone?), I, for one, would welcome the opportunity for my boss to say, “Hey, you sexy bitch, go ballz deep and type up this memo!  Your are fucking nailing it today!”  Seriously.

Fat

With camp finally over and Trish back from a trip to visit family in PA, we are finally able to spend our first real summer weekend in New York. I can’t even believe Labor Day is just three weeks away. When did summer vacation turn into “back-to-school”? Sucks to be a teenager I guess.

Anyway, I’ve decided it’s time to go back to the gym since every piece of clothing I tried on from last summer seems just a size too small. It’s so depressing. I’m not so much concerned about getting fat as much as seeing the money I shell out monthly for a gym membership go to waste. The moment I tear up that card is the moment I have embraced the idea of being a fat, middle-aged man…in NYC. Sure, a fat, middle-aged man in Iowa, no big deal, but this is the land of beautiful people and Chelsea boys! Oh well, I shall try to commit to some regular workouts, if not to regain that six-pack, at least to reduce the enormity of my spreading muffin top.

After an all too brief workout, a sad 30 minutes on the elliptical after which my legs were screaming to be back on the ottoman cradling a bowl of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia, I decided it best to ease back into my new healthy lifestyle. I mean, it’s Saturday afternoon. Who starts a life changing diet and exercise regime on a Saturday afternoon? I shall do what any normal person would do, put it off until Monday. Until then, Trish and I are off to catch the new cast of Next to Normal. Review to follow shortly…

I'm a fat idiot

"Why are there only two people standing outside the theatre?" Trish asked me as we approached the Walter Kerr at about a quarter to eight, on our way to see A Catered Affair last night. I knew the reviews weren't so hot, but the show opened less than a week ago. I quickly pulled out the tickets. The show started at 7:00 PM. Oops. Being an avid opera-goer I should know better, considering operas rarely start at 8:00 PM to avoid those after midnight run times. Anyway, lesson learned. We'll try again tonight.

On a side note, the weather in NYC is gorgeous today and as I approached the revolving door at the Morg this morning I wanted to walk right past it, strip down to my undies and walk up the street to Central Park to work on my tan. Well, maybe not walk and strip at the same time. Well, maybe not even strip. OK, just walk to Central Park fully clothed for a dirty water hot dog and ice cream. Then I could sit and ogle the masses tanning in the Sheep Meadow. How can there be so many fit people free during the day to lounge around Central Park? Do they all work at gyms at night? Is the phenomenon of muscular masses leading lives of leisure (how's that for alliteration) only a New York City singularity? Anyway, I am happy to announce my return to the gym after a year-long hiatus. Of course, I've continued paying my NYC fat tax (my friend Chris' term for New Yorker's seemingly required membership to a gym) even though I haven't even looked at a free weight in months. Of course, today I'm sore and tired, but I will be a The Biggest Loser come July!