SUNDAY, OCTOBER 17, 11:23 AM
Before I considered a life-altering path of better exercise and diet, before I reflected and put together all the events that have led to a singular path forward in my life, before I even opened my eyes on Day 1, all I wanted to figure out was: How hungover am I?
Every body reacts differently to the rigors of alcohol binges. I'm one of the guys who never vomits the night of. Five or so drinks in, I attain super-heroic levels of stomach strength, able to put away insane amounts of liquor, greasy food, and other assorted garbage. Instead, I put off the cleansing 'til the following morning or afternoon. (For all the terrible logic my brain comes up with drunk, at least it's bright enough to realize stomach acid really ruins your palate for shots and late-night food.) On a good solid weekend, vomiting at 4 PM is not an uncommon occurrence for me.
I woke up before my eyelids did on this, a cool sunny fall morning, next to my long-suffering girlfriend (referred to from here on as La Mademoiselle) in my brother's bed, who had so graciously offered us a comfortable place to sleep after driving us home. The man's a saint, especially if you consider the sheer number of times this has happened. (If I'd invested the dough I'd saved on cab fare the last six years in situations like this, I'd be writing to you from the Caribbean, people.)
On the way home I had convinced him to stop at Taco Bell, the worst of my regular gastronomic vices. Two burritos, a taco, and a Crunchwrap later, Drunk Me was convinced the magic effects of grease and beef would extinguish the hangover while I slept and sweat. Twelve hundred plus calories of slop squatted somewhere in my intestines, contributing nothing.
Despite the inhuman amounts of fast food and Jameson, I felt OK, but I'm experienced enough to know I was far from out of the hangover woods. I rolled out of bed, a prominent abdominal budge looking none too becoming in the piercing light. I wore soccer shorts instead of the old favorite jeans that had grown ever tighter around the waist, to the point of near button-popping strain when I tied my shoes. I could hear nothing except my own familiar thoughts of regret and internal damage assessment. Until I heard shuffling and clinking upstairs.
I walked upstairs from my brother's basement cave. The house he shares with three other roommates (G., S., and C.) is a tri-level, three-bedroom in the Grand Rapids suburbs; elevated ceilings, good school district, etc. G. and S. went in together on the place a few years ago and it's served as a base of operations for our ridiculous shenanigans ever since, although as we all slam against the wall of thirty years of age, it's admittedly slowed.
G. was the one making the racket. He was dressed for exercise. He set up his laptop on a chair in the main room of the middle level, an unfinished space with exposed insulation, concrete floors and a sliding glass door to the backyard. I was in the aforementioned shorts, socks, and a wifebeater rife with whiskey sweats.
"'Sup?" I asked. G. grinned, but not as wide as he usually did when he saw me post-drunkenness. He was all business this morning.
"'Bout to blast out this workout, son." The laptop screen flickered to life with motion. A full-screen video showed a silhouette of either a Greek statue or actual muscular person, with "P90X" in giant silver letters across the width of the screen. It cut to a room of maybe three or four good-looking, obviously athletic people preparing to work out.
"You wanna get on this?" G. asked, in all sincerity. Given my state of mind (and body) at the moment, I maybe should've doubted his seriousness. But, I didn't, because he didn't. G. had been there with me before for workouts, on the basketball court, on the football field. Somehow, in his own plain-spoken way, he knew I was as fed up with my body's regression to soft, pudgy decadence as he was with his own. He was serious; hungover, bloated Kruss was game for this.
And so I was.
The workout we dove into was labeled "Core Synergistics", something like a slide from a bad Powerpoint presentation in a management class. But, for whatever B.S. the title may have hinted at, the workout was quickly anything but. After a brief warmup I was pouring sweat, holding stretches, and blasting through reps with free weights held with two fingers through the hole where the bar was supposed to be.
As it turned out, the idea behind "Core Synergistics" was to push, pull, and blast the shit out of the entire human torso, front and back, and make me regret every taco I'd eaten last night, or ever eaten. While holding a plank position above the floor, I looked downward at the unwelcome jiggly mass around my middle. It shook in strain and apparent disbelief at the current proceedings. "Work out? Sure. But this much? Now?"
It rebelled the only way a hungover, overworked stomach knew how. I motioned over to G.,"be right back." He grunted in acknowledgment, feeling the burn to no slight degree himself.
I ran upstairs, hurdled the second set of stairs, and burst into the upstairs bathroom. Barely made it to the toilet, honestly. Yuck.
But, hanging over the porcelain rim, the familiar taste of half-digested mush and stomach acid lingering, I decided I wasn't done. I wiped off my mouth, hustled downstairs--past La Mademoiselle, newly awake and wondering what exactly the hell I was doing--and resumed the workout.
G. didn't say a word. We just kept pushing.
At the end, after the cool down stretches and last words of encouragement from our onscreen trainer, I felt shaky, worn out and somewhere else. But it had dawned on me what I'd done: hungover and feeling terrible, with no preparation, I'd powered through an intense hour-long series of exercises, working some of my weakest muscles to the point of exhaustion without giving up. My nerve endings tingled; my shirt hung low, soaked.
I could do this. Again. (Not right then, but, you know, tomorrow.)
I've found that most of the good things in my life, the moments that defy expectation and explanation, have occurred when I stopped thinking and simply decided. A combination of instinct, split-second thinking, and physical reaction--something primal--leads to decisive action, and life, real actual physical burning active life, unfolds in and in front of you. The car swerves, the punch lands, or the girl smiles and kisses you back.
The workout reminded me that's what we're here for. Months--almost years--of overthinking, overeating, overdrinking, oversitting, just not doing a fucking thing, really, seemed to be forgiven in my consciousness after that sweaty, aching hour. The escape, the endorphins, the calm I seemed to be searching for in mindless Web surfing or boozing or whatever else I'd tried, only showed up after this intense exertion.
And, just as quick as I shrugged off the hangover to blast through that hour with G., I decided to take up the full thing. The whole 91 days of P90X.
I studied the guides. The program could work--I wanted to lose weight first, build lean mass, and the P90X Lean program started with Core on Day 1. There we go.
The diet started the first month with a protein-heavy carb purge, needing nine servings of meat or eggs a day. "Jesus, that sounds amazing," I thought. The first month--the critical period to let the habit establish itself--would let me indulge my inner carnivore. Awesome.
And so it began. For the next 91 days, I'll record my progress here with the P90X Lean program, with my exercise, diet and thoughts for each day, along with any modifications as necessary (due to budget, time, etc.) At the very least, I don't anticipate skipping any of the workouts, and while the exact calculus of my food servings won't be error-free, I'll toss the junk food and hold close to the outlined protein/carb proportions.
The P90X guy, Tony Horton, says something to the effect of "You've got to have a goal before you start. You've got to have something to shoot for." Well, here's three of them:
1) I'm going to not skip any workouts;
2) I'm going to fit into all my old jeans at the end of this;
3) I'm not going to Taco Bell.
Here goes.
WORKOUT:
Core Synergistics, 11:30 AM - 12:30 PM
DIET:
B(reakfast): None. (Unless you count the 4 AM Taco Bell.)
S(nack): None. (Unless you count the vomit.)
L(unch): A Gatorade that I just ended up throwing up later anyway.
S(nack): None.
D(inner): Burger, fries, and ginger ale at Bar Louie. A last hurrah of good ol' 'Merican junk, and also the only thing I ate all day. Real diet starts tomorrow.
