الثلاثاء، 31 مايو، 2011

Cheat Your Way Thin

When it comes to dieting for fat loss, I’m just like you—and I always have been.


You see, on February 18th, 2003 I set out to achieve a very real, personal goal of mine to get into the best physical shape of my life.

And for at least a week prior, I sat there and meticulously mapped out every single item I planned to eat over the course of the next 12 weeks.

The end result?  Exactly what you would expect to see in a “solid” fat-loss nutrition program:  plenty of fruit, veggies, lean protein, and healthy fat.

And of course, none of my favorites.

No pizza, no mac n’ cheese, no ice cream, and certainly none of those mouth-watering chocolate chip cookies that I had grown to love so much over the years.

Surely, it wasn’t going to be an easy ride, but I knew it’s what I absolutely had to do to achieve my goals.

Or was it?

Fast forward three weeks.

I roll out of bed, head to the bathroom, step on the scale and notice that the numbers didn’t change one bit since the day before.  In fact, they hadn’t changed all week.

What the heck, right?

I mean, I’m sitting there doing everything in the world I thought I should be doing, and instead of losing fat as fast as humanly possible like I should have been, the exact opposite was happening—I wasn’t losing fat at all.

Three days and a bunch of cardio later, same story.

(By the way, does any of this sound the least bit familiar?)

By this time, I was feeling pretty discouraged.  Simply put, the fruits of my labor just weren’t adding up to the effort I was putting in—a scenario which ultimately paved the way to my most embarrassing admission:

Maybe a day or two later, I get invited to this party—hosted by Italians.  Need I say more?

Thought so.




I walk in the door and smack dab in front of me is a seemingly endless table spread-full of pasta, meatballs, pastries, and Italian desserts.
But hey, I’m a personal trainer and fitness buff, so I resisted, right?

It didn’t take but fifteen minutes and a single offer to “grab something to eat” before I was living up to my reputation of having the biggest appetite in town.

Plate after plate of Italian goodness—devoured.

It was GREAT.

Until the next morning, of course, when I woke up guilt-ridden feeling like a complete failure.

Yeah, I know, things weren’t going as fast as I would have liked, but so what?

Bottom line, I made a commitment to myself, and when the going got tough, I broke it. 
Let me ask you a question:  Have you ever felt extremely guilty after eating something you “shouldn’t have” while trying to lose weight?
Believe me, I know how you feel.  Like I said, I’m no different than you.

So did I quit?

Not this time.  Even with my royal screw-up hanging over my head, I knew I needed to get back on track.

So I did what any good fitness pro would do:  I stood up, brushed off the dirt, and got on with the plan.
Now for the really embarrassing part.

pizzaNo more than a few days later, temptation decided to rear its ugly head once again, this time in the form of not one, but two large, freshly baked pizzas sitting on my kitchen table as I walked through the door from a long day at work.

Apparently, my roommates at the time didn’t much care that I was “on a diet”.  Nice looking out, guys.

So I get offered a slice, and naturally (so as not to be rude, of course) I accept.

Before you knew it, that one slice turned to two, then three, and it wasn’t long before I had put the finishing touches on nearly an entire large pizza.

Can you just imagine what I’m thinking at this point?

Just in case you can’t, let me get you up to speed:  I’m thinking I might as well find a new freakin’ career path because I can’t even manage to resist the same cravings I regularly tell my clients to withstand.

Talk about a humbling experience.

So you’re probably wondering, did I quit after yet another “screw-up”?    Surprisingly, (even to me) I didn’t.

Believe it or not, the next day I woke up, did some cardio, and actually managed to have a pretty successful remainder of the week diet-wise.

Then, the day I had been dreading—weigh-in day—finally rolled around.

To be honest, I stepped on the scale that day for one reason:  to find out just how much ground I had lost—and would therefore have to make up—over the course of that last week.

Well, I never found out that number.

No, it’s not that my fat butt broke the scale, and no, I didn’t suddenly, albeit conveniently, forget how to read.




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