The Day Itself

Yesterday I hoisted the mainsail all by myself because no one volunteered to help me (a colleague stepped in, but once I got going I wanted to see if I could finish on my own). I even got to quote Fezzik: "It's not my fault, being the biggest and the strongest. I don't even exercise!" Which is true, I stopped exercising a couple of months ago.

Speaking of The Princess Bride, I started reading the book for the first time yesterday. It is an absolute treasure. Make sure you get the 30th Anniversary Edition, which includes a delightful introduction in which William Goldman explains the superior introduction in the 25th Anniversary Edition. Both introductions are included, and they are worth reading every word, even though it delays the first chapter by 50 pages (this was after pages, but before eBooks).

On our last sail yesterday (at 3:45, the 5:30 was cancelled due to an impending thunderstorm), the delightful couple who helped me raise the mainsail asked if these were eel infested waters. They didn't know why yesterday was the perfect day for them to have asked.

I finally figured out where the roasted almonds stand is, and I plan to finish every work week by buying a very small bag of them while walking toward my bus home. Yesterday I got out my cash to pay, and the cashier stopped me. I'm guessing it's because I was wearing my work shirt and folks on the pier do each other little favors from time to time, but I will forever remember it as The Time A Stranger Didn't Know He Bought Me A Secret Birthday Present.

Finally, on the walking portion of my way home, I got to experience one of my favorite sounds in the world: the rain dancing on the leather brim of my hat. It was the best part about forgetting to bring an umbrella.

It was a Happy Birthday.

Cry Uncle

I've always been intimidated by Before & After photos. On the wall at the gym, magazine ads, Xenadrine commercials, pictures of an unhappy schlub were paired with a smiling, thinner, more toned counterpart. Those testimonials made six weeks look like an eternity. How much time, energy, and effort must have been poured into those six weeks to accomplish that result? How many sacrifices? How much pain? How many times and ways do you say goodbye to aspects of your identity that made you into what you are, and into what you've grown to hate? Two photos simply do not encompass enough of the story.

I began to see myself in the mirror as a full-motion Before photo. I hated staring at myself, but I did it anyway. I'd require myself to hold the gaze, identifying which areas I wanted to change - the areas I was bullied for from grade school to grad school. I'd stare until the afterimage stained my eyes when I'd blink. I'd stare until my image lost all meaning, like a word repeated too many times.

I'd stare until I developed enough self-loathing to inspire change.

In college I owned a Polaroid, and with it came the notion that I could take a Before picture of myself and tape it to the mirror. Then, every time I'd pass to or from the shower, I could measure my progress at a glance. I considered taking a series - once a week, perhaps - and watch the progression. It was an idea I never actually tried; the cost of film and inadequate mirror space I thought would tank the idea before it amounted to anything cool.

I've gained and lost a significant amount of weight a few times over the years.  By "a significant amount" I mean I'd get a lot of attention and commentary from people if I hadn't seen them in a while, and by "a few times" I mean once every two years over the last ten. Every time I longed for a decent set of comparison photos, but never had the foresight to know when I'd have an effective round.

The larger frustration was how often the cycle repeated. Gain 30 pounds one year, lose it the next. A set of old clothes shifts to the front of the closet, then back again. A belt cinches up a couple of notches, then releases. I longed for a way to keep the problem solved once and for all, and find other things to worry about.

A digitally kept photo album made possible a tracking system I hadn't imagined. It'd be even better than a simple Before & After because it would tell the whole story. All the pitfalls and moments of despair. Each struggle and every triumph. Strategies attempted, failed, modified, adapted, adjusted. Best of all, it provided the chance to do a time lapse video of my very own. I've always been enamored with those, and the idea of creating one with a long time frame and personal values had a deep significance for me. Just maybe, doing so under such public scrutiny would grant me the permanence I so desired.

But it didn't work.

It's been five months. Every few weeks I'd shift my pattern. Different amounts of exercise, different types of exercise, different diets, different amounts of food or booze or running or lifting, different times of day . . . no difference in the mirror. No difference in how my clothing fit. No difference in how my body felt. The only difference was on the scale, demonstrating that I had, in fact, gained about twelve goddamn pounds.

One person even asked me why the same picture kept reposting since November.

In the end there's only been one thing I'm doing differently than I've ever done before, and that's doing this so publically. How does that matter? I don't know. Why would these pictures supersede all other forms of previously successful tactics? I cannot fathom. What does one have to do with the other? I can't even guess. But I know I can't do this anymore.

If any good has come from this experiment, it is that a few people have told me I inspired them to action, and they're happier for it. Some people expressed trepidation about what others would think of their own posting every day, and my reaction was the same - fuck 'em if they don't like it, they can keep scrolling. None of this is required reading. If it serves you without harming anyone, do it.

I've come to realize my own posting isn't serving me anymore. So I stopped. I have neither plans nor desire to catch up or continue. I'm done with this.

I do still plan to get into shape, mind you. My battles with diet and exercise will remain for years to come, and my health will play a larger role in that struggle the older I get. But apparently this is something I have to do alone if it is to happen at all.

The punchline is that one week after posting the last picture, scale says I lost 6 pounds. So.

Endgame

What is my weight loss goal? How will I know once I'm finally in shape?

Again, I picture how things were when I was 15. I know cannot reasonably expect to be in that kind of shape again. I've done myself a few injuries which make it unlikely. I've taken on a few responsibilities I refuse to ignore, because I've set a few goals which are linked to dreams I refuse to give up.

And so I think of it like this.

All my life I was taller than anyone my age. I didn't have a growth spurt which put me over the top - I just had a head start. For a 5th grade class assignment we measured everyone's height; that's how I learned I was 5'8" (I was ten years old). Similar events lead to someone measuring my height about once a year, so I know that I grew at a steady pace of two inches a year . . . until the age of 14, when I hit 6'4". That was the age I stopped growing for a while.

Texas high school football is no joke. Because of my height advantage the coaches decided the best place for me was on the line, and linemen are further required to bulk up as much as possible. One coach gave me a specific weight gaining diet to follow (not that I was thin to begin with, mind you), and they had me weight training six days a week in the off season. I don't know how much muscle I gained, but I still bear a six inch patch of stretch marks from the inside of each bicep toward my chest.

Some years later I learned that such weight training can divert the body's resources away from growing height and into growing muscle. This explains why I stopped getting taller just as I started bulking up, about 4 years before most people stop growing. I consider myself lucky; life at my height is frequently uncomfortable, awkward, and inconvenient as it is. If I grew to be the 6'8" or 6'9" the doctors predicted… well.

Besides, I do enjoy the irony of being 6'5" and having stunted my growth.

When I was in high school sports I was weighed obsessively. Every August brought Two-A-Days for the football team (practice from 7-10:30 am, and again from 4-7:30 pm, for two weeks). We were required to log our weight before and after every practice, presumably so the coaches could identify drastic changes as a warning sign that someone was about to drop dead, so maybe ease up. Wrestling season had me weigh in for tournaments twice a week before every meet and tournament. This is how I know I never weighed more than 210 pounds in those days.

These days I tend to hover around 270. Somewhere between that ages of 18 and 22 I gained an inch of height, but I lost a lot of muscle mass since I don't lift like I used to, and haven't in years. So when anyone tells me "muscle weighs more than fat," the first thing I hear is You could easily stand to lose about 70 pounds.

Is that my goal? Well, no. If all I wanted to do was see a lower number on the scale, I could just cut my fucking legs off. Yes, the only statistic I post on my daily photo is what the scale reports, but that doesn't mean that's the only thing I'm tracking.

Retread

January of last year I (temporarily) got some health insurance. I went in to the doctor for the first time in years because my stomach and my heart were . . . let's just say they were "uncomfortable." Regularly. It was making me nervous.

Doc took an EKG and told me my results looked great, whatever that meant. If I'm in the clear, I guess I don't much care exactly what the results are and how to interpret them. On the other hand, my weight made him uncomfortable and he didn't like my blood pressure, so I was instructed to take care of the one and let's see what happens to the other. It was the first time a doctor ever scared me.

I was in the neighborhood of 275lbs, the second time I've ever weighed that much. Because my health was at stake, I wanted to do something more drastic than usual. I started thinking back to what I was capable of in high school. I know it's not fair to compare myself at 36 to what I was at 15, but I was then conducting a set of habits during that time which had me in the greatest shape of my life. I was on the football team, the wrestling team, and the track team. All year long I was spending six days a week exercising 3-4 hours a day, and those hours were divided among several different activities. It wasn't three to four consecutive hours of goddamn jogging, that's for sure.

I do love to run (or, it is perhaps more accurate to say I have eventually learned to love to run), but I needed to mix it up if I were to put in that same amount of effort. My gym had lots of cardio options available, so I made use of four of them. Two focused on the upper body and two on the lower, and I'd alternate.

The time I'd spend on each machine was based upon which playlist I was listening to. Once upon a time I heard that a body needs 20 minutes of exercise before it starts pulling energy reserves from fat cells, so I would make exercise playlists in excess of 30 minutes, not including a quick warmup song and a one or two for a cooldown. After a couple of weeks I was skipping the cooldowns and going straight to the next machine and starting the next playlist. I was soon treating the warmup just like the rest of the routine. In total I would get 2 hours and 20 minutes of intense aerobic exercise five days each week (Three days on/one off, two days on/one off).

Helping matters was a show I was rehearsing at the time. It was very physical, so I ended up averaging an additional hour or two of sweat inducing movement right after my workout.

The payoff was great; after six weeks, I was down 22 pounds from where I'd started. I intended to keep going, but got distracted. That's another story for another time.

Every single time I've tried to lose weight, I've managed it. Every time except for this time. I'm missing something. Something is different, but I haven't figured out what it is just yet.

And the clock is ticking.

Journeys and Destinations

I have successfully lost weight a handful of times; that is to say I made a point to make an effort to get into shape, and then I did. Typically it's included a weight loss of 20-30 pounds. I'd get to a point where I was content, and maintain that for a few months. Eventually my discipline would slip, and then it would stumble, and less than a year later I'd end up right where I'd started.

Last November I had just finished a gig, and didn't have the next one lined up yet. Usually this results in a listlessness stemming from a mixture low self-worth and fear. Recognizing that pattern and hoping to stave it off, I decided to dedicate myself to getting back into shape (again). I had felt my body putting on weight, my clothes fitting tighter, my breath harder to catch.

My goal this time wouldn't be getting there, as I've done so many times before, but staying there. Lacking any other ideas about how to obtain permanence, I started a photo album. I updated it every day. Always with the same lighting conditions and always wearing the same clothes, but I made it a point to take the picture and weigh myself at varying times of day. Under no circumstances immediately after exercise.

Several times since I started I've been advised to weigh myself less frequently, no more often than weekly. I've also been told it should happen at the same time of day, ideally first thing in the morning when the body weighs the least. This misses the point of what I'm trying to do.

I inhabit my body every hour of the day, every day of the week. I can see it and I can feel it at any time. Not just at 8 am on Sundays. Not only immediately after exercise when my water weight bloat is at its lowest and my muscles are at their most rippling. My goal is not to present only the most flattering data sets or a successful trend. I want to be happy with myself all the time, not just under the most favorable possible circumstances.

I'm documenting the struggle, not the result. This shit is hard. There's a journey of 1,000 miles between every Before and After photo, and I'll be goddamned if I gloss over a single step. Sometimes it hurts, and sometime it sucks, and sometimes I'm just doing it wrong and I need to try something else.

Failure and despair are waypoints on the road, avoided only by the very luckiest. I've visited them a few times in the months since I started all of this. For reasons I have not yet determined, this is the very first time I've put in this much effort and had absolutely no tangible result. Perhaps that's why it's more important for me to document it this time than any time previous. Maybe someone else who has given up (or never started) will be inspired to their own action and success, knowing that it's okay for the road to be rocky.

Maybe I'll keep that in mind, too.

Q414

The back end of this year has been pretty good to me.

For the first time, I earned a living wage while performing on stage.  The opera (at least, Chicago’s Lyric Opera Company) pays on multiple scales, and I was in the category that compensates for having skills above and beyond “wear this” and “stand there”.   

Because I performed with the Lyric, I joined a union.  I am now a member of the American Guild of Musical Artists, which means I have health insurance through my job just like a real-life adult. 

I got married.  A small ceremony in our living room was wonderful – there were only eight people in the room, including my Lady Love and I.  Because we handled it so small, we got to have it faster than if we’d planned a big production, and we got to do the whole thing cheaper than most people spend on invitations alone.

I got cast in a film.  It’s called Thrill Ride, and hopefully it’ll be released in a reasonable amount of time.  The story was written by the son of the director, who died from a brain tumor at the age of ten.  This film is not only a father’s way to remember his lost son, but funds from the movie are going to research the rare disease the boy had.  To be asked to help tell his final story is an unique kind of honor.

Because I’ve had enough on-camera success lately, I joined another union.  I’m now a member of the Screen Actor’s Guild / American Federation of Television and Radio Artists, which means I’m now permitted to swim in a larger pool.  I’ve succeeded in this industry to the point I now have people looking out to ensure a minimum standard for my work and compensation.  This is finally starting to look more like a career than a hobby.

I got an extremely part-time job as a standardized patient with Rosalind Franklin University of Medicine and Science.  It pays well and it’s honorable.  I’m not a healer, but this work helps me to train future medical professionals to practice empathy and professionalism.  Hopefully I’m helping doctors to not just heal their patients, but allow them to feel respected and cared for. 

I got cast in a role that has nothing to do with my physicality, but rather because of my talent – Akvavit Theatre’s Blue Planet.  The majority of roles I’m asked to audition for are named things like Tall Man or Burly Guy.  There’s usually a height requirement.  Of course I should audition for those things, but I rarely get opportunities like this one where people ask me to analyze text or access vulnerable emotions like I practiced doing for three years in graduate school.

Most recently, I finally got to actually sit down and watch a production of A Klingon Christmas Carol instead of immersing myself in performing it.  It was pretty neat to know the show so well I didn’t have to read the translated supertitles.

These things have come together to remind me of a few important lessons.  Whether for love or for money, the things that come into my life won’t stay, but neither will they stay gone.  Success is not linear, and failure is not permanent.

Now I bet if I can lose five pounds before the year is out, I can lose the next fifty, too.

Anvils and Gravy

On the one hand, you can say that my buddy Josh and I picked the perfect night to see a play.  Not just because the show itself (an adaptation of the novel Monstrous Regiment) was good.  The play was, in fact, awesome.  But who should be seated in front of us but our former stage combat teacher?  Who would then invite us to an audition he’d be holding early the next week? 

My response to just about any audition invitation is Why not, man.  Get out there.  I’m at a point in my career that I audition for just about anything as long as it pays more than zero dollars (or not, depending upon the time commitment).  The size of the job does not correlate to the amount of dignity, respect, and effort I put into my work, therefore I don’t spend much time in awe over any single gig’s career advancement probability or paycheck potential.  Maybe later I’ll be important enough to be discerning.  Until I have the power to say no to a project, all jobs are equal.

That being said, Nick Sandys is not just one of the best known fight choreographers in Chicago, he’s also been known to compete against himself for Best Actor in multiple productions in the same year, and is the Producing Artistic Director of one of the most acclaimed theatre companies in the city.  So yeah, I follow Nick’s suggestions with the same level of consideration I’d give to a crispy firefighter who’d suddenly found his way into my smoky bedroom at 3am.

Nick and I exchanged emails the following day, and a few evenings later I found myself with about fifty other guys in the canteen of the Civic Opera House, a building I hadn’t been to since my graduation more than two years prior.  I was wearing clothes I could easily move in, chatting with Josh, waiting our turn to “move around and do a combination w/ [Nick], maybe some drumming” which is the totality of what I’d been told to prepare. 

Sure enough, we learned and executed a short (intentionally sloppy) fight sequence, then spent some time proving just how unqualified we were to simultaneously march and clap in a given syncopated rhythm.  Then we took turns clapping either in time or wildly out of time with one another, each according to his inability.  Okay, it wasn’t all bad, but the memories of two men working together to make the precise tick! tock! tick! tock! of a grandfather clock don’t stand out as much as the sound of two other men who worked together as well as a brick being introduced to a blender.

A few days later I was emailed a callback notice from a man whose job title is Super Captain, which is so badass I had to sit down for a minute and absorb that.  I finally learned the name of the play I was auditioning for.  Perhaps I should have been paying more attention, asked more questions.  Perhaps it wouldn’t have mattered.  Anyway, when I looked up the key words “anvil” and “Trovatore” I found a video on YouTube which was, as I’d later learn, The Met’s remount of the production I was now auditioning for, which had originated in Chicago.  

More important was the revelation that I was going to be judged on my ability to play the anvil for the famous Anvil Chorus.  Yes, it’s famous.  Yes, you know it, whether or not you know you know it.  Go ahead and look it up, but I’ll save you a bit of time and let you know there doesn’t seem to be a version with Bugs Bunny, which remains the only disappointment in this whole venture.  Well , that and the fact that our man Bill dresses not at all like the Super Captain I get on a Google Image search result.

I acknowledge that women have it worse, but I also have the opportunity to feel inadequate when comparing my physique with that of other men.  By no means am I a small man, but compared to the guys in the video (and this particular audition room) I’m downright frumpy.  The doughy calzone to their lean cuts of beef.  The plush cushion to their wood-carved furniture.  They have abs like cheese graters.  I have abs like a cheese eater.  As far as I can tell, I’m the only one who hasn’t engaged in conversation over the merits of various types of bench press. 

But I can keep a beat while slinging a three foot long sledgehammer.

So now I get to perform the signature element of one of history’s most iconic pieces of music to a potential audience of 3,500 people – all while earning a living wage. 

One could accurately say that Josh and I got this gig by chance.  Once we were cast we even talked about how lucky it was we picked that night to go to the show, how fortunate we were to have been assigned seats right next to Nick, how serendipitous that we were available to audition on short notice.  If just one of these elements had been different, we wouldn’t have this opportunity.  All of this is true.

But we also got this gig because we goddamn earned it.  We didn’t just earn it at the audition, either.  We earned it by working with Nick for years in graduate school.  We earned it by keeping our skill set high and our professional reputations clean.   We earned it by being reliable, and by being charming as hell.  We earned it through years of trying.

We won the lottery by buying tickets.  Lots and lots of tickets.

Gigs don’t last long in this world.  Never more than a few months, and that’s only for stage productions.  On camera work is likely to last only a few days, and something for the radio might take as long as an afternoon.  Auditions, therefore, happen a dozen or more times a month, and if you have a success rate of ten percent, you’re doing a hell of a lot better than I am. 

As far as I can tell, there’s never any such thing as having made it in this career.  I’ll never get to relax, never get a single piece of work without having to prove myself all over again to someone new.  Anything I get will begin and end in less time than it takes the leaves to change.  And work doesn’t show up simply because I deserve it, and it doesn’t care whether or not I’ve earned it, or that it’s my turn, or how many times over I’ve paid my dues.  The world owes me nothing, and if I’m not consistently pressing myself into service, then I won’t be ready for the bigger opportunities when they rear their heads.  This is why every gig tastes like a mixture of chocolate and ashes.

But from now until Thanksgiving, it’s all gravy.

And anvils.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QZN01_pAxro