Events of globally seismic proportions echo throughout history, vivid in memory or lucid in theory, actually or hypothetically occurring both naturally (apart from human causal activity) and synthetically (resulting directly from human causation, whether deliberate or not). Disastrous or wondrous, with their ultimate impact foreseeable or not as they occurred, such events are indexical (causal) signs of their times that stand for tectonic shifts in the course of natural or human history – usually both.

Examples: world wars (I, II, and counting), scientific theories (relativity, quantum mechanics, and counting), technological advances (printing press, assembly lines for mass production, communications media, computers, internet and web), assassinations (Lincoln, Kennedys, King, and counting), financial booms and bubbles, major recessions and depressions, and natural phenomena (comet impacts, floods and tsunamis, volcanic eruptions, etc.). Air, soil, and water pollution, global warming, … and counting.

This post focuses on recent financial events and their evolving impact and effects, and the extent to which they qualify as being that kind of ‘world-(re)shaping’ event or not.

The precursor event was the near-collapse of the US and world financial system in 2008, the effects of which are still very palpable and continuing to unfold. Supposedly, actual collapse was averted by the intervention of the US government and the financial industry’s leading institutions – all at the multi-trillion dollar expense of US taxpayers for generations to come. The linchpin at the center of that debacle was a little-known abstruse financial instrument, the ‘credit default swap (CDS)‘.

A CDS is essentially a set of transactions through which an owner or holder of debt (the ‘CDS buyer’) insures against debt default by paying another party (the ‘CDS seller’) to assume that risk, i.e., in exchange for mutually agreed-upon premium payments, the CDS seller agrees to pay the (mutually agreed-upon) cost of debt default, if and when it occurs, to the CDS buyer.

In theory, if the debt default does not occur the CDS buyer transferred the risk that it might have at the expense of the CDS premiums paid to the CDS seller (for whom those premiums qualify as income and profit). If the debt default does occur, the CDS buyer avoids that loss and pays only the premium expenses, while the CDS seller must absorb the cost the default payable to the CDS buyer (where it is assumed the CDS seller will incur significant losses inasmuch as the debt default cost is likely to far exceed the total of premiums received from the CDS buyer).

In fact, the financial disaster of 2008 resulted in the ongoing ‘Great Recession’ dominating our world today, largely due to debt associated with another family of also little-known and equally (or more) abstruse financial instruments known as ‘collateralized debt obligations (CDOs)‘ in general, and ‘collateralized mortgage obligations (CMOs)‘ as a type of ’mortgage-backed securities (MBSs)‘, in particular. Put simply, the 2008 disaster occurred because regulatory and rating agencies totally failed (or deliberately corrupted) their fiduciary oversight responsibilities, allowing a small group of the world’s largest financial institutions to simultaneously, among themselves, and (one assumes) collaboratively (a) buy and hold debt in the form of MBS CMOs, (b) buy and sell CDOs to offset their MBS CMO risk, and (c) further short-trade their positions in an extremely risky, volatile, and multi-trillion dollar derivates market based on these financial instruments.

This nefarious tower of paper crashed and burned when homeowners began to default on their mortgages at an accelerating rate, having been sold debt for which they clearly did not qualify nor possess anywhere near the financial means to repay. Clear victims of the ruthlessly predatory subprime lending that erupted specifically to fuel the exploding markets in MBS CMOs and their CDOs, and their derivatives, which were yielding profits in hundreds or thousands of percentages.  The 2010 Oscar-winning documentary, “Inside Job“, reports this disaster with remarkable clarity and objectivity. Michael Lewis’ book, The Big Short, tells the story from an insider’s view, as seen by the few renegade traders who saw it coming and reaped hundreds of millions by shorting that housing bubble.

Michael Burry and John Paulson (not related to Treasury Secretary Henry Paulson) are the most notable of those traders perhaps – Burry gained about $250 million, Paulson at least $3.5 billion. Paulson subsequently earned another $3.1 billion on gold investments during 2010-11, and has an estimated net worth of about $16 Billion, placing him at #39 on Forbes’ 2011 list of the world’s wealthiest people.

Burry, Paulson and few others are apparently blessed with outlier financial prescience – an astonishing ‘tip-of-the-long-tail-of-normal-or-Gaussian-distribution7-sigma ability to have foreseen inevitable causal outcomes of Wall Street banksters’ behavior in those markets. They saw the same signs everyone else saw at the time, but they alone accurately perceived the true indexical (causal) effects those signs ultimately would have. The other 99.9999% of their peers deluded themselves into an exactly opposite – and inversely false – belief that the financial world they were in was not a bubble at all, but a new reality of infinite (and obscene) profitability.

Sadly, I am no such outlier – certainly not to that telepathic extent. In answer to prayer, however, I was blessed with foresight in the summer of 2008 that led me along a similar path to some financial success, admittedly many orders of magnitude less lucrative, but no less interesting – and ongoing. But that’s another story.

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This blog is often abstruse and deliberately esoteric (some may too hastily think elitist), but nonetheless universal in scope and vibrant when grasped (or so the blogger likes to think), as all worthwhile philosophical metalogue will be. The blogger is a (mostly) sapient being and career technologist (by practical default) who befriends few, offends many, and alienates most, it seems, due to chronic impatience and acute intolerance in coping with the crawling grind and inevitable exsanguination of most human interrelation - who loves you nonetheless despite those contrary behaviors and misanthropic sins.

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The blogger neither accepts nor assumes any responsibility whatsoever for any financial or other actions readers may or may not take based on their reading and/or interpretation of the contents of this blog as presented here or distributed or referred to by any 3rd parties. I am solely and exclusively responsible for myself and myself alone and nothing said is to be in any way construed or interpreted as form of endorsement, advice, recommendation, or other guidance in any other parties’ thoughts, actions, words, or deeds. Readers are therefore cautioned to act on the contents this blog either not at all or at their own peril accepting full responsibility for their actions and in no way holding this blog nor its author liable, legally, morally, financially, or otherwise.

A distant cousin recently befriended on facebook, connected via a dear aunt of mine, just posted a yellowed and faded lo-res smalltown daily news photo of me as a high-school sophomore, escorting a good friend and classmate who’d most deservedly been named Homecoming Queen. The fact that she actually achieved that honor as a sophomore over formidable juniors and seniors proved not only the beauty of her appearance but moreso that of her character, heart, and spirit as well.

My memory of that particular event is dim at best, and wouldn’t exist at all but for that photo turning up nearly 50 years later. But seeing the photo did stir an old and familiar memory of those times … not quite sure why I share it here and now, but that’s what blogs are for, eh?

As I recall, the highlights of this particular celebratory evening were the annual student art show and auction in the halls and auditorium, followed by distribution of senior class rings during a sodas-and-snacks gathering (coffee and tea for the adults) in the library. Many details and much of the sequence of the event are forgotten, yet the event remains logged and lodged in memory.

Everyone’s yearbooks had been selectively circulated among friends and idols, faculty and fellows, for autographs accompanying the usual juvenile doggerel, belligerent barbs, and sweetheart sentiments. As Mr. Popularity (which puzzles me still), star (swimmer/diver) athlete, promising math, art, theater, and writing student, I appeared in many solo and group photos,  perennial poses and spontaneous snaps alike. Several pages held heartfelt accolades, encouraging predictions, and friendly jibes. An entire page in the back held my steady girl’s romantic tribute to ‘us’. I truly cherished that yearbook, especially for those personal sentiments, of course, as every graduate surely does. I like to think my scribbles in others’ annuals held similar value and meaning for them as theirs did for me, but I wonder.

For the art show and auction I had labored painstakingly for many weeks on a realistic small poster-sized pencil rendering of Michelangelo’s Pietà. Learning that the master sculptor had chosen a fine translucent pale green marble from the Carrara quarries in the Apuan Alps of Tuscany (which still operate today), I used a sheet of heavy pastel paper in a similar color for the work. If I saw the drawing today, it probably wouldn’t live up to my memory of how good it was, but I vividly remember doing the work, struggling especially with contrasting the transcendent grief and grace in Mary’s eyes and the lifelessness in Jesus’ (despite my adolescent agnosticism). Seeing the frozen miracle Michelangelo’s actual life-sized work months later in Rome, I realized just how far I’d missed that mark. Yet savory scents of pastel dust, ebony pencils and drafting leads, kneaded, art gum, and ruby erasers rise with this memory every time.

The drawing took a blue ribbon in the show. I remember thinking I didn’t stand a chance against my best friend’s life-size sculpture (done in styrofoam covered in auto body putty and spray-painted bronze and black – how innovative!) of a man rising from a seated position, hand outstretched. But we both took blue – in different categories (sculpture and drawing). previous year we had taken first place together at the state drama competition with a duo performance of selected scenes from Murray Schisgal’s “Luv”. It was the first acting I’d ever done, though my friend was considerably more seasoned (he won best actor for the entire competition).

As the show and judging closed with winners announced, I left my sport jacket, yearbook, and other personals at the table with the drawing (blue ribbon affixed) to join everyone else in the auditorium for the auction, curious to see how it would go.

Dutifully yet nonetheless proudly, my parents won the bidding for my drawing. Bids were competitive in a friendly way, as everyone wanted them to have it – but at a price that at least acknowledged the workmanship, such as it was. Their winning bid was $50 and my steady girl’s mother was their stiffest competition … $50 doesn’t seem much today, but inflation-adjusted to 2010, about $325 dollars. They were my parents, after all, but that didn’t diminish the delight of the moment for anyone – and I certainly relished being among the highest bids of the auction. But better things lay ahead … I fidgeted in my seat as the auction dragged on, eager to get to the library and seize my senior ring at last, then rush to offer it to my steady girl (certain, of course, that she’d been happily awaiting that moment).

The party in the library was enjoyed by all and gave the evening exactly what everyone hoped – the pinnacle of the event that would fade gradually, sweetly, as families and dating couples leisurely wandered away. After bestowing the ring on my steady, we parted for the evening and joined our parents. Headed for home, my parents and I headed back to the table to retrieve the drawing, the ribbon, the yearbook, and the other things.

The drawing, the ribbon, and the yearbook … gone. Hasty inquiries quickly ended in shrugged shoulders, sincere utterances of sympathetic concern, but ultimately, in complete mystery.

I don’t recall being angry; but surely I was. My parents, if angry, didn’t show it then or later in private – at least not in my presence. The next day, in unspoken agreement, we put the loss behind us. In a few days more, no one at school mentioned it or seemed to think of it, and the theft seemed casually and easily forgotten. By graduation day a week or two later it was, by all appearances, forgotten by all, including my steady girl and our families. In the several decades since, however, the unsolved mystery and the lingering sadness of that evening’s loss have surfaced occasionally, perhaps a half dozen times, as one of many vignettes in the no doubt self-serving nostalgic gestalt of my youth.

Mixed emotions always accompany the memory of that evening, of course. I’m pleased to say the initial bitterness, anger, and resentment never resurfaced, and I honestly don’t recall them being intense or dominant at the time, compared to the pure puzzlement of it all. What emerges with the memory of it now is a melancholy brew of wonder about … who? Why? Have they thought of it since? Do they now? Did they ritualistically trash or burn the items? Surely it was a juvenile personal (albeit anonymous) attack of some sort. Does it prick their conscience a bit now, just as the mystery pricks my curiosity? Pardon the pun, but was I that much of a prick in my youth to invite and deserve such attacks? Probably so. Lord knows I was often unbearably self-overinflated, and can get there all too easily these days, without a good wife and daughters to keep me grounded (if not actually humble).

The greatest effect of this memory now is its resonance with the beauty of my parents’ love for me. Most of all, I cherish those two shining souls, gone now for twenty years and more, for gifting me with freedom from being overly attached to mere things like labor-of-love drawings and yearbooks filled with precious sentiments and poignant images, and I find I’m more than a little ashamed that I haven’t lived a life since that evening that fulfills the love, hopes, and dreams they poured into that particular freedom and the countless others they lavished upon me every day of their lives.

With mixed feelings I’ve suspended my swimming regimen of several sets of 2,500yds or meters per set, usually 4-5 sets per week or more. Two reasons: a lingering flu/cold which makes water workouts difficult (restricted breathing), and wanted to see how 63×63 would go without benefit of that exercise. MediFasting, could I match or exceed the same weight loss I’d previously achieved just by swimming without changing my eating habit significantly?

Answer: looks like a ‘yes’. Haven’t been swimming since the MediFast started January 9th, and my weight today was 221.1. ‘Yes’ will be confirmed when my weight holds under 220 for at least 3 days.

When/if I reach a new low of 215 I’ll probably start swimming again just to make sure ketosis and the new metabolism are optimized. Bear in mind – I haven’t consistently weighed under 220 for at least 5 years. Much of my blubber is as old as my daughter (24).

[Speaking of whom: when she was about 3 or 4, to encourage a diet I was on, my wife put up a picture of a younger me with far more hair, much less weight, and actual lean and mean 6-pack, delts, and pecs - in short, a 30-something's decent swimmer's bod. One day I noticed my daughter intently staring up at that picture on the refrigerator door with a puzzled look. She caught me looking, did a couple of quick double-takes between the pic and me, then said, "Daddy, is that a picture of you when you were a baby?" Today she has a year-old daughter of her own with just as much or more brazen smarts. I'm already loving living out the adventure with them - and it's just getting started!]

But here’s another motivation: previously, I cherished those all-too-few wonderful moments when I’d seize my stroke and glide across the water like a solo scull vs. pushing through it like an overloaded barge. Those moments better, longer, and more frequent as my weight dropped. So I’m eager to test new aquadynamics at a lower weight – hopefully to discover a new and improved version of that rush. I may even wait ’til 210 or better, 200!

Obviously I’m starting to feel better about the MediFast results. Though it’s nonetheless the same cruel gruel.

14% of Americans (26% of Republicans, 6% of Democrats) apparently believe Barack Obama is the Antichrist. [Gallup poll, March 2011]

Do the math: over 200 million eligible voters (150 million registered) … so between 21  and 28 million people may actually be going through their days – right alongside you and me on the highway and everywhere else – holding (with clenched teeth and fists?) their core belief that the president of the US actually is the contemporary manifestation of an evil force several millennia old, fulfilling ancient Biblical prophecy on the threshold of Armageddon from his Oval office at 1600 Pennsylvania Avenue.

What must they think of anyone who voted for Obama? One shudders to suppose.

Is voting like choosing between death by firing squad vs. hanging, gas, electrocution, or lethal injection? Do those final outcomes differ by a difference that makes a difference? As if the sentence stands a chance of being pardoned or commuted either way?

From a doggerel protest song co-written with a dear friend during Iraqi-ww1:

VERSE:
Well they shot and killed the dream again in 1963.
In ’68 they killed two more for free.
But when all is said and done Uncle Sam still has the gun,
and the truth is buried deeper than the sea.
CHORUS:
If 10% is good enough for Jesus it oughta be good enough for Uncle Sam!
Yeah, If 10% is good enough for Jesus then it oughta be good enough for Uncle Sam!

You may think you can reliably infer my politics from this sophomoric lyric. You’d be wrong. And you’re not going to find out from this blog post either.

What I do believe is that the signs of our times indeed are of Biblical proportion: we are on the brink of exactly the sort of globalist elite world order Christ and all the prophets foretold. We turn blind eyes and deaf ears and closed minds to those signs while oxymoronically acting out our enslavement to that plutarchy and convincing ourselves that their rape of the planet and murder of all its species and our own consumerist gluttony really aren’t the two sides of the same coin of their global realm.

Who can blame us? Our language lost the ability to rationally articulate political reality long before Orwell predicted it would. It was gone before I penned the doggerel lyric above with my friend in the 80s. Yet we rage, rage against the dying of the light with the overwhelming and ridiculous hypocrisy that such quaint terms as ‘liberal’, ‘conservative’, ‘moderate’, ‘libertarian’, ‘Republican’, ‘Democrat’, ‘socialism’, ‘fascism’, and all the rest still have any connection, however surreal, to socioeconomic and political truth. In our time the ruins of Babel have transformed into a politically insane pseudo-language wherein we all act and pose (often with rabid intensity) as if we have privileged access to the truth of it, when in reality no truth whatsoever can be syntactically or semantically captured in language lacking any genuine sense and reference. Like money worldwide it is fiat currency standing for specific meaning and truth value that are always owed and never delivered but universally taken for granted.

The cacophonic nonsensical sounds we make in this charade of meaningful dialogue nonetheless yields a hypnotically subliminal chaos – certainly evil in nature – that enthralls us ironically with ourselves, such that we live out our vain lives in a death march that we perceive as a circus and military parade in honor of our own personal fun and patriotic glory. As if glib banter, sanctimony, and puffed-up quasi-patriotism driving superheated political mockrage were the stuff of rational discourse. Is the terror of the underlying truth so pure as that?

Whether this cycle of evil is at last the final rough beast slouching toward Bethlehem and Armageddon remains to be seen. Hasten the day, I pray, just as Jesus tells me. Is there any truth greater than blood? Especially His?

Other than that, Jackie, how was Dallas? [Or LA, Ethel? Or Memphis, Coretta?]

You may think you can reliably infer my politics from this brief commentary. But you’d be wrong. We don’t access a language sufficient for the message.

I beg you nonetheless: listen with new ears and hear that still, black, semantic void next time. Then look with new eyes at the circus and the parade. Finally, alone, gaze into your own eyes in a mirror when your next political thought or feeling surfaces and see if that same void isn’t lurking and smirking in the darkness of the heart that used to be yours but is now marching to the cadence of an unholy other drummer. Break the spell. You may discover your own true rage against the dying of the light, perhaps at last truly with liberty and justice for all.

[Please click "WARNING & DISCLAIMER" before reading.]

Anyone expecting to lose 30% of their body weight and reduce BMI and body fat by 50% while still fully enjoying all their meals and snacks is delusional. When you’re that far gone, serious sacrifice of taste-bud pleasure and gastronomic delight will be required.

Anticipating my six-month 63×63 ordeal, I suffered no such delusions. But the reality of what MediFast markets as actual food still lives down to my lowest expectations.

Basically, each ‘meal’ is an incredibly overprocessed and absurdly overpriced ounce of powdery or compressed mystery stuff whose ingredients read more like a medical school chemistry experiment than anything resembling actual food. The actual experience of consuming the rehydrated goo raises military MREs to level of haute cuisine. Consider the sales soundbite and the requisite list of ingredients for what sells as oatmeal:

Medifast Oatmeal is delicious at breakfast or any other time. A piping hot bowl of Apple Cinnamon, Peach, Blueberry, or Maple & Brown Sugar Oatmeal warms you up and gives you energy, along with vital nutrients.

Kosher Dairy, Lactose Free, Caffeine Free, Heart Healthy, Vegetarian

Maple & Brown Sugar Oatmeal

Rolled oats, soy protein isolate, oat fiber, brown sugar, calcium phosphate, modified food starch, soy lecithin, potassium chloride, salt, natural & artificial flavors, maltodextrin, acesulfame potassium (non-nutritive sweetener), magnesium oxide, dl-methionine, sucrose, propylene glycol, ascorbic acid, ferric orthophosphate, dicalcium phosphate, d-l alpha tocopheryl acetate, niacinamide, zinc oxide, manganese sulfate, d-calcium pantothenate, copper sulfate, pyridoxine hydrochloride, vitamin A palmitate, riboflavin, thiamin mononitrate, chromium chloride, sodium molybdate, folic acid, biotin, potassium iodide, sodium selenite, vitamin K-1, vitamin D3, cyanocobalamin.

Contains: wheat and soy.

Despite what appears to be a wide variety of offerings, thus far I haven’t been able to find a significant difference in any of MediFast’s product ingredients. Medifasters pay $2.12 to $2.50 per (slightly more than) 1 oz serving for what probably costs 50 cents to produce, market, sell, and distribute per pound. I’m only guessing, of course, but if I’m even close MediFast’s profit margins may be the envy of everyone but petrosheikhs, kleptocrat banksters, and narco-terrorists.

OK – not really. If their profit margins were that great their market capitalization and stock price history would paint a different picture. As a multilevel marketing organization, however, I’d be surprised if the pharaohs at the top of that pyramid weren’t raking in the megabucks. In a separate post I’ll explore the corporate profile of MediFast in further detail.

Meanwhile I’ll keep inflicting myself with the cruel gruel I’ve served myself for this effort. No doubt others will wonder why I’m staying this course – other than the 63×63 goal itself. Why MediFast?

The answer is simple: where I work, I’ve seen at least half a dozen people who were much as I am – way past a little overweight into serious obesity, converging on type II diabetes and other complications of carrying 25% or more weight than their bodies were designed to bear. Each of them is now in a ‘maintenance’ stage of healthy body weight and have been for many months. They all got there with MediFast. So the simple answer is, from direct and personal observation, it clearly works … for them at least.

We’ll see if it works for me as well. All was going well for the first 8 days – lost an average of 1.9lbs/day with a total loss of 14.9lbs. Then on the 9th day (today), with no significant change in the diet, I suddenly gained 1.5lbs – nearly a full day’s setback. Needless to say, I’m curious to see what tomorrow’s result will be.

[Please click "WARNING & DISCLAIMER" before reading.]

Today’s Date: January 24, 2012

TARGET OUTCOME:
lose 63lbs by 63rd birthday on June 21, 2012 (63×63)

CUMULATIVE RESULTS:
Number of days on the diet: 15
Average daily weight loss: 1.2 lbs
Cumulative weight loss: 17.3 lbs

DAILY RECORD

Date Weight Loss/(Gain)
01/09/12 237.5
01/10/12 234.1 3.4
01/11/12 231.9 2.2
01/12/12 231.3 0.6
01/13/12 228.6 2.7
01/14/12 227.3 1.3
01/15/12 225.5 1.8
01/16/12 224.3 1.2
01/17/12 222.6 1.7
01/18/12 224.1 -1.5
01/19/12 222.8 1.3
01/20/12 221.1 1.7
01/21/12 222.6 -1.5
01/22/12 220.2 2.4
01/23/12 221.2 -1.0
01/24/12 220.2 1.0

WARNING: the author will NOT enter into arguments about or entertain alternatives to the MediFast diet. It isn’t that he is a fan or advocate nor believes MediFast is the only or the best – or especially the healthiest – approach to weight loss and management. The fact is that the decision has already been made for the purposes of this blog focus that MediFast is the program he will pursue. Comments from readers recommending other approaches or criticizing MediFast or other approaches, or the decision to use MediFast as such, are appreciated – but they will not appear on the blog nor will they receive any response. This focus is not about choosing the right program or critiquing the wrong ones. It’s about sharing the author’s experiences with MediFast in particular and weight loss in general as a personal journey.

MEDIFAST DISCLAIMER: Neither MediFast nor their subsidiaries (wholly owned subsidiaries include Jason Pharmaceuticals; Jason Properties; Jason Enterprises; Seven Crondall; and Take Shape for Life, Inc.) or affiliates – collectively referred to here as “MediFast” – exert any influence whatsoever regarding the contents of this blog. The author is not in any way paid, rewarded, or otherwise compensated for blogging about MediFast products, services, operations, or activities (also implied here in “MediFast”). Factual information is taken from MediFast’s corporate website or other public domain sources. Opinions expressed here are exclusively those of the author and are hereby copyrighted as such and they do not in any constitute any form of endorsement or recommendation of MediFast. The author assumes no personal, legal, or civil or criminal responsibility for others’ comments that may appear on the blog.

THE BLOGGER’S RESPONSIBILITY DISCLAIMER

The blogger neither accepts nor assumes any responsibility whatsoever for any financial or other actions readers may or may not take based on their reading and/or interpretation of the contents of this blog as presented here or distributed or referred to by any 3rd parties. I am solely and exclusively responsible for myself and myself alone and nothing said is to be in any way construed or interpreted as form of endorsement, advice, recommendation, or other guidance in any other parties’ thoughts, actions, words, or deeds. Readers are therefore cautioned to act on the contents this blog either not at all or at their own peril accepting full responsibility for their actions and in no way holding this blog nor its author liable, legally, morally, financially, or otherwise.

My athletic glory days in high school (apologies to the Boss) were in the pool. I was a fast freestyle sprinter (crawl) and dominant 1m diver. I must have had a gift for the aerial: I never hit the board, scored 7+ averages on forward 2-1/2 tuck, inward 1-1/2 pike, and front full twisting 1-1/2 as my best dives, and placed silver 2nd in our state competition in senior year, despite being 98% self-taught (never had an actual coach). I sucked on reverse and back dives, however … and I did get suckered by two diver teammates into seeing how many somersaults I could do in tuck position before I hit the water – which resulted in a bloody blob in the pool from ramming my knee into my nose on my way into a 3-1/2. Who knows what I might’ve achieved if a serious diving coach had found me (and I hadn’t been smoking 20 red-pack Marlboros a day)?

No regrets. Those endless hours in the pool and the air above it are among the fondest memories of youth … glory days at their best. After standing solo under all eyes in silence unmatched except on putting greens, nailing dive #5132 (2.2 degree of difficulty full twisting 1-1/2 somersault) and surfacing to see nothing but 10s and 9+s from the judges to win the event and clinch the meet  — that rush ranks right up there with the 10th inning grand slam, the overtime final-second mid-court nothing-but-air basket, the final play 50-yard Hail Mary diving end-zone catch to go out 6-0, and all the other moments of pure glory in sports.

I suppose I had the potential to be a dominant swimmer too. In our competition class I was also undefeated in the 50 free, until that senior-year state meet when the coach decided to punish me for all those Marlboros by pulling me from the 50 and putting me in the 100, where I burned out at 75 and humiliated myself by coming in last with a wheezing dog paddle. I still didn’t quit those death sticks for good until 20 years later. Still – even those unbroken strings of regular meet victories in the 50 and usually when anchoring the 200 medley didn’t hold a candle to the pure adrenalin of nailing those 2+ DoD dives every time it mattered and even when it didn’t.

Pushing Wake

Pushing Wake

These days, when I swim my regular 2,500yd or 2,500m crawl in 50-60 minutes alongside the aquayouth lapping me 3 or 4 to 2 in neighboring lanes, I can usually still seize my glide again for at least a few minutes and deliver a decent finishing sprint, despite ‘senior’ having a totally different meaning now and dragging 3 times my healthy BMI through the water. The glory is gone but brightly remembered … and who knows? What might I do if my 63×63 resolution is fulfilled? I can dream of Masters’ meets I suppose … even getting back on the board! But what are dreams worth if we don’t make them come true?

Stay tuned. We’ll see.

Becoming a weight loser has probably been among the top 10 New Year’s resolutions for as long as those lists have been created and tracked in all of their myriad versions and sources. Since I’ve been fat – seriously overweight – for at least the last 10 or 15 years, this year I made it my one and only resolution to become a serious loser.

This blog focus will be about my ’63 by 63′ goal: lose 63 pounds by my 63rd birthday. I’m 62 now and my 63rd birthday is June 21, 2012. I started a MediFast diet on January 9 (more on that later).

Motivations – this list will probably change but I’ll start with these:

  1. I want a longer, healthier life.
    In December 2007 a Vanderbilt physician informed me that I was morbidly obese at 265 lbs and in all likelihood would soon develop high(er) blood pressure, type II diabetes, heart problems, and much more. In short, I faced an increasingly debilitated life ending at least 10 years earlier than it should. I want to see my 1-year old granddaughter graduate at least from high school, if not college and maybe medical school – and i want to be able to walk in and stand and applaud with no physical limitations at all, and jump for joy with her in the courtyard after. And I want to dance with her, my daughter (her mother), and my wife at her wedding. And if I really get this right, I’d like to still be able to swim 2,500yds in under an hour. And I’d like to do a whole lot more from now until whenever God has set as my last day on earth – and all without physical struggle, weariness, or dependency.
  2. I want to feel and look a LOT better.
    I can’t get younger or regrow lost hair and on a good day I look a little like Jack Nicholson, if that qualifies as any kind of handsome. I can accept being a totally bald senior citizen and the old man in the mirror from the neck up. But it’s the fat slob from there down that has to go. It’s been so long since I could see my toes or genitals in the shower without sucking and/or tucking in my flab AND bending over that I stopped looking for them until I’m drying off. I detest the effort of dragging that blubber in and out of cars, up and down stairs, through all those laps in the pool … and the thought of being stuck in a coach middle seat on a flight of any duration spikes my blood pressure by at least 20%. With God’s help and grace we’ll transform this XXL-2XL 44″x30″ 18″x34″ tub of guts into a trim M-L 32″x30″ 16″x34″ aquatic machine doing 2,500m in 50 minutes. And I’ll look good enough doing it that my wife will worry about me catching her checking me out.
  3. I want to honor the temple of the Holy Spirit.
    Make no mistake – I am most ashamed of my obesity because it’s visible proof of my unwillingness and inability to honor God with the body and good health He’s blessed me with. Vanity, pride, and egotism are among my greater sins and oxymoronically they’ve persisted despite no longer having any basis whatsoever in my physical appearance. I have no excuses but I do have at least a ton of rationalizations and 100lbs of fat to prove it – NOT counting hundreds more lost and regained over 20 years of failed attempts. All past sins and failures aside, with all my heart, soul, mind, and strength, by His mercy and grace, I will strive to honor God with His living temple by restoring my physical being to beset of the potential with which He endowed it, for His glory – not mine.

This journey actually isn’t at its beginning, however. It started in earnest with that Vanderbilt physician in December of 2007. For New Year’s 2008, I committed to start swimming at least 3 times a week, for at least 45 minutes (more on swimming in the “Waterlog” focus). I’ve been 95% faithful to that commitment and now swim 2,500 yds in 50 minutes (+/- a minute or two) at least 3 times a week. I had dropped to a ‘personal best’ as a quasi-fit fat guy of 225 lbs and down to 42″x30″ pants, and Lord knows I felt 1000% better. But I hadn’t done a thing to change my eating habits. Until now.

And ‘habit’ is the word: I am a food addict. It undeniably fills emotional voids in my heart and soul and I will always argue that if chocolate isn’t a primary food group in heaven then I’m in the wrong place. I wander between gourmandism and gluttony and wonder even now how I’ll manage to give up culinary delights or junk food binges completely, or at best, enjoy them in full only rarely if ever again. So am I willing to abandon those lifelong appetites and delights (mostly if not entirely) in hopes of achieving 63×63 and fulfilling those noble motives above?

Yes.

Check (click) my 63×63 results.

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