Day 35 My Broken Baby Arm and Self-Control Freak

Day 35

My Broken Baby Arm and Self-Control Freak

I posted a picture blog today on my myspace page (myspace.com/comedyboy) and I must say it wasn't an easy thing to do. The picture of me putting a cake on the table was the hardest to see. Oh, and the one where you can't see my ears...hated that one too. In fact, the only pictures I cared for was the baby picture and the picture of me slightly older. We just don't see ourselves as others do. That is until we're shown a picture, look in the mirror, or walk past a plate glass window. Pictures are the worst because they are brutally honest. You can jump away from a mirror or reflection, but a picture just keeps on showing you what everyone else sees. Have you ever been in a room where one wall is just a big mirror? I hate those rooms! Those rooms make the room AND me look bigger. And you'll find them mostly at gyms and other workout facilities. I know those mirrored walls are suppose to say... “hey, look at you! You're doing great! Keep it up!”...All they say to me right now is “look at you, oh my...wow, you're really big, ya...why don't you not look at me anymore.” I've talked about this before in these pages. It's all about perspective. If I really looked the way I think I look I'd only have about 100 pounds to go. Stinkin' reality!

A really good motivator I've found is to always think about the possibilities once I get down to my goal. It's exciting to do, especially when you can see progress in that direction. I plan on getting my right arm broken and re-set. You read me right, I'm going to elect to have my right arm broken and then re-set. Why? Well, the story has been told many times to people around me, to the point of becoming a punch line. “I was born with a broken arm” was a realization I didn't discover until I was 19 or 20. I knew it effected me my entire childhood, but I didn't know why. To fully understand we have to go back to my delivery and first few days in the world. When I was born I was a big baby and my mother has always been small framed. At 4'11” her ideal weight is slightly more than 100 pounds. So, perhaps it was a difficult delivery, maybe. All I know is my right arm wouldn't move, something was wrong with it, and the doctors decided it was lame. They decided that the muscles in my right arm were not developed enough to enable movement, so they sent me home with mom and the instructions to exercise my little arm everyday. She didn't realize at the time that my arm was actually broken. So don't feel bad at all about this mom! You were just doing what the doctor told you to do! Anyway, I doubt it was that painful anyway, because a baby's bones are soft, cartilage like at birth, or so I've been told. It took six months for me to finally move my little right arm, and eventually the bones fused together. They just didn't heal right. So, I can't turn my right arm over all the way. I carry my plate on top of my hand, I'm ambidextrous, I do most things with my left hand. Too bad I don't throw left handed, because throwing right handed always was a bad thing. In little league baseball the coaches made everybody try out for pitcher. When it was my turn I barely got the ball to home plate. When I was in the 8th grade I can remember trying to bench press for the first time and having the bar and weights completely tilt to the right because I didn't have any right arm strength. It's really weird, but most times I don't even miss it. It's still there hanging by my side, but that's all it does most times. My cousin Steve probably remembers playing catch with me and wondering why I was so weak. Broken arm—healed wrong. We're going to get that fixed! Maybe when I get it fixed, it'll become super powerful, and I'll be able to throw accurate 100 mile per hour fastballs, then at 37 I'll sign a Major League contract, and then...Oh wait, that sounds like a Disney movie. Sorry, I was dreaming for a second. I do feel it's important to fix so I can truly maximize my fitness someday.

Amber left this evening to go back to school. Fall break flew by way too fast! We enjoyed the time we had with her and her boyfriend KL. It was a very different visit food wise. Normally we would have gone to a restaurant at least twice in the five days. A Chinese buffet and J.W. Cobbs Family Restaurant would have been a good bet. But we didn't do either place. I feel like we took the focus off of food for once. Oh sure, we had the lasagna meal and the big cookout, but none of us over did it. And we were still happy and satisfied! It's amazing how wonderful it feels to know that you are in control. Deep down I'm really a self-control freak. I know that sounds absurd coming from someone who's tipped the scales above 500 pounds, but it's really true. That's why I rarely drink (if I do it better have whipped cream and a cherry on top—yes, I prefer the “girly drinks”) and I've never done drugs (tried them once or twice-hated them). I don't like the feeling of being out of control. Some might say, “really? What do you call your eating habits for the last two decades?” Good point. But that's food, and it's real easy to blur the line between “a healthy appetite” and “a serious addiction.” Some people pride themselves on being a “big eater”. The statement “I once ate two large pizzas by myself” isn't a food addict admitting a problem, it's someone proudly proclaiming the feat. What's crazy is that sometimes those same proud “big eaters” are the slimmest and trimmest people we know. And we hate them. Not really. Envy maybe, not hate, that's a strong word. I'm applying the same self-control that's always come natural with alcohol and drugs and I'm applying it to food. Because I've treated food like a drug. That line I wrote in a previous blog about being in an alley behind a convenience store with a pint of Blue Bell and a plastic spoon, I've really done that! Every time I would buy one and they would put it in a brown paper bag, I couldn't help but notice the similarities to buying liquor. Hello, my name is Sean, and I'm a food-a-holic. Recovered alcoholics don't drink, not even one sip. But everyone has to eat to live. And as I've said before, we just have to not live to eat. I think the more we understand our behaviors and the more we understand normal portions, the easier it becomes. I've armed myself with two decades of trial and error. I'm ready to beat this addiction like a three egg omelet with onions and peppers and melted cheese and ham and...Oh, sorry about that. I better get some rest. Good night and...

Good Choices,
Sean