Why Joining A Gym Will Make Me Fat

It's a semi-little known secret that once upon a time not so many years ago I weighed just slightly over 200 pounds. At a height of five foot nine inches tall, this weight would fall under an 'obese' rating on most BMI (Body Mass Index) scales. I should disclaim that this weight was the absolute highest weight I ever weighed myself at, and it is very likely that it was not an entirely accurate measurement. Ideally, I imagine that my actual weight was somewhere in the realm of 210 to 215 pounds. Obviously this is nothing to scoff at, but I am attempting to acknowledge the discrepancy. Of course, this is not the reason that I'm writing today. The truth of the matter is that over the course of about a year and a half I was able to lose roughly eighty pounds, lowering my weight to a range of anywhere from 135 to 145 pounds. This range continues to be my average currently, and the maintenance thereof a conscious effort in my day-to-day routine.

For the first time in almost five years I find that delicate struggle to maintain a healthy weight and healthy practices in jeopardy and tonight while I mercilessly packed away sugary snack after sugary snack, I deduced precisely the culprit -- joining a gym. Let it be clear that for the better part of four years, exercise has been a key facet of my lifestyle. Whenever possible, I have made an effort to run at least two miles a day. Additionally, I throw in a moderate number of push-ups and sit-ups whenever and wherever possible. The important thing to note in this is that while running is important to keeping my weight low, diet and portion sizes have been tantamount not only to the initial loss of weight but the sustained maintenance over time. The reason portion size and the particulars of my diet are so essential lies within the admission that while I now have what many would consider a slender build, at heart food is an overriding passion. Whereas a normal human being will eat that which they find tasty and subsequently stop when they feel full, I find myself eating for the pleasure derived from the flavors and diversity available at any given time. In simpler terms; I'm a fat kid at heart.

As many former "fat kids" can attest, the paranoia that one day they could return to their robust glory is almost enough to stem all the bad habits and tendencies towards excess they may otherwise indulge. I would happily count myself among this demographic, and while I will not claim that my life is any happier than it was when I was overweight, I will admit a powerful urge to not revert to such a state. This past January, I took it upon myself to enroll at the local YMCA in an attempt to continue running and exercising regularly in the usually dormant winter months. Having never been a proper member of a legitimate fitness center since my newfound embracing of a healthier lifestyle, I assumed that having easy access to a fitness establishment would push my exercise routine to untold heights. The truth, as it were, is a much more complicated affair.

I refer now back to the idea that one of the motivating factors in remaining in shape after years of being otherwise is a fear of going back. Regularly going to a gym is a unique experience. The rush and satisfaction of pushing your body's limits and getting stronger and more fit is second to almost none in the list of life's personal accomplishments. The more time and effort put into a gym, though, the more you begin to feel impervious. Thus was the case as far as I am concerned. As the first months of increased physical exercise came to a close, a new feeling of security washed over me. I must be clear that 'security' as I use it here is not meant in a safe and comforting manner equal to the security felt surrounded by loved ones. Instead, this 'security' was one in which the idea that I could ever return to being out of shape seemed an impossibility to me. Truthfully, with the amount of exercise I do on a normal trip to the gym the idea is almost justified. Almost any amount of regular food intake should plausibly be burned away under the rigors of a strenuous workout. The problem of course is twofold. Firstly, it would be unwise to assume that a moderate amount of exercise is excuse enough to stop avoiding sugary snacks or foods containing loads of empty calories that the body cannot properly utilize. Secondly, it would seem I had forgotten the fact that without the focus of concern of the things I ate, I subconcsiously began eating whatever I felt like. Essentially, the gym became my excuse to eat whatever, whenever I wanted.

And so I find myself at a crossroads. I am nowhere near what any rational mind would consider "out of shape", yet I have a weary mind towards the prospect I'm slowly losing the temperance with myself necessary to keep my less desirable habits in check. I do acknowledge the fact that since joining the gym my own fitness level has steadily risen, but it is at the cost of judicious eating habits. And so I find myself wondering if there are others out there with the same predicament. Every day I see people at the gym who are slightly on the heavier side, who seem to push themselves even harder than I do and yet week after week I observe no differences in them. Of course, this is complete conjecture on my part and for all I know the differences are vast yet imperceptible to me due to frequent exposure. Regardless, for the first time in four years I find myself asking if heightened physical activity is the best course of action. Is it possible that memberships to fitness establishments in general carry an air of freedom to ignore otherwise unhealthy habits? Does the knowledge that one belongs to an overwhelmingly identifiable bastion of health cast a blind gaze towards the fact all other outlets of one's life are the opposite? I am personally puzzled by the thought and while I do not yet have the answer, I hope that somehow the mere fact I can rationalize the thought is a sign that I am that much closer to an answer.

Consider for a moment instances in your own life in which you purposefully do something that should represent something overwhelmingly positive in order to justify a much more damaging and negative behavior? Personally I think it's a sign of the human condition and our ability to sabotage ourselves without even knowing it. It goes a long way towards informing personal insight, regardless of how it manifests in your life.

Review: Paris, J'etaime... Oh, and You Too New York

I've been neglecting discussing media here lately, but that is not to say I haven't been seeing a lot of it. Unfortunately, when you wait so long to discuss something, the topics really stack up. Therefore, I will review two movies here and endeavor to cover the rest in a future post.

I heard about New York, I Love You about a month ago through the vast Internet and I was immediately intrigued. The premise behind this film is that it is actually a series of short, yet in some way interconnected, vignettes that in some way deal with love. Each short is directed by another person as well as stars some relatively big name in the world of acting. Obviously the bigger connective tissue here is that each story takes place within the backdrop of New York City. The stories in New York, I Love You range from intimate conversations between two people to slightly dream-like sequences that cover a more ambiguous aspect of love. A good portion of these stories are comical or have unexpected twists. I imagine this is a byproduct of two things. The first of which is that love and the pursuit of love are often laced with comedy, embarrassment, or misunderstanding. The second reason for their inclusion probably owes to the format of a short story. Under these confines, a director would be implored to do something to engage the viewer in a short time and leave a lasting impression.

New York, I Love You has more or less solid performances from the entire cast which ranges anywhere from Hayden Christiansen and Rachel Bilson to Shia Lebouf, Anton Yelchin, Bradley Cooper, Orlando Bloom, Christina Ricci, Ethan Hawke, Blake Lively and, my personal favorite, Natalie Portman. This list barely scratches the surface of talent in this movie, so if you're a fan of even one of these actors you will find some performance to like in this film. The main strength of each performance largely lies in the fact that they play it straight. No one's attempting to do any acting acrobatics here (with maybe the exception of Shia Lebouf), and it gives the film a very genuine feel that makes each tale that much more engaging. It also helps that none of the stories involved in this project drag or bore. Each one is distinct and different enough that you won't find yourself anxious for the next segment to begin.

The movie only benefits from being filmed intimately in New York City. Many of the scenes and venues are places that are often glossed over in classical portrayals of the Big Apple, and it makes everything seem that much more special. While the previous statement holds true, I also feel like to some extent the movie could have been filmed in any city and been the same. Perhaps the point is that these stories don't try and blatantly showcase NYC, but as a backdrop a more rich tapestry to paint against cannot be found. If I had one complaint about the film, and this complaint only becomes visible when juxtaposed with it's predecessor Paris, J'etaime (which I'm about to review!); it would have to be the fact that each vignette for the most part focuses on romantic love between two people. There are a handful of films attempting to stretch themselves into more introspective territory, but on the whole New York, I Love You is a movie about falling in love or being in love. Besides that minor gripe, the film ends with a story about an elderly couple that, unless you're emotionally dead inside, will tug at a heart string or two and reminds us that love is difficult, it's hard, it's funny, and it's enduring. I think that's a good message to leave an audience.

Paris, J'etaime is a movie I've been dancing around seeing for about eight months now. Torn between the impulse to see it because it sounded interesting and a general lack of want to go and seek the movie out, having seen New York, I Love You essentially cemented my resolve to see the original.

Right from the start, it's clear that Paris, J'etaime contains directors and short stories that are much more willing to traverse the subtle and sometimes bizarre in an attempt to examine love. Without spoiling any of the stories, I was most taken aback by a story about a martial artist beautician, a story about a vampire and its lovesick victim, and a story about the ghost of Orson Welles. Unlike its sequel, this film also has more stories dealing with love of other kinds. Off the top of my head I can cite the story of a grieving mother who is having trouble accepting the loss of her son and has a very surreal dream featuring Willem Defoe as a cowboy. The wonderful thing about Paris, J'etaime is that all of these high concepts pay off beautifully and never feel silly or forced. Each increasingly bizarre scenario only lends itself to a greater metaphor about love. Of course, there are an ample amount of straightforward short stories that entertain and surprise in more direct ways.

While this film also has a number of famous actors including Elijah Wood, Steve Buscemi, and Natalie Portman (again) I feel that Paris, J'etaime contains a much more recognizable list of directors behind the cameras. This fact perhaps explains the more lofty heights that some of the stories contained reach. This film also showcases its titular city in a much more connected way. Each venue chosen for each film feels like it supplements the story being told, as opposed to being a simple backdrop. If there is one complaint about his film, it would arise from the same juxtaposition with its sequel. While New York, I Love You from time to time either swaps scenes or characters between vignettes lending to a more connected and somehow meaningful throughline, Paris, J'etaime only decides to tie all its stories together in the last two minutes of the film. While the effect here is similar, somehow by subtly implying the connections the sequel leaves the viewer with a greater satisfaction at the deft weaving together of otherwise disparate plotlines. While New York, I Love You reminds us that love can be many things from confusing to hilarious, Paris, J'etaime demonstrates that love has no bounds and that its scope is endless in the span of a human lifetime. This sentiment alone is worth the price of admission.