The Naked Blogger

Cheese In Its Pre-Molten State

There Is An Inverse Relationship Between
The Quantity Of Cheese You Consume And
Your Willingness To See Yourself Naked

On Becoming Naked

At the end of this story, I’m naked and thinking of blogging. That’s subtly different to thinking of blogging while naked. For the record: I am not naked. Not now. But that’s how this story ends: me, naked, and thinking of blogging. Yes, I’m going there. And I’m taking you with me.

Along the way, there will be cheese. Oh yes, there will be cheese.

Driving the Long, Slow Road to Obesity

I’ve been quite slothful recently. I haven’t been blogging much. Or doing much. Certainly not exercising. A week ago – last Monday – I spent about half an hour cycling. I guess it was about half an hour. I was on my bike, definitely. In my garage. The bike was mounted on a training wheel. I cycled in place like a hamster in a wheel. That’s how I like it. It’s an intense workout. Much more exhausting than cycling on the road. No coasting: constant motion.

Tuesday, I did nothing. Let it be known I can walk to work in 25 minutes. I drove.

Wednesday, I did nothing.

Thursday, more nothing.

Friday, I did a positively shocking amount of nothing. And got a massage.

I was feeling the effects of doing so much of so little. I was noticing the difference as I shoe-horned myself into my clothes before going to work. This was not a happy scene. I was feeling a bit deflated over how inflated I’d become.

Saturday arrived. Naturally I had plans to get together with friends. For the purpose of eating. All socializing must involve food. I didn’t need food. I needed a personal trainer. But my friends weren’t offering a personal trainer. They were offering food. Food, decadent food. And it wasn’t just any old food we’d be eating. No. We would be gathering around cheese. Stuffing our faces with cheese. My friend’s wife knows a chef who’s writing a cook book, and the chef wanted her to try out some fondue recipes. And I had been invited to visit so that I could be fed these gastronomic – if experimental – delights.

Paying My Fondues

As the dinner engagement approached, I reflected sadly on how round I was becoming. So I decided I could not to go to a Goddamned fondue party without prefacing it with some kind of physical activity. Preparation and punishment. Before pigging out, I had to pay my dues. My fondues. So after days of inactivity I once again clambered onto my bike in the garage and performed my pit-bull-on-the-treadmill routine. For about 35 minutes. That was all I could muster.

On the way to my friends’ house, I stopped at an ice cream shop and bought dessert. Because, you know, you can’t turn up to a fondue party empty-handed. Who does that? I bought three tubs of ice cream and a dark chocolate cake thingy that looked rich and tasty and turned out to be a mud pie. An extremely delicious mud pie, as it happens.

I’d worked out. I’d brought dessert. I’d paid my dues. I could binge without guilt.

The Decadence Begins

I arrive at their house. We eat foods dipped in hot, molten cheese. We eat. We drink. We eat. And we drink. We skewer morsels of beef, ham and bread, and dunk them in warm, wet cheese. Swiss cheese. Blue cheese. During this orgy of cheese-feasting I am wondering whether all the fiber in the world will ever unbind me. She points me to the broccoli. I skewer a piece. And I dip it in cheese. Fiber! And cheese! My colon doesn’t know whether it’s coming or going.

The Guilt and the Shame

Sunday. Guilt finally overwhelms me. I cannot be this fat person. I get on my bike for 35 minutes in the morning. I do another 30 minutes later, in the evening. 65 minutes of stationary cycling in a single day. I’ve done better, but this is good. This is progress! But, I ask myself, where did I suddenly find the energy for all this activity? It was fueled by cheese, ice cream, mud pie and vodka. I’m a bit amazed to discover how far you can propel yourself on that diet.

Naked, At Last

I wake up this morning. It’s Monday. It’s early. 5:30. Yes, AM. I can’t sleep. I’m done. At 6:20 AM I give up and get up. Fifteen minutes later I’m in the garage, on my bike, cycling to nowhere, a madman with a mission. Who am I? Who is this man who gets on a bike and starts a cardiovascular workout at 6:35 AM? When did I become this person? But it’s all good. This is the man I want to be!

7:10 AM. My workout is finished. I emerge from the garage into the kitchen. I peel off my wet clothes and toss them into the washing machine. The sink is right there. I could shave, right here, and then shower. That’s a plan. I start shaving. And while I’m shaving I’m thinking of all the things I need to do. The things I haven’t done. The people I haven’t written to. The blogging I haven’t been doing. Now I’m this new man who works out daily and blogs often.

I’m standing, naked, in the bathroom, still trying to burn off calories consumed two days earlier during a fondue-flavored bender, and I’m thinking I need to update my blog.

This is that update.

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