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i stress on the plural form. or to further articulate, cheat years would be a more favorable term. yes it has been that long. at not minding what i eat or getting the due sweat to make up for the excessive gut feed.

i was one of the plenty-like-us falling for the gym trap and bungeed into this cadence early on in college. before that, i was a frail, tall ectomorph. i burn calories easily and sweat a lot at the minutest of heat and at the smallest jolt of activity.

so getting into the beefed-up meat market became a welcome proposition. feeding further the already insatiable see-food diet, and i mean eating what i see, wasn't even considered a task. at all. i envy those who are paid to do things they'd enjoy doing, sans the lure of money. now if a perpetual food taster would be anything close to profitable...

and yeah. growing the bulges and cuts at the right places was a sure ticket to the pedestal. more than just being the top guy on the dean's list. more than the few taking notice at the peter parker transformation. more than the panning eyes as i wipe my sweat during rounds of play.

more of the stares at the changing or the sauna room. and the illicit proposals evoked by the visceral display.

so when work eventually got in its way, oh wait. what's work but a means to earn a larger pot at your disposal. a swankier gym. and a one on one PT for a gym buddy. what with the eventual missus confessing to having swayed by a multi-packed abs. after the wedding bells, still faithfully stucked at this healthy routine. until the first baby scream, and the indelible rants of fatherhood. the walk to the gym, the courts, or the swimming pool. all dwindled to ground zero. the post-game binging spree turned just the spree sans the game. well, once in a blue moon a bit of sweat is consummated. which wasn't enough to cope with the still voracious appetite of five to six meals a day.

and now this... at a previous days morning yawn. waking up dawning at a weight 15 pounds higher than the last conditioned load. a high jump. and i dare not speak on the delta of the body fat.

the gym floor was just seven flights down, i jerked, and told myself to get up to get myself a blast. i struggled at the attire. apart from the training shorts and sando, dress socks and a sanuk is all i have.

so at the minutest of urge to take on the metal braw, i chanced at the mirror before taking the mad dash down.



then the time is checked to mark the morning schedule. at this hour, it will either be the gym run. or the feast at the breakfast buffet. but not both.

oh what the heck.

let's count this as just another cheat day. and the cheat is still on!