An Introspective into Boogerdom

         

   This winter has sucked the long and veiny, and not just because of the biblical weather either.  I was stricken with a cold in December, and there are still lingering effects.  DECEMBER! 

            Actually, I misspoke.  There is only one lingering effect, and it poses a huge problem.  It took about a week to get over the congestion and body aches, but ever since the cold, I have been epically boogery.  It has been a venerable smorgasbord of wet ones, dry ones, and the elusive wet/dry combo.  This poses a huge problem because I am a chronic nose picker.  I find little more pleasurable than clearing my nasal passages by harvesting a leviathan booger steak.  That first breath of unrestricted air is magnificent.  My second favorite pick is the one where the nostril boulder has broken free of the nose hairs, has fallen to just above the nose-hole, and begins to tickle every time you breathe.  It falls at such an odd angle that you almost have to dislocate your own wrist to get at it.  The removal of that worthy adversary is quite satisfying.  Of course, the bitch of all boogs is the one that breaks mid pick, and results in an annoying whistle every time you inhale.  That sucks a crusty goat tit. 

            Don’t confuse booger picker with booger eater.  That’s not my style.  I am a professional.  Clean, quick, and I’m out - like a nostril haggis hit man.  The removal of the harvested goods is usually handled by a tissue, and/or a quick hand wash.  I often wonder what havoc is wreaked on a sink drain.  Does liquid plumber have an anti-booger compound in it?

            Generally, I am quite disgusted by what I extract from my snozz, which is ridiculous.  It’s analogous to the person who comes over and sniffs the air after a fart has been declared then complains about how bad it stinks.  My sister was notorious for this.

ME: “Oh man, that one’s going to stink.”

SISTER: (Walks over and smells) “OHMYGOD!  That smells awful, you’re disgusting.”

ME: “I warned you.”

SISTER: “Why do you have to that around me!?”

ME: “I didn’t.  You walked over here (Rips another).”

SISTER: “GET OUT OF HERE!”

ME: “Enjoy the essence.  You’re welcome.”

            I’ll pick a good wet one, and then almost gag when looking at it.  The enjoyment is so short lived.  BUT I ALWAYS GO BACK!  It’s stupid, and I need to kick the picker habit, I just kicked the bacon for every meal habit.  One vice at a time…  A question in Drew Magary’s funbag this week (we are fellow pickers!) got me wondering about the nutritional value of boogers.  A quick internet search revealed boogers as a supplier of upwards of 40 calories depending on the size!  40 calories is quite substantial.  Eat 3 of those, and you’ve got yourself a Weight Watcher microwave dinner!    

I don’t plan on utilizing them as a snack; I was just wondering if we’ll ever see Bear Gryllis in Man vs. Wild eat his own boogers rather than biting the head off of a meerkat.  I would like to sit and watch him build a makeshift rotisserie out of soaked tree branches over an open flame and roast a few skewered, freshly harvested boogs.  I think it would be wildly entertaining to listen to him try and justify it as a means of nutrition, even though society denigrates booger eating as the work of slobs and special kids.  Perhaps Gryllis’ work as a booger eating survivalist would inspire The Chairman on Iron Chef to present boogers as the secret ingredient.  I could just imagine the look on Bobby Flay or Michael Symon’s face as the lid comes off the table, and the Chairman declares “BOOOOOOOGGEEERRRS!!!!”  It would be superb.  Booger ice cream, booger risotto, booger tar tare, booger soup, booger en papillote, braised booger….

My imagination is out of control…

   

            In the beginning of this experiment in de-plumping, my wife went after it with me.  She was good at some of the workouts.  Constantly judging and laughing, laughing and judging.  It was hell; nothing is more emasculating than watching your wife crush a 56-minute plyo workout while your own man tits clap together with every jump.  After the first few weeks, her energy level began to plummet.  She could barely power through the workouts.  She was losing weight, but her energy level wasn’t there.  We chalked it up to the ramped up workload watching the little crumb snatchers at her newly licensed day care she runs out of our home.  I began to lord it over her as if I had accomplished some monumental feat that she failed.  Completing 4 push-ups without shitting yourself is a small personal victory…but that’s just semantics.    

As I spent the majority of my childhood, adolescent, and teenage years swimming competitively, it should come as no surprise that MY BOYS CAN SWIM! 

FUCK OFF, CAREFUL PRECATION AND BREAST FEEDING!  YOU CANNOT DEFEAT MY SEMINAL SAVAGES!  THEY STORMED THE CASTLE AND PREVAILED!

            Very exciting, this little one is due October 8^th which means our kids will be 18 months apart.  As we did with our son, we will not be finding out the sex of the baby, either.  It was a cool thing to add to the excitement of a newborn.  We are BEYOND thrilled, and love that our family is growing.  However, there is a diabolical thought building on itself in my head.

She did this on purpose to get out of the workout and diet.  She wanted to eat pasta, and bacon, and sausage, and pancakes, and burgers, and cookies, and GAAGHAGAHA!!! HOW DARE SHE?

           

            There is a fatal flaw in that argument.  My wife eats even better when she is pregnant.  She becomes far more cognizant of preservatives, fat; she balances out her calorie intake, more fruits, and more veggies, only chicken no steak.  She becomes a fucking nutritionist.  Therefore, she probably didn’t do it on purpose, BUT SHE COULD HAVE, and that’s the point.  She abandoned me amidst my own sweat and jiggling pasty skin.  I am so alone.  She’s got the mommy glow though, and that’s sexy.  So, there is that…she is forgiven.

5 THINGS!

1)      Working out has become a must have part of daily life.  There have been a few days where I just can’t commit the hour to hang with Horton Beelzebub III.  On those days, I feel incomplete.  I have less energy and I feel fat again.  It’s crazy.  I’m going to have to start getting up earlier to avoid those days.  Therefore, despite the end being near, Horton has found a way to fuck up my comfort zone yet again.  My arch nemesis strikes again!

2)      I have no intention of starting this process immediately over again after it is finished.  I love the results, and I love how it has altered my lifestyle, but during the hour I spend doing the workouts I detest it with fervent ardor.  That doesn’t seem right to me.  I know workouts are supposed to be hard, and that if you are pushing yourself you feel like you are going to shit through your mouth.  Nevertheless, there is supposed to be something rewarding in that, right?  Am I being a douche bag idealist here?  In any case, I will probably come back to P90X in late August, so that I can really trim down for the holidays in which I will gorge myself like a grizzly bear storing food for hibernation.  In the meantime, I am going to get back in the pool 5 days a week.  Keep it centered on training for an event (yet to be decided).  No worries though, the gravy sweat blog will continue!  This has been way too much fun, and it has accomplished what I needed it to (accountability).  It would be a shame to shut it down just because I survived the 3-month P90analrapeX. 

3)      This is really a continuation of #2 (haha #2), but I’m still a little preoccupied with my Iron Chef booger daydream to still be creative.  I think the evolution of Gravy Sweat will be to educate.  I’m not going all self-righteous or anything.  I’m not going to share workout tips, or profess the best way to shed pounds, or denigrate the evils of deep fried garlic mashed potatoes made served with a ketchup/mustard/mayo/bourbon dipping sauce.  If you want to eat that, it should be your prerogative (although I will share the recipe if I stumble across it).  Consider Gravy Sweat to be an open forum.  If you have questions, comments, statements, or general observations about fitness, diet, or life in general and would like to bounce them off of me, please e-mail them to bcbarmore@gmail.com.  We will share them here.  It’s a little bit of a rip-off of Drew Magary’s Funbag, but I justify that having it only be about fat, fat, and fat! 

4)      The yoga workout makes me have to take a dump.  Everytime.  That is all.

5)      When dieting properly, the size of your appetite does not necessarily shrink.  It just manifests itself constantly throughout the day.  However, your stomach cannot hold as much food at one time as it did when you were built like Donkey Lips from “Salute Your Shorts."

   

Tuesday night marked the 22^nd birthday of my sister in law.  We went to Old Chicago Pizza.  Old Chicago is a Shangri-la of deep-dish goodness.  Cheesy, doughy, packed-to-the-brim goodness brought to this world by the scores of seraphim themselves.  It is a corpulent jabroni’s paradise.  The whole family met up, and I was geared up to crush some pizza.  I’d been good for a while, and I had budgeted to walk in there and go Desperado on about 3 pieces of pie.  3 don’t sound like an amazing feat.  I assure you it is.  These things are 2 inches deep, and with 3+ toppings, it makes Man vs. Food look like a pussy.  We sat down, I ordered a frosty pint of brown ale, strapped in, and announced to the world to keep their fingers inside the ride at all times.  Then I fucked up.  I ordered a salad.  Rookie mistake.  Careless, cocky, rookie fucking mistake.  It was delicious, but that’s not the point.  I got about halfway into my first slice, and broke a sweat.  MY FIRST SLICE!  The key strategy is you have to stop at the crust and save it for later.  You mow through the topped portion of the pie, set the 2-inch deep crust to the side, and pick up the next slice.  When you reach your goal slice, you start working the crusts through the pepperoni oil, cheese, crushed red peppers, and any other toppings that have fallen off the beasts and accumulated on the plate (or on your shirt, but wiping a pizza crust on your shirt only exacerbates the slob situation).  Sometimes you don’t get through all the crusts.  That’s ok, because you just budget your fallen toppings accordingly, and if done correctly there is nothing left to sop up anyway.  It’s glorious.  In this particular incident, I was forced to make a decision far too early.  I could try and get through two slices, but probably be too full for the crust delight.  Alternatively, I could get through the entire first slice, crust and all and eliminate any possibility of getting a second slice – the crust would assuredly put me over the edge.  I chose the latter.  I know I made the right choice, but that doesn’t mean I had to like it.  It was all because I ordered that fucking salad.  A blue-cheese wedge.  Fuck salads.  They are evil.

UNTIL NEXT WEEK, MY LITTLE SNOWFLAKES!