My wife and I have been watching that reality dieting drama "The Biggest Loser" lately, and I'm pretty sure she wants me to try to get on the next show.
This might be a stretch, but I got that impression when she once said, "Hey, you should try to get on 'The Biggest Loser.' "
This might be because:
a) She wants to get rid of me for two months.
b) She figures we have no other shot at getting our hands on $250,000 due to my occupational choice.
c) She thinks I'm a natural big loser.
d) She wants me to lose weight at the pace these TV contestants do, which is approximately 47.9 pounds per person per weekly episode.
e) So that during televised workouts and shirtless weigh-ins, the rest of the nation can see what a sexy hunk she married. (I'm guessing the answer isn't "e.")
I did look at the application form online, but it had more fine print than a Twinkies ingredients list. So I decided to do a friendly co-worker get-healthy competition instead. The contest is management's way of trying to downsize the staff sans pink slips.
Those participating chose four healthy habits to do four days a week. My fearsome foursome: Eat five fruits/veggies; don't eat junk food, even if the name of it includes some of those fruits/veggies (carrot cake and banana splits are no-nos); drink 64 ounces of water (and, no, ice put in Big Gulps doesn't count; I asked); and do daily cardio exercises.
Check out how I did during Week 1, and you might realize why I'm not a great candidate for "The Biggest Loser":
Day 1 — Forgot contest started. Oops.
Day 2 — Remembered contest started. Worked more shifts than the amount of fruits/veggies I consumed: two. Oops.
Day 3 — Started good, slipped up. Consoled self that four days remain in the week.
Day 4 — Counted potatoes in funeral casserole as a veggie but still had to eat a late-night bowl of fruit. Forgot to drink water until 11 p.m. when I was doing laps around the neighborhood and then in my basement after realizing it was both cold and dark outside. Since I gave the dog a walk, wondered if I could tabulate exercise time in doggie minutes (you know, one minute = seven doggie minutes).
Day 5 — No junk food, except the fur on the kiwi and the spoiled applesauce I ate could be classified as junk. Marched up and down a football field more times than offenses against BYU's defense.
Day 6 — Asked my wife if cheese Danish sample at Costco was considered junk food. She adamantly said it was. Watched in disgust as she devoured it. Forgot about contest for rest of the day until my night-work shift ended at 1 a.m. Walked up nine tall flights of stairs at work. Got winded by second floor, had burning legs at fourth floor, felt panic at sixth floor, had profuse sweating at seventh floor, hallucinated at eighth floor and did a "Rocky" celebration up to nine.
Stopped at Wendy's for late-night fix that consisted of a salad, dry potato and orange wedges. Started drinking water at 2 a.m., finished gulping eighth cup at 3:33 a.m. Woke up, visited little boys' room at 4:33 a.m., 5:33 a.m., 6:33 a.m.
Day 7 — Learned from Day 6. Did everything earlier. Fumed over cheese Danish incident — it is a dairy product, right?