Okay, So What's the Deal?

I was always a chubby kid. Not rotund chubby, but "a few extra pounds" chubby—the kind of chubby that grandmas like but that does nothing for your athletic ability or your social appeal. It wasn't genetic—both my parents are pretty fit, in fact, even now, in their late 60s/early 70s. Nor was it due to excessive overeating (I never much ate between-meal snacks, and have an unusual distaste for sweets in general and chocolate in particular—making me something of an outcast among my peers). I just had an endomorph's frame and a metabolism that leaned towards what Sears Roebuck's called "Husky."

Then, before my freshman year of high school, my parents sent me against my will to an Outward Bound expedition across the Grand Tetons, a six-week trip where we packed in all the food we were going to consume (there was a single resupply at midpoint) and otherwise lived off the land. Hiking a dozen-plus miles a day, eating nothing I couldn't carry (or find), plus several weeks of raging diarrhea due to eating nothing I couldn't carry (or find)—all of that stripped away my husk of huskiness. I ultimately went to college weighing 125 pounds, at five feet 7 inches tall.

I left college 15 pounds heavier, but in fighting trim. And then...two decades and two kids later (yeah, I didn't give birth, but don't scoff at sympathy weight gain, pals, it happens)—I'm now just around 180 pounds.

Now, my wife. She was a jock in college and after—she actually whipped me into shape after we started dating, probably getting me to the fittest I've ever been in my life. But the combination of not having time to exercise and giving birth to two sons has meant she's also been struggling with her weight. In fact, it was her determination to unleash the Nuclear Option—to use some kind of a formal diet system, since moderation and exercise weren't hacking it—that has led us to where we are now. My weight gain was sympathetic; I decided my weight loss would have to be as well. And so, after much research, we decided to try the Medifast diet...mostly because it apparently works very, very well, so long as you can stick to eating nothing but the miserable fare they offer: An assemblage of snack bars, shakes, soups and other just-add-water muck.

Rather than buy the plan from the source, I took some online advice and purchased two large lots of Medifast meals from eBay (where apparently many successful Medifasters unload their unused meals). They arrived yesterday, and I organized the stacks of instant-cocoa-like packages on our kitchen counter, where they're staring at me with barely bated malevolence.

So why this blog? Apparently, diet journals help you stay disciplined. Or at least let you vent your rage. I couldn't find any diet blogs being written by guys, so I thought I'd bring my Y-chromosomal perspective to the party. The journey, and the frank journal of that journey, begins now.

For me: I'm looking to drop 25 pounds, which Medifast claims will take about a month. That means by Valentine's Day, I should be fit as a fiddle, or perhaps thin as a fiddlestick. Don't worry—I'll share exactly what this crap tastes like (and looks like) as I consume it, as well as the general experience of what is looking like a month-long culinary version of "Saw V."

May God have mercy on our souls.