You don’t normally hear me talking about sports very much.  That’s because I do not spend a lot of time involved either in playing or observing sports.  I do like American football—I specify “American” because here in South Florida football can just as easily be interpreted as soccer.  I am not much of a soccer fan, nor hockey, nor basketball, nor tennis or golf.   Baseball I might watch if the game has some excitement going on or maybe if it’s the World Series.  In fact, come to think of it, I didn’t see one game of the World Series just this past month…must have been busy with something else.

So where was I? Oh yeah, the sports/jock person that I am not.  The reason I bring it up is because I was gently nudged by one of my doctors to begin getting some vigorous exercise to maybe help get rid of a fatty liver and a girth that was expanding faster than an express bus to a heart attack.  I am, and always have been, a pretty skinny guy.  For the first time in my life I’ve started to fatten up around the waistline and now I am faced with the same challenge a lot of people have—diet and exercise!  Yuck!  It would be okay if there weren’t so many cookies and cakes and breads in the world.  Why did God let all those things into my life if he didn’t want me to consume them?

So now I go to the the gym every other day and I spend almost two hours putting my body through a rigorous process of stress, strain and sadistic torture.  I’ve been at it for well over a month and I have not lost a pound or a centimeter.  I can hardly move when I first attempt to stand up and walk each morning and I look silly all sweaty in my gym shorts and sweaty T-shirt with Snoopy the dog on it that says “Unathletic Dad.”  Yeah, my son got me that.

Meanwhile, I am surrounded by all these bodies, both male and female, that are considerably younger and in much better shape than mine.  Some of these people can actually lift a car or run like a rabbit for a full hour on a treadmill.  Me?  I can lift, pull or push maybe 40 pounds on the various weight machines—but that’s about it.  I guess I should be grateful I can do that.  I keep trying to increase the weight each week, figuring I’m building up my strength and tolerance, but nah.  40 pounds seems to be where I am and where I am meant to be…and stay.

Even though I don’t seem to be making any progress I shall continue with the program and hope that the next time my liver is examined that it has at least lost some fat.  I have gotten over worrying about how I look in my little gym outfit and I have to admit it is a good hour of grunt and groan downtime that allows me to  contemplate plotlines for potential books.  So this is maybe a good thing for my writing exercises.  And, oh yeah, I take my iPod with me and listen to upbeat music to help get with the program.  I even bought the new Taylor Swift album.  The song, Shake it Off, is especially inspiring.



About Marc Kuhn

I am a retired radio exec. I've worked at major stations in Philadelphia, Washington, D.C. and Miami. That was then. This is now: I've published seven books and this blog thingy. Need to know more? Really? Okay, I bare/bear all at The other links are for the websites of each of the books I've written. I've been busy! Hope you'll stop by and check them out. Thanks for your interest!
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2 Responses to THE GUT OF THE MATTER

  1. Marc Kuhn says:

    It’s not the height/width ratio….it’s the pants not fitting anymore factor. And no matter how you measure it, I refuse to buy larger pants, but to keep wearing the ones I got I have to leave the button undone…which is why I wear my shirts outside so you can’t see. Nope, gotta stop eating—that’s is the real culprit…the gym thing is just cardio right now and maybe will help with the fat once I stooooooppppppppp eating. For example, Rosemarie made two homemade chocolate chip infested pound cakes last weekend and this weekend she made rosettes (deep fried no less)….it’s divorce or larger pants. I never had to worry about this before…it is not fair.


  2. rcarmean says:

    Has a doctor figured out your BMI (ie, Body Mass Index). Don’t go there. The number you arrive at will ruin an otherwise wonderful day. As long as your height (in inches) exceeds your girth (in inches), Jake and I find you perfectly acceptable.


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