In what I am sure will not be seen in retrospect as a foreboding hallmark of my overall commitment to this new health plan of mine, I’ve broken two rules that I had laid out for myself at the outside of my Don’t Die regimine.

  1. I ate a bag of chips out of the vending machine (which I can live with, considering the calories were low, the allotment I had left on the day was pretty high and, at the time I was eating them, I assumed they would be all I would have to eat for the next four hours or so)
  2. I weighed myself

The second one is more troubling than the first. There is a rhythm that I fall into with weight lose efforts: Eat like a hog and decide it is time to lose weight, sticky closely to the plan for three days and suddenly forget that three days of healthy living don’t make up for weeks of hog-eating, step on the scale and be disappointed that 72 hours of relatively clean living didn’t rend pounds of fat from my body.

Weight loss is nice, but it isn’t really the primary goal of the Don’t Die plan. The idea is to live a life in which butter and chips are not always the primary sources of energy in my life, while at the same time getting into fighting shape for this fool-ass marathon I’ve brayed like a mule about for the last four months. It take a long time to not die; one cannot not die in three days. I should know better.

Either way, I’m 257, which is much lower than I feared after my last few beer-drinking, lethargic weeks.