I’m worried about this entry. It has me chewing on my pencil, staring off into space, and not at my notebook (which is resting in my lap, on my stylish Kenneth Cole pants.) Shit. I’m doing it again.

Why am I worried about this entry? Well, read the title. I’m facing a multitude of problems. I have to tell my wife. Will my friends treat me the same way? Are my teeth even white enough for me to be gay?

Ok, I’m lying. I still totally dig on hot chicks (Note: if we were in the same room together, you would see me with my righthand up in the area, expecting a kick-ass high five coming from you, bro!) but weight loss has definitely started me on a confusing and dubious path toward sexual ambiguity.

Let’s start with the gym, since I talk it so frequently. “What’s wrong with the gym?” you ask. Yeah, sure, at the downtown Bally Total Fitness you’ve got lots of ladies in skimpy workout attire hanging around the aerobics room – but is that where I am? No, I’m either on the elliptical – a tortuous contraption the sole purpose of which is the slamming and building of glutes – or I’m wandering around the free weights, where dudes in muscle shirts flex constantly and perform squat thrusts.

“Yeah, but you’re not talking with them, right? You’re in a zone, listening to headphones and concentrating.”

This is true, but it only underscores what I’m talking about. I really, really enjoy my iPod. If it were socially acceptable to tune out everyone during all parts of my day, that’s probably what I’d be doing. And even though it isn’t, it’s still a vital part of making sure that exercising isn’t sheer drudgery. I’ve loaded hundreds of albums onto my iPod, ensuring that there’s no shortage of kickass rock and metal with which to power through my marathon workout sessions. But, with all this musical freedom at my disposal, what album do you think I have listened to most actively, while working out, during the last couple months?

Michelle Branch: The Spirit Room.

Yeah, I’m not kidding. There’s a running joke in the movie “The 40-Year-Old Virgin,” which involves the two dufus-y supporting actors riffing on what makes the other “gay.” Well, let me toss my own into the ring.

“You know how I know you’re gay? You work out to Michelle Branch.”

That’s a pretty good one.

Fashion is another component of this discussion, and one that I will revisit in greater detail at a later date (Have you ever been inside a men’s “Big & Tall Store?” Yikes.) Suffice it to say – I now find myself shopping in places I use to disdain, like the Gap. I even find myself occasionally interested in shirts sold to Buffalo Exchange by waiflike Emo boys.

There’s more. Grooming is a good one. You know, in the seven years between 1998 – by which point my most grievous cases of teenage acne were no longer a problem – and 2005 I probably washed my face a total of zero times. That’s right! Now we’re into the dailies. And karaoke! You know the total number of times I’d karaoked – in my life – before December 2005? Zero. Number of times having visited the Boiler Room last week? Three.

THREE. I’m there more than some of the employees.

The list goes on, and on, and on.

Ok, perhaps I should take a step back, breathe deeply, and evaluate this situation critically. At best, this evidence is merely circumstantial. I’m never going to be confused with someone who has strong fashion sense. I still don’t understand the importance or appeal of a proper set of shoes. I do karaoke because I’m your typical class clown dumbass. Finally – with the amount of material on my iPod that comes from the bands Genesis, Rush, Queensryche, Dream Theater, Yes and Asia, it’s clear that I’m far too nerdy to be gay. Whew. Well, that’s a relief. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to find someone who TIVOed American Idol.

I’ve struggled with this entry.

Why, you ask? Was it because the title is remarkably insensitive to those who don’t have enough to eat? Well, yes, a little – I can’t help that I’m a bleeding-heart liberal, in whom higher education has instilled a constant awareness of “the other,” and with it an unrelenting sense of empathy. But, to be truthful, this was not my primary concern, regardless of how terrible that sounds. No, I was more worried about just how psychotic the title of this entry was going to make me sound.

I’ve already touched on the obsessive tendencies that I believe need to be cultivated, in some degree, in order to achieve significant, life-changing weight loss. But, these tendencies have done more than just propel me to the gym five times a week, rain or shine. They’ve forced me to fall in love with the effects of my own hunger. I’m not kidding.

I’m mortified that I’m about to describe these tendencies in detail, but I guess that’s what this weblog is for: I derive a sick and twisted pleasure from 1) feeling ravenously, uncomfortably hungry, and 2) listening to my stomach growl angrily, as I push it to this point of discomfort. It was worst in the winter of 2005. This was when I encountered my most rapid weight loss, immediately following my “Strip Poker” revelation; I was exercising fiendishly, and making sure to count my calories judiciously, and I was hungry as hell while I did it. This is probably why I grew to enjoy these feelings. If I hadn’t, I would have killed myself, or (more likely) my boss. Here’s an exercise: eat a piece of 40-calorie, low carbohydrate toast. (Note: this toast tastes like cardboard, if cardboard were blander). Oh! I almost forgot: you can jazz up the low calorie toast with a spoonful of low calorie strawberry jam. Then, go to the gym, and run for forty-five minutes. If you’re 240 pounds (my weight at the time), you’ll probably burn around 750 to 800 calories. Finally, go to work, and refrain from eating anything until noon. Do this for a couple of days, and you will come close to losing your mind. Eventually, something like the following conversation will occur:

My Boss: (Appears at the doorway to my office) Hey Andy?
Me: (At my desk, seething, while looking at the clock, which has been frozen at 10:05 AM for what feels like several hours) What?
My Boss: Yeah, this calendar you added to the website… (trails off)
Me: Yeah!?
My Boss: Well, it doesn’t work. The colors are off. It’s missing the Sunday column. And it says January has thirty-two days.
Me: FUCK YOU! WHERE IS MY GODDAMN BAGEL!?

Okay, I may have exaggerated that conversation for the sake of humor, but if you work with children, the elderly or the otherwise infirm you will definitely want to monitor yourself while you modify your diet in this fashion.

And, you know what the really awful thing is? I don’t want to discourage you, but it really won’t ever get any easier, unfortunately. Yeah, you’ll get used to it, of course, and as you come to enjoy the pain, and the strange squeaks and zips and urps and squawks that emanate with increasing volume from your lower mid-section, you will enter what I can only assume is a zen-like state. But you’ll still have to be ever mindful of maintaining that state. And you’ll have to almost enjoy it, or you’ll rip the head off a small dog.

Be warned, though. Even though I have mostly achieved my goals, I have a hard time letting go of this behavior. There are times when I find myself laying on the couch, watching a movie or just resting peacefully, and my hand will gravitate to my stomach, without thought or premeditation, so that I can feel the rumbles of my insides desperately consuming themselves, while my stomach sounds like the hull of a nuclear submarine. And I’ll think to myself, “You know, you really shouldn’t engage in this behavior. It’s mentally and physically unhealthy. Furthermore, if you ever tell anyone about it, you’re going to sound like a complete lunatic.” My brain makes good points, but how does my body respond?

“FUCK YOU! I NEED PASTRIES!”

Old habits die hard.