Tuesday, December 19, 2006

The Doctor Said I've Got ABD...Alec Baldwin Disease

The Doctor Said I've Got ABD...Alec Baldwin Disease
Originally uploaded by lorenzodom

It’s Not Easy Being a Baldwin…

I need a good workout.

Better yet, I need a good work-out partner—someone for some…mutual motivation.

Because, quite honestly, as per the photo above, I’ve discovered that December is the worst month of the year to decide that you want to get back into shape (i.e. from amorphous blob back to some semblance of a human being). Granted, it took me several years to realize this, but, here I am, now realizing it.

My problem, you see, is two-fold.

First, I’ve been partying far too much lately—far more than ever before—call it my middle-age crisis or simply a result of a spurt of opportunity. Either way, the revelry has to stop; okay-okay, at least I have to taper it.

And secondly, uh-hum, please excuse what will immediately come across as hubris, but frankly, I’ve been banking on a bit of brazen demeanor and general good looks a little too much lately.

I’ve found that people often are attracted to characters with confidence. Moreover, having a pretty face makes you cocky, which combined with a little bravado and persistence usually gets you what you want and desire, so much so that your body and constitution pay the price. Because, even though you get lazy, you keep getting laid (an expression I’m using quite liberally here—not literally—to make a point).

Truth is, it’s not easy being a Baldwin, which I’m not, but I believe I’ve gained a good understanding as to why Alec has gotten so damn fat.

Anyway, working out for me, until this year, used to run the gamut of not-so-long-distance running; a faux-blend of tai-chi, yoga and pilates; trekking about Manhattan taking pictures; spontaneously running circles around quirky-quasi dates; a lot of dancing—and tantric sex.

I ran the New York City Marathon almost 15 years ago at a 6:45 pace, so I once-wasn’t so bad of a runner. Alas, that was then, and this is now, and somehow I’ve let go of the requisite discipline. My mile time is probably double what it used to be (on a good day).

Until the end of last year I was a drill sergeant when it came to getting my ass to the gym. For a couple of years, one way or another, I’d wake up at four AM, and after reading and writing for an hour, I’d work out for another hour or so, either at home or in the office gym.

Alas (again), I went through some significant life changes this year, and so my workout regimen gradually and quickly changed. Funny how the price of freedom can be degenerative debauchery.

Dancing, oh, dancing. Lerner and Lowe once put it quite aptly: “Dancing is like making love to music playing.” It’s true, with a good partner who intuitively understands the give-and-take of ballroom, swing and traditional Latin dancing (i.e. the man leads) it is easy to feel like you’re making mad-love on the dance floor—it is not a lurid feeling, so much as a sentiment of sensuous synchronicity.

Earlier this summer, I had an amazing dance partner and we went salsa dancing a couple of times a week. Unfortunately, this partnership was not meant to last. Besides, the late nights were beginning to wear upon me and incur upon everything else I wanted to do and accomplish. Hence, I guess, now I’m seeking a better balance.

This morning I was getting dressed in my study, when my eyes set upon a group of books running the gamut from The History of Sexuality to The Illustrated Kama Sutra and The “New” Joy of Sex (pocket edition). I literally considered putting the latter into my pocket, but quickly gave up that fantasy to reality.

For the sad fact is that you need a partner to practice that art. And although there is a lot to be said for preparing for the next opportunity, masturbation doesn’t burn enough calories to justify a reread.

That said, albeit a workout partner-and-sexually insatiable girlfriend would be ideal, I’d settle for a plain ol’ platonic running partner (3-6 miles about the park, a few times a week) right now.


The accompanying photo here was taken on October 31, Halloween (pretty scary, huh?)—things haven’t changed much since then. And although it may very well be a gross exaggeration of the sad shape I’m in, I think it keenly signifies how I’m feeling.

Most importantly, owning up to who I really am is key to change. For you’ve got to accept what you are before you can truly change who you are; and I’m set to changin’.

Moreover, considering that this photo is not bound to coral me that harem I’m vying for, I figure motivating myself is going to prove to be my best bet at this juncture.

Although, I will add, that not too long ago, I posted another self-deprecating photo that had all the ladies saying that “a sense of humor” was a great lure, line and sinker.

Well, guess what? Apparently, someone forgot to tell me that you also need a hook to catch something, to reel in one of them fish in the sea.

Oh, well, at least I’ve still got me and my sense of humor…



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