Jon through the table glass (the struggle of a slightly portly man part 1)

It is time.

All the hints have been thrown my way. People saying 'You look at bit stouter'; 'Why is your head shaped like a football?''; running out of breath climbing stairs; having shooting pains down my left arm when I eat another stuffed cheesy crust mighty meat pizza; sweating while I eat it; my girlfriend telling me she loves me no matter how big I get. But none of these subtle hints were enough to make me actually try to lose weight.

I have been promising myself that I would get trim. Get in shape. Just generally look a bit leaner. Did I actually do anything to help my cause? No. Even on my last break two people told me I had put on weight and my parents (over a typically bad skype connection) even said I was looking slightly more corpulent.

However I was a master at procrastination. Until Monday of this week. Instead of sitting on a chair to take my shoes off after work I perched on the table in my living room in front of my T.V. to take my shoes off whilst enjoying a brief shot of 80s American Football/High School classic 'Wildcats'. I took my left shoe off. Chuckled slightly at Woody Harrelson as a young lad and at Goldie Hawn's hair. Then as I took my right shoe off my glass table top cracked in half.

I was lucky I didn't get a shard of glass in the arse. But that was it. That was the hint that did it. Time to get fit and this time do it right I told myself and so far I have. For two days.

This blog will chart my keep fit with all the highs, lows and non existent work outs that I will have.

Yesterday I ran for 20 minutes and covered 1.7K. Today I ran for 20 minutes and covered 2.5K. So I am at the moment happy. My legs however are already starting to moan. This is just the beginning. Wish me luck and maybe if I reach my target weight (80Kg; at the moment I am 86Kg; not a gargantuan undertaking for normal people but for one as lazy as me it is) you lucky people can have a shot of my finely chiselled torso. I may even shave my chest. If I fail? Then you will get a photo of my flabby frame covered in crumbs of melted cheese from another devoured stuffed crust.

The choice is mine.