WATCHING MY BABY boy crying one day, a thought struck me.
The reason he was unhappy was that he didn’t have his soother. Once I gave it to him, he would be okay.
If only he realised that he didn’t need it at all. It was a psychological comfort blanket.
In a way, though, every adult I knew was the same as the baby. I certainly was.
Instead of a soother, my comfort blanket might be a bar of chocolate, a packet of crisps or a pint of beer.
I might not cry if I was denied these luxuries, but there was a possibility I’d get antsy or uncomfortable.
What prompted these feelings?
Roughly a year ago, a doctor took my bloods. I hadn’t been feeling great physically and mentally.
The results concluded that my cholesterol was slightly high, and my folic acid was “quite low”.
This felt like a turning point.
I was in my late 30s, and I had never really given serious thought to fitness or diet.
It’s not as if I was obese and didn’t consider myself particularly unhealthy.
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In school, I had stayed naturally fit by competing in several sports.
At my peak, I would do bleep tests every lunchtime and a cross-country run after every school day. Saturdays would involve a football match in the morning followed by tennis lessons in the early afternoon.
As is often the case with people, my participation in organised sport effectively stopped at college, save the occasional five-a-side or appearance in the UCD Superleagues.
But that was the extent of it, and even these sporadic bouts of exercise tailed off over the years.
Fortunately, a couple of factors stopped the situation from deteriorating too badly.
Subconsciously, I was usually careful not to eat or drink too much. I’m also a better-than-average walker, and that’s especially true since I welcomed two energetic greyhounds into my house eight years ago.
But when I got the results back from the doctor, I knew something had to change.
Multiple self-imposed rules were introduced. I would start eating porridge every day. White bread was replaced with the chia seed and wholegrain equivalent. There would be vegetables on my plate at least once per day. Previous favourites like cheese, ready-meals, pasta and fizzy drinks were either eliminated or kept to a minimum. Alcohol was limited to special occasions. I would strictly stick to one treat a day (e.g. a bar of chocolate, pack of crisps etc).
Generally, for at least six months, these rules were adhered to.
Some of the author's fitness equipment.
I got my bloods re-checked, and everything had reverted to normal, so I was doing something right.
More recently, while not falling off the wagon entirely, the rules were interpreted more loosely, and my eating became less healthy again.
A one-week holiday at the start of the month exacerbated the issue.
It wasn’t as if I were back to square one, but I had definitely reverted to some bad habits.
My initial instinct was to make excuses – needing to stay up late for all those World Cup matches had required the energy boosts that only multiple soft drinks or bars of chocolate could provide.
But I needed to get back on track.
One issue was that I wasn’t held accountable for these lapses.
That wasn’t the only reason why I decided to embark on a more official 12-week fitness programme (we’ll have more details on this next week).
This summer, I turned 39. Without wishing to offend any readers of a similar vintage, I suddenly found myself perilously close to officially being middle-aged – although to my relief, a cursory Google search informed me that “middle age generally refers to the time of life between 40 and 65 years old”.
Some life events also led to inevitable introspection and thoughts of mortality.
My sister, who was a little over a year younger than me, passed away from cancer in June. My father has been suffering from dementia for a few years, and his condition has become more pronounced in the past few months.
But the biggest reason why I’ve taken on this challenge is to support my wife.
She did it once already a couple of years ago and is aiming to lose weight after a long time distracted by various hurdles only other first-time parents will relate to.
I’ll be documenting my progress every Sunday for each of the next 12 weeks.
I suspect I am not the first 30-something person to have these types of thoughts, so I am hoping an honest depiction of my struggles will encourage others to be more health-conscious and less inclined to reach for those comfort blankets.
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‘I was in my late 30s, and I had never really given serious thought to fitness or diet’
WATCHING MY BABY boy crying one day, a thought struck me.
The reason he was unhappy was that he didn’t have his soother. Once I gave it to him, he would be okay.
If only he realised that he didn’t need it at all. It was a psychological comfort blanket.
In a way, though, every adult I knew was the same as the baby. I certainly was.
Instead of a soother, my comfort blanket might be a bar of chocolate, a packet of crisps or a pint of beer.
I might not cry if I was denied these luxuries, but there was a possibility I’d get antsy or uncomfortable.
What prompted these feelings?
Roughly a year ago, a doctor took my bloods. I hadn’t been feeling great physically and mentally.
The results concluded that my cholesterol was slightly high, and my folic acid was “quite low”.
This felt like a turning point.
I was in my late 30s, and I had never really given serious thought to fitness or diet.
It’s not as if I was obese and didn’t consider myself particularly unhealthy.
In school, I had stayed naturally fit by competing in several sports.
At my peak, I would do bleep tests every lunchtime and a cross-country run after every school day. Saturdays would involve a football match in the morning followed by tennis lessons in the early afternoon.
As is often the case with people, my participation in organised sport effectively stopped at college, save the occasional five-a-side or appearance in the UCD Superleagues.
But that was the extent of it, and even these sporadic bouts of exercise tailed off over the years.
Fortunately, a couple of factors stopped the situation from deteriorating too badly.
Subconsciously, I was usually careful not to eat or drink too much. I’m also a better-than-average walker, and that’s especially true since I welcomed two energetic greyhounds into my house eight years ago.
But when I got the results back from the doctor, I knew something had to change.
Multiple self-imposed rules were introduced. I would start eating porridge every day. White bread was replaced with the chia seed and wholegrain equivalent. There would be vegetables on my plate at least once per day. Previous favourites like cheese, ready-meals, pasta and fizzy drinks were either eliminated or kept to a minimum. Alcohol was limited to special occasions. I would strictly stick to one treat a day (e.g. a bar of chocolate, pack of crisps etc).
Generally, for at least six months, these rules were adhered to.
I got my bloods re-checked, and everything had reverted to normal, so I was doing something right.
More recently, while not falling off the wagon entirely, the rules were interpreted more loosely, and my eating became less healthy again.
A one-week holiday at the start of the month exacerbated the issue.
It wasn’t as if I were back to square one, but I had definitely reverted to some bad habits.
My initial instinct was to make excuses – needing to stay up late for all those World Cup matches had required the energy boosts that only multiple soft drinks or bars of chocolate could provide.
But I needed to get back on track.
One issue was that I wasn’t held accountable for these lapses.
That wasn’t the only reason why I decided to embark on a more official 12-week fitness programme (we’ll have more details on this next week).
This summer, I turned 39. Without wishing to offend any readers of a similar vintage, I suddenly found myself perilously close to officially being middle-aged – although to my relief, a cursory Google search informed me that “middle age generally refers to the time of life between 40 and 65 years old”.
Some life events also led to inevitable introspection and thoughts of mortality.
My sister, who was a little over a year younger than me, passed away from cancer in June. My father has been suffering from dementia for a few years, and his condition has become more pronounced in the past few months.
But the biggest reason why I’ve taken on this challenge is to support my wife.
She did it once already a couple of years ago and is aiming to lose weight after a long time distracted by various hurdles only other first-time parents will relate to.
I’ll be documenting my progress every Sunday for each of the next 12 weeks.
I suspect I am not the first 30-something person to have these types of thoughts, so I am hoping an honest depiction of my struggles will encourage others to be more health-conscious and less inclined to reach for those comfort blankets.
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12 weeks Challenge Diet Fitness Health Parenthood