I ain’t selling

I remember now.

I am not selling Il Poggiolo.

It may be a temporary notion. I don’t know. It depends. Right now, I am enjoying the Peace & Quiet and the Energy & Time to do Other Things. Like losing 40 lbs.

Yes, Diet and Exercise. The two Gods on the road to Weight Loss and Good Health. YIPPEE! Caloric Deficit covers the diet: an important term. A seemingly reputable website, recommended by a YouTube weight-training guru whom I like & trust, has a simple method to calculate what I should ingest daily to slim down to 190 lbs. What I weighed when I met You, many, many Moons ago. I was muscular and tan, too. You are asked your age, current weight, desired weight, activity level…. hahahaha… and a couple of other items on the site’s accompanying form, and… Ecco!!!… the answer came out as 2000 calories a day. Golly. I think I can swing that. No peanut butter if I want to stay within the limit. No one talks of the sacrifices. Only the methods. Our Times.

Back to the same YouTube guru. He had a video on a diet to lose unwanted pounds. He asked viewers to imagine a plate divided in half. One half for fruits & vegetables. The other half is divided again, one-quarter for proteins and the other for starches & grains. A small circle next to the plate… the location for a glass of 2% milk, I suppose… counts for all dairy products, and a little square at the opposite side stands for fats. Oh, boy! A diet plan.

I got down to it. Started right after I got my Italian Driver’s License. A horrible time to begin a new program, especially a diet and weight training one, and during the lengthy Italian Christmas Holiday Season. Despite the temptations of wine and many Christmas dinners & luncheons, I trudged on a treadmill for cardio twice a week. I don’t have an hour and a half to do the fashionable 10,000 steps. Who came up with that number anyway? I manage 8,000 in an hour. Weight-lifted three times a week to tighten things up. Flabby underarms are such an embarrassment for a guy. And I amazed myself I could and still do keeping a Food Diary.

I lost what I thought was a lot of weight. It’s a slow process. I imagined that I was newly hovering around 200-2010 lbs. I was noticeably thinner. I looked good… in an XL T-shirt instead of the notorious XXXL size. There still was a bit of tummy hiding views of my central sectors. I had felt the need to weigh myself. However, the visuals provided confirmation. I much preferred the fantasy. Watching a good many YouTube videos from my favored guru and others equally insistent upon their messages, all spoke of what to them is necessary for success. You’ve got to weigh yourself!!! Oh? A little voice seconded the suggestion… or was it a command? I manned up and decided to do what I was told. I pulled out a weight scale I had bought years ago out from storage. Kaput. Had to scrounge for new AAA batteries. Ending up driving to the local ferramenta for a new pack of Triple A’s. Once operative, I stepped onto the plate, and the thing registered 235 lbs. WHAT? NO WAY, MAN! IMPOSSIBLE! I wanted to throw the thing out the window. I was incredulous. Got on the laptop, pulled up amazon.it, and ordered a new scale. That old one has to be WRONG! A day later the new one arrived. A German scale. They don’t lie. Or, do they? Pulled the new wood veneered weight scale out of its box, turned it on… batteries were included… put it down on the terracotta floor of my bathroom, stepped aboard, and DAMNED IF IT DIDN’T SAY 235 LBS TOO!!! Oh, My God!!! Oh… My… God!!! SHOCK! DISMAY! set in. I WAS VERY UPSET. This is war!

Hit the Caloric Deficit website previously consulted and re-did the calculation. Goal 190 lbs. Daily calories 1,800. So, I’ll forego a plate of pasta. I’m going to do this. Back to the treadmill, weights, and the diet diary. In one week I lost 4 lbs. The goal of Eureka! is now 41 lbs away. Maybe by the middle of May? I would be thrilled if the Universe were to ease things along, please. Enough.

Right. I ain’t selling Il Poggiolo. I think I can discuss it now.

Well, perhaps not. Too discombobulated. I am not getting much sleep lately. My Dogs and I share a bed. I believe You has lectured me not less than 97 times on the negative effects of this tactic. I prefer the word, gesture. Love. The Dogs and I are very attached. There may be limits, though. We are all restless sleepers. At least they do not complain about my snoring as You does. Both canines like to be under the covers. It’s simple. The like the w-a-r-m-t-h. Croesus has done so for all his life. His Option B is to sleep on top of me. 37 kg or 81 lbs of well-nourished Weimaraner. Option B is traditionally saved for the 5:30 AM hours when he and his little sister, Anthea, are starving. To death, by their antics. They both get on top of me. Hunger and cold are their greatest displeasures. Fear may be involved, too. Under the covers, they slumber. Snore. Change positions. Dog dreams. Anthea just learned how to go under. Croesus just waits next to my bed for me to raise the covers so he can jump inside. Anthea would leap onto her four paws and, with a look, ask… Where did he go? I want to be there too. She then would stare at me for an answer. This meant I should shove her over to pull the covers down from the headboard to let her slip underneath, too. Croesus growls at her. Of course. Like the Russians in Ukraine, she’s invaded… his territory. Hallowed ground, you know? Every night, it’s the same procedure. Only recently has she started to scratch at the covers. Let me in! This is her standard signal for me to do my thing. Shove, pull, and in she slips. Done. Nope. There are mid-sleep exits to perform. Do not take on a Weimaraner unless prepared to deal with their sensitive noses. Hunters. The first is around 10-10:00 PM. Sometimes a little later: 11:15 PM. It is either Potty & Pee Time. No accidents in the house, please. Or, and just as often likely, there are God’s creatures rife about Il Poggiolo. Cats, foxes, hedgehogs, others. Awakened by their restlessness, the standard signal for some impending necessity, I get out of bed, take the two down the stairs, open the front door, lead them over to the Under-passage’s gate, open it, and off they shoot with an urgency the American Democratic Party ought to demonstrate with the current catastrophe underway in those 50+ States. This is repeated in the absolute Dead of Night: 3:00-3:20 PM. And that brings us to the 5:30 AM wake-up call of those two starving Weimaraner. I am exhausted. Can’t finish my own dreams. But enough.

Again, ain’t selling Il Poggiolo. Now’s the moment…

The Universe just did not come through for me. Nope. Scarce support from On High. Impediments. Lots. Starting with You’s point-blank assault of Over-my-dead-body… the Kick-off of Our Kontroversy… followed by inserts of sight-seeing adventures, such as drives to meet local real-estate agents, view engaging though more often than not deplorable property candidates, forays on the look-out for Vendesi signs… For Sale signs… in desired locales. The list goes on: had to fire an incompetent & uncommunicative real-estate agent… may I use the “J” word?… was forced as a matter of survival and Good Mental Health to ignore the overly competent global real-estate agencies’ game plans… the Italian language’s written Formal Form can be so irritating at times: friendly but officious in equal doses… with their ingrained need for piles of documentation over anything remotely near to an on-sight personal viewing of Il Poggiolo, the unexpected Shock & Dismay of family & friends to the news emblazoned on Facebook and Instagram, and the off-and-on Flights of Fantasy for prefab and Palladio. I may not be done with those last two.

And, frankly… this requires a new paragraph… there just wasn’t anything out there… or, in my head…. to rival the Heart & Soul and Floor Plan of Il Poggiolo. So, I ain’t selling it.

You is overjoyed.

One last word… I fucked it up. I am making amends with my Il Poggiolo Project: Spring Pruning!

Awesome!!!