I have been training consistently for over four weeks now. Which means it’s been four weeks of near-daily cardio, strength training, personal training, sweating, tracking, and making objectively good choices. And I have not lost a single pound. Not one. Not even one of those courtesy pounds you’re supposed to lose in the first week…

Reader, I abandoned you. I’m sorry. Three weeks, as it turns out, was the exact amount of time required for me to perform a full seven-day motivational faceplant, quietly spiral, recalibrate, and eventually claw my way through two genuinely solid weeks of training. I would love to report that my confidence is fully restored and…

Holy shit. I actually worked out! Alright, hold up. I should preface this by saying I have a very complicated, demanding, and profoundly sedentary job — one that requires constant focus, endless decision-making, and absolutely no physical movement above the wrist. It’s eight hours of cognitive acrobatics and physical paralysis that burns no calories whatsoever…

Like most midlife crises, this one begins with a questionable mix of optimism, an overabundance of misplaced confidence, and a credit card. But here’s the thing about my particular brand of life after forty: every reckless, harebrained idea I’ve had since thirty-nine seems to start the same way — with me on a diet and…