A bet is a bet...

Ahh, it's good to be back. After not writing a column for a couple of weeks, it occurred to me how much I missed not having anywhere to vent. My wife must have went to the paper and begged for my column slot back because she was tired of listening to me rant. Let's catch up, shall we?
I heard somewhere that when you are trying to lose weight, it takes about four weeks before you can really tell the difference in yourself. They said it takes about eight weeks before your signigicant other realizes, and about twelve weeks before the general public sees something. Well, some of you people better start noticing pretty quick, or I'm going to be depressed.
So far, I've lost between 23 and 25 pounds (it fluctuates daily) since the day after Thanksgiving. I've still got about fifteen more to go. The worst problem I've had with losing weight is the eating- or lack thereof. I'm an eater, I've always been an eater, and I'll always be an eater. I enjoy food like most people enjoy family time, or good company. When I'm eating a big plate of enchiladas or cutting into a chicken fried steak covered in cream gravy, it gives me a homey, comfortable feeling.
When I eat chicken, rice cakes and salad I feel like what my wife's friends must feel like when they come to the house and I happen to be home- kind of cold, lonely, and pretty much unwanted.
The running has been going pretty good, too. I'm in week eight of the nine week program that will train me to run a 5K (3.1 miles). Right now I' up to 2.8 miles when I run, and I think I'll keep going until I can run four miles comfortably. I've got to admit, though, that there is an asterisk by that statement. I've seen tax returns come back faster than I run that 2.8 miles.
In fact, a couple of weeks ago I was bragging about my jogging program at the poker table. One of my buddies kind of chuckled and said that he could outrun me in a mile, easily. At first I ignored him because the fact is, he was one Hell of an athlete back in the day. And I... well, I wasn't. Let's just leave it at that.
But as the night wore on, I got to thinking about the bet. "You know," I told myself, "he does smoke about a pack a day. He hasn't done any real running in years, and the guy outweighs you by at least thirty pounds." I'm not joking there, either. Anytime he wears a red t-shirt little kids chase him down on the street, trying to get the Kool-Aid man's autograph.
So finally, my pride got the best of me. I told him I'd accept the bet, we settled on an amount (because I'm not running a mile free for anyone), and decided to meet at the track at 9:30 the next morning.
Thirty minutes before we were supposed to meet at the track, my phone rang. "Let's do it for half the amount we said," my buddy told me.
"Nope," I said. "A bet is a bet."
He said it was half, or it was nothing. "Nope, a bet is a bet."
Let's just forget about it then, he said. We both get to keep our pride. "Huh uh, you owe me at least half," I told him. "Or you can meet me at the track and at least have a chance at winning. But a bet is a bet."
So my son and I met him at the track when we were supposed to, and my buddy proceeded to outrun me by a pretty huge margin. I still don't know how he did it. I kept the same pace for all four laps, and he stayed right there with me. At one point, he even got thirty yards ahead of me and walked until I caught up. The dude had time to stop and walk while he caught his breath! In the end, he finished about twenty seconds ahead of me. By the time I crossed the finish line, he was on his back well into his second heart attack.
Still not sure what sucks more- eating all this dry chicken every day, or the memory of having to pay Professor Klump his cash right in front of my own son. Oh, and hearing him painfully wheeze out the words "A...bet...is...a...bet."