Ftrain, by Paul Ford

I should note here that this experiment, edging into its sixth week, is working. I have lost at least 15 lbs. and feel quite different, less ponderous and bearlike. I rode my bicycle every day last week. I wake up earlier in the mornings.

It's more than 15--closer to 25 or 30 more likely--but this is about accountability and measurement, and I can only vouch for 15. Let me revisit:

July 1, 2009-- I went to the Doctor. He noted that I had lost weight; and that I remained off the scale; I've been off the scale for years. I know the scale's outer limit. I told him I had occasional stomachaches, and he said that it might be my heart and referred me to the cardiologist.

July 4-- Was my last binge-day. I had sandwiches and sandwiches, and beer, and ate pie.

July 5-- Thanks to the rapid-prototyping capabilities of the Python language and the Django web development framework, I began gathering the data that makes up this website.

July 7-- I went to the cardiologist. He told me I was fine and suggested I look into bariatric surgery. "It's much safer now," said the cardiologist.

"I had a friend die of it," I said.

"You should find a place where they do a lot of it."

"I'm going to do 2,000 calories a day," I said. "And ride my bike."

July 30-- The arrival of the scale; initial-weigh in brings me in at eight lbs. left of the rightwards edge. Standing upon it was pure despair. But I need not have purchased the special bariatrics model; I am back within the very outer range of the typical. Every morning I weigh in. There are two beams. The bottom beam stays where it is; the top beam moves left every day. Around a quarter-pound per day. I could lose more if I wanted. I now know how to do that; I could also gain it back if I wanted, as I know how to do that; in fact, I'm an expert at it. And so far the weight on the top beam has moved 15 lbs. to the left of the outer edge; 10 percent of the weight I need to lose in order to attain an appropriately diminished state, as recommended by medicine, science, and aesthetics. A dime on the dollar.

So that is how I've come to lost at least 15 lbs. since July 1st, but actually more. That first dime is the hardest to earn. The rest of the dollar is a grind, but it's nothing like that first dime. If I managed a team I would have 10 percent parties.

My Body Dollar Predicted

At 10¢ I have proved the project, while it may not ultimately succeed, is possible. I know the general boundaries of the problem domain and I understand the resources, skills, and basic materials required to continue. I can even (but I won't) set a deadline. I can demonstrate my seriousness and apply for further funding.

At 20¢ the boredom begins, the novelty wears off, and this website becomes exhausting to everyone but me. People are disappointed that I lack for new material. I used to be interesting; now I am on the project. Thirty lbs., while an achievement and all, it's not that big a deal on a dude that big. And it was about time anyway.

At 30¢ I do, finally, appear different. Inside the fleshiness there is a face, a frame, a bounce in the step. The laugh less jowly. Bucktoothed girls start to flirt. I ask my doctor to take me off medication.

At 40¢ I'm basically done with phase I; I am out of development and in public beta. Now comes customer feedback, in the form of--well, what form?

At 50¢ People stop waiting for me to fail. My doctor does take me off of medication.

At 60¢ I begin to hear stories from acquaintances about how much they liked me but they avoided me due to my extreme fatness, which made them uncomfortable.

At 70¢ I am filled with information, and somewhat healthy.

At 80¢ The singularity. Robots attain consciousness. A plague of burning steel rains down. All humans are enslaved.

At 90¢ I regret every pound lost when I am shoved into a camp and reduced to 900 calories a day, mostly in the form of HFCS-sweetened motor oil. Had I not dieted I would have more life remaining. I am assigned to gravedigging detail. There one of the rapebots takes a liking to me. I am thin, and strong. He takes me as his bride. My protests fall useless on his tin ears.

At $1.00 Our race is gone, replaced by machines. My gravestone is marked by a few robot-scratchings, indicating in their terse hexadecimal-language that I was a worker and botwife, servile and good with an oilcan. The pallbots have no trouble lifting me into my grave.

My wife has put aside pants that are now too loose so that I can put them on when I am disappointed in my progress. But I am not so easily disappointed.

The loss of the public option for health care is disappointing.

The fatness of my ass, or lack thereof, is not really cause for celebration; an increase would not be cause for mourning. You have to make choices about what you honor and do not honor. Honor me for a good sentence, not for less thigh.

I think a lot about prayer. I always liked that part of religion. Communion with force. Gratefulness. Grace. Accounting for oneself and asking for intervention, obeisance to the universal eye. Now I celebrate knowledge and control. The fact that I am slimmer is for the comfort of strangers; the fact that I am contemplating mouthfuls is for myself, the search for grace. Grace is said--sought--before a meal begins. Families joining hands. A good replacement for sacrifice at the temple. Thank you God for this bountiful harvest of Oreos? Thank you God for blessing our table with bacon bits; thank you God for the extra-spiciness of this your gift which we are about to receive? You must wonder what he makes of it, up there. The garden is filled with trans-fats; the angels dip their swords in chocolate fountains. Anyway. I think a lot about prayer.