It was 3:35 p.m. on a Friday with an early deadline, I was struggling to come up with a column theme, the voice in my head yelled, “No more dating tips/advice columns” (for once, the voice made a good point).

Then another voice popped in that told me to make a column making an ironic connection between Lance Armstrong, Oscar Pistorius, Pete Rose and O.J Simpson, their rise to fame and then inglorious drop, but I didn't feel comfortable writing on that topic and decided to keep thinking (see what I just did there?).

Another voice (at this point the reader asks, “how many voices are in there, K-10”) chimes in, and suggests writing about Michael Jordan turning 50 and realizing that he was old (I realized I was 'old' when I turned 24 and started having to wear a knee brace for sports), but I figured that would make for a boring read (not that anything written thus far is likely to have entranced readership).

Then another voice walked in – this time to the back room where we're seated - randomly said, “Muffintop”, and made me instantly frustrated with my current attempt to drop the pounds.

From there, a column was born.
It was about 2.5 months ago, I stepped on to a weight scale at the doctor's office, the nice lady there read aloud my weight, and I slowly stepped off the scale, stunned (although when I sit behind a desk all day I guess it shouldn't have been a revelation).

Couple weeks went by where I apparently was still stunned by the number thrown my way, then it was decided, the weight would be lost.
What ensued has become a frustrating battle.

So you take the normal tips: cut back on the sweets, snacks and desserts. Cut back a wee bit on the condiments (when I was a kid I used to think that was a dirty word).

Drink more water (which apparently is the equivalent to “taking more pee breaks”). Eat healthier dinner and supper meals (that was easier seeing as how I was already frustrated by Pizza Pops, re: previous column) and then try not to drink as much (that's where it becomes mission impossible for a 20-something year old).

When you're up at the weight I was at, the first few pounds fell like nothing, then a few more drop by simply changing the nighttime schedule from watching TV/movies to getting in to a few sports activities/leagues (#shamelessplug for Thursday night adult men's/women's soccer from 8-9:30 p.m. for any 'footballers' reading this column).

After those few pounds drop off the start, the challenge really begins. You start to 'trick' yourself into believing what you eat is healthy.

Maybe sneak in the odd milkshake (it's a dairy product, right?), a big ol' greasified pizza (there's still tomatoes in the sauce), or some chocolate (no excuse thought of for that one, sometimes you just crack).

Then in another week, the weight's right back to where you began. After that, it's Christmas time...good luck buddy (I didn't have good luck).

Back to square one.
By January I finally got back on the weight-loss-train (see how you can make any word you want by simply throwing a couple dashes in) and its' been going just swell.

Then the parents left on vacation for a few weeks, and the cookies and snacks aren't sent over as often from the momma (I hope she doesn't read this when she returns, I enjoy those cookies) and you're even farther along.
But it's the daily, agonizing pain that kicks at you.

Driving by restaurants and watering at the mouth as you pass, stepping in to the Timmies and staring down the 'special edition' donut they have at the time (the Valentine's donut caught me twice), or turning on the TV, watching a commercial about a mouthwatering bacon cheesburger, fully loaded, looking down at the chicken salad on your plate and realizing how much of a fool you are (man wants meat).

Well, luckily I've run out of word space in this column because I'm not sure exactly where it was going (other than simply a rant).

Although I do find that I can once again run for extended periods of time without peeling over (at one point I was pretty sure I was going to die) and can touch my toes again (although that's not really a useful thing to do), so I guess not all in life is that bad.

Anyway, until next week when I'll likely write a column about regressing into a grease-induced coma, keep a smile on your face and I'll do the same.