Chubster: A Hipster's Guide to Losing Weight While Staying Cool

by Martin Cizmar

A humorous and appropriately snarky weight-loss and lifestyle guide for hipsters looking to shed pounds and stay cool.

  • Format: Paperback
  • ISBN-13/ EAN: 9780547559346
  • ISBN-10: 0547559348
  • Pages: 240
  • Publication Date: 01/03/2012
  • Carton Quantity: 24

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About the Book
About the Author
Excerpts
Reviews
  • About the Book
    ARE YOUR SKINNY JEANS STARTING TO FEEL A LITTLE SNUG?

    You don’t have the right clothes for the gym. You don’t do protein powders, wonder berries, or green tea. The idea of going without beer makes you weak in the knees.

    But there’s no denying you are one. fat. hipster.

    Lucky for you, Martin Cizmar has come up with the least awful diet plan of all time. The Chubster way. It revolves around calorie counting (deal with it) and enjoyable undercover exercise (urban hiking and gum chewing). Martin gives you the tools to become a self-sufficient weight-loss machine capable of functioning in any environment. From frozen dinners and drive-through menus, ethnic eating to microbrews, he’ll point you to the responsible choice, steer you clear of the real diet killers, and dispel some of the myths giving you that tire around your waist. Like: That Stella you’re holding? It has more calories than Guinness.

    Dieting is never fun, but with Chubster, weight loss doesn’t have to cramp your style.

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  • About the Author
  • Excerpts
    PROLOGUE

    The word chubster—while universally accepted as a delightful that it has to have some
    meaning — is fairly amorphous. Actually, UrbanDictionary.com, the definitive source
    of information on made-up words, offers quite a few definitions,
    two variants of which are interesting to us:

    1. CHUBSTER

    (Noun)


     An overweight person who considers himself to be a hipster.
     Someone who is proud to be a fatty mcfatfat . . . They
     wear Old Navy jeans because they can’t fit into anything
     from Urban Outfitters or from trendy thrift shops. They
     try to squeeze themselves into small hoodies and H&M
     T-shirts because slim fitting clothes look “dope” on them.
     They avoid being an outcast loser because they are seen as
     cool and desirable due to a magnetic personality and funny
     jokes that compensate for their perceived lack of physical
     attractiveness. 


     Celebrity examples of Chubsters: Jonah Hill, Zach Galifianakis,
     Seth Rogan

     Fawn: Ugh! Look at that chick with the muffin top and those
    Charlotte Russe flats.
     Ruby: . . . and you know she got that Run DMC T-shirt from
    Torrid.
     Fawn: Oh em eff jeez, she’s such a chubster.

    2. CHUBSTER

    (Noun)

     Someone who used to be chubby when they were a kid,
     but became very in-shape, muscular, and attractive. It’s
     almost like being a chubster is a compliment, because most
     of them are very nice, they know what it’s like to be the fat
     kid who’s everyone’s friend, no more (girls didn’t think of
     him that way), so most chubsters don’t judge. He’s the guy
     who everyone likes, but how could you not like a chubster?
     Funny, nice, and able to relate to almost everyone? They’re
     one of a kind.

    Bob: Dude, this new kid came to our class, he showed us his
    yearbook and he was like majorly chubby two years ago.
     Sally: But not anymore. That new kid’s cute, that chubster.

      For much of my life, I’ve been a Chubster1. Certainly, I
    was not seriously ashamed of my weight, and I was kindasorta
    proud of my indulgence. At the same time, I was always
    trying to fit in with my usually-skinny hipster friends — not
    always easy for a big guy. Now I’m working on becoming a
    Chubster2: the cool, formerly fat guy. Actually, in calling this
    book Chubster, I’m hoping to carve that definition into a metaphorical
    stone tablet. Not that I’m always a nice guy — as
    you’ll undoubtedly see throughout the book, I’ve never been
    the sweet and beloved tuba-playing fat kid — but I’m trying.
    I’m trying, folks. In the meantime, I’m doing what I’ve always
    done, which is keep it real. That means giving you some cold,
    hard, and unpleasant facts. I’m going to do that in the nicest
    and most efficient way possible because I’ve been in your
    shoes. I’m now an average weight, but luckily I still have
    some of that renowned empathy that makes fat people beloved
    the world over.
      The fact of the matter is, there’s nothing wrong with
    being fat. Or, at least there’s nothing wrong with you because
    you’re fat. That’s the truth, and anyone who tells you
    differently is an asshole. Sure, I lost 100 pounds in eight
    months for the express purpose of not being fat (I’m 5'11"
    and weighed 290 when I started). Still, I don’t see anything
    wrong with being overweight, per se. It’s not a character
    flaw. Being fat is pretty fun, actually. I had a great run. I ate
    creamy, fried, and sickeningly sweet foods so delicious, most
    of my thin friends could never imagine consuming them. I
    imbibed mass quantities of the world’s most delicious beers
    without a second thought — never did anything less caloric
    than Blue Moon touch my lips. I sat around playing video
    games, watching football, and listening to records on lazy
    Sundays. Despite my girth, I had no trouble getting a little
    action from attractive girls (my girlfriend is 5'10", a size 6,
    and gorgeous), which is the major impediment faced by the
    overweight among us.
      Honestly, it was great. Sure, I was a little ashamed at the
    pool, but not enough to change anything. And there was
    that one time I could not fit inside a roller coaster. Only
    the Insane Clown Posse seemed to sell concert T-shirts
    that fit me. And I hurriedly untagged almost every photo
    of me posted on Facebook. But that was my life and I was
    enjoying it.
      But “happily fat” is not a sustainable lifestyle. Facing
    my twenty-ninth birthday, I had to accept that. It was a
    cherry Slurpee and my girlfriend, Kirsten, which made me
    see this. It’s sort of a weird story, actually. We were headed
    home from a Dave Matthews Band concert — part of my job
    is to go to such concerts and explain to the primitive hordes
    why they suck — when I stopped for a refreshing, sugary
    beverage to quench my thirst and propel me through the
    late-night writing process required to meet my 9 a.m. deadline.
    I got the largest size and sucked down the whole thing
    without a second thought. Kirsten, a nurse who works with
    liver patients, some of the least-well humans on earth, was
    horrified. We’d talked about my weight before, but never
    very seriously.
      I could tell immediately this conversation was going to be
    different.
      “DO YOU KNOW HOW MANY CALORIES YOU JUST
    DRANK?” she asked. I guessed around 300 — it’s mostly ice,
    right? When we looked it up (a ritual I would become all too
    familiar with in the coming months), it was more like 600.
    Some 600 calories for a bedtime snack! It was a lot, but still,
    I didn’t see the big deal. Maybe a Slurpee was a bad choice, I
    said, but I need to drink something to write. How am I supposed
    to write with a dry mouth and tired eyes? Diet Coke,
    she suggested. Ick, I said. No, she said, this is serious.
      The health thing, obviously, was a big concern. But the
    probable consequences — to be outlined shortly — also felt far
    into the future. There was a more pressing issue: In a few
    months, I would be meeting her health-nut parents for the
    first time in New Zealand. Kirsten’s dad is a college professor
    who studies pharmaceuticals, and her mom knows everyone
    in her town’s co-op grocery store by name and does nearly as
    much yoga as Gandhi — in other words, they’ve been granola
    since before it was cool. I knew Kirsten was right. There
    was little chance I could plan to be indefinitely overweight
    and keep that little pink heart on my Facebook relationship
    status intact. For me, it wasn’t so much an ultimatum as a
    realization.
      And thus began the transformation. A hundred pounds. A
    snug 44 to a loose 34. A loose 3XL to a snug M. Some people
    might prefer I say I dropped the weight with the help of
    Whole Foods, reusable BPA-free water bottles, and an elliptical,
    but the truth is, I didn’t. I changed my habits so little
    that I might think it was pathetic — a sign that I’m pitifully
    stuck in my ways — if it weren’t for how inspiring the story
    seems to be to other people.
     &...

  • Reviews
    "[Cizmar] encourages you to take a hard look at yourself -- and why you've gained or can't lose weight -- at the same time as he scrutinizes himself. Reading the book feels like entering into a fitness pact with a friend, not at all like the miserable time I signed myself up for a personal trainer at Bally's who made me cry three times a week . . . The book is endlessly useful in a variety of ways." -- Houston Press
     
    "Science-based and infused with 'snarky jokes,' Cizmar’s plan will particularly appeal to 'hipsters' seeking a nongimmicky, foolproof way to slim down while enjoying some laughs." -- Publishers Weekly
     
    "A well-researched, serious book about how to lose weight that will appeal to folks not interested in joining in the 'Organized Dieting' movement." -- Santa Barbara Independent
     
    "Full of lively writing and sound advice." -- Oregonian
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