Drop Dead Healthy by A. Jacobs (books to read to increase intelligence .TXT) 📕

learned the opposite is true. Ice-cold water is probably healthier. Why? Cold water might help you lose weight. It has negative calories. Here’s how Cornell psychology professor Brian Wansink explains it in Mindless Eating: “Since your body has to use energy to heat up an iced beverage, you actually burn about one calorie for every ice-cold ounce you drink. So that 32-ounce drink will take you 35 calories to warm up. No big deal? If you drink the recommended eight 8-ounce glasses of water a day, and if you fill those 64 ounces with ice, you’ll burn an extra 70 calories a day.”

Seventy calories. That’s nearly the equivalent of walking a mile. Or according to my Fitbit, having passive sexual activity. So in the interest of my waistline, I’ve started putting ice in my portable BPA-free charcoal-filtered water bottle.

Checkup: Month 20

     Weight: 158

     Average grams of sugar per day: 25

     Cups of coffee per day: 1.5

     Times unsuccessfully attempted to switch to green tea: 7

     Number of yoga instructors who have been surprisingly rude to me and other students: 3

Turns out fear of failure is a wonderful thing. It has inspired me to train for my triathlon every day. I alternate biking, running, and swimming.

I’ve convinced myself I know what I’m doing, thanks to my copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Triathlon Training.

When I pedal my bike around Central Park’s Great Lawn, I don’t just push down with each leg. I do the full-circle pedal, keeping the pressure in all directions, down, up, forward, back. You know, like a triathlete.

When I swim in the Jewish Community Center pool, I roll my body from side to side. I slide my arm into the water like I’m putting on a coat—as opposed to slapping the water, which is what I used to do. Again, like a triathlete.

When I run, I do my grueling High-Intensity Interval Training, which is more efficient, but still takes time.

In fact, training is eating away at my schedule. This Sunday, I came back to the apartment from a run. My face was red; a half-moon of sweat soaked the bill of my baseball cap.

“Welcome back,” Julie says. “You missed a great show.”

Lately, the twins have been staging the occasional off-off-off-Broadway show for Julie and me. They usually choose an improvised version of a fairy tale, like “Three Billy Goats Gruff.” But the play itself is almost incidental. The important part of the production is the preshow announcements—that’s what gives them the biggest thrill. Lucas will step in front of the couch and announce with great pride, “Ladies and gentlemen. Please turn off your cell phones.”

Zane will add, “And no flash photography because it disturbs the actors.”

Then they’ll congratulate each other on a job well done, giddy from the glamour of theater management.

But today, I missed both the preshow announcements and the show itself.

“Can I see an encore performance?” I ask.

The twins shake their heads. They’re not in the mood.

I hate missing these historic events. I’ll live. I’ll see another one of their plays, no doubt. But this underlines something that’s become increasingly clear: The health project is taking time away from my family. Which is probably not healthy.

I recently read an article in The Wall Street Journal called “A Workout Ate My Marriage” about exercise widows and widowers. There are quotes from therapists who counsel couples in which one spouse’s fitness addiction drives them apart. The men skip breakfast with the family for an early-morning trip to the gym. The women miss romantic dates in favor of doing laps at the Y.

The bottom line: Health obsession can turn you into a selfish bastard.

There are half solutions. Whenever I can, I try to exercise with my family. I run errands with Zane on my shoulders, or jog behind Lucas as he rides his Razor scooter.

And then there’s this rationale: I’m exercising so I can be around for my kids when they get older. Maybe you need to be selfish in the name of selflessness.

Chapter 21

The Gonads

The Quest to Get More Balls

I’VE BEEN MEANING TO SEE a urologist since my ill-starred attempt to jump-start my sex life. Now fate—and Esquire magazine—has led me to Harry Fisch, M.D.

I meet Fisch at an Esquire symposium where he’s giving a lecture on men’s health. A prominent urologist—a regular on the Dr. Oz show and author of The Male Biological Clock—he’s six feet tall and has good posture, sharp suits, and a big laugh. He exudes his favorite hormone, testosterone.

After his lecture, I approach Fisch and tell him I’d be interested in coming to see him. Fisch says absolutely.

“When I do a prostate exam, it’s easy. I use one finger. Maybe two if I need a second opinion.”

He unleashes his big laugh. “I love that joke. Heard it from a cabdriver.”

A week later, I’m in his sleek Park Avenue office, sitting across from him at his desk.

“The penis is the dipstick of the body’s health,” says Fisch. “What’s good for the heart is good for the penis. It’s all the same blood vessels. Should we do a checkup? C’mon, let’s do a checkup.”

We walk to the exam room next door, and I drop my pants as Fisch snaps on a glove. While he examines me, I turn my head and look off into the distance, like Obama in that Shepard Fairey poster. It’s my attempt to retain a smidgen of dignity.

Fisch stands up. He’s not going to sugarcoat it.

“You have old-man testicles, my friend. Low-hanging fruit.”

The problem, he says, isn’t just aesthetic. It’s that these may be a sign of low testosterone.

“You came in and thought you were healthy,” he says. “You’re not. I mean, you’re fine. But you could be a lot healthier. It’s about prevention. Twenty years down the road, you’ll be like this.” Fisch slopes his shoulders and shuffles along.

Before we decide on a course of action, Fisch says I should get a semen analysis.

“Okay. Who should I call to set one up?”

“How about now?”

Turns out, there’s a lab right