Reading my Facebook feed today, it would appear that this is a day to look back on what I've done this year and set goals for the future.
I've never been good with resolutions set for resolutions' sake. I'm not a fan of them, generally speaking, and so I'm making an effort to not set grand yearly goals. Instead, I'm looking at smaller pictures, the sort I'll need to stay on the long-term fitness plan I've begun.
In November, I logged 11.2mi on the treadmill. December recorded 21.2mi.
So, goal number one: Put in 30mi on the treadmill in January.
This means I'll need to stop concentrating on speed, which was a huge burden on my developing legs, and start concentrating on longevity. Probably a good idea.
I've been skipping the weights lately, in favor of cardio. I don't like being at the gym for more than an hour in the evenings, since I work until 6pm and need to get home at a reasonable time. But I need to start finding time for my weights. It's too important.
Things brings me to goal number two: Put in two extra sessions per week to work on weights.
I can put in a long session on weekends to get it done, I can go in before work, or I can run to the gym on lunch to hit my major muscle groups. However I get it done is fine. I just need to get it done. Two times per week.
October 13, I weighed in at 238. November 27, I weighed in at 228. Yesterday, the number was 224. This month was disappointing, yet totally and utterly normal. It's taken me three weeks to accept that fact. I learned, through this disappointment, that the process is the important part. Numbers are secondary.
So instead of setting silly, depressing goals in pounds, I have goal number three: Stay faithful to my food plan every day.
Some days, I'll slip up. There will be days when I choose chocolate for a snack, and there will be many more days when I reach for carbonated drinks. But I will log what I do, I will pay attention, and I won't fool myself into thinking it doesn't matter. It all matters.
There's a difference between accepting my mistakes and pretending I never made them in the first place. If I want to succeed, I need to remember the difference.
So there are my three goals, for now: 30mi on the treadmill in January, two days a week on weights, and keep logging the foods I eat every day.
By the end of the month, I hope to have made tremendous gains over December. Today was a much-appreciated day off from the gym. Can't wait to get back in there tomorrow and start on the new goals!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Thursday, December 29, 2011
Enjoying the process
When I started getting good results early on, this gym business became all about the results. When I didn't see those results, I was upset. I pushed myself harder than I should have.
Today, I re-evaluated what I'm doing. Yes, results are important. But this, it's about the process, because really, what I'm doing here is a process. There is no end point to fitness, not if you're doing it for the right reasons.
When I went into the gym after work today, I took a giant step back. Deliberately. I slowed the treadmill to what I was running a month ago, and instead of pounding my body in pursuit of a faster time, I just let myself run.
For the first time in weeks, I enjoyed it again. Before I knew it, two miles were up, and that was that.
I certainly didn't set any records. I wasn't even paying attention. That was the difference.
I'm sure there will come a time in the near future when I'll run to beat my best time again. In the meantime, I'll appreciate this opportunity I've been given.
And I'll have fun.
Today, I re-evaluated what I'm doing. Yes, results are important. But this, it's about the process, because really, what I'm doing here is a process. There is no end point to fitness, not if you're doing it for the right reasons.
When I went into the gym after work today, I took a giant step back. Deliberately. I slowed the treadmill to what I was running a month ago, and instead of pounding my body in pursuit of a faster time, I just let myself run.
For the first time in weeks, I enjoyed it again. Before I knew it, two miles were up, and that was that.
I certainly didn't set any records. I wasn't even paying attention. That was the difference.
I'm sure there will come a time in the near future when I'll run to beat my best time again. In the meantime, I'll appreciate this opportunity I've been given.
And I'll have fun.
Tuesday, December 27, 2011
Post-Christmas training, taking no prisoners
Every time I sneeze, it sounds like this:
Achoo "Ow."
In other words, the ab workout I did at the end of last night's session was a success.
Training last night with J was another arms night, which was nice. My left leg has been sore - more on that later - and I wasn't looking forward to dealing with a legs night after two days off from the gym and a morning of being hung over.
We hit the arms hard, increasing weight on my bicep curls and visiting some new machines for chest and shoulder presses. The weight was heavy enough that J stepped in to help on some of my lifts, when I was getting dangerously close to smacking myself in the head with my 20-lb dumbbells.
He's such a nice boy.
"So," he asked after the first 40 minutes or so, "have we done more with incline push ups or triceps dips?"
"We haven't done triceps dips yet."
"Really?" And he got this smile.
"... Can I take that back? Just forget I said it."
I don't trust that smile.
So. We did triceps dips. What are triceps dips? They're jerks, is what they are. Horrible, horrible things created by people who hate people.
They're also amazing exercises that can be done anywhere you find a sturdy chair and a few minutes of peace. They look like this:
At least, they look like that when done by a skinny, fit woman with tremendous muscle control. When done by me, they quiver a lot more. And my chins jiggle. But that's part of the fitness curve. Every rep that looks ugly today will look good later. There's no easy way.
After the shoulders, chest, back, and arms had been abused sufficiently, we wrapped up with abs. We did short timed circuits, consisting of 30-seconds of sit ups with legs extended flat, 30-seconds of leg raises, 30-seconds of heel touches, and one minute of rest. Then do it again. And again.
I think I shall call this particular circuit "I hate my abs."
All things considered, it was a great night. It felt fantastic to be back in the gym and the session beat back some of the negativity that always starts to boil when I'm away for too long. Attitude: adjusted.
In other news, I'm laid up from running (again), this time due to the iliopsoas of my left leg. The front of my hip started aching last week while I was running, with accompanying tightness in the left side of my lower back. I didn't realize at the time that those two things correspond, but surprise!
Hoping to make a trip to the chiropractor soon to have my lower back addressed, and I'm hoping that the leg will follow. Meanwhile, I'm reading up on additional running stretches, using other cardio machines that don't stretch my hip as far as running does. We'll see how a few days off from running feel.
Achoo "Ow."
In other words, the ab workout I did at the end of last night's session was a success.
Training last night with J was another arms night, which was nice. My left leg has been sore - more on that later - and I wasn't looking forward to dealing with a legs night after two days off from the gym and a morning of being hung over.
We hit the arms hard, increasing weight on my bicep curls and visiting some new machines for chest and shoulder presses. The weight was heavy enough that J stepped in to help on some of my lifts, when I was getting dangerously close to smacking myself in the head with my 20-lb dumbbells.
He's such a nice boy.
"So," he asked after the first 40 minutes or so, "have we done more with incline push ups or triceps dips?"
"We haven't done triceps dips yet."
"Really?" And he got this smile.
"... Can I take that back? Just forget I said it."
I don't trust that smile.
So. We did triceps dips. What are triceps dips? They're jerks, is what they are. Horrible, horrible things created by people who hate people.
They're also amazing exercises that can be done anywhere you find a sturdy chair and a few minutes of peace. They look like this:
At least, they look like that when done by a skinny, fit woman with tremendous muscle control. When done by me, they quiver a lot more. And my chins jiggle. But that's part of the fitness curve. Every rep that looks ugly today will look good later. There's no easy way.
After the shoulders, chest, back, and arms had been abused sufficiently, we wrapped up with abs. We did short timed circuits, consisting of 30-seconds of sit ups with legs extended flat, 30-seconds of leg raises, 30-seconds of heel touches, and one minute of rest. Then do it again. And again.
I think I shall call this particular circuit "I hate my abs."
All things considered, it was a great night. It felt fantastic to be back in the gym and the session beat back some of the negativity that always starts to boil when I'm away for too long. Attitude: adjusted.
In other news, I'm laid up from running (again), this time due to the iliopsoas of my left leg. The front of my hip started aching last week while I was running, with accompanying tightness in the left side of my lower back. I didn't realize at the time that those two things correspond, but surprise!
Hoping to make a trip to the chiropractor soon to have my lower back addressed, and I'm hoping that the leg will follow. Meanwhile, I'm reading up on additional running stretches, using other cardio machines that don't stretch my hip as far as running does. We'll see how a few days off from running feel.
Monday, December 26, 2011
For Christmas, I got myself a hangover
I know you're jealous.
This year's Christmas was unconventional, a buffet of snacky foods taken at a destination with all members of the family accounted for. It was nice to come and go as I pleased, eating whatever sounded good whenever it sounded best.
But alas, 75% of the foods on display included some form of chocolate. Brownies, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate-covered Oreos, chocolate chip bars, chocolate-dipped pretzels, chocolate fudge, chocolate candies of all varieties, etc etc. It was a cheat day, I told myself, so it would be okay to just eat and not count the calories.
I was half right. It is okay to eat sometimes and not worry about the calories. We're all allowed to take a break from the micromanaging.
Where I was wrong was that it really isn't okay to eat whatever I want. When I forget this, my body reminds me.
And so it did early this morning, around 6am, when I first woke up and laid in bed feeling entirely nauseous. It was the sort of barfy feeling where you're not sure that the act of vomiting would help, and so you need to accept that it isn't getting better and you just need to deal with it. I dealt with it by curling up in a ball in an armchair all morning, apathetically watching the ensuing post-Christmas festivities continue around me.
These lessons are hard to learn. This was my second time being acquainted with what garbage food does to the body. I remember being very upset the first time, but hey, it was a new concept. Why I thought I could get away with again, I don't know.
NEWS FLASH! It didn't work. It won't work next time, either, and there will be a next time. And a time after that. But someday, these lessons will stick.
Until then, there will be these posts.
One more weekend left of the holiday season. One more weekend of indulgence to endure before life is back to normal. I think I'm ready.
This year's Christmas was unconventional, a buffet of snacky foods taken at a destination with all members of the family accounted for. It was nice to come and go as I pleased, eating whatever sounded good whenever it sounded best.
But alas, 75% of the foods on display included some form of chocolate. Brownies, chocolate chip cookies, chocolate-covered Oreos, chocolate chip bars, chocolate-dipped pretzels, chocolate fudge, chocolate candies of all varieties, etc etc. It was a cheat day, I told myself, so it would be okay to just eat and not count the calories.
I was half right. It is okay to eat sometimes and not worry about the calories. We're all allowed to take a break from the micromanaging.
Where I was wrong was that it really isn't okay to eat whatever I want. When I forget this, my body reminds me.
And so it did early this morning, around 6am, when I first woke up and laid in bed feeling entirely nauseous. It was the sort of barfy feeling where you're not sure that the act of vomiting would help, and so you need to accept that it isn't getting better and you just need to deal with it. I dealt with it by curling up in a ball in an armchair all morning, apathetically watching the ensuing post-Christmas festivities continue around me.
These lessons are hard to learn. This was my second time being acquainted with what garbage food does to the body. I remember being very upset the first time, but hey, it was a new concept. Why I thought I could get away with again, I don't know.
NEWS FLASH! It didn't work. It won't work next time, either, and there will be a next time. And a time after that. But someday, these lessons will stick.
Until then, there will be these posts.
One more weekend left of the holiday season. One more weekend of indulgence to endure before life is back to normal. I think I'm ready.
Wednesday, December 21, 2011
Surpriiiiise evaluation!
Training with J was tonight, a departure from the usual Monday night session. After last night's mess on the treadmill, I wasn't looking forward to it. Legs. It was bound to be.
"What would you say if I said we should have an evaluation tonight?" These were the first words J said to me tonight.
I must have looked stunned, because he backpedaled. "I mean, if that's okay. It's been 30 days exactly..." and he kept going until I interrupted.
"No, that's fine. I just... that's fine." I blinked. "I usually cram before these things, though. Like, sit-ups every day all week. But, um. Okay!"
I weighed-in, which was very anti-climactic. 226 on the scale today, a bit higher than last week's 225. This puts me down twelve pounds since I started two months ago, which J said is "Awesome!"
When I drop eight pounds the first month and only four the second, I don't feel particularly awesome, but he's the expert here. So we'll go with awesome.
Measurements were mixed. Upper-body measurements stayed roughly the same while I lost inches off the waist, hips, and thigh. No wonder I can fit into my pants again!
The performance part of the evaluation went much better. I maxed out my reps on the leg press and chest press at a considerably higher weight than I did last month. I nearly maxed my lat pulldowns at 15lbs higher than last month. I made gains in the sit-ups, exceeding my previous mark of 50 in one minute, and did likewise in push-ups when I made 41 in one minute.
From the knees, folks. It's how I roll.
My run was average, pulling .89mi in 12:00. Better than last month by .07mi and only slightly off my current mile pace.
Also, I was on the squeakiest machine in the building. Every step was accompanied by the creaking of the belt and a slight rattle as my bulk thumped down on it. It was hot, people. So considering that my zen was thrown off by the unintended rhythm of a noisy machine, not to mention my self-esteem, I suppose I did pretty well.
Overall, a decent night. I want better numbers on the scale, but I keep reminding myself that plateaus are normal and I'm still new to all of this. Fitness is a life-long journey. Two months is nothing.
And really, even if I stick to this comparatively-slow pace of four pounds lost per month, you know what that means? Next year at this time, I'll be down nearly fifty pounds.
I'd be a fool to complain about that.
"What would you say if I said we should have an evaluation tonight?" These were the first words J said to me tonight.
I must have looked stunned, because he backpedaled. "I mean, if that's okay. It's been 30 days exactly..." and he kept going until I interrupted.
"No, that's fine. I just... that's fine." I blinked. "I usually cram before these things, though. Like, sit-ups every day all week. But, um. Okay!"
I weighed-in, which was very anti-climactic. 226 on the scale today, a bit higher than last week's 225. This puts me down twelve pounds since I started two months ago, which J said is "Awesome!"
When I drop eight pounds the first month and only four the second, I don't feel particularly awesome, but he's the expert here. So we'll go with awesome.
Measurements were mixed. Upper-body measurements stayed roughly the same while I lost inches off the waist, hips, and thigh. No wonder I can fit into my pants again!
The performance part of the evaluation went much better. I maxed out my reps on the leg press and chest press at a considerably higher weight than I did last month. I nearly maxed my lat pulldowns at 15lbs higher than last month. I made gains in the sit-ups, exceeding my previous mark of 50 in one minute, and did likewise in push-ups when I made 41 in one minute.
From the knees, folks. It's how I roll.
My run was average, pulling .89mi in 12:00. Better than last month by .07mi and only slightly off my current mile pace.
Also, I was on the squeakiest machine in the building. Every step was accompanied by the creaking of the belt and a slight rattle as my bulk thumped down on it. It was hot, people. So considering that my zen was thrown off by the unintended rhythm of a noisy machine, not to mention my self-esteem, I suppose I did pretty well.
Overall, a decent night. I want better numbers on the scale, but I keep reminding myself that plateaus are normal and I'm still new to all of this. Fitness is a life-long journey. Two months is nothing.
And really, even if I stick to this comparatively-slow pace of four pounds lost per month, you know what that means? Next year at this time, I'll be down nearly fifty pounds.
I'd be a fool to complain about that.
Tuesday, December 20, 2011
The fatigue is setting in
Slowly but surely, I've been closing in on my next goal of breaking 13:00 on my mile.
My legs don't appreciate this.
See, when I'm approaching a new goal, I hit every session at the gym with renewed effort, doubling down in an effort to get it done. With my mile, this means that I've been breaking my own rules, like running before I had my new shoes, ignoring the signs of fatigue, and skipping days off.
I want it so badly, I'm hurting myself.
I was able to pick up the new shoes yesterday and they're every bit as wonderful as I'd hoped they would be. The shin splints abated immediately, but I discovered a new issue: these shoes are heavy. Not heavy enough to notice when walking, but after a few minutes of running, brand new parts of my legs started aching, and I got winded much more quickly.
After making gains over the weekend, my mile time was 14:00 tonight. Two steps forward, one step back.
More than that, though, I found myself hurting more than usual. The warm-up felt off, and after only two minutes of running, my body was hurting. I forced myself through that mile, berated myself for not trying harder, then mentally lectured myself for not stopping when I should have.
I'm considering the very real possibility that I'm over-training. It doesn't feel like I am, or like I should be. I'm running only a mile or two a day, five days a week. That's not much. But I need to remember that, for my fitness level and for the small amount of time I've been at this, it is much.
This is one of those days where I'm struggling to cut myself some slack and take a break.
On a more positive note, I'm pleased to report that I bravely weathered the task of holiday baking over the weekend with hardly a calorie ingested. Faced with several dozen cookies and chocolate-dipped goodies, the only thing that seemed worth indulging in was a single warm, melty chocolate chip cookie.
If ever anyone out there needed proof that we can change without meaning to, let this be evidence. I wanted to eat cookies. I really did. I was ready to eat them, en masse, and had planned my calories accordingly. I just... couldn't. They aren't delicious to me anymore.
I regard this as a bittersweet victory. Literally.
My legs don't appreciate this.
See, when I'm approaching a new goal, I hit every session at the gym with renewed effort, doubling down in an effort to get it done. With my mile, this means that I've been breaking my own rules, like running before I had my new shoes, ignoring the signs of fatigue, and skipping days off.
I want it so badly, I'm hurting myself.
I was able to pick up the new shoes yesterday and they're every bit as wonderful as I'd hoped they would be. The shin splints abated immediately, but I discovered a new issue: these shoes are heavy. Not heavy enough to notice when walking, but after a few minutes of running, brand new parts of my legs started aching, and I got winded much more quickly.
After making gains over the weekend, my mile time was 14:00 tonight. Two steps forward, one step back.
More than that, though, I found myself hurting more than usual. The warm-up felt off, and after only two minutes of running, my body was hurting. I forced myself through that mile, berated myself for not trying harder, then mentally lectured myself for not stopping when I should have.
I'm considering the very real possibility that I'm over-training. It doesn't feel like I am, or like I should be. I'm running only a mile or two a day, five days a week. That's not much. But I need to remember that, for my fitness level and for the small amount of time I've been at this, it is much.
This is one of those days where I'm struggling to cut myself some slack and take a break.
On a more positive note, I'm pleased to report that I bravely weathered the task of holiday baking over the weekend with hardly a calorie ingested. Faced with several dozen cookies and chocolate-dipped goodies, the only thing that seemed worth indulging in was a single warm, melty chocolate chip cookie.
If ever anyone out there needed proof that we can change without meaning to, let this be evidence. I wanted to eat cookies. I really did. I was ready to eat them, en masse, and had planned my calories accordingly. I just... couldn't. They aren't delicious to me anymore.
I regard this as a bittersweet victory. Literally.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
One of the cleverest fitness articles I've ever read
4 Stunning Revelations An Idiot Has About Running
If you're familiar with the website Cracked, you may have seen this article on running come across last month. I read it the day it was posted, I re-read it the next day, and I've read it regularly ever since. It sums up my experience with running 100%, in every way.
It's vulgar and occasionally offensive, like nearly everything on Cracked, but it's worth reading if you're a runner, if you've ever thought of running, or if you're terrified of even trying.
In other words, read it. Because it's true.
To get a little serious on this: #4 is of particular interest to me. Do you know, I was 30 years old before I discovered that I could run? I look forward to it every day, I let myself do it when I shouldn't (like today, eep!), and I'm sincerely upset when I can't do it. I feel like a lifetime of enjoyment - and fitness - was stolen from me by a physical education system designed to test children, not improve them and help them to reach their potential.
I could have been capable of so much more. It makes me very sad to think there are still kids out there, kids like I was, who are struggling because they haven't been taught that running is easier than they think. Kids who might be going down the same road to obesity that I traveled simply because they don't understand that the single easiest exercise in the world is within their grasp.
Kids deserve better.
If you're familiar with the website Cracked, you may have seen this article on running come across last month. I read it the day it was posted, I re-read it the next day, and I've read it regularly ever since. It sums up my experience with running 100%, in every way.
It's vulgar and occasionally offensive, like nearly everything on Cracked, but it's worth reading if you're a runner, if you've ever thought of running, or if you're terrified of even trying.
In other words, read it. Because it's true.
To get a little serious on this: #4 is of particular interest to me. Do you know, I was 30 years old before I discovered that I could run? I look forward to it every day, I let myself do it when I shouldn't (like today, eep!), and I'm sincerely upset when I can't do it. I feel like a lifetime of enjoyment - and fitness - was stolen from me by a physical education system designed to test children, not improve them and help them to reach their potential.
I could have been capable of so much more. It makes me very sad to think there are still kids out there, kids like I was, who are struggling because they haven't been taught that running is easier than they think. Kids who might be going down the same road to obesity that I traveled simply because they don't understand that the single easiest exercise in the world is within their grasp.
Kids deserve better.
Having faith in the process
I was doing a little interwebby fitness browsing and came across this great post over at Muscle & Fitness Hers:
Building Your Foundation by Pauline Nordin
A timely reminder during a week where I feel like much of my progress has ground to a halt. There is something happening here. Have faith.
Building Your Foundation by Pauline Nordin
A timely reminder during a week where I feel like much of my progress has ground to a halt. There is something happening here. Have faith.
Friday, December 16, 2011
What was that about best-laid plans?
Between my angry fit Monday, my new anti-flat-feeted shoes being back-ordered Tuesday, and an underwhelming day off on Wednesday, it's been a craptastic week.
So when everything, miraculously, came together last night, I was elated. I cranked up the speed on my running intervals, set a new personal best, and did it without getting shin splints. It just worked.
When I got home, my right leg (aka. the good leg) started aching. I thought maybe I'd bumped it on something, so I ignored it until this morning when, going down the stairs at home, my shin hurt with every step. Greeeeeat.
The pain isn't insistent, but it's there, threatening. I'm icing often and wrapping my leg, and it seems that running is out for now.
I can't possibly explain how unhappy this makes me.
When life gives you lemons, you throw them away, because really, screw lemons. You get on a bike instead. If what I'm battling is shin splints, it's the impact and my inappropriate shoes causing the problems, not exercise. So I took the time to warm up fully and hit the bikes.
It wasn't nearly as fulfilling, but it was something. And it burned a couple hundred calories, which is good, because the staff potluck at work today (and the unbelieeeeevable potatoes from a friend in accounting) made me exceed my allotted daily calories by 3pm. Oof.
Definitely didn't earn the ice cream cone I was hoping to have tomorrow. Whether or not I'll be mature enough to understand that when I'm staring those delicious scoops of peppermint bon bon remains to be seen.
What I'm saying is that I'm human. This week has been a comedy of errors, culminating in me being half-lame and piling on the holiday calories. But it happens, and perhaps the best demonstration of how much I've grown in this journey is the fact that I forgive myself for all of it.
I'd say tomorrow is a new day, but I'm pretty sure I'll have that ice cream cone. So. Sunday is a new day. A big, shiny, beautiful one. I'll shoot for that.
So when everything, miraculously, came together last night, I was elated. I cranked up the speed on my running intervals, set a new personal best, and did it without getting shin splints. It just worked.
When I got home, my right leg (aka. the good leg) started aching. I thought maybe I'd bumped it on something, so I ignored it until this morning when, going down the stairs at home, my shin hurt with every step. Greeeeeat.
The pain isn't insistent, but it's there, threatening. I'm icing often and wrapping my leg, and it seems that running is out for now.
I can't possibly explain how unhappy this makes me.
When life gives you lemons, you throw them away, because really, screw lemons. You get on a bike instead. If what I'm battling is shin splints, it's the impact and my inappropriate shoes causing the problems, not exercise. So I took the time to warm up fully and hit the bikes.
It wasn't nearly as fulfilling, but it was something. And it burned a couple hundred calories, which is good, because the staff potluck at work today (and the unbelieeeeevable potatoes from a friend in accounting) made me exceed my allotted daily calories by 3pm. Oof.
Definitely didn't earn the ice cream cone I was hoping to have tomorrow. Whether or not I'll be mature enough to understand that when I'm staring those delicious scoops of peppermint bon bon remains to be seen.
What I'm saying is that I'm human. This week has been a comedy of errors, culminating in me being half-lame and piling on the holiday calories. But it happens, and perhaps the best demonstration of how much I've grown in this journey is the fact that I forgive myself for all of it.
I'd say tomorrow is a new day, but I'm pretty sure I'll have that ice cream cone. So. Sunday is a new day. A big, shiny, beautiful one. I'll shoot for that.
Monday, December 12, 2011
Getting angry at the gym
J was worried about me tonight.
Every time he asked me if I was okay, I shook it off and pushed ahead. Of course I'm okay. Let's go. Next. The more he told me to take my time, the harder I bore down.
I was angry. Angry and emotional and struggling not to lose it in the gym.
Yesterday was a day off and I took it hard. I didn't want a day off. I wanted to be in there, working, making a difference. But my body had been protesting and I knew that I needed to rest if I wanted to make it through tonight. So I took my day off, but not without tearing myself down for it.
Your progress is slowing.
You're not losing enough weight.
You can do better.
By the time I got to the gym tonight, I was all full of angry at myself. Angry for being so negative when I'm doing so much good, angry for not doing better, angry about being angry. Etc.
I wasn't going to break down and cry in front of J. I'm an ugly crier, and I have a hunch that collapsing into a sobbing mess in the middle of the weight room wouldn't help my street cred. That left me with one option.
Make the anger worth it.
Tonight was all clenching teeth, squeezing abs, and unladylike vocalizations. I pushed and pulled and lifted more weight than I usually do. When J said that he wasn't sure if I'd be able to do the last move of the night in the manner he demonstrated, I made myself prove him wrong.
He told me, after we'd scheduled our next meeting, not to get discouraged. I smiled and said that I wouldn't.
I cried in the locker room anyway. It was a tired, feeble, un-ugly cry, suitable for public consumption. Frustrated tears for not moving fast enough for my idealistic goals, exhausted tears from having beat myself up and not feeling like I'd gained enough from it. No matter how well I understand this process and how normal I know that plateaus (perceived or otherwise) will be, I don't think they'll ever be easy to accept.
There was much good to be had tonight and maybe with a solid night's sleep I'll be able to appreciate those good points tomorrow. For now, a little wallowing and some quality time with a heating pad will need to do.
And maybe some Advil, because yikes. My body is killing me.
Lulz for tonight: J casually pointed out to me - after having been given the task of hopping on the treadmill, grabbing the handles, hunkering down like a mountain climber, and starting the treadmill with naught but my massively impressive legs - that I was breaking a sweat. He said this as the sweat dripped into my eyes and trickled down the small of my back. I'm pretty sure I was also panting openly.
Yes, J. Thank you. I'm glad you noticed.
Every time he asked me if I was okay, I shook it off and pushed ahead. Of course I'm okay. Let's go. Next. The more he told me to take my time, the harder I bore down.
I was angry. Angry and emotional and struggling not to lose it in the gym.
Yesterday was a day off and I took it hard. I didn't want a day off. I wanted to be in there, working, making a difference. But my body had been protesting and I knew that I needed to rest if I wanted to make it through tonight. So I took my day off, but not without tearing myself down for it.
Your progress is slowing.
You're not losing enough weight.
You can do better.
By the time I got to the gym tonight, I was all full of angry at myself. Angry for being so negative when I'm doing so much good, angry for not doing better, angry about being angry. Etc.
I wasn't going to break down and cry in front of J. I'm an ugly crier, and I have a hunch that collapsing into a sobbing mess in the middle of the weight room wouldn't help my street cred. That left me with one option.
Make the anger worth it.
Tonight was all clenching teeth, squeezing abs, and unladylike vocalizations. I pushed and pulled and lifted more weight than I usually do. When J said that he wasn't sure if I'd be able to do the last move of the night in the manner he demonstrated, I made myself prove him wrong.
He told me, after we'd scheduled our next meeting, not to get discouraged. I smiled and said that I wouldn't.
I cried in the locker room anyway. It was a tired, feeble, un-ugly cry, suitable for public consumption. Frustrated tears for not moving fast enough for my idealistic goals, exhausted tears from having beat myself up and not feeling like I'd gained enough from it. No matter how well I understand this process and how normal I know that plateaus (perceived or otherwise) will be, I don't think they'll ever be easy to accept.
There was much good to be had tonight and maybe with a solid night's sleep I'll be able to appreciate those good points tomorrow. For now, a little wallowing and some quality time with a heating pad will need to do.
And maybe some Advil, because yikes. My body is killing me.
Lulz for tonight: J casually pointed out to me - after having been given the task of hopping on the treadmill, grabbing the handles, hunkering down like a mountain climber, and starting the treadmill with naught but my massively impressive legs - that I was breaking a sweat. He said this as the sweat dripped into my eyes and trickled down the small of my back. I'm pretty sure I was also panting openly.
Yes, J. Thank you. I'm glad you noticed.
Sunday, December 11, 2011
The most expensive shoes I've ever bought
My shoes have been wearing down for a while and tell-tale aches have been starting in my legs, so last week I picked up another pair of shoes for the gym. They were a pair of Nikes, nothing terribly expensive, and I figured they'd do just fine.
Well, they didn't. I got blisters in the arch of one of my feet, and while I know that breaking in shoes can kinda suck, I was pretty sure that blisters don't belong there. I brought them back to the store this morning and began the search for a new pair of shoes, hopefully ones that wouldn't give me shin splints, which I get occasionally and are really starting to irritate me.
So I decided to stop into the local running store and see what they could tell me about my feet. The clerk watched me walk, then broke the news to me.
I have flat feet. Huh. Weird.
He asked my size and pulled a few pairs of shoes for me to try on. When I slipped on the first pair, it was like wrapping marshmallows around my feet and walking on clouds full of feathers and sunshine.
It was nice, is what I'm saying. I was in awe.
"Is this what feet are supposed to feel like?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
They weren't even the right size and I was ready to elope with them. This was serious.
And so I have a pair of these babies on order. See that copy there? Under the picture?
"The 1012 is ideal for high-mileage runners seeking maximum motion control."
I'm a runner. A real, live runner who has real running shoes. That feel like pillows of rainbows.
No, I can't really afford them. I almost barfed a little when I saw the price. But let's be honest: I can't really afford the trainer, either. Those monthly charges are going on a credit card. I couldn't continue down the path I was on, though, so I made a choice for my health at the expense of my finances. And these shoes took some consideration. In the end, I realized that every time I need to stop my training because my arches are sore, I'm wasting money. Every time I need to stop running because my shins are aching, I'm wasting money.
Not only that, but keeping my feet in unsuitable footwear is putting myself in real physical harm. Chronic shin splints can lead to much more serious problems, and my knee certainly can't bear any burdens if my other parts begin to bail out.
Sometimes, putting yourself first is hard. Sometimes, it's expensive. But sometimes, it's necessary. Welcome to my life, little shoes. You'd better last a good, long time.
Well, they didn't. I got blisters in the arch of one of my feet, and while I know that breaking in shoes can kinda suck, I was pretty sure that blisters don't belong there. I brought them back to the store this morning and began the search for a new pair of shoes, hopefully ones that wouldn't give me shin splints, which I get occasionally and are really starting to irritate me.
So I decided to stop into the local running store and see what they could tell me about my feet. The clerk watched me walk, then broke the news to me.
I have flat feet. Huh. Weird.
He asked my size and pulled a few pairs of shoes for me to try on. When I slipped on the first pair, it was like wrapping marshmallows around my feet and walking on clouds full of feathers and sunshine.
It was nice, is what I'm saying. I was in awe.
"Is this what feet are supposed to feel like?"
"Yeah, pretty much."
They weren't even the right size and I was ready to elope with them. This was serious.
And so I have a pair of these babies on order. See that copy there? Under the picture?
"The 1012 is ideal for high-mileage runners seeking maximum motion control."
I'm a runner. A real, live runner who has real running shoes. That feel like pillows of rainbows.
No, I can't really afford them. I almost barfed a little when I saw the price. But let's be honest: I can't really afford the trainer, either. Those monthly charges are going on a credit card. I couldn't continue down the path I was on, though, so I made a choice for my health at the expense of my finances. And these shoes took some consideration. In the end, I realized that every time I need to stop my training because my arches are sore, I'm wasting money. Every time I need to stop running because my shins are aching, I'm wasting money.
Not only that, but keeping my feet in unsuitable footwear is putting myself in real physical harm. Chronic shin splints can lead to much more serious problems, and my knee certainly can't bear any burdens if my other parts begin to bail out.
Sometimes, putting yourself first is hard. Sometimes, it's expensive. But sometimes, it's necessary. Welcome to my life, little shoes. You'd better last a good, long time.
Saturday, December 10, 2011
Perspective
As I slowly lose weight and see the change in myself, I'm delighted with the person I'm becoming. I'm happy, I'm healthier, and I'm starting to shape myself into the form I want.
And it's humbling to realize that I'm still two months away from the weight I was at this time last year.
I was miserable then, trying to lose weight and failing. I was so unhappy with the person I saw in the mirror. I was too big, I felt. I ate poorly and had no physical activity in my life.
A small, bitter part of me asks why I couldn't have been happy then. Time has given me the perspective I lacked, and the weight I then despised is the weight I'm presently chasing after.
I wish I had been happy. I wish I had appreciated my body for what it was.
This time around, I understand that time is fleeting and never-ending. The body I have today is not the body I'll have tomorrow, or the next, or any other day. It may be bigger, it may be smaller, but it is mine and I will appreciate it for what it can do. I will wear the clothing that makes me feel good about myself and damn the consequences.
In this ongoing battle, knowing that each day is another opportunity to do it right, it's the least I can do.
And it's humbling to realize that I'm still two months away from the weight I was at this time last year.
I was miserable then, trying to lose weight and failing. I was so unhappy with the person I saw in the mirror. I was too big, I felt. I ate poorly and had no physical activity in my life.
A small, bitter part of me asks why I couldn't have been happy then. Time has given me the perspective I lacked, and the weight I then despised is the weight I'm presently chasing after.
I wish I had been happy. I wish I had appreciated my body for what it was.
This time around, I understand that time is fleeting and never-ending. The body I have today is not the body I'll have tomorrow, or the next, or any other day. It may be bigger, it may be smaller, but it is mine and I will appreciate it for what it can do. I will wear the clothing that makes me feel good about myself and damn the consequences.
In this ongoing battle, knowing that each day is another opportunity to do it right, it's the least I can do.
Thursday, December 8, 2011
Checking progress and cutting myself some slack
As the whole world knows by now, I'm involved in a serious love affair with the treadmill.
I don't understand how it happened, really. A good friend of mine, with whom I used to visit the gym occasionally way back during my Ohio State days, began running. She blogged about it and posted about it on Facebook, via RunKeeper, and I remember being so incredibly impressed. She was always fitter than I was, but she was no runner, no more than I was. Nevertheless, here she was, making this huge, visible change in her life.
It inspired me.
So a little over a year ago, I started on the treadmill. Bit by bit, I worked up from alternating one minute walk/one minute jog to running six minutes at a time. I quickly learned about these crazy endorphin things and made good friends with the runner's high.
Of course, I didn't stick with it, which is how I got here and ended up down this new path of mine. But I remembered how amazing it felt to be running for real, and I was excited to get back to it this time around.
When I started on the treadmill less than two months ago, my mile was back to over 17 minutes and I couldn't run more than a minute or two at a time. I've been running three or four times a week, slowly chipping away at my personal bests, finding myself desperate for that endorphin rush at the end of my day. I shared elatedly last Friday that I coasted right by my last record, ending my mile at 13:52. On Saturday, did even better and landed at 13:44.
Tonight, I finished my mile in 14:01 and felt a pang of disappointment. My legs are still aching from Monday night, I'm barely able to climb stairs, and I had some kind of shin splint going on in my left leg that made even my walking intervals difficult. By any logical measure, I had a great night. Still, disappointment.
Posting gains two days in a row is an incredible affirmation that I'm on the right track, but as I discovered tonight, it's unrealistic to expect it to continue regularly. Such expectation is foolish and ignorant of how the body works, and shame on me for throwing my knowledge out the window.
Tonight was still my third-fastest mile of my adult life, and if not for the leg pain, I could have gone on to post a great two-mile time. I ran solidly for a half mile, which I've never done before. I put in a two-minute interval at 5.0mph, which is faster than I usually run. Tonight had the ingredients of something awesome. It just didn't happen tonight. And that's okay.
So I move on, trying to forgive myself for my disappointment. I'm sure I'll be disappointed again sometime, probably soon, probably for equally foolish reasons.
Did a weigh-in tonight, out of curiosity. I'm at 225, down 13lbs from my start eight weeks ago. It's working. Slowly but surely, it's working.
Thank goodness for that.
I don't understand how it happened, really. A good friend of mine, with whom I used to visit the gym occasionally way back during my Ohio State days, began running. She blogged about it and posted about it on Facebook, via RunKeeper, and I remember being so incredibly impressed. She was always fitter than I was, but she was no runner, no more than I was. Nevertheless, here she was, making this huge, visible change in her life.
It inspired me.
So a little over a year ago, I started on the treadmill. Bit by bit, I worked up from alternating one minute walk/one minute jog to running six minutes at a time. I quickly learned about these crazy endorphin things and made good friends with the runner's high.
Of course, I didn't stick with it, which is how I got here and ended up down this new path of mine. But I remembered how amazing it felt to be running for real, and I was excited to get back to it this time around.
When I started on the treadmill less than two months ago, my mile was back to over 17 minutes and I couldn't run more than a minute or two at a time. I've been running three or four times a week, slowly chipping away at my personal bests, finding myself desperate for that endorphin rush at the end of my day. I shared elatedly last Friday that I coasted right by my last record, ending my mile at 13:52. On Saturday, did even better and landed at 13:44.
Tonight, I finished my mile in 14:01 and felt a pang of disappointment. My legs are still aching from Monday night, I'm barely able to climb stairs, and I had some kind of shin splint going on in my left leg that made even my walking intervals difficult. By any logical measure, I had a great night. Still, disappointment.
Posting gains two days in a row is an incredible affirmation that I'm on the right track, but as I discovered tonight, it's unrealistic to expect it to continue regularly. Such expectation is foolish and ignorant of how the body works, and shame on me for throwing my knowledge out the window.
Tonight was still my third-fastest mile of my adult life, and if not for the leg pain, I could have gone on to post a great two-mile time. I ran solidly for a half mile, which I've never done before. I put in a two-minute interval at 5.0mph, which is faster than I usually run. Tonight had the ingredients of something awesome. It just didn't happen tonight. And that's okay.
So I move on, trying to forgive myself for my disappointment. I'm sure I'll be disappointed again sometime, probably soon, probably for equally foolish reasons.
Did a weigh-in tonight, out of curiosity. I'm at 225, down 13lbs from my start eight weeks ago. It's working. Slowly but surely, it's working.
Thank goodness for that.
Wednesday, December 7, 2011
Weights and why everyone should use them
I'm going to get a little preachy for a few minutes, because it's important, guys. For reals.
I've had loads of female friends over the years who have been interested in going to the gym, improving their health, or getting fitter. Some of them went out and pursued it, while others had the same level of ambition I always used to have. (Until I didn't.)
Nearly all of these ladies had the same thing in common: they didn't want to lift weights.
"Oh," they'd say, "I don't want to look all muscley."
I would nod along with them, as though it were indeed a terrible fate to be a female with muscles. Heaven forbid!
But here's the thing: those 'muscley' women on the covers of fitness magazines didn't get that way overnight. They didn't get that way by going to the gym a few times, or even a few times a week. They didn't get that way over the course of a month or two.
They got that way through months, if not years, of a strictly-regimented diet and a fitness routine of hours a day, six days a week. I sure as heck won't get there from picking up a set of dumbbells twice a week.
Additionally, all this fat I have is hiding my muscle, anyway. The muscles I've worked so hard to build are still hidden. As that fat begins to disappear, the muscles will become evident, and let me tell you, I can't wait for that day.
So if lifting weights a few times a week won't make a person ripped, what will it do? Well, I'll tell you.
It'll burn calories while you're doing it. It'll burn calories after you're done. It'll create the sort of body that's made for doing work, which makes exercise that much easier. Just as eating and weight gain became a sort of horrible self-fulfilling prophecy for me, weight training and cardio feed off each other. It all just plain gets better.
Even more significantly, weight training provides all of us, including older adults, with numerous health benefits. Just as aerobic activity is good for cardiovascular health, weight training contributes to overall wellness and should never be overlooked in a fitness program. They're too important to skip out on.
There. Now that I've got that out of the way, I would like to tell you that my trainer made me do legs on Monday. It was exhausting and grueling, and I considered running for the door at least once. (I'm pretty sure J is faster than me, though. So I didn't.)
To nobody's surprise, I was visibly limping yesterday. Being the trooper that I am and wanting to stick to my fitness plan, I went to the gym anyway and decided to concentrate on arms. At the time, it was a great idea; I went on lunch break, so I was on a schedule. I didn't have long to invest, and I went in, got the job done, and went back to work. I felt terribly accomplished.
At 3am, however, when I wanted to roll over and disentangle myself from my blankets, it wasn't nearly as enjoyable. Having neither working legs nor working arms creates a significant challenge, and I flailed around like a beached fish just trying to get to the other pillow.
It was spectacular.
So tonight is a night off from the gym. I sit here, typing, sad that I'm not on the treadmill instead... until I try to get up, make that grunty noise (you know the one), fail to get up, and continue to sit here, not feeling so bad about it anymore.
Here's hoping for a better tomorrow!
I've had loads of female friends over the years who have been interested in going to the gym, improving their health, or getting fitter. Some of them went out and pursued it, while others had the same level of ambition I always used to have. (Until I didn't.)
Nearly all of these ladies had the same thing in common: they didn't want to lift weights.
"Oh," they'd say, "I don't want to look all muscley."
I would nod along with them, as though it were indeed a terrible fate to be a female with muscles. Heaven forbid!
But here's the thing: those 'muscley' women on the covers of fitness magazines didn't get that way overnight. They didn't get that way by going to the gym a few times, or even a few times a week. They didn't get that way over the course of a month or two.
They got that way through months, if not years, of a strictly-regimented diet and a fitness routine of hours a day, six days a week. I sure as heck won't get there from picking up a set of dumbbells twice a week.
Additionally, all this fat I have is hiding my muscle, anyway. The muscles I've worked so hard to build are still hidden. As that fat begins to disappear, the muscles will become evident, and let me tell you, I can't wait for that day.
So if lifting weights a few times a week won't make a person ripped, what will it do? Well, I'll tell you.
It'll burn calories while you're doing it. It'll burn calories after you're done. It'll create the sort of body that's made for doing work, which makes exercise that much easier. Just as eating and weight gain became a sort of horrible self-fulfilling prophecy for me, weight training and cardio feed off each other. It all just plain gets better.
Even more significantly, weight training provides all of us, including older adults, with numerous health benefits. Just as aerobic activity is good for cardiovascular health, weight training contributes to overall wellness and should never be overlooked in a fitness program. They're too important to skip out on.
There. Now that I've got that out of the way, I would like to tell you that my trainer made me do legs on Monday. It was exhausting and grueling, and I considered running for the door at least once. (I'm pretty sure J is faster than me, though. So I didn't.)
To nobody's surprise, I was visibly limping yesterday. Being the trooper that I am and wanting to stick to my fitness plan, I went to the gym anyway and decided to concentrate on arms. At the time, it was a great idea; I went on lunch break, so I was on a schedule. I didn't have long to invest, and I went in, got the job done, and went back to work. I felt terribly accomplished.
At 3am, however, when I wanted to roll over and disentangle myself from my blankets, it wasn't nearly as enjoyable. Having neither working legs nor working arms creates a significant challenge, and I flailed around like a beached fish just trying to get to the other pillow.
It was spectacular.
So tonight is a night off from the gym. I sit here, typing, sad that I'm not on the treadmill instead... until I try to get up, make that grunty noise (you know the one), fail to get up, and continue to sit here, not feeling so bad about it anymore.
Here's hoping for a better tomorrow!
Friday, December 2, 2011
Unexpected results are sometimes the best ones
A funny thing happened tonight.
I decided not to go to the gym.
Okay, that's not the funny part. The funny part is that my brain knows that the end of my work day equals going to the gym, and I pulled into the left-turn lane before I realized that I was going the wrong way to get home.
So I had a quick chat with myself.
"Self, why don't you want to go to the gym?"
Because.
"What will you accomplish if you don't go to the gym?"
Myself had no answer for this. And thus, my decision was made for me. I went to the gym.
And it was, without a doubt, the best decision I've made all week.
I hit the weights first, something I haven't done independently for over a week. A little leg work, some arms, reminding myself that I know how to do this and that it's important.
I've been telling myself all week that I need to take it easy on the treadmill. I planned to do elliptical last night, then didn't. I planned to do elliptical tonight, then didn't. So I tried to convince myself that I should walk tonight, maybe just a light jog. Progress on my mile has been slow, in fits and starts, and I thought that going light tonight might be a nice change of pace.
But then, I started running. And I kept running.
I waved goodbye to my previous record mile of 14:20, set yesterday. When that mile turned over at 13:52, I had to stop the machine.
I cried.
I've never done this before, not as an adult. Ever. It was overwhelming, and I struggled to keep it together enough that my gym-mates didn't worry. I started it up again, giving myself a victory walk, shaking out my legs.
And then I started running again. And running some more.
I broke my two-mile record by 41 seconds, finishing in 29:18.
This feeling, it's indescribable, and I'm not doing it justice by struggling with words. I knew, deep down, that I had what it took to do this. I just wasn't prepared for what it would feel like.
I still have a long road ahead. Today's records are meant to be broken tomorrow. But for a few minutes, I have this. No failure can take that away.
I decided not to go to the gym.
Okay, that's not the funny part. The funny part is that my brain knows that the end of my work day equals going to the gym, and I pulled into the left-turn lane before I realized that I was going the wrong way to get home.
So I had a quick chat with myself.
"Self, why don't you want to go to the gym?"
Because.
"What will you accomplish if you don't go to the gym?"
Myself had no answer for this. And thus, my decision was made for me. I went to the gym.
And it was, without a doubt, the best decision I've made all week.
I hit the weights first, something I haven't done independently for over a week. A little leg work, some arms, reminding myself that I know how to do this and that it's important.
I've been telling myself all week that I need to take it easy on the treadmill. I planned to do elliptical last night, then didn't. I planned to do elliptical tonight, then didn't. So I tried to convince myself that I should walk tonight, maybe just a light jog. Progress on my mile has been slow, in fits and starts, and I thought that going light tonight might be a nice change of pace.
But then, I started running. And I kept running.
I waved goodbye to my previous record mile of 14:20, set yesterday. When that mile turned over at 13:52, I had to stop the machine.
I cried.
I've never done this before, not as an adult. Ever. It was overwhelming, and I struggled to keep it together enough that my gym-mates didn't worry. I started it up again, giving myself a victory walk, shaking out my legs.
And then I started running again. And running some more.
I broke my two-mile record by 41 seconds, finishing in 29:18.
This feeling, it's indescribable, and I'm not doing it justice by struggling with words. I knew, deep down, that I had what it took to do this. I just wasn't prepared for what it would feel like.
I still have a long road ahead. Today's records are meant to be broken tomorrow. But for a few minutes, I have this. No failure can take that away.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
There's no "pretty" at the gym
I feel terribly late writing about Monday night. Am I late? I'm late.
Have you ever been so tired that it takes days, literally days, to catch up? I blame Monday. When I asked my trainer for an arms night on Monday, due to my twisted knee, I got an arms night.
Oh, yes. So very.
When I lift weights on my own, I tend to go light. I don't have a spotter, I'm not well-practiced in the form necessary, and I really don't want to hurt myself. So the weights I choose are of the sort where I can do three sets of 10-15 reps, and it starts to get challenging toward the end of the first set. By the end of my last set, I should be pretty well spent, feeling like I can't do another rep.
So on Monday night, when I settled back into the incline chest press machine for my first lift of the night, I thought, "I've got this."
And then, I grimaced. And winced.
I think it was the first time I've felt a little bit of terror at the beginning of a workout. I'm sure it won't be the last.
Whether it was optimism at my progress or sadism at my weakness, J was loading the weights heavy on Monday. Not "Holy cheesecake, I can't lift that thing" heavy, more of an "Oh, this doesn't look bad, let me grab that... what-are-you-thinking-how-can-I-do-twelve-reps??" heavy. It was an insidious sort of heavy. Sneaky.
After some bicep curls that were too heavy for me to complete without assistance, before the tricep extensions that were too heavy for me to complete without assistance, there were the upright rows.
I don't want to keep you in suspense: I needed assistance. I nodded at J's demonstration, and despite my feeble start to the night, I grabbed that 40-lb barbell with confidence.
To my credit, I completed several reps myself. It was hard, and I was digging deep to find the drive to finish. But catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I made a critical mistake.
I judged myself. The grimace, the clenched teeth, the shaking muscles. The jiggling everything. I lowered the bar with a sigh and took a deep breath.
"There's no 'pretty' at the gym, is there." There was no question in my voice.
And J laughed. "No. If there is, you're not doing it right. Some ladies come in here looking like they're trying to find a husband. You wonder, what's the point?"
Attitude: adjusted.
I go to the gym for a reason. I have goals. I have pounds to lose and muscle to build. These are not easy tasks and the magazines that show people lifting weights while smiling are liars. It's hard and it's ugly, and if you want the results, you need to put in the work. A trainer is helpful, a motivating factor who can give you an education on the machines and muscle groups, but in the end, a trainer doesn't make you lose weight. You do.
(Y'know, I didn't realize it until just now, but after that set, J stepped between me and the mirror. Wonder if it was intentional. In any event, I'm thinking I hit the trainer jackpot.)
Have you ever been so tired that it takes days, literally days, to catch up? I blame Monday. When I asked my trainer for an arms night on Monday, due to my twisted knee, I got an arms night.
Oh, yes. So very.
When I lift weights on my own, I tend to go light. I don't have a spotter, I'm not well-practiced in the form necessary, and I really don't want to hurt myself. So the weights I choose are of the sort where I can do three sets of 10-15 reps, and it starts to get challenging toward the end of the first set. By the end of my last set, I should be pretty well spent, feeling like I can't do another rep.
So on Monday night, when I settled back into the incline chest press machine for my first lift of the night, I thought, "I've got this."
And then, I grimaced. And winced.
I think it was the first time I've felt a little bit of terror at the beginning of a workout. I'm sure it won't be the last.
Whether it was optimism at my progress or sadism at my weakness, J was loading the weights heavy on Monday. Not "Holy cheesecake, I can't lift that thing" heavy, more of an "Oh, this doesn't look bad, let me grab that... what-are-you-thinking-how-can-I-do-twelve-reps??" heavy. It was an insidious sort of heavy. Sneaky.
After some bicep curls that were too heavy for me to complete without assistance, before the tricep extensions that were too heavy for me to complete without assistance, there were the upright rows.
I don't want to keep you in suspense: I needed assistance. I nodded at J's demonstration, and despite my feeble start to the night, I grabbed that 40-lb barbell with confidence.
To my credit, I completed several reps myself. It was hard, and I was digging deep to find the drive to finish. But catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror, I made a critical mistake.
I judged myself. The grimace, the clenched teeth, the shaking muscles. The jiggling everything. I lowered the bar with a sigh and took a deep breath.
"There's no 'pretty' at the gym, is there." There was no question in my voice.
And J laughed. "No. If there is, you're not doing it right. Some ladies come in here looking like they're trying to find a husband. You wonder, what's the point?"
Attitude: adjusted.
I go to the gym for a reason. I have goals. I have pounds to lose and muscle to build. These are not easy tasks and the magazines that show people lifting weights while smiling are liars. It's hard and it's ugly, and if you want the results, you need to put in the work. A trainer is helpful, a motivating factor who can give you an education on the machines and muscle groups, but in the end, a trainer doesn't make you lose weight. You do.
(Y'know, I didn't realize it until just now, but after that set, J stepped between me and the mirror. Wonder if it was intentional. In any event, I'm thinking I hit the trainer jackpot.)
Wednesday, November 30, 2011
So devastatingly tired
It has, sadly, been the sort of week wherein I'm so enormously tired that my brain ceases to... well. Ceases to anything. Sentences do not finish themselves, I have discovered.
Curious, that.
I'm pleased to say that it's only the writing I've been skipping out on, and the gymming has been continuing uninterrupted. Progress has been made, mostly, and my trainer got to see some of the most spectacularly hideous faces I've ever made.
You just know I want to share my embarrassment.
It's cathartic.
Regular updates will resume soon. Meanwhile, I'll leave "The Girl from Ipanema" playing quietly in the background of this blog, for your listening enjoyment.
Curious, that.
I'm pleased to say that it's only the writing I've been skipping out on, and the gymming has been continuing uninterrupted. Progress has been made, mostly, and my trainer got to see some of the most spectacularly hideous faces I've ever made.
You just know I want to share my embarrassment.
It's cathartic.
Regular updates will resume soon. Meanwhile, I'll leave "The Girl from Ipanema" playing quietly in the background of this blog, for your listening enjoyment.
Sunday, November 27, 2011
Fitness check-in
Tonight was all-cardio, all the time. I put in a short session, as I try to do on Sundays, in anticipation of the regular butt-kicking I receive on Mondays.
I didn't go easy on myself, however. I cut another few seconds off my mile, coming in at 14:25. That's thirty seconds less than my mile of ten days ago. I stepped off the belt and twisted my bad knee 'round about the twelve minute mark, and while my quick consultation with myself said I could continue, I cut myself short of the two-mile run I wanted to do tonight. I wrapped up at 1.5 miles in 23:20.
Incidentally, this is why I don't run outside. I can't run in a straight line, and given half a chance, I trip easily. And a lot. It wouldn't end well.
I took the chance and weighed myself for the first time since Monday. I'm at 228.
Wow.
Not only was this week a holiday week, but I ate more garbage than I ever allow myself anymore. Somehow, I still made gains. I don't understand, but I will not complain.
I also won't make the mistake of thinking I can get away with it all again. You hear that, subconscious? I am still not allowed to eat cheeseburgers.
It just goes to show that no matter how bad a day is, the next day may be waiting to turn it all around.
I didn't go easy on myself, however. I cut another few seconds off my mile, coming in at 14:25. That's thirty seconds less than my mile of ten days ago. I stepped off the belt and twisted my bad knee 'round about the twelve minute mark, and while my quick consultation with myself said I could continue, I cut myself short of the two-mile run I wanted to do tonight. I wrapped up at 1.5 miles in 23:20.
Incidentally, this is why I don't run outside. I can't run in a straight line, and given half a chance, I trip easily. And a lot. It wouldn't end well.
I took the chance and weighed myself for the first time since Monday. I'm at 228.
Wow.
Not only was this week a holiday week, but I ate more garbage than I ever allow myself anymore. Somehow, I still made gains. I don't understand, but I will not complain.
I also won't make the mistake of thinking I can get away with it all again. You hear that, subconscious? I am still not allowed to eat cheeseburgers.
It just goes to show that no matter how bad a day is, the next day may be waiting to turn it all around.
Saturday, November 26, 2011
Changing the dialogue
I hate pity. I really do.
So when I made the decision to first join a gym, it was agonizing for me. I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that everyone would be looking at me. Critiquing me. Pitying me.
Look at that poor fat girl. She's trying so hard.
It's why I never went for walks, or for bike rides. It's why I didn't want to go out alone. In a group, I could blend in. With another person, I could talk and laugh, looking so carefree and fun-loving that nobody would ever think to pity me. Just a couple of folks out for a stroll.
But alone? I'm just that poor fat girl, sweating, red-faced.
Joining the gym was hard for me. It was stepping into a room of judgement, full of athletes. Full of mirrors.
I knew that my first session with my trainer was going to be a challenge. I had met him only once before, for my evaluation, and he didn't yet know what I was able to do. The first exercise we did was simple: stepping up with one leg onto a bench, bringing up the other foot, tapping the toe, then stepping back down with the same leg.
It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. The bench was nearly knee-high on my 5'2" body and my torn ACL made it difficult to find the right way to step. I was unsteady on my feet, shaking with each step. I was hunched over ungraciously as the sweat dripped into my eyes, and J hovered nearby, arms outstretched, ready to catch me if I fell.
All the while, I was acutely aware of my position. I was front and center, dozens of cardio machines pointing forward. Right at me. Fat girl.
The next night, when I hobbled into the gym for a visit with the elliptical, I took a good look around. There were elderly men and young women, people my size and people much smaller, some succeeding and some struggling. They were all there for a reason, just like me.
They all have a journey.
And I realized that none of them are judging me. They may look at me and wonder, just as I do them, but they have their own story. They don't care about mine. We're just strangers in a gym, all of us trying to become better.
When I went home, I put away the old words and I found a new dialogue. That night, the poor fat girl disappeared. I haven't seen her since.
I'm just a stranger in the gym, becoming better.
So when I made the decision to first join a gym, it was agonizing for me. I was convinced, absolutely convinced, that everyone would be looking at me. Critiquing me. Pitying me.
Look at that poor fat girl. She's trying so hard.
It's why I never went for walks, or for bike rides. It's why I didn't want to go out alone. In a group, I could blend in. With another person, I could talk and laugh, looking so carefree and fun-loving that nobody would ever think to pity me. Just a couple of folks out for a stroll.
But alone? I'm just that poor fat girl, sweating, red-faced.
Joining the gym was hard for me. It was stepping into a room of judgement, full of athletes. Full of mirrors.
I knew that my first session with my trainer was going to be a challenge. I had met him only once before, for my evaluation, and he didn't yet know what I was able to do. The first exercise we did was simple: stepping up with one leg onto a bench, bringing up the other foot, tapping the toe, then stepping back down with the same leg.
It was one of the hardest things I've ever done. The bench was nearly knee-high on my 5'2" body and my torn ACL made it difficult to find the right way to step. I was unsteady on my feet, shaking with each step. I was hunched over ungraciously as the sweat dripped into my eyes, and J hovered nearby, arms outstretched, ready to catch me if I fell.
All the while, I was acutely aware of my position. I was front and center, dozens of cardio machines pointing forward. Right at me. Fat girl.
The next night, when I hobbled into the gym for a visit with the elliptical, I took a good look around. There were elderly men and young women, people my size and people much smaller, some succeeding and some struggling. They were all there for a reason, just like me.
They all have a journey.
And I realized that none of them are judging me. They may look at me and wonder, just as I do them, but they have their own story. They don't care about mine. We're just strangers in a gym, all of us trying to become better.
When I went home, I put away the old words and I found a new dialogue. That night, the poor fat girl disappeared. I haven't seen her since.
I'm just a stranger in the gym, becoming better.
Friday, November 25, 2011
Fast food hangovers and why I can't feel like that again
Yea verily, I have sinned.
On Wednesday, I took the day off from the gym, as I do every week. I caved in and ate a cheeseburger on lunch break; it just sounded so good! I counted my little calories, scolded myself, and promised to do better.
I should know better than to trust that voice. Sometimes, it's just a little too conciliatory.
Thursday, this week masquerading as Thanksgiving, was another work day for me. I like to volunteer for holidays, since my family does our celebrating on the weekend following. Nevertheless, I was in holiday mode, and I made my first bad choice of the day when I elected to buy a Mountain Dew from the vending machine. I knew better. I really did. But I promised to do better, later.
On the way home at the end of the day, I thought I might grab a few groceries and made the move to turn into the local big box on my way home. The parking lot was packed, in anticipation of the Black Friday sales. I aborted the mission and instead, sighing, turned into McDonald's to get some dinner. I was hungry, it was fast, and besides, they have salads.
And then I ordered a cheeseburger.
I'm not sure what I was thinking and I can only assume that I simply wasn't thinking. The gym had closed mid-day, due to the holiday, and I knew the deck was already stacked against me. So what did I do? Gave myself a 650-calorie pile of grease on a bun. Good choice.
When the feeling of sickness came on, I thought maybe I was just cranky. It had been a long day - long week, actually - and I felt very disordered. I was out-of-sorts from not having the chance to go to the gym. But the feeling got worse.
It wasn't a stomach ache, exactly. More of a fuzzy, nauseous feeling. I felt flushed, a little dizzy, a bit like my mind just wasn't processing things normally. Five hours after that cheeseburger, it was still sitting like a rock in my stomach, and I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. It was the most miserable feeling of recent memory.
My trainer had mentioned the "fast food hangover" to me, as something he feels if he tries to get away with eating garbage foods, and I chuckled at the terminology. I figured he was exaggerating.
No, he wasn't.
Half a gallon of Powerade and nearly half a gallon of water later, I was feeling closer to human. But that vaguely-wrong "hangover" feeling stuck with me all day today. By mid-afternoon, I was desperate for the gym. Desperate.
Now at home, gymmed and fed with food that wasn't a cheeseburger, I can reflect on what happened. Two days in a row without the gym and with garbage for food. I made bad choices, yes. Do I forgive myself? Of course.
But was it okay? Not really. I knew better, and I know from previous experience that when I become to permissive about my own bad behavior, it gets worse. See: this whole entry.
What I'm saying is that I am a petulant child. It's true.
So I fell off the wagon this week. It's going to happen plenty of times in this journey. But today was a new day, tomorrow is another new one, and every day I have a new chance to do things right.
And I will.
On Wednesday, I took the day off from the gym, as I do every week. I caved in and ate a cheeseburger on lunch break; it just sounded so good! I counted my little calories, scolded myself, and promised to do better.
I should know better than to trust that voice. Sometimes, it's just a little too conciliatory.
Thursday, this week masquerading as Thanksgiving, was another work day for me. I like to volunteer for holidays, since my family does our celebrating on the weekend following. Nevertheless, I was in holiday mode, and I made my first bad choice of the day when I elected to buy a Mountain Dew from the vending machine. I knew better. I really did. But I promised to do better, later.
On the way home at the end of the day, I thought I might grab a few groceries and made the move to turn into the local big box on my way home. The parking lot was packed, in anticipation of the Black Friday sales. I aborted the mission and instead, sighing, turned into McDonald's to get some dinner. I was hungry, it was fast, and besides, they have salads.
And then I ordered a cheeseburger.
I'm not sure what I was thinking and I can only assume that I simply wasn't thinking. The gym had closed mid-day, due to the holiday, and I knew the deck was already stacked against me. So what did I do? Gave myself a 650-calorie pile of grease on a bun. Good choice.
When the feeling of sickness came on, I thought maybe I was just cranky. It had been a long day - long week, actually - and I felt very disordered. I was out-of-sorts from not having the chance to go to the gym. But the feeling got worse.
It wasn't a stomach ache, exactly. More of a fuzzy, nauseous feeling. I felt flushed, a little dizzy, a bit like my mind just wasn't processing things normally. Five hours after that cheeseburger, it was still sitting like a rock in my stomach, and I felt like I'd been hit by a bus. It was the most miserable feeling of recent memory.
My trainer had mentioned the "fast food hangover" to me, as something he feels if he tries to get away with eating garbage foods, and I chuckled at the terminology. I figured he was exaggerating.
No, he wasn't.
Half a gallon of Powerade and nearly half a gallon of water later, I was feeling closer to human. But that vaguely-wrong "hangover" feeling stuck with me all day today. By mid-afternoon, I was desperate for the gym. Desperate.
Now at home, gymmed and fed with food that wasn't a cheeseburger, I can reflect on what happened. Two days in a row without the gym and with garbage for food. I made bad choices, yes. Do I forgive myself? Of course.
But was it okay? Not really. I knew better, and I know from previous experience that when I become to permissive about my own bad behavior, it gets worse. See: this whole entry.
What I'm saying is that I am a petulant child. It's true.
So I fell off the wagon this week. It's going to happen plenty of times in this journey. But today was a new day, tomorrow is another new one, and every day I have a new chance to do things right.
And I will.
Tuesday, November 22, 2011
The foot bone's connected to the leg bone
I decided to make tonight a short night at the gym and go for cardio only, running a mile and change. A few minutes into my mile, I felt a twinge in my left ankle. I shook it off and felt myself shifting, only slightly, to compensate for it.
Within the next minute, my left calf started to ache and cramp. When my calves start to cramp, there's no saving them - or if there is, I sure haven't figured it out yet. I pushed through the rest of my mile, determined to improve on my last mile time.
It worked, but barely. I trimmed a modest five seconds off my mile, finishing in 14:51. The walking cooldown did nothing for my cramped calf, which by this time was resulting in a pronounced limp.
I was frustrated. Very frustrated. I had warmed up well and I knew I could do better on that mile tonight. Nothing felt tight. Nothing felt out of place. It wasn't until I threw my things into my car and sat outside the gym, annoyed with myself, that I remembered how I'd compensated for my ankle hurting.
Oh. That.
Tonight's "I can't believe I had to learn this one the hard way" lesson is that everything is connected. There are precious few parts of my body that operate independently, and how I use each part affects dozens of other parts. When I changed my stride to keep my ankle from hurting, I did something that I can only classify as "made my calf angry." It's still angry, nearly two hours later.
Lesson learned, body.
Tomorrow will a well-deserved day off from the gym, and I hope that by the time I come back, my calf will be ready to play nicely with others. After all, I have a new mile time to beat.
Within the next minute, my left calf started to ache and cramp. When my calves start to cramp, there's no saving them - or if there is, I sure haven't figured it out yet. I pushed through the rest of my mile, determined to improve on my last mile time.
It worked, but barely. I trimmed a modest five seconds off my mile, finishing in 14:51. The walking cooldown did nothing for my cramped calf, which by this time was resulting in a pronounced limp.
I was frustrated. Very frustrated. I had warmed up well and I knew I could do better on that mile tonight. Nothing felt tight. Nothing felt out of place. It wasn't until I threw my things into my car and sat outside the gym, annoyed with myself, that I remembered how I'd compensated for my ankle hurting.
Oh. That.
Tonight's "I can't believe I had to learn this one the hard way" lesson is that everything is connected. There are precious few parts of my body that operate independently, and how I use each part affects dozens of other parts. When I changed my stride to keep my ankle from hurting, I did something that I can only classify as "made my calf angry." It's still angry, nearly two hours later.
Lesson learned, body.
Tomorrow will a well-deserved day off from the gym, and I hope that by the time I come back, my calf will be ready to play nicely with others. After all, I have a new mile time to beat.
Monday, November 21, 2011
Getting real with the numbers
I knew this day was coming. After last week's brutal training session, I requested that we have a chance to look at my progress, to give myself some new benchmarks. Maybe give myself a little hope.
For the past week, I've been focusing on the things I knew we would test tonight. During my regular routines, I've thrown in my sit-ups, push-ups, lat pulldowns, all the things that we used as benchmarks last month. This was going to be my first check-up, and I'll be damned if I was going to blow it.
And let me tell you, I was nervous. By the time I left work to head for the gym, I was sick to my stomach with apprehension. Will I be good enough?
In retrospect, it was funny: I was terrified that I wouldn't have made enough progress. As if my trainer was going to tell me that I was a lost cause, or that the lack of change would have caused me to quit altogether. I've been watching my progress constantly, and still, today scared me.
Always looking for evidence of my own mediocrity. That's me.
I'm pleased to report that my nervousness was misplaced. Six weeks after beginning, I weighed in at 230. Eight pounds lost. My BMI is down a full point to 42, my body fat percentage is down three points, also at 42. My measurements are all down approximately 1/2 inch, except my hips, which are down a phenomenal two inches. Okay, they're still 53 inches. But this is progress.
My lat pulldowns, leg presses, and chest presses all improved dramatically. I nearly doubled my lat pulldown reps, doubled my chest press reps, and increased my leg press weight. My muscular endurance tests were even better: I completed 35 push-ups in a minute (from the knees, I'm a cheater like that), up from 28 six weeks ago, and I didn't fatigue in my sit-ups until time was up, ending with 50 in a minute, up from 36.
My biggest nemesis, the twelve-minute run, was easily the hardest part. At the time, I felt like I was falling short of recent runs. I beat myself up about it until I got home and was able to log into RunKeeper to check my progress. I ran .8 miles in 12:00, and sure enough, that's a 15-minute mile. Right on track with what I've been doing. Six weeks ago, I managed only .69 miles in the 12:00 allowed.
Someday, I'll learn not to doubt myself.
And that, I think, is the biggest take-away from this experience. I've said it before and I'll say it a hundred times over before I remember it when it counts the most.
I am capable of great things.
My trainer was thrilled with my results, which was as gratifying as the numbers themselves. He warned me that the next evaluation will be harder, that it's much easier to make big gains at the beginning and I shouldn't be discouraged if my gains are smaller.
Bring it on, J. Bring. It. On.
For the past week, I've been focusing on the things I knew we would test tonight. During my regular routines, I've thrown in my sit-ups, push-ups, lat pulldowns, all the things that we used as benchmarks last month. This was going to be my first check-up, and I'll be damned if I was going to blow it.
And let me tell you, I was nervous. By the time I left work to head for the gym, I was sick to my stomach with apprehension. Will I be good enough?
In retrospect, it was funny: I was terrified that I wouldn't have made enough progress. As if my trainer was going to tell me that I was a lost cause, or that the lack of change would have caused me to quit altogether. I've been watching my progress constantly, and still, today scared me.
Always looking for evidence of my own mediocrity. That's me.
I'm pleased to report that my nervousness was misplaced. Six weeks after beginning, I weighed in at 230. Eight pounds lost. My BMI is down a full point to 42, my body fat percentage is down three points, also at 42. My measurements are all down approximately 1/2 inch, except my hips, which are down a phenomenal two inches. Okay, they're still 53 inches. But this is progress.
My lat pulldowns, leg presses, and chest presses all improved dramatically. I nearly doubled my lat pulldown reps, doubled my chest press reps, and increased my leg press weight. My muscular endurance tests were even better: I completed 35 push-ups in a minute (from the knees, I'm a cheater like that), up from 28 six weeks ago, and I didn't fatigue in my sit-ups until time was up, ending with 50 in a minute, up from 36.
My biggest nemesis, the twelve-minute run, was easily the hardest part. At the time, I felt like I was falling short of recent runs. I beat myself up about it until I got home and was able to log into RunKeeper to check my progress. I ran .8 miles in 12:00, and sure enough, that's a 15-minute mile. Right on track with what I've been doing. Six weeks ago, I managed only .69 miles in the 12:00 allowed.
Someday, I'll learn not to doubt myself.
And that, I think, is the biggest take-away from this experience. I've said it before and I'll say it a hundred times over before I remember it when it counts the most.
I am capable of great things.
My trainer was thrilled with my results, which was as gratifying as the numbers themselves. He warned me that the next evaluation will be harder, that it's much easier to make big gains at the beginning and I shouldn't be discouraged if my gains are smaller.
Bring it on, J. Bring. It. On.
Saturday, November 19, 2011
Gym forecast: 10% chance of making it there alive
Where I live, we're getting our first appreciable snowfall of the year right now. Half an hour ago, when I looked out the window and saw big flakes lazily drifting through the trees, I thought this would be the perfect time to sneak out to the gym.
As I spun my tires, carefully dragging myself up the hill just outside my complex, unable to see more than a few feet in front of my windshield, I realized that it just might be snowing a little harder than I thought. And so I, a steadfast Minnesotan with no patience for people who whine about the weather, turned around and came back home.
Fitness is worthless if you don't live to see it.
But my resolve has been tested, and if I ever needed proof about how much the gym matters to me, I got it today.
The snow is meant to ease up later this afternoon. When it does, I'll be trudging back out to the car, clearing it off yet again for another try at the gym. If left with no choice, my meager assortment of weights and the sets of stairs in my building give me plenty of opportunities to get a little work done.
Meanwhile, I watch out the window and bide my time. There's much more day ahead!
Edit: I finally made it to the gym around 8pm, after two failed attempts to get there during the day. My younger brother (who is kind, handsome, has a stable job, and is single, ladies) came to push me out of my parking lot - who knew it would be that slippery? - then push himself out of my parking lot after he got stuck as well. One quick shopping trip later, for a shovel and road salt, and I got to the gym. Hooray!
As I spun my tires, carefully dragging myself up the hill just outside my complex, unable to see more than a few feet in front of my windshield, I realized that it just might be snowing a little harder than I thought. And so I, a steadfast Minnesotan with no patience for people who whine about the weather, turned around and came back home.
Fitness is worthless if you don't live to see it.
But my resolve has been tested, and if I ever needed proof about how much the gym matters to me, I got it today.
The snow is meant to ease up later this afternoon. When it does, I'll be trudging back out to the car, clearing it off yet again for another try at the gym. If left with no choice, my meager assortment of weights and the sets of stairs in my building give me plenty of opportunities to get a little work done.
Meanwhile, I watch out the window and bide my time. There's much more day ahead!
Edit: I finally made it to the gym around 8pm, after two failed attempts to get there during the day. My younger brother (who is kind, handsome, has a stable job, and is single, ladies) came to push me out of my parking lot - who knew it would be that slippery? - then push himself out of my parking lot after he got stuck as well. One quick shopping trip later, for a shovel and road salt, and I got to the gym. Hooray!
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Scale, I wish I could quit you
I weigh myself every day.
I can't help it! It's a compulsion. It's a fascination. It's interesting to see what happens day-to-day.
But try as I might to keep it framed as a curiosity, I can't help but take it personally when the scale doesn't say what I want it to. I'm setting myself up for near-daily disappointment, knowing that I'll be unhappy, maybe even discouraged. I'm giving myself a reason to fail.
I really need to quit doing that.
The reality is that the scale very, very rarely will ever say what I want it to. I know, from past experience, that my daily weight can fluctuate very widely, more than I ever realized. This means that I can go in one day and weigh in at 232 (my current low), then come in the next and discover I'm magically 234.
Did I really gain two pounds overnight, for real? Of course not. In order to really gain that much fat, I'd need to have eaten more than 5000 calories in a day. I know for a fact that I'm doing well on that front, staying around 1700 nearly every day. So it's literally not possible for me to have packed on two pounds of fat overnight, even on a crappy food day.
There are plenty of reasons that a daily weigh-in is inaccurate. Sometimes, we're still digesting food when we step on the scale. Other times, we're retaining fluid. When we're working on fitness as well as weight loss, the actual fat loss won't register on the scale, since gaining muscle makes the whole deal a trade-off: gaining muscle weight while losing fat weight. The scale doesn't discriminate.
Knowing all of this doesn't take away the disappointment of a bad weigh-in, however, and I carry that negativity with me through my workout. Sometimes, I shake it off by the time I'm done with my warm-up, but not always. Carrying that burden makes an exhausting workout that much worse.
Rather than focus on what the scale told me tonight, I think I'll instead focus on 14:56, the time of tonight's first mile. Or 4.7, the miles per hour I was running my intervals at. Or maybe I'll focus on 15, the number of pounds I was bicep-curling. All of these are better than anything I've been able to do since last winter. They're my current records.
From this day forward, I solemnly swear that I won't weigh myself more than once a week. I won't take its numbers as anything other than an interesting benchmark, and I won't ever allow myself to think that they're the most important part this journey.
There are better numbers out there.
I can't help it! It's a compulsion. It's a fascination. It's interesting to see what happens day-to-day.
But try as I might to keep it framed as a curiosity, I can't help but take it personally when the scale doesn't say what I want it to. I'm setting myself up for near-daily disappointment, knowing that I'll be unhappy, maybe even discouraged. I'm giving myself a reason to fail.
I really need to quit doing that.
The reality is that the scale very, very rarely will ever say what I want it to. I know, from past experience, that my daily weight can fluctuate very widely, more than I ever realized. This means that I can go in one day and weigh in at 232 (my current low), then come in the next and discover I'm magically 234.
Did I really gain two pounds overnight, for real? Of course not. In order to really gain that much fat, I'd need to have eaten more than 5000 calories in a day. I know for a fact that I'm doing well on that front, staying around 1700 nearly every day. So it's literally not possible for me to have packed on two pounds of fat overnight, even on a crappy food day.
There are plenty of reasons that a daily weigh-in is inaccurate. Sometimes, we're still digesting food when we step on the scale. Other times, we're retaining fluid. When we're working on fitness as well as weight loss, the actual fat loss won't register on the scale, since gaining muscle makes the whole deal a trade-off: gaining muscle weight while losing fat weight. The scale doesn't discriminate.
Knowing all of this doesn't take away the disappointment of a bad weigh-in, however, and I carry that negativity with me through my workout. Sometimes, I shake it off by the time I'm done with my warm-up, but not always. Carrying that burden makes an exhausting workout that much worse.
Rather than focus on what the scale told me tonight, I think I'll instead focus on 14:56, the time of tonight's first mile. Or 4.7, the miles per hour I was running my intervals at. Or maybe I'll focus on 15, the number of pounds I was bicep-curling. All of these are better than anything I've been able to do since last winter. They're my current records.
From this day forward, I solemnly swear that I won't weigh myself more than once a week. I won't take its numbers as anything other than an interesting benchmark, and I won't ever allow myself to think that they're the most important part this journey.
There are better numbers out there.
Wednesday, November 16, 2011
Keeping my eye on the prize
You would think that the days that challenge my resolve the most are the ones like Monday, where I'm pushed to my limit and exhausted nearly to tears, where my trainer's words resonate deeply and strike fragile parts of me: This is how you lose pounds. Do it again.
But they're not. Not really.
See, I'm a runner by nature. Not the sort that gets on treadmills, but the sort that runs from difficult situations and never looks back. If I don't have a chance to run, I step up and confront my fears. That's what makes me stronger.
Given half a chance, though, I'm out the door. I don't come back.
I think that's why my rest days can be so difficult for me. Those are the days when I get the chance to sit at home and think about all of this. How hard it is, maybe too hard. How long the road is. When I'm not doing, I'm thinking.
And when I'm thinking, I get into trouble. (Just ask my mother.)
So on those dangerous rest days, like today, I work twice as hard to keep my head in the game. Reminding myself of why I'm doing this and what's at stake. My fitness magazines have taken up permanent residence next to my bed and I flip through them before turning off the light. I've read all the articles a dozen times or more; my favorite magazine only comes out every two months, but I keep reading, hoping that every time I'll retain something new.
I remind myself of my injury, my torn ACL, and how I don't get to have it fixed. I didn't have insurance when it happened, so if I'm ever lucky enough to find coverage for myself again, ACL surgery probably won't be included. Strengthening what I have and reducing the burden of my body weight is critical.
I remind myself of the horses I used to ride and how badly I want to do it again. I rode regularly, several times a week, a few years ago. It was the most significant time of my life. In order to reclaim that, I need to get fit again.
I remind myself that, somewhere out there, there's a pair of booty shorts with JUICY on the butt, just for me. I want to wear them before I'm 40. I will love them.
And I remind myself that I deserve this. I can achieve this. I'm already achieving it.
Two hours ago, when I sat down to write this blog post, I failed. I felt unhappy and uninspired. It wasn't until I'd packed my things away and crawled into bed that I realized that this feeling is what blogging was made for. Overcoming this feeling is what this blog was made for.
Thank you all for giving me another reminder. Back to the gym tomorrow, no excuses.
But they're not. Not really.
See, I'm a runner by nature. Not the sort that gets on treadmills, but the sort that runs from difficult situations and never looks back. If I don't have a chance to run, I step up and confront my fears. That's what makes me stronger.
Given half a chance, though, I'm out the door. I don't come back.
I think that's why my rest days can be so difficult for me. Those are the days when I get the chance to sit at home and think about all of this. How hard it is, maybe too hard. How long the road is. When I'm not doing, I'm thinking.
And when I'm thinking, I get into trouble. (Just ask my mother.)
So on those dangerous rest days, like today, I work twice as hard to keep my head in the game. Reminding myself of why I'm doing this and what's at stake. My fitness magazines have taken up permanent residence next to my bed and I flip through them before turning off the light. I've read all the articles a dozen times or more; my favorite magazine only comes out every two months, but I keep reading, hoping that every time I'll retain something new.
I remind myself of my injury, my torn ACL, and how I don't get to have it fixed. I didn't have insurance when it happened, so if I'm ever lucky enough to find coverage for myself again, ACL surgery probably won't be included. Strengthening what I have and reducing the burden of my body weight is critical.
I remind myself of the horses I used to ride and how badly I want to do it again. I rode regularly, several times a week, a few years ago. It was the most significant time of my life. In order to reclaim that, I need to get fit again.
I remind myself that, somewhere out there, there's a pair of booty shorts with JUICY on the butt, just for me. I want to wear them before I'm 40. I will love them.
And I remind myself that I deserve this. I can achieve this. I'm already achieving it.
Two hours ago, when I sat down to write this blog post, I failed. I felt unhappy and uninspired. It wasn't until I'd packed my things away and crawled into bed that I realized that this feeling is what blogging was made for. Overcoming this feeling is what this blog was made for.
Thank you all for giving me another reminder. Back to the gym tomorrow, no excuses.
Monday, November 14, 2011
Humility, part 1
I'm pretty sure that "humility" will be a recurring theme here. So I've numbered this entry just in case.
In everything I do, there's a learning curve. It's hard, then it gets easier, and then I peak. It may be a tiny little peak, but nevertheless, I'm shouting from the rooftops that I get it!
Ever have that feeling? Enjoy it. It won't last.
I don't say this to be discouraging. I think that we, as humans, spend so much time embracing the good and not nearly enough time embracing the bad. Sometimes, we just need to accept that things suck, and the sooner we accept it, the sooner we can change it.
Onward and upward, my friends.
And so I found myself at the gym tonight, ready for another training session. I was coming off my high from yesterday, a two mile run in 32:20. I won't bore you with benchmarks, but for me, this is pretty darn good. I was hoping we might do our first check-up on my progress tonight and I'd have the chance to show just how awesome I've gotten in a month.
No, really. This is what my mind was telling me.
I got signed in, met up with J, and we made a bit of small talk while walking through the gym. Only we went right past the mats where I would do my sit-ups and push-ups, past the room with the scale and measuring tapes. We went instead into an equipment room where he picked up a kettlebell and began demonstrating some very straightforward, very pedestrian squats.
Huh, I thought. How strange. This isn't how evaluations go, and this isn't how we start our arms days.
My little heart sank when, in the middle of my second set of squats, I finally clued in that this was another leg day. I squatted and performed wall-sits and did some reverse hamstring extensions. I used this machine early on in the routine:
Holy cheesecake, I've never sweat so much in my life. I can only assume this model's smile was brought on by gas.
The highlight of the night - and by "highlight" I mean "worst thing ever and I hope to gravy I built some character or something" - came toward the end, back in the equipment room. My trusty trainer brought out a medicine ball and demonstrated throwing it as high up the wall as he could, bouncing it off and catching it again. He repeated this several times, bending his knees and propelling himself upward.
"You'll do sets of 45-seconds," he said, handing me the ball. "And sorry," he continued as I nearly audibly oofed, "I couldn't find the ten-pounder. So we'll use this one. I think it's fifteen."
And he smiled.
Intentional? Y/N?
I labored through the first 45-seconds, resting for thirty. I grunted my way through the second 45-seconds, then rested again. Okay. Very very very hard. But I made it. And then he told me I'd do it two more times.
You know that noise you make when something's heavy, like a grunt, but you're really not happy about it? So it's kinda like an angry whine? That noise. I made that noise for the next two minutes. I kept forgetting to breathe.
By the time it was all over, I was sure I haven't been that tired, emotionally or physically, in a very long time. It was a far cry from the triumphant "Look how good I am now!" I'd had planned for the night. It was a lot harder and a lot sadder. An awful lot more humbling.
But you know what? It was better. I can say that now that I'm home and showered, and all my muscles have stopped quivering. All this shortest path stuff means that the hard work is the most important part, and I need to keep believing that.
And I'll believe it until the next time we do legs again.
In everything I do, there's a learning curve. It's hard, then it gets easier, and then I peak. It may be a tiny little peak, but nevertheless, I'm shouting from the rooftops that I get it!
Ever have that feeling? Enjoy it. It won't last.
I don't say this to be discouraging. I think that we, as humans, spend so much time embracing the good and not nearly enough time embracing the bad. Sometimes, we just need to accept that things suck, and the sooner we accept it, the sooner we can change it.
Onward and upward, my friends.
And so I found myself at the gym tonight, ready for another training session. I was coming off my high from yesterday, a two mile run in 32:20. I won't bore you with benchmarks, but for me, this is pretty darn good. I was hoping we might do our first check-up on my progress tonight and I'd have the chance to show just how awesome I've gotten in a month.
No, really. This is what my mind was telling me.
I got signed in, met up with J, and we made a bit of small talk while walking through the gym. Only we went right past the mats where I would do my sit-ups and push-ups, past the room with the scale and measuring tapes. We went instead into an equipment room where he picked up a kettlebell and began demonstrating some very straightforward, very pedestrian squats.
Huh, I thought. How strange. This isn't how evaluations go, and this isn't how we start our arms days.
My little heart sank when, in the middle of my second set of squats, I finally clued in that this was another leg day. I squatted and performed wall-sits and did some reverse hamstring extensions. I used this machine early on in the routine:
Holy cheesecake, I've never sweat so much in my life. I can only assume this model's smile was brought on by gas.
The highlight of the night - and by "highlight" I mean "worst thing ever and I hope to gravy I built some character or something" - came toward the end, back in the equipment room. My trusty trainer brought out a medicine ball and demonstrated throwing it as high up the wall as he could, bouncing it off and catching it again. He repeated this several times, bending his knees and propelling himself upward.
"You'll do sets of 45-seconds," he said, handing me the ball. "And sorry," he continued as I nearly audibly oofed, "I couldn't find the ten-pounder. So we'll use this one. I think it's fifteen."
And he smiled.
Intentional? Y/N?
I labored through the first 45-seconds, resting for thirty. I grunted my way through the second 45-seconds, then rested again. Okay. Very very very hard. But I made it. And then he told me I'd do it two more times.
You know that noise you make when something's heavy, like a grunt, but you're really not happy about it? So it's kinda like an angry whine? That noise. I made that noise for the next two minutes. I kept forgetting to breathe.
By the time it was all over, I was sure I haven't been that tired, emotionally or physically, in a very long time. It was a far cry from the triumphant "Look how good I am now!" I'd had planned for the night. It was a lot harder and a lot sadder. An awful lot more humbling.
But you know what? It was better. I can say that now that I'm home and showered, and all my muscles have stopped quivering. All this shortest path stuff means that the hard work is the most important part, and I need to keep believing that.
And I'll believe it until the next time we do legs again.
Sunday, November 13, 2011
Changing my relationship with food
Food is fuel.
I wanted to get that out of the way, because it's something I need to tell myself every single day. My relationship with food has been less a sensible partnership and more a torrid love affair, and changing that relationship has been a long, difficult road.
Name a food vice and I've probably had it. I over-eat my favorite foods to the point of making myself sick. I eat when bored. I eat when emotional. I give into cravings. I'm that person who'll leave the house at 2am to get a candy bar at the grocery store, and after buying it, will eat it shamefaced in the car and hate myself ten minutes later.
At least, I was that person.
When starting a fitness program, I can't change everything at once. I start with exercise, and I let myself eat normally for the first few weeks while I'm gearing up. That's when I notice the first major change in myself: I stop craving garbage. I firmly believe that the body often craves what it needs, and when I'm hitting the gym, the only thing I can think about eating afterward is a big piece of chicken. And let me tell you, I give in to every one of those good cravings. I need to capitalize on them, reward myself for them.
Once I'm finding myself in a groove with going to the gym and having some good cravings, I take steps to change the rest of my diet. I start replacing my calorie-laden beverages with water. I replace my mid-morning candy bar with a granola bar. I eat an apple an hour before going to the gym not because I want to, but because I should.
An interesting thing happens once you make these changes. You start craving these foods. The body starts expecting them. So even though I don't like granola bars, I don't particularly like water, and apples have never been at the top of my snack list, I start to look forward to them.
There are days when the food-obsessed version of me comes out again. Some days, I'll grab a hot fudge sundae along with my plain grilled chicken wrap. I'll have a big slice of cake (or two) when I feel I need it. But like with everything else, I need to be honest with myself. Why am I eating this? Will I feel better for having eaten it? Am I acting reasonably right now?
And always, when I let myself indulge, I still count my calories. Just because I'm cheating doesn't mean I give up, and my storied history with food has shown me that I can still make progress on the days I exceed my desired calorie count. If I eat 2200 calories on Wednesday (Pizza Night, hello!) all is not lost. I still have six other days of the week to make a difference.
The important thing for me to remember is that a slice of cake doesn't undo all the good I've done since I started down this path. It may be a stumbling block, but if there's one thing I've learned it's that stumbling doesn't mean falling.
I'll never be cured of my food obsessions. It's a constant battle, this relationship. But every day I can log my calories with a smile on my face is a major accomplishment, something to be proud of.
I wanted to get that out of the way, because it's something I need to tell myself every single day. My relationship with food has been less a sensible partnership and more a torrid love affair, and changing that relationship has been a long, difficult road.
Name a food vice and I've probably had it. I over-eat my favorite foods to the point of making myself sick. I eat when bored. I eat when emotional. I give into cravings. I'm that person who'll leave the house at 2am to get a candy bar at the grocery store, and after buying it, will eat it shamefaced in the car and hate myself ten minutes later.
At least, I was that person.
When starting a fitness program, I can't change everything at once. I start with exercise, and I let myself eat normally for the first few weeks while I'm gearing up. That's when I notice the first major change in myself: I stop craving garbage. I firmly believe that the body often craves what it needs, and when I'm hitting the gym, the only thing I can think about eating afterward is a big piece of chicken. And let me tell you, I give in to every one of those good cravings. I need to capitalize on them, reward myself for them.
Once I'm finding myself in a groove with going to the gym and having some good cravings, I take steps to change the rest of my diet. I start replacing my calorie-laden beverages with water. I replace my mid-morning candy bar with a granola bar. I eat an apple an hour before going to the gym not because I want to, but because I should.
An interesting thing happens once you make these changes. You start craving these foods. The body starts expecting them. So even though I don't like granola bars, I don't particularly like water, and apples have never been at the top of my snack list, I start to look forward to them.
There are days when the food-obsessed version of me comes out again. Some days, I'll grab a hot fudge sundae along with my plain grilled chicken wrap. I'll have a big slice of cake (or two) when I feel I need it. But like with everything else, I need to be honest with myself. Why am I eating this? Will I feel better for having eaten it? Am I acting reasonably right now?
And always, when I let myself indulge, I still count my calories. Just because I'm cheating doesn't mean I give up, and my storied history with food has shown me that I can still make progress on the days I exceed my desired calorie count. If I eat 2200 calories on Wednesday (Pizza Night, hello!) all is not lost. I still have six other days of the week to make a difference.
The important thing for me to remember is that a slice of cake doesn't undo all the good I've done since I started down this path. It may be a stumbling block, but if there's one thing I've learned it's that stumbling doesn't mean falling.
I'll never be cured of my food obsessions. It's a constant battle, this relationship. But every day I can log my calories with a smile on my face is a major accomplishment, something to be proud of.
Saturday, November 12, 2011
The importance of rest and learning to deal with pain
When it comes to fitness, I've started to see everything I do as a transaction. I'm a calorie counter, so every morning I start with a balance of 1700, and every meal counts as a deduction. Throughout the day, I'm thinking of how much I have left.
Don't cringe. It really does work. It's an aspect of my fitness that I can be engaged in all day.
It's not just calories, though. Every week, I start knowing how many days off I'll allow myself that week. I know that I want to put in five days a week at the gym; I like that number because it feels like an authoritative majority. My mind is convinced that there's a tremendous difference between four and five, and don't try telling it otherwise. It won't believe you.
With that in mind, every week looks similar for me: I meet with my trainer on Mondays because it sets me up for the week. I know it'll work my muscles to screaming, letting me ease up and work on cardio Tuesdays, with some lifting sets working whatever muscle groups were spared on Monday. I take Wednesdays off, because I said so. (Incidentally, this is Pizza Night at my house. Beginning Wednesday morning, I start planning how many calories I can deduct during the day, knowing that dinner will be filled with cheesy, carb-y goodness.) Thursday is whatever muscle groups we worked during training on Monday. Thursday is non-negotiable; something serious has to come up for me to take Thursday off. Two days off in a row is just not allowed.
And here, beginning Friday, is the only leeway I allow myself. I know that one of the next three days, Friday through Sunday, I get to take off. I like saving that day off for Sunday, knowing that Monday will be a rough day.
There's a reason I plan my week so strictly, and that reason is this: My body is a liar.
When I ask my body, "Body? How do you feel today? Are you tired?" the answer is, "Holy crap, yes. I would like lie down on the couch and stay there until tomorrow." This is because I'm human. My newly-found enjoyment of the gym will never, ever change how painfully lazy I am.
But there's another reason, and it's something that every person who's ever exercised or played a sport can relate to. It's this little thing called delayed onset muscle soreness.
DOMS is that miserable ache you get in your muscles a day or two after exercise. If you weren't warned about it, it can be hugely discouraging, making you think that perhaps you weren't ready for a fitness program. Depending on the muscle groups involved, it can make life difficult for the next few days - or, at the very least, it can make everything you do hilarious to everyone around you.
Just ask my coworkers about me trying to put on headphones after my first heavy arms day. (Or, you know, don't. 'Cause yikes.)
The thing about DOMS is that light exercise is good for it. That's right, the body is such a lying jerk that the very thing you don't want to do is exactly what you should do.
This doesn't mean that pain should be ignored. There are certain kinds of pains that I refuse to work with, period. Because of my chiropractic history, I won't work through twinges in my spine and will instead visit my doctor. I will never work on a sprain.
Most importantly, I won't work with joint pain. Like many larger people, I've always had dodgy knees, and I made it a millionty-jillion times worse last year when an ill-planned personal dance party snapped the ACL in my left knee. The rehab of this has been long and boring, but the short story is that I have never had surgery and I instead work to strengthen the mechanism of my knee. It's going very well and I refuse to do anything that will jeopardize my progress. This means that joint pain keeps me at home with an ice pack.
The more I work, the more I understand the different aches and pains that my body hands me. While my weekly plan doesn't always work out, having planned days off keeps me accountable. It keeps me honest. Maybe, just maybe, it keeps me progressing.
Don't cringe. It really does work. It's an aspect of my fitness that I can be engaged in all day.
It's not just calories, though. Every week, I start knowing how many days off I'll allow myself that week. I know that I want to put in five days a week at the gym; I like that number because it feels like an authoritative majority. My mind is convinced that there's a tremendous difference between four and five, and don't try telling it otherwise. It won't believe you.
With that in mind, every week looks similar for me: I meet with my trainer on Mondays because it sets me up for the week. I know it'll work my muscles to screaming, letting me ease up and work on cardio Tuesdays, with some lifting sets working whatever muscle groups were spared on Monday. I take Wednesdays off, because I said so. (Incidentally, this is Pizza Night at my house. Beginning Wednesday morning, I start planning how many calories I can deduct during the day, knowing that dinner will be filled with cheesy, carb-y goodness.) Thursday is whatever muscle groups we worked during training on Monday. Thursday is non-negotiable; something serious has to come up for me to take Thursday off. Two days off in a row is just not allowed.
And here, beginning Friday, is the only leeway I allow myself. I know that one of the next three days, Friday through Sunday, I get to take off. I like saving that day off for Sunday, knowing that Monday will be a rough day.
There's a reason I plan my week so strictly, and that reason is this: My body is a liar.
When I ask my body, "Body? How do you feel today? Are you tired?" the answer is, "Holy crap, yes. I would like lie down on the couch and stay there until tomorrow." This is because I'm human. My newly-found enjoyment of the gym will never, ever change how painfully lazy I am.
But there's another reason, and it's something that every person who's ever exercised or played a sport can relate to. It's this little thing called delayed onset muscle soreness.
DOMS is that miserable ache you get in your muscles a day or two after exercise. If you weren't warned about it, it can be hugely discouraging, making you think that perhaps you weren't ready for a fitness program. Depending on the muscle groups involved, it can make life difficult for the next few days - or, at the very least, it can make everything you do hilarious to everyone around you.
Just ask my coworkers about me trying to put on headphones after my first heavy arms day. (Or, you know, don't. 'Cause yikes.)
The thing about DOMS is that light exercise is good for it. That's right, the body is such a lying jerk that the very thing you don't want to do is exactly what you should do.
This doesn't mean that pain should be ignored. There are certain kinds of pains that I refuse to work with, period. Because of my chiropractic history, I won't work through twinges in my spine and will instead visit my doctor. I will never work on a sprain.
Most importantly, I won't work with joint pain. Like many larger people, I've always had dodgy knees, and I made it a millionty-jillion times worse last year when an ill-planned personal dance party snapped the ACL in my left knee. The rehab of this has been long and boring, but the short story is that I have never had surgery and I instead work to strengthen the mechanism of my knee. It's going very well and I refuse to do anything that will jeopardize my progress. This means that joint pain keeps me at home with an ice pack.
The more I work, the more I understand the different aches and pains that my body hands me. While my weekly plan doesn't always work out, having planned days off keeps me accountable. It keeps me honest. Maybe, just maybe, it keeps me progressing.
Thursday, November 10, 2011
My new-old favorite workout
For some reason I never entirely understood, I've always been enthralled with kickboxing. While I don't exactly have the demeanor to pummel someone into submission, I definitely have the wherewithal to beat the stuffing out of a heavy bag.
So when I saw kickboxing classes offered at the local YMCA some seven years ago, I signed up.
It was officially one of the most empowering, emboldening, and downright coolest things I've ever done with my body. Like many overweight folks, I have a lot of power; my legs are strong by virtue of carrying my body weight around. It was liberating to find an exercise in which I could not only participate, but excel.
I may have been surrounded by beautiful, skinny, high school cheerleaders, but in that class, I was queen.
The class didn't last long, only ten weeks, but ever since then I've been missing it. Seven years is a long time to miss something.
Tonight, I decided to do something about it. Something easy, something free, and something sure to make my back and arms scream for delicious, delicious mercy.
I shadow-boxed.
Shadow boxing is typically regarded as a warm-up. It's something you do before you step up to a bag, or before you move onto other training. But tonight, darn it, I wanted to make it count.
I put myself through the paces of warm-up: static and dynamic stretching, then some core work in the form of crunches and a feeble plank (that's just got to get better someday). The weight room where I was working at the gym was starting to fill up, so I grabbed a set of weights and staked my claim on a patch of carpet in front of the mirror.
Starting with three-pound dumbbells, I went through the jabs, dancing back and forth as much as I dared when surrounded by ladies who wanted the prime real estate I was taking up. A minute of boxing alternated with a set of squats to keep my body moving, repeated several times. I was sweating in less than five minutes.
Don't ever let anyone shame you for using three-pound weights. After a few reps, those things get heavy. Like, really heavy.
I wasn't satisfied to leave it at that, and before I'd spent my shoulders I picked up the five-pounders. I put in another few minutes before finally giving in and dropping the weights. Once I saw my jabs drooping below my shoulder line in the mirror, I knew it was time to give it a rest.
That was nearly two hours ago and my traps are still dancing like giddy schoolgirls.
Tonight was, without a doubt, the most fun I've had yet in the gym. I've promised myself that, when I hit that glorious 200lb mark, I'll be gifting myself with some gloves and a bag to put in the garage.
Meanwhile, you better believe I'll be boxing again, in my little corner of the gym.
So when I saw kickboxing classes offered at the local YMCA some seven years ago, I signed up.
It was officially one of the most empowering, emboldening, and downright coolest things I've ever done with my body. Like many overweight folks, I have a lot of power; my legs are strong by virtue of carrying my body weight around. It was liberating to find an exercise in which I could not only participate, but excel.
I may have been surrounded by beautiful, skinny, high school cheerleaders, but in that class, I was queen.
The class didn't last long, only ten weeks, but ever since then I've been missing it. Seven years is a long time to miss something.
Tonight, I decided to do something about it. Something easy, something free, and something sure to make my back and arms scream for delicious, delicious mercy.
I shadow-boxed.
Shadow boxing is typically regarded as a warm-up. It's something you do before you step up to a bag, or before you move onto other training. But tonight, darn it, I wanted to make it count.
I put myself through the paces of warm-up: static and dynamic stretching, then some core work in the form of crunches and a feeble plank (that's just got to get better someday). The weight room where I was working at the gym was starting to fill up, so I grabbed a set of weights and staked my claim on a patch of carpet in front of the mirror.
Starting with three-pound dumbbells, I went through the jabs, dancing back and forth as much as I dared when surrounded by ladies who wanted the prime real estate I was taking up. A minute of boxing alternated with a set of squats to keep my body moving, repeated several times. I was sweating in less than five minutes.
Don't ever let anyone shame you for using three-pound weights. After a few reps, those things get heavy. Like, really heavy.
I wasn't satisfied to leave it at that, and before I'd spent my shoulders I picked up the five-pounders. I put in another few minutes before finally giving in and dropping the weights. Once I saw my jabs drooping below my shoulder line in the mirror, I knew it was time to give it a rest.
That was nearly two hours ago and my traps are still dancing like giddy schoolgirls.
Tonight was, without a doubt, the most fun I've had yet in the gym. I've promised myself that, when I hit that glorious 200lb mark, I'll be gifting myself with some gloves and a bag to put in the garage.
Meanwhile, you better believe I'll be boxing again, in my little corner of the gym.
Tuesday, November 8, 2011
Taking credit where credit is due
If there's one thing I've learned from going to the gym, it's that I'm capable of great things. More than I ever would have dreamed.
But when you have the sort of on-again, off-again relationship with the gym that I have, you forget these things. Last February, when I was at the gym regularly, I met my first major goals. And then something funny happened.
I stopped going.
It was as though I'd forgotten the point of it all. I'd climbed halfway up the mountain, stuck my flag in the snow, and went home. How anti-climactic.
Now, I find myself at the base of the mountain again. Not only do I need to meet those goals again, but I need to learn to set new ones.
The worst part is that I don't remember meeting those goals in the first place.
Over the winter, I was diligently logging my routines. Every time I got off the treadmill, I recorded my distance and time into RunKeeper. I appreciated the congratulatory emails the system sent to me every time I set a new personal record, and there was something enjoyable about seeing all those dates in a row, showing when I went to the gym. It's like having my very own grown-up star chart.
Speaking of which, I recommend making one of those. Bet you'll surprise yourself with how badly you want to put another star on the calendar. Nobody is immune.
The best part about having a tracking program is having proof of what I've done. I logged in tonight to record my 15:15 mile (over which there was much rejoicing) and I happened to look back to February.
Much to my surprise, I was awesome. Do you know, I was running two miles at a time? Five days a week? I'd forgotten.
It's easy to forget what you're capable of when you're not paying attention. Don't let yourself forget.
But when you have the sort of on-again, off-again relationship with the gym that I have, you forget these things. Last February, when I was at the gym regularly, I met my first major goals. And then something funny happened.
I stopped going.
It was as though I'd forgotten the point of it all. I'd climbed halfway up the mountain, stuck my flag in the snow, and went home. How anti-climactic.
Now, I find myself at the base of the mountain again. Not only do I need to meet those goals again, but I need to learn to set new ones.
The worst part is that I don't remember meeting those goals in the first place.
Over the winter, I was diligently logging my routines. Every time I got off the treadmill, I recorded my distance and time into RunKeeper. I appreciated the congratulatory emails the system sent to me every time I set a new personal record, and there was something enjoyable about seeing all those dates in a row, showing when I went to the gym. It's like having my very own grown-up star chart.
Speaking of which, I recommend making one of those. Bet you'll surprise yourself with how badly you want to put another star on the calendar. Nobody is immune.
The best part about having a tracking program is having proof of what I've done. I logged in tonight to record my 15:15 mile (over which there was much rejoicing) and I happened to look back to February.
Much to my surprise, I was awesome. Do you know, I was running two miles at a time? Five days a week? I'd forgotten.
It's easy to forget what you're capable of when you're not paying attention. Don't let yourself forget.
Monday, November 7, 2011
The shortest distance between two points is a straight line
I considered this mathematical truth at 6:15am today as the younger cat, Mimi, determined that the fastest way to get to the other side of the bed was to stroll across my back. She needed to get to that side, see, because I was facing that way and she needed to look me in the face to find out if I was awake.
Protip: Don't open your eyes.
This truth struck me again, albeit in a less feline way, as I headed for the gym tonight. It was a training night and it was going to be legs again, I just knew it. Legs. The last time we did legs, I limped for five days, the first two of which were so bad I needed assistance to slither up to my third-floor apartment.
I'm not too proud to admit that I crawled. In public.
By the time my trainer smiled that It's too late to run now... smile and said, "Legs tonight, right?" part of me was I was wishing I'd stayed home.
I suppose I could have lied, said something about how it was definitely an arms day.
But that's not the shortest distance. And me, I need the shortest distance. Every minute of every day.
I've spent more than half my life as an overweight person. Nearly ten years ago I tipped into "obese" territory for the first time and I swore I wouldn't let it define me. But no matter how many times I looked at that scale and said "I won't be this person anymore," it never worked. I never took the shortest path.
Let me tell you something: The long route looks great. It looks like a land of rainbows and unicorns, where all you need to do is wish hard enough and you'll lose weight. Cut out a snack here, climb some stairs there, and before you know it you're wearing booty shorts and bringing all the boys to the yard. Some people tell you this works, that their aunt's second cousin's friend's dogwalker did it and now she's running the New York City Marathon.
The truth is that it isn't real. The long route might be a first step, but it's a first step I've taken hundreds of times in my life. It's just as heartbreaking to lose your will on the first step as it is on the tenth step. And I just won't do it anymore.
So tonight, I looked J in the eye and said "Yep, it's legs tonight. What's first?"
I whimpered on my last set of stability ball wall squats. I cried out "Cramp!" in a crowded gym when my right hamstring tried to give up. I was sick with apprehension when asked to do lateral moves that I just knew would hurt my knee, and I'm pretty sure I said "I'm terrified, J" at least three times.
But you know what? I did it. Every last damned rep of every last damned set. (Trust your trainer; it didn't hurt my knee. Not one bit.)
As I laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling after my last set of crunches, I thought about how much the shortest path hurts. In order to push yourself to be something better, you need to first admit that you need to be better. No hamstring cramp in the world hurts as much as that sort of introspection. And when you challenge yourself to take the shortest path, to put it all on the line and really go for it for the first time in your life, it's scary. And exhilarating.
It's the only way.
Protip: Don't open your eyes.
This truth struck me again, albeit in a less feline way, as I headed for the gym tonight. It was a training night and it was going to be legs again, I just knew it. Legs. The last time we did legs, I limped for five days, the first two of which were so bad I needed assistance to slither up to my third-floor apartment.
I'm not too proud to admit that I crawled. In public.
By the time my trainer smiled that It's too late to run now... smile and said, "Legs tonight, right?" part of me was I was wishing I'd stayed home.
I suppose I could have lied, said something about how it was definitely an arms day.
But that's not the shortest distance. And me, I need the shortest distance. Every minute of every day.
I've spent more than half my life as an overweight person. Nearly ten years ago I tipped into "obese" territory for the first time and I swore I wouldn't let it define me. But no matter how many times I looked at that scale and said "I won't be this person anymore," it never worked. I never took the shortest path.
Let me tell you something: The long route looks great. It looks like a land of rainbows and unicorns, where all you need to do is wish hard enough and you'll lose weight. Cut out a snack here, climb some stairs there, and before you know it you're wearing booty shorts and bringing all the boys to the yard. Some people tell you this works, that their aunt's second cousin's friend's dogwalker did it and now she's running the New York City Marathon.
The truth is that it isn't real. The long route might be a first step, but it's a first step I've taken hundreds of times in my life. It's just as heartbreaking to lose your will on the first step as it is on the tenth step. And I just won't do it anymore.
So tonight, I looked J in the eye and said "Yep, it's legs tonight. What's first?"
I whimpered on my last set of stability ball wall squats. I cried out "Cramp!" in a crowded gym when my right hamstring tried to give up. I was sick with apprehension when asked to do lateral moves that I just knew would hurt my knee, and I'm pretty sure I said "I'm terrified, J" at least three times.
But you know what? I did it. Every last damned rep of every last damned set. (Trust your trainer; it didn't hurt my knee. Not one bit.)
As I laid on the floor, staring at the ceiling after my last set of crunches, I thought about how much the shortest path hurts. In order to push yourself to be something better, you need to first admit that you need to be better. No hamstring cramp in the world hurts as much as that sort of introspection. And when you challenge yourself to take the shortest path, to put it all on the line and really go for it for the first time in your life, it's scary. And exhilarating.
It's the only way.
Sunday, November 6, 2011
There you are, weightloss! I've been looking for you!
Last week I took two days in a row off from the gym.
I know, I know. "That's not a bad thing. You go five days a week. You're allowed to rest." But the thought process that happens is deadly. That third day, when I'm heading to work with my gym bag in hand, I start to think You know, it wasn't the end of the world to take those days off. I could take today off, too....
And there begins the spiral. Last time, that spiral ended with three months off. Then came injury, then came fifteen more pounds. It was bad enough when I was only 100lbs overweight. Now, I was nearly 120lbs overweight. Literally twice what I should weigh if I were an active individual with a sensible diet.
If I want this time to be different, I need to cut the excuses. I needed a little inspiration, so I hit the web looking for words of wisdom from professionals. I found them. Felicia Romero wrote this great blog a few weeks ago and it was exactly what I needed to hear:
I recently saw a quote, “It takes 4 weeks for you to notice your body changing, 8 weeks for your friends to notice, and 12 weeks for the rest of the world to notice. Give it 12 weeks. Don’t QUIT!”
I've hit the gym hard the past few days, killing myself with cardio and following my workouts with my favorite protein and fast carb combo, the delicious chicken with garlic sauce at the local Chinese place. And finally, five weeks into this, I've seen results. My body must have been storing them up, because as of today I'm down five pounds from my weigh-in on Oct 13th.
I try not to be too self-congratulatory; there's a long way to go. It's going to suck, except for when it doesn't, and I'll hate myself once in a while. Every day, this routine gets more normal. Can't ask for much more than that.
I know, I know. "That's not a bad thing. You go five days a week. You're allowed to rest." But the thought process that happens is deadly. That third day, when I'm heading to work with my gym bag in hand, I start to think You know, it wasn't the end of the world to take those days off. I could take today off, too....
And there begins the spiral. Last time, that spiral ended with three months off. Then came injury, then came fifteen more pounds. It was bad enough when I was only 100lbs overweight. Now, I was nearly 120lbs overweight. Literally twice what I should weigh if I were an active individual with a sensible diet.
If I want this time to be different, I need to cut the excuses. I needed a little inspiration, so I hit the web looking for words of wisdom from professionals. I found them. Felicia Romero wrote this great blog a few weeks ago and it was exactly what I needed to hear:
I recently saw a quote, “It takes 4 weeks for you to notice your body changing, 8 weeks for your friends to notice, and 12 weeks for the rest of the world to notice. Give it 12 weeks. Don’t QUIT!”
I've hit the gym hard the past few days, killing myself with cardio and following my workouts with my favorite protein and fast carb combo, the delicious chicken with garlic sauce at the local Chinese place. And finally, five weeks into this, I've seen results. My body must have been storing them up, because as of today I'm down five pounds from my weigh-in on Oct 13th.
I try not to be too self-congratulatory; there's a long way to go. It's going to suck, except for when it doesn't, and I'll hate myself once in a while. Every day, this routine gets more normal. Can't ask for much more than that.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
If my scale had a face, I would punch it in the nose.
I've been at this again for almost a month and I'm really making progress. My time on my mile is low enough that I feel challenged rather than discouraged, I can run longer intervals every time, and I can lift heavier weights.
But the physical changes are taking their sweet damned time, yo. I've lost a leeeeettle around the middle, just enough to slide into a pair of shorts I could wear ten pounds ago, and I've lost a whopping two pounds. I wasn't expecting miracles here, especially with all the weights I've been doing, but come on.
Still happy, still encouraged. Feeling really awesome about it all. Just a little annoyed at the passive-aggressive warfare being waged by my ample hips.
But the physical changes are taking their sweet damned time, yo. I've lost a leeeeettle around the middle, just enough to slide into a pair of shorts I could wear ten pounds ago, and I've lost a whopping two pounds. I wasn't expecting miracles here, especially with all the weights I've been doing, but come on.
Still happy, still encouraged. Feeling really awesome about it all. Just a little annoyed at the passive-aggressive warfare being waged by my ample hips.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
Meeting the trainer (and getting a little personal)
Today marks the first day of this new endeavor that I like to call "accountability".
I've joined gyms before. I started two years ago at a local 24/7 gym, conveniently located in the middle of a mini-mall. The enormous picture windows looked out onto the busiest street in town, and I dutifully went every evening, jiggling my way through a mile or two on the treadmills for all the city to see.
That is, until one day I didn't, and then another, and another, and I woke up one day realizing I hadn't been back in months.
This cycle happened several times over the past few years, every time promising myself that "This time will be different." Clearly, it never was. So here we are again.
On Sunday, I joined a new gym and tonight I met my trainer, J. I'll get this out of the way now: He's pretty adorable. He's a college student, he must be almost ten years younger than I am, and he's now responsible for me.
Thank god someone is.
Day One is always Evaluation Day. I was treated to a series of measurements (yuck), a weigh-in (double-yuck) and a body fat analysis (sigh).
"I've never seen that number before," I said, looking at the scale.
"You never will again. That's why I'm here." I told you he's adorable.
I also went through various exercises, in order to get a benchmark. Push-ups, sit-ups, leg presses, lat pull-downs, and twelve minutes on the treadmill. Now, I have goals. I know what I'm capable of and I know where I want to end up.
Time to come to terms with the slowness of my sprints and the bigness of my sweet, sweet Kardashian hips.
I've joined gyms before. I started two years ago at a local 24/7 gym, conveniently located in the middle of a mini-mall. The enormous picture windows looked out onto the busiest street in town, and I dutifully went every evening, jiggling my way through a mile or two on the treadmills for all the city to see.
That is, until one day I didn't, and then another, and another, and I woke up one day realizing I hadn't been back in months.
This cycle happened several times over the past few years, every time promising myself that "This time will be different." Clearly, it never was. So here we are again.
On Sunday, I joined a new gym and tonight I met my trainer, J. I'll get this out of the way now: He's pretty adorable. He's a college student, he must be almost ten years younger than I am, and he's now responsible for me.
Thank god someone is.
Day One is always Evaluation Day. I was treated to a series of measurements (yuck), a weigh-in (double-yuck) and a body fat analysis (sigh).
"I've never seen that number before," I said, looking at the scale.
"You never will again. That's why I'm here." I told you he's adorable.
I also went through various exercises, in order to get a benchmark. Push-ups, sit-ups, leg presses, lat pull-downs, and twelve minutes on the treadmill. Now, I have goals. I know what I'm capable of and I know where I want to end up.
Time to come to terms with the slowness of my sprints and the bigness of my sweet, sweet Kardashian hips.
Sunday, October 9, 2011
The beginning
After years of ups and downs, it's time to get real.
Gym = joined.
Trainer = hired.
I am 31 years old. I'm 5'2" with my shoes on and I weigh 238lbs.
I have a life to change. Let's get started.
Gym = joined.
Trainer = hired.
I am 31 years old. I'm 5'2" with my shoes on and I weigh 238lbs.
I have a life to change. Let's get started.
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