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.