A new favorite snack

I have a new favorite thing! I do! And since it is one of my favorite things, I need to share it with you all.

Every afternoon, I have a Supreme Protein bar. But not just any kind.

The Chocolate Caramel Cookie Crunch kind.



Uh-huh.

I don't know if you like candy bars, 'cause you know, some people don't. And I don't know if you like Snickers even if you do like candy bars. But if Snickers are your thing, and if you're looking for an option that may be a little more fitness-friendly, you need to try one of these.

GNC carries them, and I'm sure some other fitness stores and gyms carry them, too. They are outstanding. The end.

A bit of inspiration from the ol' tee-vee

"I did it! I ate one cookie! I'm one of those people. Oh my gosh!"

Cassandra, a contestant on this season of The Biggest Loser, said this on last night's episode. The contestants are in the midst of a mid-season home visit, where they face the challenges of integrating some new habits into their normal lives, and she was enjoying the cookies she'd just baked with her family.

She said it with such excitement and disbelief that it nearly brought tears to my eyes.

I understood.

After nearly four months, my own food compulsion is almost gone. I have bad days when I make poor food choices, or more likely, when I eat a little too much of an otherwise acceptable food, but I haven't lost control.

Do you know how long it's been since I ate myself half sick on garbage? I don't, either. I don't even remember. And this amazes me.

Even weeks without pounds lost are worth it. Some days, it's hard to remember, but that doesn't make it less true.

The fine line between success and failure

That is, the perceived line between success and failure. It's been a week of ups and downs, and boy, I've skipped across that line a few times. And I've abused myself for it.

Thursday night was my first night at the gym this week, save for Monday's training session. The gym was packed, which wasn't unusual for a weeknight, but I have never before seen every single cardio machine in use. Even the icky bikes that nobody touches. I took extra time on my stretching routine, keeping a sharp eye on those treadmills.

Oh yes. I was watching.

The minute one opened up, I was on my feet, making a mad dash. I hopped on and began my slow warm-up.

Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak. Thud-squeak. This was not a little squeak. This was a your-neighbors-are-up-to-something-you-don't-need-to-know-about squeak.

I've come a long way in my self-esteem. You all know this. I've come to be proud of the size I am now, embracing it, respecting the tremendous amount of work I've put into it.

But after three minutes of this noise, this appalling, look-at-me noise that even Taio Cruz on full blast couldn't mute, I stopped the machine. In those three minutes, I became the fat girl on the treadmill. The emotions came surging up at me and I couldn't force them down again. I felt utterly defeated as I got off the machine.

On the lookout for another treadmill, convinced that everyone was still looking at me, I became overwhelmingly frustrated. This minor wrinkle in my plan was the end of the world. When I finally landed on a new treadmill, I took out my frustration on myself.

I turned the speed up too high, and I knew it. I needed to walk sooner than I wanted to. And I made myself walk faster than I should have. And run, again, faster than I should have.

In the end, despite the increased speed, my mile was nowhere near my best. I just couldn't perform properly. My legs were aching, my throat was burning. I was angry at everyone and everything.

I had failed.

I got down to the business of brooding for the rest of the night, icing my legs and leaving moody Facebook status updates that I later deleted. (Yes, I'm in my thirties. Why do you ask?) It was, without a doubt, one of the worst nights I've had at the gym.

The next day, the switch in my brain finally flipped, that switch that recognizes that what I've done has value. I worked hard. I tried my best, in the face of what I perceived was tremendous adversity. Sure, I could have done better. I should have accepted that the night would not be ideal and taken it for what it was worth. But what I did? It meant something. I deserved credit for that.

This journey is hard. It's okay to have days where it feels impossibly difficult. Pick myself up, dust myself off, and go again.

Unfortunately, that run really did take a toll on my legs. Friday's run was better, I finished my second sub-12:00 mile of my life, but my legs were aching. Today, I bailed out after only a minute of jogging and resigned myself to the elliptical.

Lesson learned, again. Abusing my legs gets me nowhere.

So there it is. A hard week, with little reward but an abundance of character developed. I'm also down a few pounds from a week and a half ago, weighing in at 211. I can't even remember the last time I was under 210. One-derland is getting closer, guys!

This week, I promise to not hate myself if I'm not perfect. It will be a long week, with many obligations for kiddo and lots of overtime at work, so I need to get it in my head now that things may not go according to plan. I will be a little kinder to myself.

Always a worthwhile reminder.

It was bound to happen

Tonight, while doing arms, it finally happened.

I smacked myself in the head with a dumbbell.

I was flat on the bench, a 15-lb dumbbell in my left hand, doing this triceps extension exercise. J had me doing one arm at a time, and in retrospect I suppose I was trying to hurry through my last set. My arms were aching and I wanted to be done.

Sure enough, on rep number seven, I smacked myself in the side of the head.

J, ever the compassionate one, laughed. "You won't do that again."

Flashback to five years ago, riding a sassy little Thoroughbred in a walk/trot lesson, well below my level but always worth it. In fact, half the students in my lesson were my students. While practicing our circles, I inexplicably lost my balance and toppled off.

"And that's why we keep our heels down, kids! Miss Lisa won't do that again!" My instructor (and best friend) had a good laugh at my expense. We all did.

And so, lying on the bench, I snorted at J and kept lifting. Experience is the best teacher.

My poor, overworked legs got a much-needed rest tonight. I didn't make it outside for my run yesterday, which was just as well. I fatigued quickly on the treadmill and I have a sneaking suspicion I would have ended up pathetically stranded on the side of the road a mile from home had I gone out.

It's only a matter of time before I have to call for a cab to get me home after a run. (Maybe I should teach my kid to drive, after all.)

Tomorrow's workout is going to be a milder sort. Instead of hitting the gym, I'll be at the local roller skating rink. It may not be the vigorous cardio routine as I usually get on Tuesdays, what with my ACL-imposed limitations against going really fast and maneuvering quickly, but it's sure to recruit different muscle groups and will leave me aching all the same.

Another week begins. Game on.

A 5k with a purpose

This summer, I am running a 5k.

Yes, really.

But it's a very special 5k. It has obstacles.

And zombies.

The kiddo and I will be participating, and I wasn't prepared for just how excited he'd be about this. He's already picked a local park where we can condition over hills.

Serious. Business.

I don't have any illusions of making it through the race alive. My torn ACL means I won't likely be ducking or dodging. But you'd better believe that I'm going to finish.

If the weather holds tomorrow, I hope to have my first outdoor run. If I can finish even a mile, I'll be elated. Road running is hard for me, what with me being an accident-prone mess who trips over her own feet.

June 2. Countdown begins now.

Taking charge

It's been a quiet week on the blog, not for lack of things to write about.

I could have written about how much I hurt after Monday night.

I could have written about how I feel like a failure on legs weeks because I'm so sore that I can't hit the cardio as hard as I want to.

I could have written about how depressed this latest plateau has left me.

But I didn't write about any of this. I was too busy wallowing.

This isn't my first plateau. I had a nasty one after I'd lost about ten pounds and spent weeks feeling miserable. Then, I implemented my diet plan and kicked back into high gear.

Now, I'm at 24lbs lost and I've been stuck gaining and losing the same two pounds for weeks. I'm really, really tired of rocking back and forth over 215. Really. It's left me searching for new ways to mix up my routine, and I'll be honest: I've been grasping at straws.

Hence, the wallowing.

By yesterday, I was sick of wallowing and ready to take charge again. I picked up this DVD:

This is because I'm a glutton for punishment. I truly love Jillian Michaels. As a fat woman who has put in time in the skinny-centric worlds of horseback riding and opera singing, her approach is right up my alley.

Yell at me, Jillian! Tell me not to be a quitter and call me a wuss!

Anger and frustration are great motivators for me.

I also took a chance and picked up a fat-burning supplement, to be taken before meals. I've always been dubious about these, at best. At worst, I've been downright concerned about them. But staring down this plateau has left me looking for answers, so I'm going to give them a try.

I decided to go all Biggest Loser and purchased these:

These will not be magic. They may not even do a thing. The interwebs certainly have mixed reviews, half of which are probably paid testimonials and half of which are bitter rants about how Bob Harper has sold out.

Eh.

However this turns out, you all know I'll give a full report. Time will tell.

Meanwhile, my limp is minimal and the pain has abated enough that I hit the treadmill tonight. I knocked out 3mi in 40:26 with mile times of 12:16 and 26:12. With warm-up and cool-down, I finished 3.71mi. It was a week's worth of retribution, I think. Retribution against myself.

Totally worth it.

A no-machine day and reflections on training

Every once in a while, it's nice to remember that I don't need fancy machines or elaborate equipment to get a full workout. Tonight's session with J was gimmick-free and loaded with leg-burning goodness.

Required items: A few weights, something to step up onto, and a stability ball. Oh, and one mostly-willing participant who knows she can't get out of legs again.

Squats, weighted lunges, side step-ups, calf raises, lateral leg lifts, and weighted wall sits with stability ball comprised the legs portion of the night. These were followed by sit-ups, leg lifts, and v-ups. It sounds so basic, these exercises. Things I can do on my own, and will do on my own.

Things I probably could have done on my own all along, without a trainer.

It was the kind of night that might make some people ask, "So, why have a trainer?"

My mom wondered this recently, when we were catching up after a long week and talking about the things I've been doing at the gym. "Do you really need to have a trainer?" she asked. Surely I've learned the technical things I need to know in order to get off to a good start.

And she's right. I have learned technical stuff, loads of it. I have many of the tools I need to continue this journey. It's how I manage to succeed on the days I don't have J looking over my shoulder, counting my reps and making me grimace.

It's the other things J does that are so important. He keeps me accountable, checking up on me every week. He pushes me to complete just one more rep. Oh, and these exercises over here, too. (And these ones. Yikes.) He provides answers when I have questions, and he's a good sounding board when I have ideas that may or may not be good ones. He gives me confidence.

But most importantly, he has faith in me. On the days when I don't have faith in myself, of which there are so many, he has faith in me.

I told my mom this and she considered it for a moment. She nodded, smiling a little. "Sounds like you need him after all."

If J ever reads this, I may deny ever having written it. It was Blogger gremlins. Or my little brother. But a good trainer is worth their weight in gold, and I got a good one.

(Oh, and as a footnote, don't be fooled by the simplicity of tonight's workout. I survived the legs only to be crushed by the abs. By the time we finished the v-ups and got on with the serious business of resting, my quads were visibly trembling from the force of having to do nothing. I was flat on my back and my legs were dancing without my consent. A very productive night!)

11:44

It's funny how I can start jogging with every intention of going slowly and enjoying myself, then amaze myself by finding a comfortable rhythm. Without entirely realizing it, I blow through the walls I keep putting up.

Tonight, I achieved my all-time personal best mile time of 11:44. This, two days after swearing off the treadmill. After two days of miserable depression and self-defeatism.

It was awesome.

This right here? This is a slump.

I hate February. I hate my goals and I hate the scale and I hate the world.

So there.

I've lost only a few pounds since my triumphant three-month mark on January 13. I'm battling a plateau and it sucks every bit as much as I remember. It's challenging my commitment and my resolve.

I feel like I'm failing at everything this month. I wasn't able to do my run last weekend, so that's one goal broken. I've caved in twice already and gone for the soda, that's the second goal down the train. Last but not least, I've failed to keep up on my crunches and pushups as I'd wanted.

That's all three goals, folks. Down the tubes as of right now.

One of the culprits may be that I started going for my mile time again. I told myself to lay off and take it easy, but I wanted it so badly. I made minimal progress on my time in the past week, made my legs hurt, and didn't lose a pound.

I don't lose weight on the treadmill. You'd think that would be enough to keep me away from it. You'd be wrong!

I pushed myself hard tonight. Maybe I was taking my frustration out on myself. In any case, it's a good reminder that I can handle more than I usually hand myself when doing cardio.

Stress levels have been high and I'm excited to have a proper weekend off from work. It's been a few weeks since I last had one! This weekend is all about recharging and resting up. I plan to hit the gym hard both days. I need to make it count.

Another day, another chance to turn this around.

If it's an arms day, it's a good day

I was torn tonight. On one hand, I could have done legs and taken a chance on whether or not I was 100% after Friday's parking lot wipeout. On the other hand, I could have done arms and spent the next week dreading the inevitable legs workout.

It's a wash, really.

We played it safe and went for arms today, which was the sensible choice.

It was a mix of old and new exercises today, starting with this variety of lat pulldown:

Weight plates are loaded on the back and the handles can be pulled independently. Same muscles as the cable lat pulldowns that most folks are familiar with, but a slightly different approach.

Variety is the spice of life, or so they tell me.

Alternated the lat pulldown with a plate hammer curl, which the guy at the link looks so terribly excited to be doing. We did a compound move and went straight from the curl into an overhead press, which had the added benefit of forcing me to be very conscious of how my body moved and where that plate was, even if I couldn't see it while staring straight ahead and grimacing. I haven't smacked myself in the face yet. Yet.

We moved over to the Smith machine next, which looks like this:

It looks like a medieval torture device, but for those of us who do independent work without a spotter, it can be a fantastic piece of equipment. That long bar on the off side of the machine is the same bar you find on a bench press station, and you load weights onto each end. On the Smith machine, however, the bar slides up and down a pair of guide poles, meaning the range of motion remains stable and regular even if you start to tire. The hooks on the inside of the bar catch on pegs when the bar is twisted inward, so with a simple twist of the wrists, the bar can be safely racked.

In all, a pretty cool machine that can be used for a wide variety of exercises. Tonight, we dragged over a bench and used it for a standard bench press. In all the time I've been going to the gym, I've never really done a plain old bench press before, so I was a little excited.

We went through a few other exercises - triceps extensions and pulldowns, upright rows (which are the lifts most likely to make my body shake and all my chins jiggle elegantly), pectoral flyes - and then headed for the mats to finish with abs.

Y'know, I'm starting to look forward to abs. Really and truly.

Tonight's ab exercise was sit-ups with a medicine ball catch and throw.

I can't possibly explain the look on my face when J said that he was going to throw a weighted ball at my head every time I sat up. He needed to elaborate. Not at my head, just near my head. Okay.

The trick of this was not letting the momentum of the catch affect my sit-up. The tempo should be the same regardless of if I've added weight, and I challenged myself to make the exercise more difficult by holding the ball close to my chest. Holding it out in front of me would have acted as a counter-weight and made sitting up a little easier.

So we started with a set of standard sit-ups, catching the ball at my chest. We switched to a sit-up with a twist, with J standing first to one side for a set, then the other. Next was a set where he threw high, above my head, which was wicked hard. I had to fight the momentum of the ball to keep from falling backward.

We finished with a final set of standard sit-ups, only this time, J didn't stand on my toes. He stood back a step or two. I thought this was terribly unfair.

I didn't tell him this. He would have made me do more.

I just realized that I can type about this all very cavalierly, but that's such a lie. The first set of sit-ups weren't bad. I think I did twenty, no big deal. The next set, twisting to the right, we did ten. I started making the angry face (ie. "I am exerting myself and I'm not going to quit but I want everyone to know I'm not very happy about it") around number seven. On the left, I did a little better, holding off the angry face until number nine.

Then, all bets were off, and I glared so hard at J's stomach that if he's not currently suffering from some curiously unidentified gastric issues, I really wasted a lot of energy.

Still, tonight was one of those nights when I was sad when it ended. The past week has been hugely successful for me, starting with Monday's triumphant eval, progressing through Thursday's new mile record of 12:12, ending with another two pounds lost. At 214, I'm currently the lightest I've been in two years.

After all the miserable cheat days, the even more miserable day-after-cheat days, and the weeks where I work so hard and the number refuses to change, it's good to remember that this is all for a reason. It's worth it. Every day, it's worth it.

Finding inspiration

On sluggish weekends, I take inspiration wherever I can get it.

Today, it was a quote from basketball great Jerry West. You may not recognize the name, but you've seen him:

That's his silhouette in the NBA logo. He played for the Lakers for 14 years and went on to coach them for five more.

Jerry West said, "You can't get much done in life if you only work on the days when you feel good."

You know what? He's right.

I felt crappy today. I crawled out of bed late and headed for the gym with all the enthusiasm of someone marching to the gallows. I was going to hate this.

I made it to the treadmill, planning to take it easy for the benefit of my sore legs, and the rest of my body was in complete agreement. I ate a lot of garbage yesterday, so I was lacking energy. I had a hard time keeping my breath. I managed a mile in 14:00.

As I finished up a few minutes later and grudgingly headed for another machine, I realized a couple things.

First, this was one of the worst-feeling miles I've had in a long time and I still finished in 14:00. How great is that?

Second, I was sweating all over the place and breathing heavily. I had worked hard. It was a struggle for my body to accomplish. I may not have set any records, but you'd better believe I'll see results for all the effort. The rate of perceived exertion is a real thing when measuring cardiovascular progress, so today was not for nothing.

If I'm not suffering from joint pain or some sort of communicable illness, I owe it to myself to be at the gym. I owe it to my son, who deserves to have a healthy mom to look after him, and I owe it to my parents, who deserve to have a healthy daughter to support them later in life. I owe it to my trainer, who deserves to have a client who's interested in doing the hard work necessary to make these changes.

Every day, I can do something positive for myself. Even if I'm feeling sick, or tired, or just plain lazy, I can make progress somewhere. And I will.

Is it March yet?

Guys.

Do you know how hard it is to not drink soda all the time? It's killing me. Do you see this? Right here? This is me, dying.

My diet has been a little less controlled in the past few days, which doesn't surprise me. Swapping all but one drink a day to water was a huge change, and when I make that sort of change, other things tend to give. But I know it'll get better.

Took a spill on the ice the other day, so I'm off the treadmill while the soreness abates. It's just as well, really. My mile is down to 12:12 now and I was seriously in danger of beating myself up on the treadmill again. Unfortunately, it means that my goal of running 2-3mi every weekend won't be met this weekend.

Life gets in the way sometimes. Alas.

Onward and upward!

Health insurance, aka Poop on you, Medica

It's official: I am too fat.

This is what Medica told me today, in a letter that I had to call them and demand they send via fax, since the lady on the phone seemed unsurprised that they hadn't notified me last time they declined me. When I never heard back from them in December, and my calls went unanswered, I assumed they'd lost my application. So I tried again.

Silly, silly me.

I've had health insurance before, with Aetna, and I was required to pay a monthly Fat Fee (my term) because I was considered "High Risk". Despite an immaculate health record full of nothing but ideal results in all pertinent tests, my fatness was a concern.

Medica has admirably taken it one step further, really twisting that knife. And really, it's made me wonder what their underwriters do there.

They clearly don't consult medical records.

They don't analyze history.

They don't speak to doctors.

They certainly don't read and consider additional information - you know, the sort of information I neatly arranged concerning my obesity "diagnosis" and my successful course of "treatment".

The only conclusion I can reach is that Medica's underwriters scan for two or three markers, of which fatness is one, then gleefully tear up the application and fire off (or, not) a grammatically-shoddy denial.

Case in point:

Unfortunately, we are unable to extend an offer of coverage your height/weight ratio exceeds the limitations established in the underwriting guidelines at Medica.

Perhaps their underwriters are also their proof-readers.

I spent today vacillating between self-pity, desperation, and outright indignation.

I'm still fat. I'll always be fat. I thought this as I ate two cookies with lunch.

I'll talk to my trainer. I'll put together my stats over the past three months. I'll prove to them that they should reconsider! They have to! I thought this as I drove to the gym.

You know what? Screw Medica! Screw Medica a million times! I am going to mail them an envelope full of poop! I thought this as I angrily pounded out a new personal best on the treadmill.

Medica will never have my business. More's the pity for them; I'm a chronically healthy woman. My ACL tear was unfortunate and unlucky, but in terms of sickness, I simply don't get sick. The last time an illness warranted a doctor visit was in 2009. Prior to that, I visited the doctor once every two years or so to get some antibiotics for strep throat.

So, screw Medica. This fatty fat person will find another company to give money to.