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.