With one foot extended behind me, propped up on a step, and the other lunged in front of me, I hugged the weighted bar (increased from 5 lbs to 10 lbs -- Woo-hooo for me!), with it resting across my chest with arms crossed -- like a genie, but oh, if only I had magic. . . .
With each bend of my lunged leg, I thought of what tomorrow will be like as I ascend and descend the three stairs from my garage into my house -- it will be like climbing Mt. Everest. Without a sherpa. In a blinding snowstorm. Having never crested a hill, let alone a mountian, before. I fear the pain.
Bend down, up . . .THIS . . .bend down, up . . .WILL . . .bend down, up . . .BE . . . bend down, up . . .WORTH . . .bend down, up . . .IT . . .bend down, up . . .COME . . . bend down, up . . .JULY . . .
Oh my dyin' a** . . . .
And that was only the begining.
Then it was on to these funky push-up/plank things -- plank-ups? Doesn't matter. Call it what you want, but both remain in the realm of impossibility for me. As aforementioned in previous posts, the push-up and plank, individually, are works in progress. I got the "push" part, and I can usually get in to plank position, but it quickly ends after that.
But today, we combined the two for what could have been a pre-dawn disaster. The lighter weighted bar was across the end of the step, hands holding onto the bar, in a plank-up position, chest over the bar itself. Raise and lower . . .
As previously posted, with the push-up, there were concerns about a face plant in the carpet when my wrists snapped under the weight of myself. Today, it progressed from the threat of rug burn and bruised nose, to full on worry about what kind of dental work will be needed if I were to fail in this position.
I did what I could, I might have cheated myself out of a few repetitions, but my dental insurance company will appreciate that.
Friday, February 22, 2008
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Ode to Gene Autry
I was back in the saddle again.
Did I actually go to the gym five days a week for a month straight? Somebody please tell my body that!
During yoga last night, muscles felt like they had shriveled, and were as taught as uncooked spaghetti. I went from feeling Xena strong in my warriors to feeling like a scurvy little foot-soldier. And my modified side plank . . .well, I am still giggling over that one.
The only thing that felt natural, that felt right, was my relaxation posture.
This morning I returned to spin. I had just reached the point where my butt didn't hurt anymore. Two hours later, I am cringing at the thought of sitting on anything other than a nice cushion. I did manage to stand -- both straight and Lance-like -- it's a good thing my focus was on a recovery ride, as suggested, because my heart rate was just not getting up there.
Oh, the irony. After two weeks of trying to control the damn thing, I couldn't barely get it started today, and I was PEDALING!
Tomorrow is muscle conditioning. I am all aquiver with joy . . . .
Did I actually go to the gym five days a week for a month straight? Somebody please tell my body that!
During yoga last night, muscles felt like they had shriveled, and were as taught as uncooked spaghetti. I went from feeling Xena strong in my warriors to feeling like a scurvy little foot-soldier. And my modified side plank . . .well, I am still giggling over that one.
The only thing that felt natural, that felt right, was my relaxation posture.
This morning I returned to spin. I had just reached the point where my butt didn't hurt anymore. Two hours later, I am cringing at the thought of sitting on anything other than a nice cushion. I did manage to stand -- both straight and Lance-like -- it's a good thing my focus was on a recovery ride, as suggested, because my heart rate was just not getting up there.
Oh, the irony. After two weeks of trying to control the damn thing, I couldn't barely get it started today, and I was PEDALING!
Tomorrow is muscle conditioning. I am all aquiver with joy . . . .
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Back From the Sidelines
A very nasty little germ beat the hell out of me for the past week and a half, but I am making my triumphant return tonight.
I'm a little uneasy. I am afraid that the beastly microorganism undid all the progress that I made. Don't get me wrong, I am determined, but I am trying to prepare myself for the fact that down dog may not be possible tonight; and that perhaps the Lance Armstrong Spin position may not happen tomorrow either.
I know I need to ease back into things, but I know my eagerness gets the best of me, and then I get frustrated, etc. . . .
The most upsetting thing about being sick was the fact that I actually broke down and invested in "the matching fitness ensemble," and was all ready to model it. It was just like that feeling I would get when I got new school clothes. Now I am afraid to try it on -- After living on ice cream and pudding for a week, (for medicinal purposes, I assure you! my throat couldn't handle much else)I think I gained back whatever pounds I lost.
Although maybe my fever induced sweat sessions and hallucinations burned some of it off.
Here's hoping . . . .
I'm a little uneasy. I am afraid that the beastly microorganism undid all the progress that I made. Don't get me wrong, I am determined, but I am trying to prepare myself for the fact that down dog may not be possible tonight; and that perhaps the Lance Armstrong Spin position may not happen tomorrow either.
I know I need to ease back into things, but I know my eagerness gets the best of me, and then I get frustrated, etc. . . .
The most upsetting thing about being sick was the fact that I actually broke down and invested in "the matching fitness ensemble," and was all ready to model it. It was just like that feeling I would get when I got new school clothes. Now I am afraid to try it on -- After living on ice cream and pudding for a week, (for medicinal purposes, I assure you! my throat couldn't handle much else)I think I gained back whatever pounds I lost.
Although maybe my fever induced sweat sessions and hallucinations burned some of it off.
Here's hoping . . . .
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Workin' it in Vogue
Never underestimate the power of a good sports bra.
More than a month into this now, I realized that I needed new sports bras. The ones I have been using for the past five years *gasp* may have worked while I strolled along on the treadmill, but just weren’t cutting it anymore.
Prior to January, I felt sports bras, for me at least, were wholly unnecessary. I mean, really, if you had breasts sports bras are a Godsend. But baby orangutans have larger breasts than me.
I share some of the blame with my Maker on that. While, being female, I knew something was going to sprout, as a child I never really wanted them. I grew up in a household where Dolly Parton was frequently heard and seen, and her boobs scared the livin’ BeJesus out of me. I would go to bed at night, lie on my stomach, with my chest pressing down on my fisted hands hoping to stunt or prevent their growth.
Now, at age 33, I am afraid my plan worked a little too well . . . .
But I can say it does not matter how big they are, they hurt when they bounce. Even if it is just a nipple-bounce. Not a good feeling.
So off to the store I went. Just slipping a new sports bra on and seeing how it makes my arms and shoulders look, does wonders for the ego.
Now I need some new workout clothes. The clothes I have are not nearly as old as the sports bras. Maybe some of the T-shirts, like my Simmons crew team t-shirt, but ones like that hang around for sentimental value and will NEVER be tossed. Never really worn in public outside of the gym, but NEVER EVER tossed.
I am of two minds about workout attire. I think there are some rather smashing fitness clothes out there, but I hesitate to buy the matching ensembles because I feel like they are too good to sweat in. So I go about working out in clothes that are often mismatched -- whatever pair of pants and t-shirt I grab in the morning.
However, the recent sports bra acquisition makes me believe that in ainvestment in new attire might give me a little boost of inspiration when I get up in the mornings before the sun.
But then again, the sweat factor -- I would much rather sweat in $10 Hanes sweat pants, than $30 Nike or Reebok pants. However, while I may save a few bucks, the WalMart specials do make me feel like a schlump.
I’m truly torn.
More than a month into this now, I realized that I needed new sports bras. The ones I have been using for the past five years *gasp* may have worked while I strolled along on the treadmill, but just weren’t cutting it anymore.
Prior to January, I felt sports bras, for me at least, were wholly unnecessary. I mean, really, if you had breasts sports bras are a Godsend. But baby orangutans have larger breasts than me.
I share some of the blame with my Maker on that. While, being female, I knew something was going to sprout, as a child I never really wanted them. I grew up in a household where Dolly Parton was frequently heard and seen, and her boobs scared the livin’ BeJesus out of me. I would go to bed at night, lie on my stomach, with my chest pressing down on my fisted hands hoping to stunt or prevent their growth.
Now, at age 33, I am afraid my plan worked a little too well . . . .
But I can say it does not matter how big they are, they hurt when they bounce. Even if it is just a nipple-bounce. Not a good feeling.
So off to the store I went. Just slipping a new sports bra on and seeing how it makes my arms and shoulders look, does wonders for the ego.
Now I need some new workout clothes. The clothes I have are not nearly as old as the sports bras. Maybe some of the T-shirts, like my Simmons crew team t-shirt, but ones like that hang around for sentimental value and will NEVER be tossed. Never really worn in public outside of the gym, but NEVER EVER tossed.
I am of two minds about workout attire. I think there are some rather smashing fitness clothes out there, but I hesitate to buy the matching ensembles because I feel like they are too good to sweat in. So I go about working out in clothes that are often mismatched -- whatever pair of pants and t-shirt I grab in the morning.
However, the recent sports bra acquisition makes me believe that in ainvestment in new attire might give me a little boost of inspiration when I get up in the mornings before the sun.
But then again, the sweat factor -- I would much rather sweat in $10 Hanes sweat pants, than $30 Nike or Reebok pants. However, while I may save a few bucks, the WalMart specials do make me feel like a schlump.
I’m truly torn.
Mourning Sonny
It's a sad day on The Compound. So many bad and strange things have happened in the past week. Mercury cannot get out of retrograde fast enough.
Sonny, my late grandfather's horse, had to be put down today. He is a very old horse, even by horse standards -- well over 30 years old. My mother estimates him to be about 35. He had broken his leg, somehow, during the night in his stable. It's especially tough for my family to make the decision, because in many ways, he is one of the last living ties to my grandfather, who died suddenly 15 years ago.
Sonny was different things to all of us. To me, he was the horse I could make laugh. He had a soft spot on the tip of his nose that only I could find. If I rubbed it the right way with my index finger, his upper lip would curl up and tremble, exposing his teeth. There were even times I'd walk into the barn, say his name and he'd lift that lip at just the sound of my voice.
Sonny never knew he was a horse. He acted, in many ways, like a dog. If you were out in the pasture, he'd tag along at your heels, maybe give a little nip on your but or shoulder if he wanted some attention, or simply head but you in the back. If you were in the pasture, he was in your shadow.
And sometimes you didn't even know he was there. My father was mending the fence one day, getting ready to drive a large spike into a post. He swung his hammer back to gather, ready to strike, unaware that Sonny had deemed himself the unofficial construction site supervisor, and conked that damn horse right between the eyes. It was very cartoon like -- there were practically stars drawn around his head, and he staggered back, shaking his head and then finding a spot on my dad's back to rub his sore noggin.
I went to see him one last time today, before the veterinarian came. This past winter has been hard on him. He's lost so much weight; it's certainly not from a lack of eating. Even though he was clearly in pain, unable to put weight on his hind leg, he was still eating.
But his eyes were different. For the first time ever, he looked tired. And he knew, as well as we did, that it was time to go. If you know an animal well, their eyes speak the words that are never said. And his eyes said it all.
Animals and humans have a bond that is difficult to explain, and hard to understand, if you are not an animal person. You can take an evolutionary approach, thinking that we are the superior species, and it is our job to care for them. To a great extent that is true.
But I have learned differently with all the animals that are in, and have passed through, my life. For as many ways as I have cared for and loved my animals -- the goats, rabbits, horses, mini horses, sheep, mules, donkeys, dogs, cats, and even two raccoons-- they have each given me more on a level that I can't even describe than I know I have been able to give them. Simply put, the affection that a well cared for animal gives a human is beyond human understanding; I don't think one human being can love another human being the way an animal does its human. It goes beyond companionship, and even basic understanding.
So tonight, when the vet is gone, and Sonny is put to rest, I'll raise a glass to the horse, who thought he was a dog, and could always make me laugh.
Sonny, my late grandfather's horse, had to be put down today. He is a very old horse, even by horse standards -- well over 30 years old. My mother estimates him to be about 35. He had broken his leg, somehow, during the night in his stable. It's especially tough for my family to make the decision, because in many ways, he is one of the last living ties to my grandfather, who died suddenly 15 years ago.
Sonny was different things to all of us. To me, he was the horse I could make laugh. He had a soft spot on the tip of his nose that only I could find. If I rubbed it the right way with my index finger, his upper lip would curl up and tremble, exposing his teeth. There were even times I'd walk into the barn, say his name and he'd lift that lip at just the sound of my voice.
Sonny never knew he was a horse. He acted, in many ways, like a dog. If you were out in the pasture, he'd tag along at your heels, maybe give a little nip on your but or shoulder if he wanted some attention, or simply head but you in the back. If you were in the pasture, he was in your shadow.
And sometimes you didn't even know he was there. My father was mending the fence one day, getting ready to drive a large spike into a post. He swung his hammer back to gather, ready to strike, unaware that Sonny had deemed himself the unofficial construction site supervisor, and conked that damn horse right between the eyes. It was very cartoon like -- there were practically stars drawn around his head, and he staggered back, shaking his head and then finding a spot on my dad's back to rub his sore noggin.
I went to see him one last time today, before the veterinarian came. This past winter has been hard on him. He's lost so much weight; it's certainly not from a lack of eating. Even though he was clearly in pain, unable to put weight on his hind leg, he was still eating.
But his eyes were different. For the first time ever, he looked tired. And he knew, as well as we did, that it was time to go. If you know an animal well, their eyes speak the words that are never said. And his eyes said it all.
Animals and humans have a bond that is difficult to explain, and hard to understand, if you are not an animal person. You can take an evolutionary approach, thinking that we are the superior species, and it is our job to care for them. To a great extent that is true.
But I have learned differently with all the animals that are in, and have passed through, my life. For as many ways as I have cared for and loved my animals -- the goats, rabbits, horses, mini horses, sheep, mules, donkeys, dogs, cats, and even two raccoons-- they have each given me more on a level that I can't even describe than I know I have been able to give them. Simply put, the affection that a well cared for animal gives a human is beyond human understanding; I don't think one human being can love another human being the way an animal does its human. It goes beyond companionship, and even basic understanding.
So tonight, when the vet is gone, and Sonny is put to rest, I'll raise a glass to the horse, who thought he was a dog, and could always make me laugh.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Training Wheels are Off!
Dare I say it, but I may be on a streak of success, after Monday's meltdown.
Today, for the first time in Spinning, I was in the 3 position -- butt slightly off the seat, hips back, leaning forward on the handle bars, and really working those glutes, what I call the Lance Armstrong position. My butt cheeks are currently in a state of euphoria, now knowing they can share the load with the legs!
Today, for the first time in Spinning, I was in the 3 position -- butt slightly off the seat, hips back, leaning forward on the handle bars, and really working those glutes, what I call the Lance Armstrong position. My butt cheeks are currently in a state of euphoria, now knowing they can share the load with the legs!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Three Dog Night
More yoga victory! I was in downward dog for half the class. Flowing in Warrior 2, however, pretty much muzzled that dog for the night. But I’ll take the half-class downward dog.
As I sat there meditating at the end, I was thinking of my mom. Actually, I was hearing her voice: “DONNA MARIE!!!!” Yup, you’d all be hearing that from Bellingham to Hopedale if she knew I was at yoga on Ash Wednesday.
When I took my first yoga class a five years ago -- Kundalini yoga, lot of breathing, chanting, etc -- she practically held an exorcism. She was so convinced that I was joining a cult. And still believes yoga is aligned with the forces of darkness.
I’m a good Catholic girl. I enjoy my religion. Hell, I was almost a nun; that’s a story for another day.
When I was a sophomore in high school studying to make my confirmation, religious meditation was a large part of the preparation. It wasn’t much different from the focused breathing and concentration I do now on Wednesday night, except it might have included a prayer. Actually, I still do pray in yoga, but it’s more of a “JESUS, that’s tight;” or “Dear God, no cramping please!” not so much a prayer of devotion.
And I’m not taking God’s name in vain. I know God has fun with me; he has to given all the situations he puts me in. I’m not a God-is-my-co-pilot fanatic; (God’s actually on my roof rack; he’s my deer sensor), but I gotta believe The Big Man has done a little yoga himself.
He just hasn’t shared that secret with Mom, yet.
As I sat there meditating at the end, I was thinking of my mom. Actually, I was hearing her voice: “DONNA MARIE!!!!” Yup, you’d all be hearing that from Bellingham to Hopedale if she knew I was at yoga on Ash Wednesday.
When I took my first yoga class a five years ago -- Kundalini yoga, lot of breathing, chanting, etc -- she practically held an exorcism. She was so convinced that I was joining a cult. And still believes yoga is aligned with the forces of darkness.
I’m a good Catholic girl. I enjoy my religion. Hell, I was almost a nun; that’s a story for another day.
When I was a sophomore in high school studying to make my confirmation, religious meditation was a large part of the preparation. It wasn’t much different from the focused breathing and concentration I do now on Wednesday night, except it might have included a prayer. Actually, I still do pray in yoga, but it’s more of a “JESUS, that’s tight;” or “Dear God, no cramping please!” not so much a prayer of devotion.
And I’m not taking God’s name in vain. I know God has fun with me; he has to given all the situations he puts me in. I’m not a God-is-my-co-pilot fanatic; (God’s actually on my roof rack; he’s my deer sensor), but I gotta believe The Big Man has done a little yoga himself.
He just hasn’t shared that secret with Mom, yet.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Are You Lookin' At Me?
I know the walls of mirrors have a purpose. I can assume it’s so you can keep an eye on your form.
But it disturbs me to see me in action. I am at the gym because I don’t like that me, and it doesn’t help the real me to constantly look up and see someone who does not resemble the me I imagine myself to be.
It could be the early hour I get there -- I stand there, and think, is that REALLY me, now? What the hell happened? What’s with the pear in sweatpants? How could I not see those hips and thighs coming at me before now?
The mirrors are good for kickboxing. I enjoy kicking Other Me’s butt. That part of the mirrors I get. When you are working off the bag, it helps me land my jabs, hooks and upper cuts where they should be. I enjoy boxing myself. All the fun of a real throw down, but I always win and there are no bruises (although if you’ve seen any of my punches, you’d wonder if I could bruise a grape).
But I really can do without the mirror any other day of the week. During instructor’s choice and muscle condition, I know I should be focusing on my form, but I look at myself and I feel like an inversed hunchback. I feel like my spine has buckled, and I lean a bit to the left. I knew I should have listened to my mother and started sitting up straight when I was 5 to avoid this thrust-out lean-to thing I’ve got going on.
Thank God spinning and yoga are done in the dark. Slouchy, spreading me can stay hidden from the goddess in training I am trying to convince myself that I am.
I probably spend more time mentally beating myself up, wondering how I got here, than is healthy.
When I left college, I weighed a healthy 180-pounds. Healthy, if I were a Sumo wrestler in training.
I went to college a healthy 125-pounds, with all the warnings that are typically given to college freshmen -- keep your nose clean, don’t drink, beware of horny frat boys; plan to stay in jail if you wind up in jail, because if you get arrested chances are you were somewhere and doing something you shouldn‘t have been; and expect the Freshman 15.
I heard all clearly, but my body understood the Freshman 15 to be the Freshman 50. That’s right -- the first time I am on my own I discovered the responsibility of foraging for food. And I found the mother load at the residence campus café. In the form of nachos and cheese (protein, dairy and fiber, add salsa and you’ve got veggies, too) and the world’s greatest chocolate milkshake (again, dairy) available at all hours of the night. Combine that with lots of sleep and an English major with a concetration in writing -- which meant 99.9% of my time was spent on my back (minds out of the gutter, PLUH-EASE, people!) or on my ass in front of a computer, I clearly wasn’t studying fitness.
I carried that weight around with me for pretty much the entirety of my college career, until the impact of The Great Weight started to show -- not in the form of just saddlebags and cellulite, but in unwanted and unsightly facial hair. My innards were going flukey! The good news was that if my career as a writer/journalist never got off the ground, I was headed for promising career in a circus sideshow as a bearded lady.
I went to a doctor, a kindly 80-something man who looked totally harmless, until he gave me my diagnosis. “You only problem is, you’re too fat.” No lie, those were his words. He made no apology for his lack of sugar, and I wanted him to choke on his dentures. But that sack of wrinkles -- May he now rest in peace -- outlived my referral and so I enrolled in my first diet program at some weight loss center. It worked -- I lost 20-lbs, but I could have done without the weekly pep rally and round of applause for every pound lost.
I was on my own after graduation, and then I kicked it into high gear, when my sophomore year roommate called to tell me she was getting married. It was Go Time. I hadn’t seen her in two years. We were both very similar, and sloth like, and damn her for getting married first. How could that happen?
I had a friend who majored in exercise science, but wound up being a great journalist instead, who put me on a paced program -- 30-minutes on the treadmill, three times a week; weights three times a week. It was tough in the beginning, but before I knew it, I was upping the time, increasing the speed, the repetitions on the weights, and missing it when I skipped a day.
And, in its own time, it all came off. I dropped 50-lbs in the course of a year, and maintained that for about six years -- through my first broken heart (shed one tear here, but no more. He wasn’t worth it), through a crazy work schedule, planning my wedding, the first year of marriage.
But building a house was my undoing. Before I knew it, I was celebrating every milestone with a cookie. We made the decision to build-- that called for a chocolate chip cookie! We closed on property within The Compound -- that calls for an oatmeal raisin cookie! The first view of the house floor plans -- that calls for a chocolate chocolate chip cookie! The old house was knocked down to make way for the new one -- This calls for two chocolate chip cookies! We broke ground -- cookies all around! The foundation was in -- Hey, it’s cheaper to buy three cookies at Subway than one. Fill me up! Hey every day is a day to celebrate. 3 p.m. became my daily date with a bag of cookies -- cheaper when in threes!
Happiness was measured in chocolate chips and raisins. Meanwhile, my body as adjusting to my daily workouts, and more was going in my mouth than was being walked off.
My unhappiness at being too close than I’d like to be to my college weight, and frustration at the my inability to maintain, is now measured on a scale, how my clothes fit, and slouchy, spreading me in the gym mirror.
And yes, this long journey down Explanation Avenue is necessary because I am hankering for a cookie now and as long as I keep my fingers going, I will outlast the craving. My lack of coordination will prevent me from being able type and eat at the same time.
But it disturbs me to see me in action. I am at the gym because I don’t like that me, and it doesn’t help the real me to constantly look up and see someone who does not resemble the me I imagine myself to be.
It could be the early hour I get there -- I stand there, and think, is that REALLY me, now? What the hell happened? What’s with the pear in sweatpants? How could I not see those hips and thighs coming at me before now?
The mirrors are good for kickboxing. I enjoy kicking Other Me’s butt. That part of the mirrors I get. When you are working off the bag, it helps me land my jabs, hooks and upper cuts where they should be. I enjoy boxing myself. All the fun of a real throw down, but I always win and there are no bruises (although if you’ve seen any of my punches, you’d wonder if I could bruise a grape).
But I really can do without the mirror any other day of the week. During instructor’s choice and muscle condition, I know I should be focusing on my form, but I look at myself and I feel like an inversed hunchback. I feel like my spine has buckled, and I lean a bit to the left. I knew I should have listened to my mother and started sitting up straight when I was 5 to avoid this thrust-out lean-to thing I’ve got going on.
Thank God spinning and yoga are done in the dark. Slouchy, spreading me can stay hidden from the goddess in training I am trying to convince myself that I am.
I probably spend more time mentally beating myself up, wondering how I got here, than is healthy.
When I left college, I weighed a healthy 180-pounds. Healthy, if I were a Sumo wrestler in training.
I went to college a healthy 125-pounds, with all the warnings that are typically given to college freshmen -- keep your nose clean, don’t drink, beware of horny frat boys; plan to stay in jail if you wind up in jail, because if you get arrested chances are you were somewhere and doing something you shouldn‘t have been; and expect the Freshman 15.
I heard all clearly, but my body understood the Freshman 15 to be the Freshman 50. That’s right -- the first time I am on my own I discovered the responsibility of foraging for food. And I found the mother load at the residence campus café. In the form of nachos and cheese (protein, dairy and fiber, add salsa and you’ve got veggies, too) and the world’s greatest chocolate milkshake (again, dairy) available at all hours of the night. Combine that with lots of sleep and an English major with a concetration in writing -- which meant 99.9% of my time was spent on my back (minds out of the gutter, PLUH-EASE, people!) or on my ass in front of a computer, I clearly wasn’t studying fitness.
I carried that weight around with me for pretty much the entirety of my college career, until the impact of The Great Weight started to show -- not in the form of just saddlebags and cellulite, but in unwanted and unsightly facial hair. My innards were going flukey! The good news was that if my career as a writer/journalist never got off the ground, I was headed for promising career in a circus sideshow as a bearded lady.
I went to a doctor, a kindly 80-something man who looked totally harmless, until he gave me my diagnosis. “You only problem is, you’re too fat.” No lie, those were his words. He made no apology for his lack of sugar, and I wanted him to choke on his dentures. But that sack of wrinkles -- May he now rest in peace -- outlived my referral and so I enrolled in my first diet program at some weight loss center. It worked -- I lost 20-lbs, but I could have done without the weekly pep rally and round of applause for every pound lost.
I was on my own after graduation, and then I kicked it into high gear, when my sophomore year roommate called to tell me she was getting married. It was Go Time. I hadn’t seen her in two years. We were both very similar, and sloth like, and damn her for getting married first. How could that happen?
I had a friend who majored in exercise science, but wound up being a great journalist instead, who put me on a paced program -- 30-minutes on the treadmill, three times a week; weights three times a week. It was tough in the beginning, but before I knew it, I was upping the time, increasing the speed, the repetitions on the weights, and missing it when I skipped a day.
And, in its own time, it all came off. I dropped 50-lbs in the course of a year, and maintained that for about six years -- through my first broken heart (shed one tear here, but no more. He wasn’t worth it), through a crazy work schedule, planning my wedding, the first year of marriage.
But building a house was my undoing. Before I knew it, I was celebrating every milestone with a cookie. We made the decision to build-- that called for a chocolate chip cookie! We closed on property within The Compound -- that calls for an oatmeal raisin cookie! The first view of the house floor plans -- that calls for a chocolate chocolate chip cookie! The old house was knocked down to make way for the new one -- This calls for two chocolate chip cookies! We broke ground -- cookies all around! The foundation was in -- Hey, it’s cheaper to buy three cookies at Subway than one. Fill me up! Hey every day is a day to celebrate. 3 p.m. became my daily date with a bag of cookies -- cheaper when in threes!
Happiness was measured in chocolate chips and raisins. Meanwhile, my body as adjusting to my daily workouts, and more was going in my mouth than was being walked off.
My unhappiness at being too close than I’d like to be to my college weight, and frustration at the my inability to maintain, is now measured on a scale, how my clothes fit, and slouchy, spreading me in the gym mirror.
And yes, this long journey down Explanation Avenue is necessary because I am hankering for a cookie now and as long as I keep my fingers going, I will outlast the craving. My lack of coordination will prevent me from being able type and eat at the same time.
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