I feel like hosting a parade. Some people throw parties to celebrate momentous occasions; I feel as though nothing less than a parade will do for this: tomorrow. That is the big, huge deal. Tomorrow. For me, maybe not so much for you. But, for me--huge.
Tomorrow heralds the arrival of 30 days with zero nicotine (not even an e-cig!) AND...I'm joining a gym. A real, live, honest to Jim, gym. I have consulted with my boyfriend's mother, who is secretly my hero...if she ever reads this, the secret's out...oops. Now I have a general idea of the hows, whats, and whens of my upcoming workouts (alternate muscle groups, switch up the cardio and strength training sessions to minimize risks for injuries, et cetera). I still have the equipment and the previous exercises outlined by my former trainer last year. Yes Casey, I kept everything. I figured someday I would get over myself and actually follow through with your helpful suggestions. I have an air-conditioned facility at school for my cardio and weight lifting activities and a balance ball, dumbbells, and yoga videos for my at-home stuffs. The plan? 4 days a week. 1 to 1.5 hours per workout. 1 weekend day off. No cheats. Every other time I have tried to get a workout habit going, I cheated and broke up my entire flow. No cheats has worked miracles with my nicotine dependence (or lack of, I should say), so I'm applying it to workouts too. Keeping the schedule, no matter what. Unless I'm dead or grievously injured, of course. But that isn't going to happen (knocking on wood...now).
I have also checked in with one of my other inspirations (shout out to my homie Augustina--that's right, I said homie...I know, that's so suburban white girl of me) and have decided that tomorrow is the day I break up with bread. Instead of sandwiches, hoagies, subs, po' boys, cheesesteaks, whatevers, I'll be having my turkey, meatballs, steak, chicken, tofu, etc., served over lettuce. Or in a bowl over a pile of mixed veggies, depending on the type of not-a-sandwich I would like to devour. In celebration of my impending good decision-making, I consumed my fair share, plus yours, of supreme pizza and lasagna this weekend. Going out with a bang, I guess. Ha.
So goodbye my formerly favorite foods. I will miss you, but my soon-to-be-whittled waist line will not. If I can quit smoking and eating donuts, I can do This. I have survived worse, but I'm still scared. There's a part of my head that asks potentially damaging questions, like: what if I end up like I did last summer--smoking and sedentary again? What if I do all this work and nothing changes? Yeah, yeah. What if, indeed. How about, what if I actually accomplish what I'm setting out to do? That is a novel idea and I'm going to go with that one. This isn't rocket science and I won't be winning any Nobel awards or Pulitzer prizes for my efforts. I'm just one girl on one fairly insignificant mission that happens to be a huge deal to me. Someone should really throw me a parade...
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Wednesday, August 3, 2011
So That's How To Get Motivation
I weighed myself on my fancy, body fat and hydration-measuring scale today. After the pounds result flashed onto the screen, I was too chicken to see if I was dehydrated or what exact, excessive percentage of body fat I'm currently lugging around. I don't enjoy seeing the numbers climb: 1...3...nope...4... ... ...see? Even here, I don't want to admit that I have been between 118 and 125 pounds for most of my life, but I am so far beyond those numbers now that I just want to crawl under the couch and chain smoke. But what's in a number, and why should I or you or anybody care about any of these trivial matters when the rest of the inhabitants of the world are trying to blow themselves up because they're hungry, oppressed, or grumpy?
The usual shtick about American societal pressure on a woman's appearance is losing muster with me. I am not an actress or model. My livelihood does not depend on my outer casing. I do not live in fashion-conscious New York City or Los Angeles. I do not subscribe to any fashion or "women's" magazines. I am considered intelligent, well-read, somewhat cultured and globally-conscious. I should not measure my sanity, my esteem, my very femininity by the size stamped on shirt collars and waist bands. I know better than this. I care anyway.
I should delete the words "I, me, my" from my vocabulary and volunteer at a no-kill animal shelter or sort mail for that organization that saved those lost Sudanese boys; maybe save for an eco-vacay and go see how the rest of humanity lurches forward, rarely able to survive what waits for them in the next minute or two; get my priorities, my perspective straightened out. I conjure a picture of an imaginary mom-type human with her fists sinking into her hips as she growls this sage advice to me.
That's all great imaginary mom lady. But I am still sitting at my desk, at 3 o'clock in the morning on a Wednesday at the end of summer, beating my head on the keyboard. I am still angry, jealous, bitter, regretful. Now I'm not in the shape I want to be in AND I'm shallow for caring about this more than the orphaned Libyan children. My imaginary mother is making me feel real guilt. That's talent.
Does the imagined pep talk work? Maybe. I might actually look for my lone pair of tennis shoes tomorrow. That yoga DVD may eventually makes it way from the hallway closet to the DVD player. That goal I scribbled in dry-erase marker could possibly manifest itself as more space between my thighs. After that, perhaps I'll find a Russian burn victim who could really use a few extra bucks for skin-graft surgery...
The usual shtick about American societal pressure on a woman's appearance is losing muster with me. I am not an actress or model. My livelihood does not depend on my outer casing. I do not live in fashion-conscious New York City or Los Angeles. I do not subscribe to any fashion or "women's" magazines. I am considered intelligent, well-read, somewhat cultured and globally-conscious. I should not measure my sanity, my esteem, my very femininity by the size stamped on shirt collars and waist bands. I know better than this. I care anyway.
I should delete the words "I, me, my" from my vocabulary and volunteer at a no-kill animal shelter or sort mail for that organization that saved those lost Sudanese boys; maybe save for an eco-vacay and go see how the rest of humanity lurches forward, rarely able to survive what waits for them in the next minute or two; get my priorities, my perspective straightened out. I conjure a picture of an imaginary mom-type human with her fists sinking into her hips as she growls this sage advice to me.
That's all great imaginary mom lady. But I am still sitting at my desk, at 3 o'clock in the morning on a Wednesday at the end of summer, beating my head on the keyboard. I am still angry, jealous, bitter, regretful. Now I'm not in the shape I want to be in AND I'm shallow for caring about this more than the orphaned Libyan children. My imaginary mother is making me feel real guilt. That's talent.
Does the imagined pep talk work? Maybe. I might actually look for my lone pair of tennis shoes tomorrow. That yoga DVD may eventually makes it way from the hallway closet to the DVD player. That goal I scribbled in dry-erase marker could possibly manifest itself as more space between my thighs. After that, perhaps I'll find a Russian burn victim who could really use a few extra bucks for skin-graft surgery...
Wednesday, July 20, 2011
The 1st Anniversary of This Time Last Year...
Derailed.
First, an ankle injury. Then my home life experiences gross amounts of upheaval. Next, I fail a class. (I have a 4.0 GPA, and the professor begrudgingly agrees to an academic withdrawal after I site numerous contemporaneous circumstances that contributed to my acute failure. But still, I failed.) Adding injuries to insults (or it that the other way around?), I start smoking after nearly 6 months of freedom from the blasted addiction. I fall in love. Still woozy from that, I stop working out completely. I forget that I am "of a certain age". I eat illegal amounts of chocolate chip cookies and mac-n-cheese. The pounds come for a visit and never leave. He loves all of my inches and I learn to pose in the mirror in just a way that temporarily fools my overly-critical eyes before I leave for work. I float away. Far, far away.
I'm happy. But...
I can't ignore my before photos showing the me I am used to seeing, or the painfully honest musings of a child who squeals "squishy!" every time she hugs me, or the pants that won't button even when I am lying on my bed, sucking in my stomach until I can't breathe. I become mildly obsessed with thin women who are in their 40's and 50's--how do they maintain their shapes? I lovingly envy my gorgeous girlfriends, whose parts seem to fit into all the right places. I begin talking about doing yoga, walking, weightlifting, running, Zumba, P90X, jumping rope, taking the stairs, pushups, situps, bicep curls. I talk a lot, but do nothing. I put 3 tablespoons of sugar in every cup of coffee I drink. I drink an average of 4 to 5 cups of coffee every day. I copy my 6'9" boyfriend's eating habits. I suffer mightily for this lapse in good judgement. The pasta and desserts in all-he-can-eat portion sizes collude with my peripatetic lifestyle and I end up miserable.
I'm not as happy as I want you to think I am.
Here I am, here we are: it's the 1st anniversary of this time last year. It's not enough for me to just blab or blog anymore. And it's not enough to go through the motions of making healthier choices if I don't seek to understand why I want/need to make them in the first place. So, the princess is dragging her engorged booty off of the couch (again) and I will be using this space to explore those whys. I can't promise instant success, but I will always share honestly. Thank you for reading this. Thank you to all of my inspirations, near, far, wherever. (That was dangerously close to being a Titanic quote...) You get my drift. Thank you for that too.
Elly
First, an ankle injury. Then my home life experiences gross amounts of upheaval. Next, I fail a class. (I have a 4.0 GPA, and the professor begrudgingly agrees to an academic withdrawal after I site numerous contemporaneous circumstances that contributed to my acute failure. But still, I failed.) Adding injuries to insults (or it that the other way around?), I start smoking after nearly 6 months of freedom from the blasted addiction. I fall in love. Still woozy from that, I stop working out completely. I forget that I am "of a certain age". I eat illegal amounts of chocolate chip cookies and mac-n-cheese. The pounds come for a visit and never leave. He loves all of my inches and I learn to pose in the mirror in just a way that temporarily fools my overly-critical eyes before I leave for work. I float away. Far, far away.
I'm happy. But...
I can't ignore my before photos showing the me I am used to seeing, or the painfully honest musings of a child who squeals "squishy!" every time she hugs me, or the pants that won't button even when I am lying on my bed, sucking in my stomach until I can't breathe. I become mildly obsessed with thin women who are in their 40's and 50's--how do they maintain their shapes? I lovingly envy my gorgeous girlfriends, whose parts seem to fit into all the right places. I begin talking about doing yoga, walking, weightlifting, running, Zumba, P90X, jumping rope, taking the stairs, pushups, situps, bicep curls. I talk a lot, but do nothing. I put 3 tablespoons of sugar in every cup of coffee I drink. I drink an average of 4 to 5 cups of coffee every day. I copy my 6'9" boyfriend's eating habits. I suffer mightily for this lapse in good judgement. The pasta and desserts in all-he-can-eat portion sizes collude with my peripatetic lifestyle and I end up miserable.
I'm not as happy as I want you to think I am.
Here I am, here we are: it's the 1st anniversary of this time last year. It's not enough for me to just blab or blog anymore. And it's not enough to go through the motions of making healthier choices if I don't seek to understand why I want/need to make them in the first place. So, the princess is dragging her engorged booty off of the couch (again) and I will be using this space to explore those whys. I can't promise instant success, but I will always share honestly. Thank you for reading this. Thank you to all of my inspirations, near, far, wherever. (That was dangerously close to being a Titanic quote...) You get my drift. Thank you for that too.
Elly
Saturday, June 19, 2010
Month 1: Potato Makes Some Progress
| |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Strength Testing: max pushups 60 secs: 5/14: 20 on knees, 5 off 6/18: 10 on knees, 20 off Progress, not perfection... | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Digression:
I like living. I have sometimes been wildly, despairingly, acutely miserable, racked with sorrow; but through it all I still know that just to be alive is a grand thing.
~ Agatha Christie
This is not about fitness, or couches, pototoes, or princesses.
Sometimes, a small slice of life lurches out of my peripheral view and smashes right into my face, demanding attention like a neglected child. Sometimes, the best laid plans go awry. Sometimes, pain really is the best professor. Sometimes, what I was sure of becomes a question mark. Sometimes, this is okay.
I do like living. I like the act of being alive. Not just sucking air and taking up ether-space. But Living. It hurts, it's messy, unpredictable, terrifying and glorious; sometimes living is all of these all at once. I like the feeling of working for my accomplishments. I like to earn, rather than be handed opportunities. I like dedication and committment and loyalty, even when an outcome doesn't unfold quite like I expected. When I paint, I get paint in my hair, on my thighs, under my fingernails, on my feet--everywhere. I live like this too. When I sing, I pull the notes from deep within my solar plexus--I'm pretty sure this is where I pull tenacity and courage from as well. When I snuggle with my daughter, I am no more or less of the human I was before she was in my arms--but I'm certain that I'm just enough of a human for her. When I make plans, I'm aware that futures have a way of falling down mid-flight (thanks to The Desiderata for that line). But I still like living.
I'm glad I don't go through life unassisted. I'm content with my small cadre of Friends. They are gorgeously multi-faceted people who have helped carve me into the shapes I am. Sometimes, they are the few obstacles between me and my insanity. I need them and I love them.
I have questions, my head is a dangerous playground, I let fear cloud my vision. But I still like living.
(for jenna--thank you.)
~ Agatha Christie
This is not about fitness, or couches, pototoes, or princesses.
Sometimes, a small slice of life lurches out of my peripheral view and smashes right into my face, demanding attention like a neglected child. Sometimes, the best laid plans go awry. Sometimes, pain really is the best professor. Sometimes, what I was sure of becomes a question mark. Sometimes, this is okay.
I do like living. I like the act of being alive. Not just sucking air and taking up ether-space. But Living. It hurts, it's messy, unpredictable, terrifying and glorious; sometimes living is all of these all at once. I like the feeling of working for my accomplishments. I like to earn, rather than be handed opportunities. I like dedication and committment and loyalty, even when an outcome doesn't unfold quite like I expected. When I paint, I get paint in my hair, on my thighs, under my fingernails, on my feet--everywhere. I live like this too. When I sing, I pull the notes from deep within my solar plexus--I'm pretty sure this is where I pull tenacity and courage from as well. When I snuggle with my daughter, I am no more or less of the human I was before she was in my arms--but I'm certain that I'm just enough of a human for her. When I make plans, I'm aware that futures have a way of falling down mid-flight (thanks to The Desiderata for that line). But I still like living.
I'm glad I don't go through life unassisted. I'm content with my small cadre of Friends. They are gorgeously multi-faceted people who have helped carve me into the shapes I am. Sometimes, they are the few obstacles between me and my insanity. I need them and I love them.
I have questions, my head is a dangerous playground, I let fear cloud my vision. But I still like living.
(for jenna--thank you.)
Sunday, June 13, 2010
Week 4: The L Word
Lazy. Laziness. Lazing. Lazed. In whatever form it appears, I fear this word. What if I don't recover from a bout of laziness? What if lazy replaces inspiration and I backslide right back onto the couch? What if, indeed.
I'm wrapping up my fourth week and heading into my fifth week of this intrepid journey. If you're still reading this, gods bless you. If you've grown weary/bored/uninterested, well, I don't blame you--I might too, if I wasn't writing the silly thing! But, I digress.
I had a most enlightening conversation with a girl friend and realized something important: changing what I do, is just as important as changing what I think about what I do.
My body has protested many of the thousands of steps I have taken in the past month; my muscles have groaned in protest to the pushing and pulling I have been engaged in; my feet are demanding new shoes; I've never been so tired and had so much energy at the same time. Habits are forming, albeit slowly, in my own potatoey way. I am DOING. I hiked Camelback Mountain (just over a mile long, and nearly an equal distance straight up), it was very very hard, but I made it to the summit. And back. Barely, though--a kind stranger had to force feed me pink Gatorade because I was getting heat exhaustion. I jogged in Dreamy Draw Park--lots of hills, lots of rocks. I twisted my ankle on Friday during that venture. Ouches, but nothing ice, elevation of foot, and low-impact cardio can't heal! I played more tennis--and I'm getting worse. Anyone want to coach me? I know absolutely Nothing about the game. But I have a lot of fun bashing a neon greenish-yellow ball around with a racket and running all over the court, so it pretty much counts as a wicked good cardio session!
And then, my brain happens. You know the feeling: you're wrapped in the warmth of self-acceptance and accomplishment, patting yourself on the head, basking in the glow of others' encouragement, then, BAM. Your tape cranks to life. "Why do you even bother? You're only going to fail miserably. Even if you do manage to lose weight, you're still going to look terrible when your clothes come off. What's the point to all this? They're still all going to laugh at you. You are lazy, ineffectual, self-destructive." Etc., etc., etc...Sigh. The not-enoughs will kill any dream, every time.
So, getting back to that conversation I had with my girl-friend...I've developed a counter-punch to all that fear-based ('scuse my French) bullshit my mind manufactures when it needs attention. A mantra, a frame of mind, a refusal to prove those insidious tapes right. I am ready for this life--that is why I'm living it. I can do everything I'm setting out to do--that is why I'm doing it. I leave myself, my heart, my arms open--not to be hurt, but to welcome the next opportunity. I can accept the natural consequences of all of my decisions. I can make decisions to benefit myself, my family & friends, and lord help me, even the world. I am capable. I am learning. I am free. I am not those thoughts or those fears, just as I am not my successes or my aspirations. I am so much more than the sum of my parts. So are you.
Courage will never be enough of an antidote to nullify my brand of fear--too much ego in there(no really, check the word out again: cOuraGE). That brings me to that mantra I mentioned before: my new L word. Love. Love, love, love, love, love. With love, we cannot fail. Listen. You hear that? That is the sound of the tapes grinding to a halt, power lost. Love 1, Tape O. I win. So do you.
I'm wrapping up my fourth week and heading into my fifth week of this intrepid journey. If you're still reading this, gods bless you. If you've grown weary/bored/uninterested, well, I don't blame you--I might too, if I wasn't writing the silly thing! But, I digress.
I had a most enlightening conversation with a girl friend and realized something important: changing what I do, is just as important as changing what I think about what I do.
My body has protested many of the thousands of steps I have taken in the past month; my muscles have groaned in protest to the pushing and pulling I have been engaged in; my feet are demanding new shoes; I've never been so tired and had so much energy at the same time. Habits are forming, albeit slowly, in my own potatoey way. I am DOING. I hiked Camelback Mountain (just over a mile long, and nearly an equal distance straight up), it was very very hard, but I made it to the summit. And back. Barely, though--a kind stranger had to force feed me pink Gatorade because I was getting heat exhaustion. I jogged in Dreamy Draw Park--lots of hills, lots of rocks. I twisted my ankle on Friday during that venture. Ouches, but nothing ice, elevation of foot, and low-impact cardio can't heal! I played more tennis--and I'm getting worse. Anyone want to coach me? I know absolutely Nothing about the game. But I have a lot of fun bashing a neon greenish-yellow ball around with a racket and running all over the court, so it pretty much counts as a wicked good cardio session!
And then, my brain happens. You know the feeling: you're wrapped in the warmth of self-acceptance and accomplishment, patting yourself on the head, basking in the glow of others' encouragement, then, BAM. Your tape cranks to life. "Why do you even bother? You're only going to fail miserably. Even if you do manage to lose weight, you're still going to look terrible when your clothes come off. What's the point to all this? They're still all going to laugh at you. You are lazy, ineffectual, self-destructive." Etc., etc., etc...Sigh. The not-enoughs will kill any dream, every time.
So, getting back to that conversation I had with my girl-friend...I've developed a counter-punch to all that fear-based ('scuse my French) bullshit my mind manufactures when it needs attention. A mantra, a frame of mind, a refusal to prove those insidious tapes right. I am ready for this life--that is why I'm living it. I can do everything I'm setting out to do--that is why I'm doing it. I leave myself, my heart, my arms open--not to be hurt, but to welcome the next opportunity. I can accept the natural consequences of all of my decisions. I can make decisions to benefit myself, my family & friends, and lord help me, even the world. I am capable. I am learning. I am free. I am not those thoughts or those fears, just as I am not my successes or my aspirations. I am so much more than the sum of my parts. So are you.
Courage will never be enough of an antidote to nullify my brand of fear--too much ego in there(no really, check the word out again: cOuraGE). That brings me to that mantra I mentioned before: my new L word. Love. Love, love, love, love, love. With love, we cannot fail. Listen. You hear that? That is the sound of the tapes grinding to a halt, power lost. Love 1, Tape O. I win. So do you.
Monday, May 31, 2010
Week 3: Princesses Shouldn't Have to Have Patience
Running. How hard can it be? Right?! One foot forward, switch, next foot forward, switch, arms at sides-pumping, trees whizzing past your peripheral vision, air goes into lungs and back out and, wait. That is precisely what complicates matters. When my feet are forced to propel me faster than 4 miles an hour, my lungs refuse to cooperate. Donzo. Brakes. Urrch. No good, no go. I should probably quit smoking. Really, really quit. Going from one and a half packs a day to 1, 2, on a bad day, 3 cigarettes a day is, as my nine-year-old reminded me tonight, merely an improvement. But I can't congratulate myself on any success just yet. My daughter, the mini-sage, does not approve of my improvement. I still run. Let's call it lurching though, in keeping with the spirit of integrity I am attempting to imbue this blog with. Lurch, trip, gasp, wheeze, repeat. Seriously?! Ladies and gentlemen: if I can do this, anyone, and quite literally, anyone, can do it. On the upside, I'm so excited (or, if you prefer, insert any slightly hyperbolic state of emotion here: )to see the progress of my measurements, I decide that time has magically fast-forwarded and ta-da! It's been a month since the last round of data gathering. Reality check: it has not been a month--it's been two weeks. I don't know what I was expecting, but I wasn't expecting what I got. After hours of bike rides, weight lifting, walking, lurching, tennis games, parking a block away from the grocery store, wearing wrist weights and turning down donuts (DONUTS?! Ahhhhhhh....I LOVE donuts), very very few things changed. I've lost 2lbs. Hmmm...does 2 look better when I spell it out? Two pounds. Definitely better. More than an inch of me has left my waistline, and yep, that is about it. I hear Casey's mantra--"you are not your numbers". I do a quick estimate of how many calories and avoided exercise hours led me to my current state--I settle for a lot and then decide more intensive action is needed: I join my girlfriend for a jog-hike. On a mountain. On a rocky trail. Uphill both ways. Just kidding about that both ways part. This is her idea of fun. If I believed in purgatory--that is closer to what I would call this hike. I live in a desert and if you know nothing else about deserts, you know they are HOT. And don't believe that crap about dry heat, 110 degrees is just hot. I remembered the sunscreen, my pants, and water. I forgot my pedometer, my camel-pak and wrist weights. I am brave. I smile and tromp off behind my friend. She jogs this route daily. I have never been here. She is more patient with me than I am with my fat. I am thirsty and drain nearly all my water before we are halfway through. Oops. Now, I am really really thirsty. She gets runner's high. I get queasy and dry heave on the side of the path. I am reasonably certain stars don't shine at the same time as the sun and communicate my turn for the worse to my friend. Her knee is acting up. I would feel relieved, but then I would have to make room for guilt. I tell her this--the truth is less complicated than any other explanation. She wants me to come do this again. I will. It was fun.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
