Ridiculous Exercises and the Trainers Who Love Them

Why….why, oh why….does it seem that the more effective the exercise, the more stupid it looks?

When I know that I really don’t have a choice but to go through with the dumb thing…when I’ve whined and bargained to no avail…I use mental games to try to deal with it.   The first is my internal indicator, a quotient level, if you will, on just how humiliating certain exercises feel.  It’s a scale of 1 to 10, with 1 being, “No sweat, I got this, who cares what it looks like?” and 10 being, “Now I have to leave the state forever.”  My trainers – God bless their built-like-a-brick-house little hearts – are working hard for my best interest, so it’s only proper that I give fair trade, right?  Right.  So, when they start out with some ominous phrase like, “You’re not going to like this, but…” I just take a deep breath and try to get all Zen about whatever’s coming.  Then they show me what the next exercise looks like, and deep down, I know…I just know…this is the dumbest thing I’ve ever seen, and it’s being demonstrated by someone who looks good doing it. There is no hope for me.  Out comes the internal indicator!  If I treat it scientifically, it takes away the sting of looking so silly.  Try it sometime.  It works.

You also have the option of simply refusing to think about it, but that almost never works for me.  Clearly I have a lot more dignity to let go of.  As soon as I can do that, I should be in a lot better shape to handle this.

Perhaps the most effective technique I’ve found yet is just to have fun with it.  On doing butt kicks:  “YES I look like a chicken, got a problem with that?” and then I have to fight the urge to cluck.  Walking lunges feel, for all the world, like a really silly wedding march.  The mother lode is, of course, just after doing something that wrecks your arms and then being told to do high knee steps.  Arms tucked in protectively to re-establish feeling, you walk around and see how high you can bring your knees.  Total T-rex.  I simply cannot do those without laughing. I’ve tried, but no dice.  If you’re comfortable waving your butt in the air, then you’ll love doing the inchworm.  If you’re not comfortable, well…too bad!  And then, of course, doing anything on the Bosu is a recipe for humor and disaster at the same time.  If you’re like me and have rotten balance, you’ll know what I’m talking about.  If not, then go get drunk and walk on a trampoline.  Let me know how it goes.  Take pictures.

I once asked one of my trainers if there was a national convention where fitness people get together and see who can come up with the newest and most ridiculous exercise poses.  Totally straight-faced, he said, “Yes, it’s in Colorado.”  Well.  Ok then.  That answered that.

Mistakes update

Told you there'd be more coming.

It is a mistake to drink this much water and not always know exactly where the nearest available bathroom is.

It is a mistake to drink this much water and have more people than toilets in your house.  Sure, the odds of everyone needing a pit stop at the exact same time are astronomical, but don't you just know that the day you need a bathroom right now will be the day the newest issues of Readers Digest, Consumer Reports, and Southern Living all disappear behind bathroom doors for at least 20 minutes, leaving you hopping from foot to foot and offering cold hard cash to the first person to vacate a john.

Guess you can tell what's happened at my house recently.

Join the migration, the line starts back there

Silent night, holy night,
All is calm, all is bright

This blessed early morning after Christmas, after days of family togetherness and joy, with nutmeg and cinnamon still hanging in the air like sweet perfume, I joined that global mass of people who stepped on the scales post-holiday, and got jolted back to reality like I'd just licked a defibrillator.

'Round the table too many times
Now I pay for all of my crimes

While the rest of the household was still snuggled deep in their beds, blissfully unaware of the tragedy happening in the bathroom, I looked down at those red numbers between my toes in anger and disbelief.  No, no no nonononono, that can't be right.  Do it again!  [step off, wait, step back on]  No change.  I stared out the window and tried to recall what dietary apocalypse had happened.  I couldn't think of anything huge, just little things here and there...and there...and some more here...and don't forget that....aw, CRAP!!!  I'd been lulled into the whole culture of happy Christmastime that includes lots of great food, family around the table, family laughing in the kitchen, snacks here, snacks there, popcorn during Rudolph, decorating cookies with the kids, all in the name of togetherness, because in my day, and especially here in the South, one ALWAYS comes with the other. 

Crap.  Crap crap crapcrapcrapcrap.  It was the culture of Christmas food that got me.  Wanting that happiness that comes with the season (which isn't wrong) and thinking that meant the food had to come with it (which is).  I've had the right kind of focus for so long, and it's made me so happy, but when the holidays came and I tried to do it like I've always done holidays, I decided I wanted something more than I wanted my focus, but the two are incompatible.  It's like finding out your two best friends hate each other.

I shook my head in disgust.  Culture, I thought scornfully. Who needs it?  "NO MORE STINKIN' CULTURE!" I bellowed.

I really wish I'd known the cat was in the covered litterbox beside me before I yelled like that.  Poor thing ricocheted in there like a pinball.

So right there in the bathroom, with the scales playing judge and jury, I found something I'd lost a couple of weeks ago:  the inner beast.  The rage.  The need.  My focus.  Oh, yeah.  Hey there, old friend.  Good to see you.  Let's go running!  So I did.  And it felt great.

Great mistakes

Since I am such a newcomer to the fitness world, it was a joy finally to hit on something I am good at:  mistakes!  Yes, I may stink at this exercise or that, I may crumble like a sandcastle when you tell me I've got to do "just 30 more seconds!"  I may crawl away from class like a man on his third day in the desert...but by golly, I know how to make mistakes.  Good ones.  In the interest of ensuring that you, too, can be great at something even if you have no freaking idea what you're doing, I am going to share some valuable lessons, free, from me to you.  Please believe me when I say I know what I'm talking about; I've done all of these, and some more than once.

It is a mistake to put on hand lotion before you handle weights. (Hard to forget that one; it left an indelible impression.)

It is a mistake to watch Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives while filling out your food diary for the day.

It is a mistake to expect sympathy from a trainer when you break a nail.

It is a mistake to buy your favorite snack food "for the kids".  You're not fooling anyone.  Step away from the bag, and no one gets hurt.

It is a mistake to tell a trainer, "I can't do any more of these" or "I can't do this exercise."  It is the fitness equivalent of ringing the dinner bell, and will get you much more attention than you anticipated.  So don't do it.

It is a mistake to watch Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives while eating your exactly-measured 4 ounces of low-fat protein with your one serving of carbs and one serving of fresh steamed broccoli.

It is a mistake - but a very tempting one, I'll admit - to count off seconds in your head during an exercise.  Trust me: it will never EVER be right.  You'll be doing a minute of something painful and just when you hit 55 seconds - the home stretch! - the trainer will say brightly, "Halfway there!" and then you will want to cry.  Don't count.  Just...I don't know, sing a song in your head or something.  Do your multiplication tables.  Think about your grocery list.  ANYTHING.  But don't count.

It is a mistake to sit down halfway through a workout.  I don't know why. But I've been told it's a Bad Thing.  So I just slump nonchalantly against the wall and try to act all casual, like everything's cool, just holding up the wall for a minute, how was your weekend, did you catch the game on Saturday, things like that.  Not that I'm getting away with anything, you understand.  The trainers totally see through it.  But I feel better about it.  And I'm not sitting down.

You know, it's just a mistake to watch Diners, Drive-Ins, and Dives, period.  Guy's gotta go.  Everybody wave goodbye to Guy.  Bye, Guy!

So that's all for today, but I promise you:  there will be more.  A lot more.  This is just enough to get you started.

You'd be amazed at what all you can fit in a bra

Yesterday I had a really good but really tough workout, even more tough than usual.  I noted with interest the near-lack of feeling in my legs on the drive home; the last time I hadn't been able to feel my lower body like this, I was having a C-section.  But hey, I did it, I thought, grimly hanging on to the side of the house as I dragged my way up the steps.

And that's when it hit me.

We have a 2-story house.

The Motrin is upstairs.

It's rare that I use that many bad words in such close proximity.  On a daily basis I prefer not to use them but that doesn't mean I don't know how.  But alone, no little ears listening, half of me in pain and the other half as wobbly as a jellyfish? Wondering whose dumb idea it was to get a 2-story house, and remembering, "Oh, right, mine,"?  Shoot.  I made a literary masterpiece out of bad words, on the spot.  I think I even made up a few new ones.  Next time I step on a Lego I'll try them out again and see if they still sound good.

So, having vented and feeling only slightly better, I returned to the problem:  until someone else came home, if I needed something upstairs...I had to go get it.  That's when I realized the situation was much worse than I thought.  Going up wasn't the problem.  Going down is where things would get interesting.  So after making my way carefully and painfully upstairs, I rounded up everything I thought I'd need for several hours and stashed it in my bra (don't laugh, it works; besides, I needed my hands to hold on to the rails).  Then I half-crawled, half-slid down the stairs and made it safely to the bottom where both cats were waiting for me patiently, watching with interest.  They reminded me of vultures waiting for an animal to stop kicking.  Then I pulled all the supplies out of my bra, Mary-Poppins-style, and knocked back some Motrin.

So, on your side of things, I was in pain and had to go up and down stairs.  Boo hoo.  Trust me, on my end of things, it was a lot more exciting.  I'm going to put Motrin in every room of this house from now on.

I understand that Grinch, I really do

Now that this semester is over and I have some time to devote to having Christmas fun, I sat down today with the kids to watch some Christmas classics.  At the top of the list was, of course, Dr. Seuss' How the Grinch Stole Christmas.

(I SWEAR this really does relate to my weight loss journey.  Bear with me.)

So we get to the part where the Grinch has all the Who stuff on the sled, and it's teetering at the top of the precipice (Mount Crumpet, if you can't remember).  Grinch cups his ear gleefully to listen out for Whoville's wailing and moaning, and he hears joyful singing instead.  Consternation, disbelief, struggling to understand.  I doubt Dr. Seuss ever intended it, but to me, the Grinch's expression says very clearly, WTH?

Then Grinch starts to figure it out, slowly; the unthinkable becomes believable, and he gets that look on his face that's supposed to be saintly but, let's face it, is still kinda creepy.  (He was born that way, he can't help it; don't judge.)  Then he looks up and realizes the sled is falling, and that his malice is about to have terrible consequences.  Leaping forward, he struggles to reverse his mistake, but ordinary strength isn't enough.

And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say
That the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!

And then the true meaning of Christmas came through,
And the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches, plus two!

So, you say, any day now, let's get to the part where this connects to weight loss, because we really don't see how this is gonna work.

You got it.  Here we go.

Many years ago, someone I cared about very much told me some pretty insidious things, things that took root where they never had the right.  Things that blotted out common sense, things that stained truth so that I distrusted my own judgement.  In a nutshell, I believed that to be beautiful, I had to be perfect.  There were two states of physical appearance:  Perfect and ugly.  Totally graceful and...not.  Put together well, and unattractive mess.  There was no gray, only black and white.  And because I cared so much for this person, I fell for it, hook, line, and sinker.  I tried to be what this person demanded but the stubborn in me rebelled.  I began to equate improving myself with that person winning, and while there was breath left in my body, I would NOT give in.  So year after year I let myself go, believing that by now I was so far from perfect that there was no longer any point in trying.  Perfection was as far away as the moon.  I was headed towards an inevitable fate, and because I cared so little for myself, it didn't really upset me.

Fast-forward about fifteen years.  By now I had a family who, for reasons unfathomable to me, thought I walked on water.  I was very grateful but I could not understand just why they thought I was so amazing.  I wasn't perfect, I wasn't beautiful, I wasn't anything I ought to be, so....????  It made no sense, but if they wanted to feel that way, well, I wasn't going to stop them, the sweet fools.  I'd let them have their delusion.  But I wasn't exactly the same person I used to be, either; obviously I wasn't perfect but I had figured a few things out, and the single most important to date was that I had to get the insidious thoughts out of my head.  Time to clean house.  Time to get busy.  I went back to school, believing that I had something to offer and I needed the additional education.  I succeeded in class after class, not just doing okay but getting A's right and left.  After a few years of classes, I had a solid 4.0 average.  Well, I thought, the brains are still there, I didn't expect that.  I was pleasantly surprised at how I'd been able to handle a whole heck of a lot of difficult challenges, and it spurred me on.  What next, I thought, what else is hanging around this old brain that could use some sprucing up?  What are some other changes I can make to help myself?  Because apparently, I am worth something to me.  And that thought smacked me upside the head.  I felt poleaxed, right between the eyes.

I am worth something, to me.  Not because of anyone else, not FOR anyone else, but just to me.

Well, hell, I thought, if that's the case...let's talk about this bod for a minute.  What's up with THAT?  I've got two major diseases and, if I'm being honest with myself, am I reasonably certain I'll make it to Sam's high school graduation in nine years?  Well....honestly?  No, not so sure.

I began working on my health, turning to professionals who gave me the guidance I needed to make a success of this once and for all.  And because this was first and foremost for me, I dove in with joy, fierceness, and determination.  Almost 8 months later, the fire is still lit inside and it's getting only brighter and hotter.  I am on the right track, finally.

OK, you say.  GRINCH.  Get to the GRINCH.

You're so impatient.  *sigh*

We all know the mental is at least, if not more, difficult than the physical, right?  So during this whole time, as the physical changes became more obvious to the people around me, I heard certain things more often:  "You look great!  You look wonderful!  You look amazing!"  And you'd think by now that I would know how to handle it, right?  I'd be appropriately flattered but humble, accepting the praise modestly and smoothly, thanking everyone sincerely for their kind words, and take it all in stride.  No highs, no lows.  Maintain an even strain.

*snort*  Don't you people know me at all?  Have you not been paying attention?  Every single time someone gave me a compliment, my brain instantly tallied all outstanding physical deficits and compared them to the compliment credit.  "Whoops, nope, no match, tell the Boss it's a lie."  And I'd smile benevolently at the person complimenting me, not taking in a single drop of their kindness, and with a smart-aleck comment I'd blow it off.  Trainers being trainers (read: well-versed in spotting stupidity), mine wasted no time in telling me exactly what I was doing wrong.  Then they told me I was their new Special Project.  *oh crap, help*  They made me realize that learning how to own success was the first step towards keeping it, and that I MUST learn this lesson.  It was right up there with progressing with the exercises, in terms of importance.  So for a while now I've been paying close attention to the matter and trying to deal with it.

I know, I know.  If I don't start talking about the Grinch soon, you're going to leave me and go check Facebook.

Work on something long enough and you're bound to have progress.  I realized just recently that between perfection - if there really is such a thing, of which I am not convinced now - and mess, there is a lot of in-between.  I was told recently by a whole gaggle of people that I looked great, amazing, and fantastic.  I started to do that whole tallying thing again, but this time I stopped myself.  Clearly I was not perfect, but this many people can't all be liars, idiots, or blind.  So what gives?  And that's when I had my Mount Crumpet revelation:  I don't have to be perfect to be beautiful.  I don't have to be a Victoria's Secret model to be sexy, even at 46.  I can be graceful and attractive even now.  Which means I've accomplished my goal of looking beautiful; now I can focus full-time on becoming more healthy, without the superficial distractions.  Beautiful isn't some far-off iffy target; it's here.  Every bit of work I do from here on out is only going to improve it, but it's no longer my primary goal.  When my husband looks at me with such love and tells me I am beautiful...now I believe him.

And what happened then? Well, in Whoville they say
That the Grinch's small heart grew three sizes that day!

And then the true meaning of Christmas came through,
And the Grinch found the strength of ten Grinches, plus two!

And now that his heart didn't feel quite so tight,
He whizzed with his load through the bright morning light

*Boom* dey it is. And you didn't think I could do it.

Smile for the *&%$# birdie

Pictures.

<shudder>

My bathroom mirror and I have an arrangement, based pretty much on denial and illusion:  if I focus really hard, it shows me what I want to see.  And then I don't have to shatter it.  We get along.  It works.  Other mirrors don't do this for me.  They don't know me, so they don't care how I look, but if I turn this way and that, I can usually get some sort of a workable image that doesn't make me want to cry.  You'd think that a mirror is a mirror is a mirror, but for some reason, I feel like I look different in my own mirror than I do in, say, dressing rooms.

But pictures.

Unless you're in Harry Potter Land, once the camera clicks, your image - good, bad, or indifferent - is fixed for all eternity.  You get set up for the pose, thinking you've covered all the bases and are presenting only the very best superficial image of yourself, so you give this big smile, hoping your tension isn't obvious, and pray for the best.  Only afterwards, when it's too late to correct flaws, do you see what everyone else sees.  Except you really don't.  They see you, period.  But if you're like me, you see everything wrong with you and your life and everything that makes you less of a person, everything that marks you as different and substandard.  That's not what my Denial Mirror showed me, you say; in my Denial Mirror, I looked much better.  My hair looked better, my teeth looked whiter, my face looked less round, my hands looked prettier, my skin looked younger, my shape looked better, I looked taller.  (My Denial Mirror is very generous.)  What exactly happened between there and here?

Pictures.

It's not exactly a news flash that people get too caught up in how they look.  I know I am seriously guilty of that, and, very unwisely, I've made a lot of decisions in my life based on how bad I feel about myself.  Not too smart, huh.  I've shortchanged myself.  I've underestimated myself.  I've undervalued myself.  I've taken myself for granted.  Shall I continue, or do you get the picture?  (No pun intended)  If you take a look through our family photo albums, you could be forgiven for thinking I didn't exist, because I'm in so few pictures.  I'm just...not there.  And that, I am sorry to say, was by my own choice.

When I first started working on my health this year, I was a slave to the scales.  It took a while for my physical changes to affect me medically, so at first all I had to go on was the red numbers between my toes on the scale every day.  Someone asked me during that time, "Do you go to the bathroom before you weigh in the morning?" and I laughed, probably maniacally, and said, "Are you kidding?  Hon, I pick off lint."  Those scales were the most direct indicator of how I was changing visually, and I worshiped them accordingly.  It was only later, after several months, that I started seeing the crack in my thinking.  It was, I believe, about the time one of my medications became too strong due solely to my new weight, and my doctor had to reduce the dosage.  That's when the light bulb went off overhead.  (I can be a bit slow like that sometimes.)  Ohhhhhh, I said, health, right, that IS why I'm doing this, NOW I remember.  Realizing it was a lot easier than implementing it, though.  Kind of like trying to turn an aircraft carrier on a dime.  Changing poor thinking based on decades of experience doesn't happen overnight.  I had many Dr. Jekyll/Mr. Hyde moments where I'd wobble between courage and terror - "I don't care what people think AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!!!" [sound of stampeding feet and wailing]  Recently, to celebrate a weight loss milestone, I decided in a burst of bravery to get new family pictures made.  With me in them.  That was the kicker.  I would be right in the thick of it, saying, "HEY WORLD, LOOK AT ME!"  Sweet Lord in Heaven, give me strength.  The weeks between that decision and the actual day of the shoot could have been fodder for a school of psychiatry for years.  My family's patience was tested to the max, and, I'm proud to say, everyone survived with only minimal scarring.  When the pictures came out, Old Stephanie and New Stephanie sat side by side and fought for supremacy:  "OMG I look horrible/No, look how much stronger and healthier you look than last year/Why didn't someone stop me, I feel like a fool/GET OVER YOURSELF, YOU LOOK GREAT".  Such unwavering power of decision is what made my husband glad he married me, lol.  Seriously, though, it was my first real test in a new way of thinking.  They say Strong is the new Skinny.  I guess I've adapted it to fit me personally:  Healthy is the new Skinny.  (Maybe someone else has already said that; if so, I apologize for stealing their idea.)  I am much healthier than I was a year ago, and that does show in the pictures.

So does that mean I'm OK with pictures now?  Oh, heck no.  But I will be, as long as I keep working on how I think.  I exist.  I am here.  No one's going to look at our photo albums anymore and think I'm not there.  My name is Stephanie; I have a life and I have a family and I am proud to show both.

Unexpected benefits

I stumbled onto something interesting a couple of weeks ago when I was sick and went to work out; the same thing happened again today.  That's twice now, so as far as I'm concerned it's now written in stone.  If you're having sinus problems or have a headcold, working out clears your head and nose.  Not permanently, but enough to improve most of a day.  This was really good news for me, because when I dragged my sorry sick self to class today, I just knew I'd be doing Mountainclimbers with Kleenex hanging out my nose.  None of my trainers have ever done anything bad enough to deserve seeing that, so it was a real boost to find out it wasn't going to happen.  Cool.

Pleasant surprises like that happen more frequently than you'd think in that room.  Like the time I worked out with a new classmate (I don't know about you, but I always feel self-conscious with an unfamiliar person) and I had to do wall squats with the big rubber ball behind me.  I lost my balance going down but my shoes grabbed the carpet and refused to slide, so I fell down so hard and fast on my butt that I nearly shoved my kneecaps straight up my nostrils.  I can't remember the last time I got so up close and personal with my own knees.  My new classmate laughed so hard I thought she was going to cough up a lung, but as an icebreaker, it worked great.  Poof!  Instant friends.  I was now shaped like a paperclip, but I had someone to laugh with about it.  So, you know, it happens.  I never know WHAT exactly is going to happen in there, but it's almost always something good that I didn't expect.

Life Lesson #314

Life Lesson #314:  When jogging outside a baseball field while a game is in progress, always keep an eye on the hitter.  A bunch of men screaming, "LOOK OUT, LADY!" isn't code for "LOVE THE HAIRDO!"

Crunchy Carb Eaters Anonymous

Hi, my name is Stephanie Mayo, and I love crunchy carbs.

Hi, Stephanie

It's been 54 days since my last Dorito -

(sound of clapping)

And I've been working on the homework assignment about finding more healthy carbs.  I've had the best success with pretzels so far.  I use them as croutons and with cheese, and that works just great.  Sometimes it's harder, like when I tried Pizza Pretzels or Popcorn Pretzels or when I dunked them in my soup or when I crushed up a whole bag and told my husband it was the halftime snack during the Clemson-Carolina game and we should pretend they were Ruffles.  He didn't like that.

(sympathetic murmurs)

I used to think crunchy carbs were my friend.  They helped me through finals, awkward social situations, PMS, and last season's Survivor. They really weren't my friend, I know that now.  I let them take over, and it turned my life upside down, made me do all sorts of crazy things . But I'm not going to let it beat me anymore!!!  I'll find a way to control my love of crunchy carbs if it's the last thing I do!  Who's with me?!?!

(Clapping, cheering, and foot-stomping)

In The Beginning

I'd love to say this really is the beginning but I've been working on losing weight and getting fit now since May of this year, and although I've sent friends bits and pieces of writings before, I haven't gotten my act together and started putting it all in one place until now.  Sorry about that.  But you work with what you've got.

In this blog I'm going to talk about the things I experience, think about, and deal with on my journey.  Think of it as a ride-along.  A really common thing I hear from other overweight and/or out of shape people is that they're too ashamed or scared to open up to others about what they're going through, but when someone DOES open up, it really makes people feel better.  So, since I am in precisely the same boat, I'll start things rolling.

Tonight's episode takes place in the workout room at Elite Nutrition and Performance (www.elitenutritionandperformance.com).  I trained with Kristen tonight.  As usual, I was hyped about coming because no matter how crazy and difficult my life is outside of workouts, everything gets a lot simpler inside that room.  My choices get easier.  I quit thinking about the kids' homework, the emails I still need to send out before I go to bed, tomorrow's chores, the lineup of activities this weekend, did I remember to pay a bill, the mound of clothes that need putting away, do I need to stop at the grocery store on the way home, blah blah blah.  I go in that workout room and within 5 minutes it's all crystallized down into:  Fall or stay standing.  Give up or keep going.  Throw up or don't throw up.  So much simpler.  No more mental stress, just hard physical work.  It's a real relief.  (For the record, I've thrown up only once, and I made it home first, thank God.  And I've never felt that awful again, so, you know, progress!)  So there I am, with my three favorite views - ceiling, carpet, and wall - while I do the thousand-yard stare and focus on whatever Kristen wants me to do.  Another trainer, Micah, asked me recently if there are any exercises that I enjoy.  (Is that a trick question?)  It's not really that I enjoy any of them, but I guess I enjoy the testing.  Can I pull one more rep out of the hat?  Can I hold a pose for just 10 seconds longer? [and whomp goes the face into the carpet]  Guess not.  Get back up, try again.  So tonight when Kristen told me to do walking planks, an ancient Chinese torture, I tried to focus on the challenge and not the deep abiding need to run instead.  Wonder of wonders, I did it, and I didn't die OR cry!  (More progress)

I must be insane to say this, but...that was fun.