It's been a while since my last post. I haven't regressed or stopped my training; on the contrary, I'm busier than ever with it. But life has a way of blasting through the best intentions sometimes, and because my life has sped up recently, something had to go. It wasn't going to be time with my family, my job, or training and losing weight. My blog took a hit for the team, and that's why I haven't been around lately.
SO: since our last episode, I've continued working hard and am now at 62 pounds lost, more clothes sizes lost, and am stronger and healthier than ever. (Yay!) I went through a pretty lengthy plateau - a few months - but the fine people at Elite helped me break through that. Although I'm not losing as much, hand over fist, the way I was at the beginning, I can now pretty much count on losing about 5 pounds a month. I'll take that, thank you. The journey continues, better than ever!
So, recently a few people have asked me how I've managed to do this great and wonderful thing. They are seeing a healthier and smaller me, like I popped out of the box that way. What they are ACTUALLY seeing is the result of eleven months of work-like-a-dog, learn-like-your-life-depends-on-it (because-it-does), be-honest-in-the-food-diary-every-single-freaking-day, come-to-every-class-or-else, sweat-is-your-friend, and you-only-think-you're-dying-but-you're-really-not. Let me be real clear about this: the hardest part about this entire journey has been learning to have faith in my trainers and also in myself. Having the guts to show up to the first class in the first place. Having the willingness to come back to the second class, knowing how hard it's going to be (kind of like having that second baby; ignorance is bliss). Having the trust to listen to what the trainers are saying, and believing them. Having the willingness to APPLY what they're saying. Having the belief that I CAN make it to the end of this exercise. The entire journey is about repetition. Finish this exercise. Finish that exercise. Do that a few times, then rest. Repeat. That gets me to the end of the class. Same thing two days later. Do that a few times, and before you know it, a month has gone by. So many changes happened in the first month that it became much easier very quickly to completely trust what my trainers were saying. Trust in them and belief in me is what has gotten me through. So, now that I've had a chance to think about it a little, if someone were to ask me again how I've managed to do this journey, I have my answer. It's not very earth-shattering or sexy, it's not glamorous or the latest popular mantra, but people, it works. Ready? Here we go:
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
Do what they say. Don't give up.
No shortcuts. Only way through it, is through it. Accept it and live it.
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Wednesday, February 18, 2015
Today's lesson
Workouts make you sore.
What makes the soreness go away?
Working out.
Workouts giveth, and workouts taketh away.
Thus ends the lesson.
How weird is that?
What makes the soreness go away?
Working out.
Workouts giveth, and workouts taketh away.
Thus ends the lesson.
How weird is that?
Wednesday, February 11, 2015
Cloudy with a chance of pushups
As I've said in a previous post, given enough time, even the densest Neanderthal will notice a pattern eventually. Well, I've noticed a pattern of workout styles. I'd love to be able to forecast what's coming each day I go, but on the other hand...sometimes it's best just to be surprised. Ignorance can be bliss. But, as I said, there are different workout styles, where all the exercises on one day have something in common but are completely different than the exercises on another day. Not having formal education on the subject, I can only hazard a guess as to the rhyme and reason of it all, and (the best part) make up my own names for the styles.
The Shock-and-Awe: the first day. What doesn't kill us makes us really, really scared to come back the second day.
The Wheezy-Breezy-Cover-Girl: lots of cardio.
The Wolfpack: lots of weights (owwwwww, get it?)
The T-rex: lots of arms and shoulder work.
The Labor-and-Delivery: lots of ab work
The Shotgun-Blast: some of everything, designed to make you weep like a child and wonder what you ever did to make God hate you this much.
The Widow-Maker: when your trainer thinks you're progressing and raises the bar. Always a fun day, that one.
I know there's a plan and that all this works together, but I haven't the faintest clue as to why it's designed the way it is, or how to predict the pattern. Good news is, with good trainers, I don't have to know why; all I have to do is trust and not give up. Ours is not to reason why; ours is just to try not to die. Or something like that.
The Shock-and-Awe: the first day. What doesn't kill us makes us really, really scared to come back the second day.
The Wheezy-Breezy-Cover-Girl: lots of cardio.
The Wolfpack: lots of weights (owwwwww, get it?)
The T-rex: lots of arms and shoulder work.
The Labor-and-Delivery: lots of ab work
The Shotgun-Blast: some of everything, designed to make you weep like a child and wonder what you ever did to make God hate you this much.
The Widow-Maker: when your trainer thinks you're progressing and raises the bar. Always a fun day, that one.
I know there's a plan and that all this works together, but I haven't the faintest clue as to why it's designed the way it is, or how to predict the pattern. Good news is, with good trainers, I don't have to know why; all I have to do is trust and not give up. Ours is not to reason why; ours is just to try not to die. Or something like that.
Wednesday, January 28, 2015
If Steve Irwin were my trainer
Portions of the proceeding have been taken from The Crocodile Hunter by Steve and Terri Irwin.
Imagine all this with an Australian accent.
On greeting me at the door and being way too damn cheerful: "G'day, mate! Are you ready to work hard and improve yourself? Are you ready to make a profound difference in your life and the lives of the people who love you? LET'S GET STARTED!" [There is a 90% chance I would turn around and go home right here.]
On making me do squat jumps: "Crikey, mate, was that your knee that just popped?"
On my reaction after he tells me that the whole painful circuit I just completed will now be repeated: "Ohhh, that was naughty, you're a grumpy sheilah aren't you, but you're beautiful! [Speaking to TV audience] Now see, she tried to bite me but it's not her fault, it's my fault for putting pressure on her. I've got to be careful to respect her in her environment because if I don't, she'll tag me. That's nature's way!"
On my snarling at him when he tells me I have "just 20 more seconds!": "Beautiful!"
On telling me he wants to take an update picture: [Speaking to TV audience] "There's been an increasing number of reports of nuisance behavior displayed by this client from humans wandering into her territory with recording devices. The actual truth of this so-called nuisance behavior is that the poor old client is feeling threatened and reacting accordingly. What a shame! This client is a perfect example of a creature just trying to improve herself and she doesn't understand that recording devices, and the humans who carry them, won't hurt her."
On my glaring at him when he makes me do ropes: "Awesome!"
On him telling me to do a particular exercise that I despise above all others so I just say, "No": "Whether it's koalas or crocodiles or clients, we must begin to understand that they have rules just like trainers do. If we play by the rules we can coexist quite easily, even with the most awesome predators and customers."
On my swearing under my breath when he drops a big weight in my arms and tells me to hike it up in the air 20 times: "Gorgeous!"
On him showing me how to do a new exercise: "During our numerous demonstrations every day here at the gym, we show visitors how certain clients function in the wild. Whether it's an otter catching her own fish, or a saltwater crocodile trying to catch the keeper or a client trying to lift weights on the Bosu, every demonstration is a learning experience."
On my FINALLY making it through tricep dips: "What a little ripper!"
On my first-ever minute-long plank: "Holy snappin' duck poo!"
On sending me home after the workout: "My aim is to continue producing more workout programs to improve and enlighten. We'll take the audience to some of the wildest and remotest gyms in the world. I gain more power and understanding of clients if I'm right in among them, and I'm finding myself doing more and more of the filming, as it's hard or too dangerous to get a cameraman in as close as I want to be. Hearing, smelling, and seeing the client and its surroundings is always my prime objective. From here we're saving the world."
Imagine all this with an Australian accent.
On greeting me at the door and being way too damn cheerful: "G'day, mate! Are you ready to work hard and improve yourself? Are you ready to make a profound difference in your life and the lives of the people who love you? LET'S GET STARTED!" [There is a 90% chance I would turn around and go home right here.]
On making me do squat jumps: "Crikey, mate, was that your knee that just popped?"
On my reaction after he tells me that the whole painful circuit I just completed will now be repeated: "Ohhh, that was naughty, you're a grumpy sheilah aren't you, but you're beautiful! [Speaking to TV audience] Now see, she tried to bite me but it's not her fault, it's my fault for putting pressure on her. I've got to be careful to respect her in her environment because if I don't, she'll tag me. That's nature's way!"
On my snarling at him when he tells me I have "just 20 more seconds!": "Beautiful!"
On telling me he wants to take an update picture: [Speaking to TV audience] "There's been an increasing number of reports of nuisance behavior displayed by this client from humans wandering into her territory with recording devices. The actual truth of this so-called nuisance behavior is that the poor old client is feeling threatened and reacting accordingly. What a shame! This client is a perfect example of a creature just trying to improve herself and she doesn't understand that recording devices, and the humans who carry them, won't hurt her."
On my glaring at him when he makes me do ropes: "Awesome!"
On him telling me to do a particular exercise that I despise above all others so I just say, "No": "Whether it's koalas or crocodiles or clients, we must begin to understand that they have rules just like trainers do. If we play by the rules we can coexist quite easily, even with the most awesome predators and customers."
On my swearing under my breath when he drops a big weight in my arms and tells me to hike it up in the air 20 times: "Gorgeous!"
On him showing me how to do a new exercise: "During our numerous demonstrations every day here at the gym, we show visitors how certain clients function in the wild. Whether it's an otter catching her own fish, or a saltwater crocodile trying to catch the keeper or a client trying to lift weights on the Bosu, every demonstration is a learning experience."
On my FINALLY making it through tricep dips: "What a little ripper!"
On my first-ever minute-long plank: "Holy snappin' duck poo!"
On sending me home after the workout: "My aim is to continue producing more workout programs to improve and enlighten. We'll take the audience to some of the wildest and remotest gyms in the world. I gain more power and understanding of clients if I'm right in among them, and I'm finding myself doing more and more of the filming, as it's hard or too dangerous to get a cameraman in as close as I want to be. Hearing, smelling, and seeing the client and its surroundings is always my prime objective. From here we're saving the world."
Wednesday, January 21, 2015
Great expectations
The happiest surprise I've had since beginning my fitness journey was simply finding out that I could live through it. It took months before I felt reasonably certain I could actually do an entire class without a) fainting or b) bursting into tears and coming to a cold stop. After that, I truly enjoyed the expectation of being able to make a good finish, and that, let me tell you, was a happy day. No more did I see the upcoming circuit and think, "This will be the part where I fall down dead," or "It's almost cute, how ambitious these trainers are, they'll be so disappointed when I throw up." Now I could look at the lineup on the board and, although it sometimes made me tremble in my boots, I had enough confidence to think that I really could do it. Probably.
Then I took up running.
I didn't know that the whole process would start over. I thought I knew what to expect by now, I thought it would be a simple matter, just to run. I mean, yes it would be work, but it would be very straightforward work. I will set a goal, I will start and I will finish, I thought to myself. No if's, and's, or but's. Simple! But then I made my first blindly confident (read: dumb-as-rocks-naive) attempt of "I'm not getting off this treadmill until I do X number of miles" and I realized just what I was up against. WHEN DID MILES GET SO LONG?!? IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THIS TREADMILL?!? I would be willing to bet that Hannibal's troops felt like I did when the Big Guy said, "You're gonna cross that" - pointing to the Alps - "on one of these" - slapping an elephant's rump.
So, after a few times at the YMCA, running my heart out on those God-forsaken treadmills that I am convinced are all broken, I realized that once again, I was in a position where I didn't think I could do it. The entire time I was on those things I kept thinking, "No way, it's not gonna happen, I can't do this, it hurts AAAARRRGHHH I want off this thing!" I had visions of my inert, unconscious body just lying on the mat and getting sucked underneath, never to be seen again. But by sheer cussedness (and channeling my trainers' voices when things got really bad) I've managed to stay on AND finish AND beat my previous time each time I do it, but by God it has been a battle, both physically and mentally. Exactly like when I first started going to workout class. Exactly. It's hard for me to see right now, but I would hope that, like my workout classes, one day I will get on that thing and be strong enough and experienced enough to KNOW that I can finish well, without having to go all psycho-drill-sergeant on myself.
So what does this tell us? What have we learned from this?
1. It could be worse. I could be crossing the Alps on an elephant. All things considered, I'd rather be at the Y.
2. Treadmills suck. And they lie. But they get the job done, so I'll keep using the &^%$# things.
Then I took up running.
I didn't know that the whole process would start over. I thought I knew what to expect by now, I thought it would be a simple matter, just to run. I mean, yes it would be work, but it would be very straightforward work. I will set a goal, I will start and I will finish, I thought to myself. No if's, and's, or but's. Simple! But then I made my first blindly confident (read: dumb-as-rocks-naive) attempt of "I'm not getting off this treadmill until I do X number of miles" and I realized just what I was up against. WHEN DID MILES GET SO LONG?!? IS SOMETHING WRONG WITH THIS TREADMILL?!? I would be willing to bet that Hannibal's troops felt like I did when the Big Guy said, "You're gonna cross that" - pointing to the Alps - "on one of these" - slapping an elephant's rump.
So, after a few times at the YMCA, running my heart out on those God-forsaken treadmills that I am convinced are all broken, I realized that once again, I was in a position where I didn't think I could do it. The entire time I was on those things I kept thinking, "No way, it's not gonna happen, I can't do this, it hurts AAAARRRGHHH I want off this thing!" I had visions of my inert, unconscious body just lying on the mat and getting sucked underneath, never to be seen again. But by sheer cussedness (and channeling my trainers' voices when things got really bad) I've managed to stay on AND finish AND beat my previous time each time I do it, but by God it has been a battle, both physically and mentally. Exactly like when I first started going to workout class. Exactly. It's hard for me to see right now, but I would hope that, like my workout classes, one day I will get on that thing and be strong enough and experienced enough to KNOW that I can finish well, without having to go all psycho-drill-sergeant on myself.
So what does this tell us? What have we learned from this?
1. It could be worse. I could be crossing the Alps on an elephant. All things considered, I'd rather be at the Y.
2. Treadmills suck. And they lie. But they get the job done, so I'll keep using the &^%$# things.
Thursday, January 15, 2015
These are a few of my favorite things
THINGS I LIKE
Opting to go to the DMV and renew my driver's license instead of doing it online, because I get to have a new picture taken. YEAH, BABY!
Having the new batch of clothes I got just a few months ago (when I first lost weight) get baggy. Have to go shopping again. Darn.
Being able to cross my legs without cutting off circulation. Always a plus.
And speaking of plus...how about shopping for non-plus-sized clothes?!?
Throwing away medication that the doctor says I don't need anymore.
Making my husband's eyes fall right out of his head when I walk into a room.
The total bliss I feel five minutes after I finish a workout and which goes for hours. (The first five minutes are usually spent panting, crawling towards my water, and wishing desperately I didn't feel like roadkill. But after that I feel GREAT!)
THINGS I DON'T LIKE
Walking like a cowboy twenty-four hours after doing a lot of leg exercises. Very embarrassing.
T-rex arms that always come right after a lot of arm or shoulder exercises. Also very embarrassing, but would be easier to handle if I only had a grabber-stick. I could really use one of those.
Those annoying voices in my head that urge me to give up, cut myself some slack, not work so hard. As I told one of my trainers recently, "If I'm going to hear voices in my head, they'd better darn well be the right ones."
Having a ponytail long enough to curl right over the top of my head and poke me in the eyes when I do mountain-climbers.
Mountain-climbers.
Needing to scratch something right after I've picked up weights. It always happens.
The deep distrust and suspicion I feel whenever I have to depend on the TRX to hold me up and not pull right out of the wall, dumping me on my butt. I know, I know, I know, it's not going to happen...but I feel certain that somewhere, it has happened to someone. That could be me.
Along the same lines, working with the resistance bands. It's like scraping nails on a blackboard, stretching those things, I cringe every time. I just know one day those things will snap and pop my head right off. Add 2 cups of paranoia and stir well.
I will happily add more as they come to light. Cheers!
Opting to go to the DMV and renew my driver's license instead of doing it online, because I get to have a new picture taken. YEAH, BABY!
Having the new batch of clothes I got just a few months ago (when I first lost weight) get baggy. Have to go shopping again. Darn.
Being able to cross my legs without cutting off circulation. Always a plus.
And speaking of plus...how about shopping for non-plus-sized clothes?!?
Throwing away medication that the doctor says I don't need anymore.
Making my husband's eyes fall right out of his head when I walk into a room.
The total bliss I feel five minutes after I finish a workout and which goes for hours. (The first five minutes are usually spent panting, crawling towards my water, and wishing desperately I didn't feel like roadkill. But after that I feel GREAT!)
THINGS I DON'T LIKE
Walking like a cowboy twenty-four hours after doing a lot of leg exercises. Very embarrassing.
T-rex arms that always come right after a lot of arm or shoulder exercises. Also very embarrassing, but would be easier to handle if I only had a grabber-stick. I could really use one of those.
Those annoying voices in my head that urge me to give up, cut myself some slack, not work so hard. As I told one of my trainers recently, "If I'm going to hear voices in my head, they'd better darn well be the right ones."
Having a ponytail long enough to curl right over the top of my head and poke me in the eyes when I do mountain-climbers.
Mountain-climbers.
Needing to scratch something right after I've picked up weights. It always happens.
The deep distrust and suspicion I feel whenever I have to depend on the TRX to hold me up and not pull right out of the wall, dumping me on my butt. I know, I know, I know, it's not going to happen...but I feel certain that somewhere, it has happened to someone. That could be me.
Along the same lines, working with the resistance bands. It's like scraping nails on a blackboard, stretching those things, I cringe every time. I just know one day those things will snap and pop my head right off. Add 2 cups of paranoia and stir well.
I will happily add more as they come to light. Cheers!
Saturday, January 10, 2015
I need me some John Wayne
This was a painful post to write. Just sayin'. You'll see why.
Detail-oriented perfectionists would love to define "life" as a series of planned and controlled events from birth to death. I can say this because I am one such control freak, which is how I know that real life, therefore, bears no resemblance to that definition and can drive us perfectionists nuts in no time flat.
Real life is a lot more messy.
Oh, sure, we can try to be like the butterflies of life, who can't plan their way to the end of a sentence and who bump along in life, reacting to each event on a case-by-case basis and looking surprised by each one, never learning a lesson well enough to do things differently next time. But you might as well ask a perfectionist to fly to the moon as live like that. We would explode into thousands of tiny pieces at such a disturbance in the Force.
Detail-oriented perfectionists memorize things that no one else would, which is why I still remember my "being" verbs from 5th grade. In order. We get caught up in habits, because once we've perfected something's efficiency, why change it? We keep receipts and actually read them so that we can correct salespeople, and we drive our kids up the wall with Learning Opportunities ("Now, sweetie, which of these dish detergents gives you the best value for the price?" "Mom, we came in here for bananas, can we go now?"). We're the ones who straighten pictures on a wall, parallel-park fourteen times until it's "just right", and read back over a test to see what we've gotten wrong, even though we made a 98. If we weren't right so often, we'd be locked away in a looney bin, and the reason we know we're right is because WE KEEP OUR RECEIPTS TO PROVE IT.
So when I began my fitness journey and was given a crash-course in food diaries and meal planning, I seized the opportunity to chart something, anything, with glee. I made my spreadsheets and sharpened my pencils. I paid attention to my trainers' advice, printed out and read their instructions (even used a highlighter - I'm such a geek), and asked them a million questions. Faithfully, every morning, I worked on my food diary for the day. I learned how to read nutrition labels. If you'll forgive the expression, I was in hog heaven. Since it was summer, I didn't have to deal with my kids' schools, I was out of school for a few months, and work was quiet. I figured out a few simple foods that I liked that were quick and easy to keep on hand, so I didn't have to plan or cook all that much, just reach in the fridge and grab them to satisfy both my hunger and my daily nutrition requirements. I can do this, no sweat, I thought. It doesn't take THAT much planning. I don't have to do as much as they're telling me to do.
Then fall came, and life started coming apart at the seams.
School (1 elementary, 1 high school, 1 college). Band. Work. Holidays. Shorter days but more stuff that had to happen. Suddenly, it was harder to stick to my plans, my routines, my intentions, my schedule. I started getting tired of all those quick and easy foods that I'd been having 7 days a week for the last several months. The weight loss slowed down a little. Sticking to the food diary - even just recording in it - just became a hassle, especially since I was eating all the same things, over and over. All the planning I'd been doing suddenly seemed so exhausting, so cumbersome, but every time I didn't plan, I'd get into trouble. Sooner or later, even the densest Neanderthal will notice a pattern. I remembered snippets of my trainers' words about planning and how important it was, and I realized that huh, you know, maybe they're right...
Detail-oriented perfectionists also have a hard time admitting they're wrong. Just in case you were wondering.
Stage 1: I can do this! I can do this! Just tell me what to do, you got it!
Stage 2: This is hard, but I'm not giving up.
Stage 3: Wow, look how far I've come! It has been so worth it!
Stage 4: SCREW THIS, I WANT SOMETHING ELSE!
So I'd reached Stage 4, which might not have been a problem except for one little thing: I wasn't healthy yet. I was healthIER, but not healthy. Still had a lot of weight to lose. Still have a long ways to go, a really long ways. Time to stop talking and get back to work. Or, in true John-Wayne-fashion, show some True Grit. Life isn't what happens between the speed bumps, it IS the speed bumps. Not learning to deal with it would be the height of stupidity.
Stage 5: I am an idiot. Perhaps I should go back to the basics. Perhaps I should listen more. Perhaps I should plan.
Detail-oriented perfectionists would love to define "life" as a series of planned and controlled events from birth to death. I can say this because I am one such control freak, which is how I know that real life, therefore, bears no resemblance to that definition and can drive us perfectionists nuts in no time flat.
Real life is a lot more messy.
Oh, sure, we can try to be like the butterflies of life, who can't plan their way to the end of a sentence and who bump along in life, reacting to each event on a case-by-case basis and looking surprised by each one, never learning a lesson well enough to do things differently next time. But you might as well ask a perfectionist to fly to the moon as live like that. We would explode into thousands of tiny pieces at such a disturbance in the Force.
Detail-oriented perfectionists memorize things that no one else would, which is why I still remember my "being" verbs from 5th grade. In order. We get caught up in habits, because once we've perfected something's efficiency, why change it? We keep receipts and actually read them so that we can correct salespeople, and we drive our kids up the wall with Learning Opportunities ("Now, sweetie, which of these dish detergents gives you the best value for the price?" "Mom, we came in here for bananas, can we go now?"). We're the ones who straighten pictures on a wall, parallel-park fourteen times until it's "just right", and read back over a test to see what we've gotten wrong, even though we made a 98. If we weren't right so often, we'd be locked away in a looney bin, and the reason we know we're right is because WE KEEP OUR RECEIPTS TO PROVE IT.
So when I began my fitness journey and was given a crash-course in food diaries and meal planning, I seized the opportunity to chart something, anything, with glee. I made my spreadsheets and sharpened my pencils. I paid attention to my trainers' advice, printed out and read their instructions (even used a highlighter - I'm such a geek), and asked them a million questions. Faithfully, every morning, I worked on my food diary for the day. I learned how to read nutrition labels. If you'll forgive the expression, I was in hog heaven. Since it was summer, I didn't have to deal with my kids' schools, I was out of school for a few months, and work was quiet. I figured out a few simple foods that I liked that were quick and easy to keep on hand, so I didn't have to plan or cook all that much, just reach in the fridge and grab them to satisfy both my hunger and my daily nutrition requirements. I can do this, no sweat, I thought. It doesn't take THAT much planning. I don't have to do as much as they're telling me to do.
Then fall came, and life started coming apart at the seams.
School (1 elementary, 1 high school, 1 college). Band. Work. Holidays. Shorter days but more stuff that had to happen. Suddenly, it was harder to stick to my plans, my routines, my intentions, my schedule. I started getting tired of all those quick and easy foods that I'd been having 7 days a week for the last several months. The weight loss slowed down a little. Sticking to the food diary - even just recording in it - just became a hassle, especially since I was eating all the same things, over and over. All the planning I'd been doing suddenly seemed so exhausting, so cumbersome, but every time I didn't plan, I'd get into trouble. Sooner or later, even the densest Neanderthal will notice a pattern. I remembered snippets of my trainers' words about planning and how important it was, and I realized that huh, you know, maybe they're right...
Detail-oriented perfectionists also have a hard time admitting they're wrong. Just in case you were wondering.
Stage 1: I can do this! I can do this! Just tell me what to do, you got it!
Stage 2: This is hard, but I'm not giving up.
Stage 3: Wow, look how far I've come! It has been so worth it!
Stage 4: SCREW THIS, I WANT SOMETHING ELSE!
So I'd reached Stage 4, which might not have been a problem except for one little thing: I wasn't healthy yet. I was healthIER, but not healthy. Still had a lot of weight to lose. Still have a long ways to go, a really long ways. Time to stop talking and get back to work. Or, in true John-Wayne-fashion, show some True Grit. Life isn't what happens between the speed bumps, it IS the speed bumps. Not learning to deal with it would be the height of stupidity.
Stage 5: I am an idiot. Perhaps I should go back to the basics. Perhaps I should listen more. Perhaps I should plan.
Friday, January 2, 2015
I don't want to be grout!
Today's post is a little different, in that I'm hoping to inspire you with someone else's words instead of my own. Why reinvent the wheel...
The following excerpt deals with beginning a career well after everyone else has left the starting line, but in just about every way could also be talking about starting to take care of yourself after many years of taking care of others. Please. It's important. Keep reading.
Before I forget, I have to let you know: this is from the incomparable Erma Bombeck, in her book If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries... I think that's all I need to cover myself legally. (In school I always did well in punctuation, grammar, and spelling, but boy, did I suck lemons at Works Cited.)
My Turn
For years, you've watched everyone else do it.
The children who sat on the curb eating their lunches while waiting for the bus.
The husband you put through school who drank coffee standing up and who slept with his hand on the alarm.
And you envied them and said, "Maybe next year I'll go back to school." And the years went by and this morning you looked into the mirror and said, "You blew it. You're too old to pick it up and start a new career."
This column is for you.
Margaret Mitchell won her first Pulitzer Prize for Gone With the Wind in 1937. She was thirty-seven years old at the time.
Sen. Margaret Chase Smith was elected to the Senate for the first time in 1948 at the age of fifty-one.
Ruth Gordon picked up her first Oscar in 1968 for Rosemary's Baby. She was seventy-two years old.
Billie Jean King took the battle of women's worth to a tennis court in Houston's Astrodome to outplay Bobby Riggs. She was thirty-one years of age.
Grandma Moses began a painting career at the age of seventy-six.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh followed in the shadow of her husband until she began to question the meaning of her own existence. She published her thoughts in A Gift from the Sea in 1955, in her forty-ninth year.
Shirley Temple Black was named Ambassador to Ghana at the age of forty-seven.
Golda Meir was elected Prime Minister of Israel. She had just passed her seventy-first birthday.
You can tell yourself these people started out as exceptional. You can tell yourself they had influence before they started. You can tell yourself the conditions under which they achieved were different from yours.
Or you can be like the woman I knew who sat at her kitchen window year after year and watched everyone else do it. Then one day she said, "I do not feel fulfilled cleaning chrome faucets with a toothbrush. It's my turn."
I was thirty-seven years old at the time.
Now, to be perfectly honest, although I am a stay-at-home mom I haven't cleaned my faucets, chrome or otherwise, since the day my daughter got tall enough to reach them. (It's good to teach kids housework at an early age.) But the point of all this is that I have spent years and years taking care of other people and I used that as my excuse - among others - for not taking care of myself. I remember my 20's but my 30's are a toddler-filled blur. I know there were diapers and bottles and I think somewhere around spring 2002 I got a full night's sleep, but otherwise...it was gone. It's like I went to sleep at 29 and woke up at 43. How did that happen?!? My health was a wreck but everyone else in my family was healthy as a horse. They were happy. They were fulfilled. They had futures that excited them (unless you count my son, who had left rocks in his jeans pockets one too many times, making the inside of my dryer look like a missile test site). I had taken good care of them, very good care. And I...I had a rapidly aging body that wasn't taking kindly to my total lack of care. But I'm 44, I whined. I'm too old, I don't know how to do this. And then I was 45. I made a few sporadic attempts at taking care of myself, but all the important things - the know-how and the fire within - were missing. Then I was 46. Two out of three members in my family, besides me, were now theoretically capable of providing life-sustaining functions in case I got hit by a bus, and they loved each other enough to take care of the third member (aka Short Stuff). Everyone was taking care of each other and themselves except me. And then one day I found it. I found what made sense, what lit the fire, what changed everything:
You cannot take care of others if you are having trouble taking care of yourself.
I found that quote on ENP's website (www.elitenutritionandperformance.com). It hit me between the eyes like a boulder. I actually had trouble breathing for a few minutes because I was so stunned. It was a complete paradigm shift, and I called for an appointment that day.
The more I thought about that quote, the further I took it. Sure, absolutely, I love my family and I want to take care of them, but is that enough? Every part of my life was devoted to holding them together, making something out of their lives. But I've got a life, too! What about me? It's like I was the grout between tiles. Tell me this: who on earth walks into a well-decorated kitchen or bath and exclaims, "Oh my God, look at that gorgeous grout!" No, they're talking about the floors, that tile design, that granite or marble or whatever. I want to be more than just a filler between other people's lives! Have I left it too long, is it even possible? I can't change my age but can I change my health? Can I make what I've got left really great?
Am I too late?
Hell, no.
The following excerpt deals with beginning a career well after everyone else has left the starting line, but in just about every way could also be talking about starting to take care of yourself after many years of taking care of others. Please. It's important. Keep reading.
Before I forget, I have to let you know: this is from the incomparable Erma Bombeck, in her book If Life Is a Bowl of Cherries... I think that's all I need to cover myself legally. (In school I always did well in punctuation, grammar, and spelling, but boy, did I suck lemons at Works Cited.)
My Turn
For years, you've watched everyone else do it.
The children who sat on the curb eating their lunches while waiting for the bus.
The husband you put through school who drank coffee standing up and who slept with his hand on the alarm.
And you envied them and said, "Maybe next year I'll go back to school." And the years went by and this morning you looked into the mirror and said, "You blew it. You're too old to pick it up and start a new career."
This column is for you.
Margaret Mitchell won her first Pulitzer Prize for Gone With the Wind in 1937. She was thirty-seven years old at the time.
Sen. Margaret Chase Smith was elected to the Senate for the first time in 1948 at the age of fifty-one.
Ruth Gordon picked up her first Oscar in 1968 for Rosemary's Baby. She was seventy-two years old.
Billie Jean King took the battle of women's worth to a tennis court in Houston's Astrodome to outplay Bobby Riggs. She was thirty-one years of age.
Grandma Moses began a painting career at the age of seventy-six.
Anne Morrow Lindbergh followed in the shadow of her husband until she began to question the meaning of her own existence. She published her thoughts in A Gift from the Sea in 1955, in her forty-ninth year.
Shirley Temple Black was named Ambassador to Ghana at the age of forty-seven.
Golda Meir was elected Prime Minister of Israel. She had just passed her seventy-first birthday.
You can tell yourself these people started out as exceptional. You can tell yourself they had influence before they started. You can tell yourself the conditions under which they achieved were different from yours.
Or you can be like the woman I knew who sat at her kitchen window year after year and watched everyone else do it. Then one day she said, "I do not feel fulfilled cleaning chrome faucets with a toothbrush. It's my turn."
I was thirty-seven years old at the time.
Now, to be perfectly honest, although I am a stay-at-home mom I haven't cleaned my faucets, chrome or otherwise, since the day my daughter got tall enough to reach them. (It's good to teach kids housework at an early age.) But the point of all this is that I have spent years and years taking care of other people and I used that as my excuse - among others - for not taking care of myself. I remember my 20's but my 30's are a toddler-filled blur. I know there were diapers and bottles and I think somewhere around spring 2002 I got a full night's sleep, but otherwise...it was gone. It's like I went to sleep at 29 and woke up at 43. How did that happen?!? My health was a wreck but everyone else in my family was healthy as a horse. They were happy. They were fulfilled. They had futures that excited them (unless you count my son, who had left rocks in his jeans pockets one too many times, making the inside of my dryer look like a missile test site). I had taken good care of them, very good care. And I...I had a rapidly aging body that wasn't taking kindly to my total lack of care. But I'm 44, I whined. I'm too old, I don't know how to do this. And then I was 45. I made a few sporadic attempts at taking care of myself, but all the important things - the know-how and the fire within - were missing. Then I was 46. Two out of three members in my family, besides me, were now theoretically capable of providing life-sustaining functions in case I got hit by a bus, and they loved each other enough to take care of the third member (aka Short Stuff). Everyone was taking care of each other and themselves except me. And then one day I found it. I found what made sense, what lit the fire, what changed everything:
You cannot take care of others if you are having trouble taking care of yourself.
I found that quote on ENP's website (www.elitenutritionandperformance.com). It hit me between the eyes like a boulder. I actually had trouble breathing for a few minutes because I was so stunned. It was a complete paradigm shift, and I called for an appointment that day.
The more I thought about that quote, the further I took it. Sure, absolutely, I love my family and I want to take care of them, but is that enough? Every part of my life was devoted to holding them together, making something out of their lives. But I've got a life, too! What about me? It's like I was the grout between tiles. Tell me this: who on earth walks into a well-decorated kitchen or bath and exclaims, "Oh my God, look at that gorgeous grout!" No, they're talking about the floors, that tile design, that granite or marble or whatever. I want to be more than just a filler between other people's lives! Have I left it too long, is it even possible? I can't change my age but can I change my health? Can I make what I've got left really great?
Am I too late?
Hell, no.
Monday, December 29, 2014
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.
Sunday, December 28, 2014
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.
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.
Friday, December 26, 2014
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.
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.
Wednesday, December 17, 2014
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.
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.
Tuesday, December 16, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, December 14, 2014
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!
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!
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
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.
Thursday, December 11, 2014
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.
<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.
Monday, December 8, 2014
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.
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.
Sunday, December 7, 2014
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!"
Saturday, December 6, 2014
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)
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)
Thursday, December 4, 2014
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.
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.
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