Our Battle With The Bulge Begins With My Personal Battle With The Alarm Clock

Do you know how many muscle groups it takes to lift a hair dryer, and then blow dry one's hair?

Almost as many as it takes to successfully remove clothing, step into the shower, and bathe.

Of course, I was never really aware of this until recently. You see, Brian and I joined a gym.

It's a small little place, with tons of equipment packed into it. Each elliptical and treadmill has its own television, which works out well for those that want to watch ESPN (Brian) or Jerry Springer (the chick next to me the other day) while they sweat away the pounds.

Me? I'm an iPod girl. All the way. Put some tunes in my ears and I'm ready to go. (Especially if it's the New Kids on the Block.)

We've been at it for a little over a week now. For the first few days, we were going in the evenings after work, just to get the feel of the place and the people who worked there. But as we pulled into a packed parking lot last Wednesday afternoon, we decided that it might be better to try the early mornings before work, in hopes that the line for the water fountain wouldn't be three people deep at any given time.

And it works. Arriving at the gym before 7:00 a.m. ensures us side-by-side training equipment for the duration of our stay.

However, when the alarm clock rings in the wee hours of the morning, we inevitably have a conversation that goes something like this:

Brian wakes gracefully, for the most part. It takes him a few minutes to get the brain engines revved, but once they are, he's up and pleasant and ready to face the day.

Me?

I SUCK at getting up early. Always have, and probably always will. I'm usually cranky in the mornings, I rarely say more than five words at a time, and if you were the one who woke me, then you should rue the day you were born. I'm not a nice morning person. Which is why, when Brian first suggested getting up early for morning workouts, I may or may not have growled at him.

But, believe it or not, it seems to be working. I'm awake and chipper (and sore) by the time we leave the gym. I have more energy throughout the day. And I'm hoping to start racking up some serious pounds lost soon.

Just promise me you'll pray for Brian, y'all. Because he's in charge of waking me each morning. Poor guy.

An Afternoon Jog

Thunder crashes above me as I shut my front door. I glance at my watch, and up at the clouds, and determine that I've got just enough time to finish my run before the worst hits. I reset my heart rate monitor, allow it to capture the information it needs, and set off at a brisk walk. 

The air smells heavy. I notice the honeysuckle beginning to bloom, catch the sight of light lavender wisteria, too. Spring is here, and I want to soak up every minute.

The voice from my phone, my virtual coach, tells me to begin to increase my pace. I take a deep breath, fill my lungs with air, and then start to run. My feet slap the pavement at an even tempo. I concentrate on lengthening my strides, landing on the balls of my feet, keeping my head up and my breathing even. Four in, four out, four in, four out. The rhythm is still new to me, yet I revel in its comfort.

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A flash of blue out of the corner of my eye and I look over just in time to see a blue jay land on a low tree limb. He watches me jog by, then flits off into the woods, searching for shelter from the coming storm. Just as he disappears into the green, a bolt of lightning snakes across the sky. I hold my breath, count the seconds: 1, 2, 3, 4...CRASH. The storm is getting closer. And I've still got a mile to go.

I follow the instructions given to me by my pocket coach. Sweat begins to trickle down the back of my neck. My calves are beginning to strain in protest. My left foot feels like it's beginning to go to sleep. I have a slight cramp creeping up my right side. And still, I press on. I have to remind myself to breathe. Four in, four out, four in, four out. The flowers, the birds, the storm all melt into the background. It's just me, the pavement, the movement, and breathing.

As I round the corner, a fat raindrop lands on the ground in front of me. It soaks into the blacktop as I jog past. A few seconds later, another falls, this one smacking me square in the face. I wipe it away, check my heart rate, and pull out my phone to check my stats. Half a mile to go. And I decide to power through.

One or two raindrops turn to ten, twenty, hundreds. As the rain touches earth, the smell of green fills my lungs. I take off my glasses, shove them into my pocket, because covered in water they are useless to me. I lift my face to the sky, letting the rain wash over my hot skin, and a laugh escapes from my throat. In a moment, I am a child again, playing in the rain, and I delight in it. 

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It doesn't take long for the bottom to drop out. The rain pelts me in sheets. I cannot hear my pocket coach over the pounding of the heavy droplets onto the road and trees around me. My finish line is within sight, and I take a huge breath and sprint. My lungs scream for air, my calves weep with pain. As I duck beneath the awning over my front door, race complete, I feel exhausted, more-than-winded, sore. 

And absolutely fulfilled.

Contradictions

Somewhere inside of me, there's an athlete begging to be released.


I can hear her screaming, banging her fists against the wall, chanting numbers at me as I crunch, crunch, crunch my way to a thinner waistline. I can feel her inside of my brain, pushing me to run farther, run faster, run longer, even when my lungs and my legs want to give out. I can feel her spirit as it leaps in excitement every time I lace up my cross trainers and strap on my heart rate monitor. 


She's within me. Somewhere.


When I reach for that second helping of starch, My Inner Athlete directs my spoon toward the roasted winter vegetables instead. She steadies my hand that sweetens my coffee every morning, speaks to me through nectarines at the grocery store, and steers me away from the cookies in the bakery. It's My Inner Athlete that causes my eyes to pop open an hour before my alarm is set to go off. She's right there, in my head, whispering "Take to the road, wake up your calf muscles, let's burn some calories before sunrise."

"It's hard to beat a person who never gives up."

I can feel her, slowly taking over my thought processes, sending me, the Fat Girl, into an emotional tailspin.


Each time I make the decision to put myself and my health first, the Fat Girl in me cries out. "You can't do this! It's too hard! You're just going to fail again!" She whines with every lunge, weeps with every squat, begs me to stop each time I increase the speed on the treadmill. She keeps me up at night, nagging me with sore muscles, taunting me with cravings for foods I don't need, waving my shortcomings in my face like so many flags.


Last night, I completed an entire Army PRT program. With support from Dana and guidance from Justin, I power jumped, dead lifted, and half jacked with the best of them. By the end of the conditioning drills, I felt faint. Exhausted. Nauseous. Sore. 


And inexplicably, utterly defeated. 


My Inner Athlete was nowhere to be seen. When I should have been singing my own praises, I was instead left drowning in self doubt. I climbed into my car, drove to the stop sign, put the car in park, and wept. The Fat Girl was singing in my head. "I told you it was too hard! You're too big for this! You can't keep up with trained athletes!"


I dialed my husband's cell phone, begged off grocery duty, turned my car toward home instead of the store. And halfway there, My Inner Athlete finally broke through, shouting over the din of the Fat Girl. "Are you seriously going to let some sore muscles stop you? You just completed a friggin' bootcamp workout. Why are you sobbing like a baby?? Get over yourself, woman! YOU'VE GOT THIS!!"


Her words broke through, and the tears stopped immediately. I slammed on the brakes, made an illegal U-turn and headed straight for that grocery store. Because if I could do V-squats and mountain climbers and 8-count pushups, I sure as hell could pick up some ground beef, zucchinis, creamer, and cat food.

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In that moment, the Fat girl shut up. In that moment, My Inner Athlete won.


One day soon, the Fat Girl will be gone forever. Because as I'm shedding pounds and inches, I'm also shedding my insecurities, my past, my fear, my failures, and my Fat Girl.


I may not be running marathons or even miles (yet) but I'm getting there. I'm getting stronger and stronger with each passing day. And every time I listen to My Inner Athlete, I make the right decision. For my family, for my husband, for my health. For me.

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It's a Brand New Shiny Year! (You Knew That Already...Right?)

On New Year's Day, my sister-in-law wished her friends and family a happy new year in a grand proclamation. It was so profound, in fact, I've decided to share it here.

She is wise. She is eloquent. She is eleven and a half. (She also writes a blog.)


Every person on the face of the planet faces a new year with goals/ambitions/resolutions. Call them what you will, we all hope to be better every January first. I am no different. Each year my goals grow less and less specific. My list-o'-resolutions has shrunken in size as my age has increased. I try to focus more on family, friends, fun. But this year, I want to be better at lots of things. I want to improve. I want to actually meet one of my goals...maybe even surpass it.


I mentioned in a previous post that my only new year's resolutions this year were to be nicer to myself, and to refrain from growing anymore kidney stones. Well, part of being nicer to me includes being nicer to my body. And that means eating better, being more active, and being smarter about food.


You guessed it, readers. I'm joining the cattle call of 66% of Americans who resolve to lose weight in 2012! Woo!


Part of me feels like this:

It's a new year! It's time to start fresh! I can DO THIS!!!

The other part of me feels like this:

The scale hates me.

*Honesty Alert*-----> I have promised myself that I was going to lose weight every January since 2003. I have failed to accomplish that goal every single time. I don't know why this year is going to be any different. I can't promise that it will be. But I have some new weapons on my side of the trenches. And I think they'll make all the difference in the world. 


My Personal Atom Bomb?  I have a workout buddy/personal trainer. Yes, she is my best friend. And yes, we'll probably be splitting a bottle of red wine at the end of every week while we commiserate over the unfairness in the truth of our waist-to-hip ratios. But the truth of the matter is that I have someone who isn't only willing to support me through this journey, but will be actively taking it WITH me. What a concept. If I weren't so scared of her Army-inspired workouts, I'd be flat out thrilled.


I'm not going to turn my blog into a wellness, fitness blog. You're not going to get daily rants about my elliptical, or regular information regarding my weigh-ins. I'm sure there will be some funny moments that I'll share regarding exercise (because let's face it. Exercise is funny.) But don't expect much to change around here this year.


Well...except for my header. And my button. And the basic look of my blog in general...(fingers crossed that you like what you see!)

...I'm Awake. I Swear...

*Yawn.* My eyelids are getting heavy...

I'll just close my eyes...just for a minute. No one will ever know...

*SNOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOORE* *drool* 

*SNORT!* Huh? Wha? Whadyousay? I'm awake! I'm awake!

This has been me for the past two mornings.


Why? Well, dear readers, I'll give you the reasons why.


Reason #1: I stopped drinking anything with caffeine in it. It seemed like a good idea on Monday, but now that it's Tuesday and I'm barely functioning, I'm beginning to wonder why it was such a good idea in the first place.


Reason #2: Brian started back to school yesterday. Which means early alarm clocks. Which means Abby doesn't get to sleep till 8 AM like she's used to doing on a (mostly) regular basis. But it's ok, because it all boils down to 


Reason #3: I have started getting up an hour earlier than usual so I can workout in the mornings.


I'd cheer about Reason #3, but I just don't have the energy.


Yet.


However, I've finally jumped on the Zumba bandwagon. I picked up a copy of Zumba Fitness for our XBOX 360 (with Kinect). For those who may be unfamiliar (what, do you live under a rock?) Zumba is a relatively new dance workout styled to make you sweat your arse off whilst shaking it.


Here's a little taste:





There are several things that happen to me when I play this game:


1) I sweat like a pirate who's out of rum. Seriously. Gallon-sized buckets of sweat.

2) I smile like a fool the ENTIRE TIME. Partly because of the music, and partly because I know I LOOK like a fool the entire time.

3) I crave Mexican food. I can't help it. One of my favorite parts of eating at a Mexican restaurant is the music in the background. I even dance in the booth. Now I'm expected to dance like a crazy woman while hearing the same tunes?  


I worry about what will happen the next time we visit our favorite local Mexican restaurant. Maybe I'll bust out some of my new Zumba moves and dance up and down the aisle to keep myself occupied.

Ole!

MAAAAAAAAN.


I really want some guacamole. Stat.

I'll Pay You To Shoot Me Now

This is me:

This is me after this morning's workout:

Daid. You know, like the word "dead" except southern-ized...

My ever-supportive husband decided to bring home this:

It's a game. For the Kinect. Or it could be considered a torture device.

Don't let the bright orange packaging and the beautiful people on the front fool you. This is not a game meant to make you laugh. This is not a game that will give you the experience you'll be talking about after your next party. This is Chinese water torture in a box. SERIOUSLY. 


Taking the game completely out of the equation, it's bad enough to do 20 squats on your own. Just you, your adorable yoga pants, and the sweat rolling down your brow. Now add the additional frustration of making sure the camera can see you and every part of your body. Now add even MORE frustration when the camera does NOT see you and every part of your body, and while you're squatting like a professional, all it sees is your knees.


Don't believe me? Ok then, squat. Now hold it. Now keep holding it while I tell you, "Reader, try to squat a little lower. Keep your knees over your toes and really feel the burn in those gluts! Come on now, Reader, you can squat lower than that! I don't think you're squatting low enough. SQUAT YOU PATHETIC PEON!!!" Meanwhile, the counter that's supposed to say you've completed 12 squats still says 1 because your avatar is stuck in a position reminiscent of an Olympic gymnast. 


And let's talk about the floor work. Push-ups. Ok, great, I'm all a-twitter. Except once I get in my push-up position, arms already quivering, the Kinect is like, "Hey, dumbass, we can't see you. Move back."


So I stand up, move a quarter of an inch closer to my couch. Get back down in the push-up position. And then, "Woohoo. Moron. Over here. You're too close to the camera. Move back."


Beginning to get aggravated, I stand up, move as close to my couch as humanly possible without lounging on it, get back down in the push-up position. Yay! It's reading me! One push-up. Two. Three. The end is in sight. And then...."We're sorry. We cannot read your movements. Please move back."


It's a good a place as any to stop, right? Stupid robot.


Ok, ok, so, it's not all bad. The workouts really do get your heart rate up there, and for the most part, the Kinect does read your movements pretty well.  The little rubber band-y thing that comes with the game really works for the upper-body exercises. (I'll have Arnold Schwarzenegger arms by summer.) 


I'm hoping once we buy the little gizmo that allows you to mount the Kinect to the wall, it will give us that extra foot of space we need to be read properly.


For now, I'm just as annoyed as I am sore. I'm sure I'll be more sore as the day goes on. In fact, I'll pay you to shoot me now to save me the pain later.

Use of the F-Word Strictly Prohibited...

I was 17 years old the first time the word "FAT" crept into my vocabulary.


There I was, in the department store dressing room, and the size 6 jeans wouldn't zip. 

"Oh my God, I'm so FAT!"

When you're a woman, and you use that word with such conviction, it's like screaming the F-Word in a room full of praying nuns. Just imagine, a child who looked like THIS: 

...thinking she was FAT.  

Unthinkable, isn't it? But it's true. 

By the time I met B, fell in love, got engaged, and moved into my first "co-ed" living situation, the Freshman 15 had blossomed to the Sophomore 50. I didn't think anything about it, mainly because I just didn't have TIME to think about it. I was going to school full-time, trying to maintain my slipping GPA, while working full-time as well. My days went like this: up at the crack of dawn to catch the bus to campus, class from 8 am to 3 pm, catch the bus back home, change clothes/grab books/brush my teeth, race to work by 4, work from 4 till 10 with a fast food meal somewhere in between, catch a ride (or the bus) home, grab a snack and a soda and cram until midnight, fall into bed with the Dorito crumbs still on my chin.

It was grueling. I didn't know how to make a proper meal until I graduated from college. We kept soda, frozen pizzas, peanut butter and jelly, Little Debbies and chips in our kitchen. Not a veggie in sight.

Fast forward to 2003, and the four years of abuse on my body was evident from a mile away. FAT was no longer a four-letter word, it was my reality. I was struggling to zip a size-18 jeans, and I wished for the days when I could comfortably zip a size 10.

Forget a size 6. I'll never be able to remember what THAT felt like. 

That's when I started my first diet. The "grilled chicken and steamed broccoli every day of your life" diet. I bought some exercise DVDs and got to work. I lost about 40 pounds.

The first time.

And gained it all back.

Then came Weight Watchers. The Dr. Phil Diet. Slim Fast. Apple Cider Vinegar (because it burns fat, supposedly.) We bought an elliptical that takes up most of our spare bedroom, and didn't use it everyday for almost a year. Then there was the Biggest Loser fad, followed by a short stint at our local YMCA. Atkins, weight loss pills, yoga, salads for lunch every day, contemplation of stapling my mouth shut since I can't afford having my stomach stapled....

You get it. Right?

So the battle rages on. It's a daily struggle for me to haul myself out of bed, face the world, and Just Dance 2. Being mindful of every single calorie I eat. Giving up soda and coffee and chocolate and pasta and most everything else I love.

I'm learning to live life as a health-conscious person. And I'm trying to weed out the F-Word. 

At least I know I'll have mean dance moves to go along with my smaller self.