I know my normal weigh-in day is Friday, but I was feeling so good after my run this morning that I couldn't help but hop on the scale. A new low, I think? SWEET!
Note: I checked my old posts, and this IS indeed my all-time low since I started blogging about my weight. I'm beyond stoked.
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Sunday, October 17, 2010
Pushing It
Sometimes, the universe is unrelenting in its efforts to drive a point home. A message or a sign, faint at first, gets repeated and repeated and repeated, thrumming in your head like an inescapable pulse. You can ignore it, sure, if you try. But not for long. Eventually it breaks through.
Since my yoga class last week, and my realization at the sushi case, my message has been playing in a loop, with the volume increasing at every repetition:
I am strong, I can do anything, and the only real obstacles in my life are the ones I create myself, in my head.
I heard it loud, so loud tonight. Smith came over to work out with me. He'd called on his way to let me know that we were going to be doing stuff outside. Greaaaat, I thought. I just love exercising outdoors. I tweeted about it, of course, making the comment that I feel fatter outside than I do anywhere else. It's weird, I know, but it's true. Working out outside makes me feel super vulnerable, self-conscious, and insecure. (This is why my treadmill is my best friend.)
Anyhow, it turned out to be not as bad as I'd feared. Some goofy high-stepping, burpee thingies, and stretching. Then back inside, where I did standing squats (which Smith assures me will give me the butt I've lacked my whole life). After that? You guessed it...running.
Now, I've been running a little bit on my own. Or, I thought it was running. Chuffing away on the tready, one foot in front of the other, getting sweaty and all that business. Oh no, friend. No, no, noooooooo. Smith proved to me beyond any reasonable doubt that what I've been doing is NOT running. What I've been doing is (shocker!) being lazy, and not pushing myself anywhere near my limit. So what did ol' Smithypants do? He (shocker number two!) pushed me.
When I run on my own, the fastest pace I usually hit is about 4.2 mph -- maybe 4.4 if I'm feeling feisty. Tonight, I maxed out at over 5 mph. Granted, it was not a continuous run at that pace; Smith had me doing intervals. Over the course of two miles, he kept alternating, fast and slow, fast and slow, increasing the "fast" pace every time.
It was during one of the fast intervals, the fastest one of the workout, I think, that my message came through again. I saw Smith's finger on the button, that horrible, horrible up-arrow that increases the speed of the tready, and my immediate reaction was to think "CRAAAAAAP! I CAN'T GO ANY FASTER!"
And then it happened. Those words fell away, and I felt my body do something I've never really noticed before. Somehow, some way, through some weird tightening of muscles and relaxing of breath, it told my brain to shut up. I felt my feet kick up a little higher, my arms (of which I'm hyper-aware when I run, simply because I don't want to look goofy) fell into a nice rhythm, my stride lengthened a little bit, and I felt this sort of bounce in my step. It was hard, and my breathing was strained, complete with knives in the diaphragm and that goose-honkish panting that no one should have to hear. But I was doing it. Running. FOR REALS. Smith even told me I was making it look easy (what the WHAT?!) and gave me a coveted high five. To put that into perspective for you: high fives from Smith are harder to score than an Hermès Birkin bag.
Once again, I got the message that all these stupid obstacles, all these lies I tell myself about what I can and can't do, they're all in my head. I'm strong. I can make my body do whatever I want it to. I can. I can. I CAN.
I ended up doing over two miles in under 40 minutes. I was soaked in sweat, bright red at the end, and climbing up the stairs to shower required Herculean effort. AND I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT.
I'm feeling beyond amazing right now. My body isn't where I want it to be yet, for sure, but all these moments that keep happening give me so much hope. I feel so good. I feel strong. I feel happy, and proud, and peaceful, and excited, all at the same time.
Since my yoga class last week, and my realization at the sushi case, my message has been playing in a loop, with the volume increasing at every repetition:
I am strong, I can do anything, and the only real obstacles in my life are the ones I create myself, in my head.
I heard it loud, so loud tonight. Smith came over to work out with me. He'd called on his way to let me know that we were going to be doing stuff outside. Greaaaat, I thought. I just love exercising outdoors. I tweeted about it, of course, making the comment that I feel fatter outside than I do anywhere else. It's weird, I know, but it's true. Working out outside makes me feel super vulnerable, self-conscious, and insecure. (This is why my treadmill is my best friend.)
Anyhow, it turned out to be not as bad as I'd feared. Some goofy high-stepping, burpee thingies, and stretching. Then back inside, where I did standing squats (which Smith assures me will give me the butt I've lacked my whole life). After that? You guessed it...running.
Now, I've been running a little bit on my own. Or, I thought it was running. Chuffing away on the tready, one foot in front of the other, getting sweaty and all that business. Oh no, friend. No, no, noooooooo. Smith proved to me beyond any reasonable doubt that what I've been doing is NOT running. What I've been doing is (shocker!) being lazy, and not pushing myself anywhere near my limit. So what did ol' Smithypants do? He (shocker number two!) pushed me.
When I run on my own, the fastest pace I usually hit is about 4.2 mph -- maybe 4.4 if I'm feeling feisty. Tonight, I maxed out at over 5 mph. Granted, it was not a continuous run at that pace; Smith had me doing intervals. Over the course of two miles, he kept alternating, fast and slow, fast and slow, increasing the "fast" pace every time.
It was during one of the fast intervals, the fastest one of the workout, I think, that my message came through again. I saw Smith's finger on the button, that horrible, horrible up-arrow that increases the speed of the tready, and my immediate reaction was to think "CRAAAAAAP! I CAN'T GO ANY FASTER!"
And then it happened. Those words fell away, and I felt my body do something I've never really noticed before. Somehow, some way, through some weird tightening of muscles and relaxing of breath, it told my brain to shut up. I felt my feet kick up a little higher, my arms (of which I'm hyper-aware when I run, simply because I don't want to look goofy) fell into a nice rhythm, my stride lengthened a little bit, and I felt this sort of bounce in my step. It was hard, and my breathing was strained, complete with knives in the diaphragm and that goose-honkish panting that no one should have to hear. But I was doing it. Running. FOR REALS. Smith even told me I was making it look easy (what the WHAT?!) and gave me a coveted high five. To put that into perspective for you: high fives from Smith are harder to score than an Hermès Birkin bag.
Once again, I got the message that all these stupid obstacles, all these lies I tell myself about what I can and can't do, they're all in my head. I'm strong. I can make my body do whatever I want it to. I can. I can. I CAN.
I ended up doing over two miles in under 40 minutes. I was soaked in sweat, bright red at the end, and climbing up the stairs to shower required Herculean effort. AND I LOVED EVERY MINUTE OF IT.
I'm feeling beyond amazing right now. My body isn't where I want it to be yet, for sure, but all these moments that keep happening give me so much hope. I feel so good. I feel strong. I feel happy, and proud, and peaceful, and excited, all at the same time.
Wednesday, October 13, 2010
To Blog, or Not To Blog?
I'm kind of horrified that it's been almost two months since my writing came to a screeching halt. I don't really remember what made me stop, other than feeling generally overwhelmed and not wanting to drag the pitiful, dessicated corpse of my personal life out into the glaring light of teh intarwebs. While I'm not any more inclined to share a lot of what's happened, I'm ready to get back on the blog-wagon.
So! Let's get started.
My weight has been fluctuating between 204 and 208. I can't seem to get below 204, but honestly I haven't been working too hard on it until this week. I started running again -- pitifully slow, but running nonetheless. I also took a yoga class for the first time in a bajillion years, and it was beyond amazing. I'm stronger than I think, and more coordinated. And I'm in love with anything that makes me feel that way.
On the food front, I decided that it's time to go back to a meat-free diet. I was a vegetarian years ago, thanks mostly to the influence of my old roommate (who I lovingly refer to as Captain Straightedge), but gave it up. I wasn't really doing it for the best reasons, and at 23 years old, I was too damn lazy to be a healthy vegetarian. You can't live on macaroni and meatless "chik'n" patties and expect to be healthy. So why go back to it now? Well, I started thinking about the healthiest people I know (mentally, physically, emotionally) and it occurred to me that the majority of them eat little to no animal products. No matter how you slice it, meat is bad for you. It's also bad for the planet, and for the animals from whom it's derived. You can argue with me if you want, but I'm not changing my mind. And I don't expect you to change yours -- your body is your body, feed it whatever you choose.
I was at the grocery store today getting a salad for lunch, and I felt a pang of sadness when I walked past the sushi case. "No sushi for ME," I thought, wah wahhhhh, pitiful pitiful. And then it dawned on me: I was letting myself be sad over a spicy tuna roll. A little fish-filled log of rice, wrapped in seaweed. Food was making me sad. FOOD!
It's just food. It's fuel for your cells. It's not love, it's not an escape, it doesn't fix anything.
IT'S JUST FOOD.
(This may seem like common sense to you, dear reader, but this is a thought that is as foreign to me as responsible journalism is to Glenn Beck.)
That one simple thought makes me feel so free, so hopeful, so ready to tackle any challenge. If I can end a 20 year dysfunctional relationship with food, I can do anything.
Oh, and speaking of things I can do? Check THIS out:
That right there? That's Crow Pose. AND I DID IT. No, the picture is not of me, and I didn't do it nearly as perfectly as this nice young lady, but I did it. I balanced my body weight on my arms, I got my feet off the ground. And it felt so, so, SO good to have physical proof of what I've been scared to believe for so long: I am strong, I can do anything, and the only real obstacles in my life are the ones I create myself, in my head.
That's the mantra. That's the code. That's how I'm getting from here to there.
So! Let's get started.
My weight has been fluctuating between 204 and 208. I can't seem to get below 204, but honestly I haven't been working too hard on it until this week. I started running again -- pitifully slow, but running nonetheless. I also took a yoga class for the first time in a bajillion years, and it was beyond amazing. I'm stronger than I think, and more coordinated. And I'm in love with anything that makes me feel that way.
On the food front, I decided that it's time to go back to a meat-free diet. I was a vegetarian years ago, thanks mostly to the influence of my old roommate (who I lovingly refer to as Captain Straightedge), but gave it up. I wasn't really doing it for the best reasons, and at 23 years old, I was too damn lazy to be a healthy vegetarian. You can't live on macaroni and meatless "chik'n" patties and expect to be healthy. So why go back to it now? Well, I started thinking about the healthiest people I know (mentally, physically, emotionally) and it occurred to me that the majority of them eat little to no animal products. No matter how you slice it, meat is bad for you. It's also bad for the planet, and for the animals from whom it's derived. You can argue with me if you want, but I'm not changing my mind. And I don't expect you to change yours -- your body is your body, feed it whatever you choose.
I was at the grocery store today getting a salad for lunch, and I felt a pang of sadness when I walked past the sushi case. "No sushi for ME," I thought, wah wahhhhh, pitiful pitiful. And then it dawned on me: I was letting myself be sad over a spicy tuna roll. A little fish-filled log of rice, wrapped in seaweed. Food was making me sad. FOOD!
It's just food. It's fuel for your cells. It's not love, it's not an escape, it doesn't fix anything.
IT'S JUST FOOD.
(This may seem like common sense to you, dear reader, but this is a thought that is as foreign to me as responsible journalism is to Glenn Beck.)
That one simple thought makes me feel so free, so hopeful, so ready to tackle any challenge. If I can end a 20 year dysfunctional relationship with food, I can do anything.
Oh, and speaking of things I can do? Check THIS out:
That right there? That's Crow Pose. AND I DID IT. No, the picture is not of me, and I didn't do it nearly as perfectly as this nice young lady, but I did it. I balanced my body weight on my arms, I got my feet off the ground. And it felt so, so, SO good to have physical proof of what I've been scared to believe for so long: I am strong, I can do anything, and the only real obstacles in my life are the ones I create myself, in my head.
That's the mantra. That's the code. That's how I'm getting from here to there.
Friday, August 20, 2010
207.2
A long overdue post. I've just been too busy to blog. Life is what happens when you step away from the computer, right?
Friday, July 16, 2010
Thursday, July 15, 2010
To Err is Fattening
Remember how I said in my food post a couple of days ago that I still make bad choices from time to time? Well, I made one last night.
After a long, emotional roller-coaster day, I asked Hubs if he wanted a treat. (That's code for "I'm going to send you out to get something bad for me.") He did, and so he went, and he returned with ice cream and a Slurpee for me. The Slurpee was tiny -- and it should have been enough. I dug into the ice cream anyway. Mmmm...cookie dough.
Within two bites, I was done. It was inexpensive ice cream, the kind that's a little gritty. It was a little too sweet. It wasn't what I wanted. But I kept eating. Bite after bite, a little more, a little faster, and before I knew it I was on the verge of speed-eating the entire pint. I wasn't even tasting it, wasn't even present, if that makes any sense. I was just consuming.
Something made me snap out of it; I don't know what it was. I looked down and saw that in about five minutes (maybe less), I'd inhaled almost two-thirds of the container. Two-thirds of an 800-calorie, 40g of fat container of lousy ice cream. My heart was in my throat; the spoon was still in my hand and I could feel it wanting to dig into what was left. "Go on, you've already eaten most of it. Just finish it off!"
I didn't.
I didn't finish the pint. For a single moment, the small part of me that's strong and steely and food-resistant jumped up and said NO. I clapped the lid on the carton as fast as I could, and ran downstairs to put it in the freezer. NO MORE.
I didn't want that damn ice cream. So why did I eat it? Because I had a sort of crappy day. Because I want to work out and I can't. Because being alone for almost two weeks has made me neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed and I wanted something, anything, to make me feel happy. Guess what? After I ate that stupid ice cream, a wormhole didn't open up and erase my crappy day. I still couldn't work out. I was still feeling neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed. That stupid, lousy, not-worth-it ice cream didn't fix anything.
It may seem like common sense -- how could food fix anything? Emotional eating has been my M.O. for so long that I hardly ever question it. I suppose in some ways it's like an addiction; there is a need, a huge, screaming, demanding need and I answer it. I give it what it wants because (used to be, anyway) for however short a time, filling that need with food makes everything else disappear. For those few fleeting moments, my brain checks out, my hands and mouth do the work, and everything goes away.
I don't want to check out anymore. I want to be here. I want to be present. I want to deal with things instead of hiding behind food, and fat, and funny.
After a long, emotional roller-coaster day, I asked Hubs if he wanted a treat. (That's code for "I'm going to send you out to get something bad for me.") He did, and so he went, and he returned with ice cream and a Slurpee for me. The Slurpee was tiny -- and it should have been enough. I dug into the ice cream anyway. Mmmm...cookie dough.
Within two bites, I was done. It was inexpensive ice cream, the kind that's a little gritty. It was a little too sweet. It wasn't what I wanted. But I kept eating. Bite after bite, a little more, a little faster, and before I knew it I was on the verge of speed-eating the entire pint. I wasn't even tasting it, wasn't even present, if that makes any sense. I was just consuming.
Something made me snap out of it; I don't know what it was. I looked down and saw that in about five minutes (maybe less), I'd inhaled almost two-thirds of the container. Two-thirds of an 800-calorie, 40g of fat container of lousy ice cream. My heart was in my throat; the spoon was still in my hand and I could feel it wanting to dig into what was left. "Go on, you've already eaten most of it. Just finish it off!"
I didn't.
I didn't finish the pint. For a single moment, the small part of me that's strong and steely and food-resistant jumped up and said NO. I clapped the lid on the carton as fast as I could, and ran downstairs to put it in the freezer. NO MORE.
I didn't want that damn ice cream. So why did I eat it? Because I had a sort of crappy day. Because I want to work out and I can't. Because being alone for almost two weeks has made me neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed and I wanted something, anything, to make me feel happy. Guess what? After I ate that stupid ice cream, a wormhole didn't open up and erase my crappy day. I still couldn't work out. I was still feeling neurotic and paranoid and slightly depressed. That stupid, lousy, not-worth-it ice cream didn't fix anything.
It may seem like common sense -- how could food fix anything? Emotional eating has been my M.O. for so long that I hardly ever question it. I suppose in some ways it's like an addiction; there is a need, a huge, screaming, demanding need and I answer it. I give it what it wants because (used to be, anyway) for however short a time, filling that need with food makes everything else disappear. For those few fleeting moments, my brain checks out, my hands and mouth do the work, and everything goes away.
I don't want to check out anymore. I want to be here. I want to be present. I want to deal with things instead of hiding behind food, and fat, and funny.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
GPOYW: Progress
Let's go back in time today. Back to just over a year ago. What did July of 2009 look like?
Oh yeah...fat.
I look happy, but I was so miserable. I felt awful in the outfit I had on, and I felt even worse when I saw the pictures that showed just how fat I looked. This was my wake-up call picture.
So what does July of 2010 look like? Well, it's a heck of a lot different, kiddos:
What a difference thirty pounds makes. Go me!
Oh yeah...fat.
I look happy, but I was so miserable. I felt awful in the outfit I had on, and I felt even worse when I saw the pictures that showed just how fat I looked. This was my wake-up call picture.
So what does July of 2010 look like? Well, it's a heck of a lot different, kiddos:
What a difference thirty pounds makes. Go me!
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