Sunday, May 15, 2011

Ramblings of a Tired Brain

193.4 lbs. Plateau busted. Even more distance between 200 lbs. and me. And my tushie’s tighter.

I found it necessary to spray Dr. Schulze’s Air Detox in my gym sneakers. They’re going to need a second dose.

In an effort to confuse my muscles, I tried the spinning program on one of the fancier new stationary bikes. Rather than just cues from a dashboard, this had an actual video of a spinning instructor. Cute guy, dressed like he was taking on Lance Armstrong, thighs like medium pizzas. Very helpful setup: shows you where to put your hands and when to stand. Of course, being me, there was a lot of sitting involved. What I didn’t like about it was the constant adjusting and readjusting of tension on the wheel; I’d rather focus on the exercise itself. However, my muscles are successfully confused: my thighs want to know what the hell just happened.

As I waited for Pilates class, I encountered a real live spinning instructor who is either VERY enthusiastic about his sport or had 3 quadruple espressos before hitting the gym. I got an earnest pitch for his class, which, darn the luck, was at the same time as Pilates. Given how tough the half-hour on the video program was for me, I doubt I’d survive 10 minutes with this guy. But it would be fun. I told him I told him I needed a few weeks. If I wake up one morning, sore, covered in dried sweat and disoriented, it’s likely he gave me roofies and put me in the class. Did I mention this guy’s enthusiastic? Was he hitting on me? Nah. Men don’t hit on me. Maybe?

After the spinning, then the Pilates (How can such small movements hurt so much? Instead of water boarding Khalid Sheik Mohammed, they should have made him work his core muscles. We’d have found Bin Laden years ago), I didn’t have it in me for a session with the Rotating Staircase of Death, although I had promised myself a half hour. Besides, the one open machine was being used as a water jug rest by the woman on the next machine. Apparently, douchebags hit in waves; yesterday was just the peak.

As the number drops on the bathroom scale, I’m looking forward to reuniting with some old friends: a black silk blazer I got from Limited Express way back in 1991; it’s a beautiful thing. I’ve never tried on any of the “label” jeans like 7 for Humanity or True Religion (mostly because they don’t make them in my size), but I am looking forward to wearing Levis 501s again. I have dress-up dresses (work dress up) and suits. There’s a black leather skirt I haven’t seen in ages. I may burst into tears when I get back into these garments; some of my other favorites were stolen when my car was broken into. Somewhere in Portland, there’s a homeless drag queen asking “Does this make me look fat?”

It’s going to take some work, though. Quite a lot, actually. But…

In order to get the jump start or the rev up or whatever term you choose to describe the intense physical training I’ve undertaken over the past 4 weeks (Wow. Time flies), several factors needed to come together: money to pay for memberships, training sessions, etc., time to really dig in and work as hard as I needed to do and meeting up with the right instructors/trainers. I’ve wanted to get back to a regular workout routine, wanted to take yoga and Pilates classes (not just try to follow along on a video), wanted to really make things work this time. Through a combination of good luck and bad luck, I’ve come up with the money and the time to spend 2 + hours at the gym (I realize this is not necessarily sustainable, but like the HCG, it’s a jumpstart). Just because I wanted a facility with a steam room (despite the assholes who want to treat it as their own), I found Torquemada and Lila who have been such blessings for me (Yes, Torquemada the Pushy Peanut is a fantastic trainer, despite her mean streak).

One of the facets of my health/self-image improvement program is gratitude. I recognized the other day that I had been given the means to do this now, following a period where I had been given the means to work with a great therapist. She referred me to a chiropractor/acupuncturist (something I’d wanted to try for years) who got me started on the HCG and things flowed from there. You bet your bippy I’m grateful for this chain of events. I’m grateful for the means to get newer smaller clothes (and, as previously stated, get back into some classics), to buy and prepare better, more nutritious food, for having the strength to resist temptation. Whether it’s God, guardian angels, the Universe or the Flying Spaghetti Monster, I am grateful for these blessings coming to me. And I thank them for continuing those blessings: the means of continuing the exercise program (including more sessions with Torquemada), to continue eating better, seeing the Great White Belly shrink (and believe me, the first time I successfully complete a Pilates roll-up, you’ll hear the whoops of joy) and shedding at least 1/3 of my body weight.  

Of the pictures that I posted, my favorite is my college graduation portrait (1983). Granted, it’s not realistic to expect to look like that again, but I’d be happy to get at least to the 1989 picture: Jawline (I’m even starting to like what my neck looks like. Second least favorite part after the Great White Belly), significantly smaller breasts (they were still defying gravity at that point. Now, well, they’ve not only surrendered, but they’re actively collaborating in order to make my back hurt). Of course, according to the woman standing next to me in the picture, I was too heavy. At 20, my mother was slender and gorgeous. As she gained weight and lost her youth, she started projecting that dislike of self onto others. I pity her because she cannot get away from herself.

Tomorrow, it’s weight training and I will probably hit the Rotating Staircase of Death just because I don’t want muscles getting complacent and I didn’t do it today.

I’m sore and I had to wash my gym clothes (and it wasn’t laundry day) but I’m damned glad for it.

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