Running On Empty

196.2 lbs. Such familiar territory. And familiarity breeds contempt.

Overheard in the ladies’ locker room today: “Um, yeah, like, I’ve been eating natural, you know and only natural sugar. I found these really great Skittles.”

On my honor, may Torquemada make me duck walk across the gym if I’m lying.

I cannot take up arms against a sea of troubles. I can’t lift mine. Torquemada (aka the Pushy Peanut) has struck again.

I have earned the right to sit around with my feet in moisturizing socks (and if you don’t have the Bliss gel-lined socks, do this: get a tub of A+D diaper ointment. Yes, I said diaper ointment. Get a pair of socks you don’t care about. Slather your feet with the ointment, apply the socks and let ‘em soak. You could apply the ointment to someone else’s feet, but it wouldn’t moisturize and soften YOUR feet and that’s the point).  And now, I have things to consider.

First of all, I made the mistake of telling Torquemada that, although I don’t actually want to run a marathon, the fact that a sumo wrestler had finished the LA Marathon and that Dick and Rick Hoyt had been participating in the Boston Marathon Wheelchair Division for 25 years (Dad pushes son’s chair), it made me think.  Before anyone thinks I’m dumping on the sumo, those guys are athletes. It takes a lot of strength to push a 400 lb. guy and even more to do it successfully. Their event, though, is not related to the running disciplines and I believe a sumo match is over fairly quickly. As for the Hoyts, I find the idea of running (or walking) 26.2 miles intimidating, let alone pushing an adult in a wheelchair (and the Hoyts have run the route in 2 hours, 40 minutes).  It makes me feel pretty whiny and wimpy.

I have previously mentioned that when I was a kid, I enjoyed running (not competitively, but as a kid). I am now officially afraid of it. The one and only time I have willingly run as an adult was in 1989 at the Manufacturer’s Hanover Corporate Challenge in Boston. I did it because I wanted the T shirt and I still have it, one of the few pieces of evidence that the bank ever existed. Without training for it, I ran 3.5 miles (5K?). And yes, I paid for that.  I was so stiff and sore the next day, I could not sit down at work. Honest. However, I had my badge of honor, the shirt and felt extremely proud until my asshole co-workers just bought the T shirts without ever going near the race course.  But, I freakin’ earned mine.

I can walk 5 miles in 2 hours, give or take. I’ve completed the course for Making Strides Against Breast Cancer several times (one, I was being pushed in a wheelchair by my best friend. I had cracked something in my foot that week). Not a problem, just don’t try to be fashionable and do it in pink Chuck Taylor high tops. Not enough support and your back with threaten to run away from home.

There was a time when if I wanted to get to work, I had to walk 6 miles round trip. The first week, my blisters had blisters, but I persevered and I did this for four months until I moved out of walking range.

Running, though…it’s intimidating. But, like I said, Torquemada wants me to start running on the treadmill. 6 days per week. This envelopes the days of weight training with her and yoga class and oh yeah, I should really be taking Pilates, too. And I should eat a sweet potato every day, but that’s a different post.

She is trying to kill me. I wouldn’t think this would be the best marketing plan to attract clientele, but clearly, one must have a warped mind to become a personal trainer in the first place. God alone knows how those people think.

“I want you to sweat. I want you to work hard. I want you to be dripping sweat. Only one day off per week.”

People in Hell want ice water, there, Pushy Peanut. Why don’t you take them some?

Be careful what you wish for.  For the past few years, I have wanted to get back to working with a personal trainer. I have wanted to start taking yoga and/or Pilates regularly. I have wanted (although I never told anyone) that I wanted to be able to run without barfing up a lung. I have wanted these things, just NOT ALL AT ONCE.

Running. God. With the White Mountains and the Great White Belly flapping in the breeze. Going 5 steps and yakking up something dislodged from the dankest, darkest, most forgotten and neglected corner of my left lung. I have never smoked. Not even one puff. Even when I had to fake smoking for a video I was in (oh, yeah. I’ve done extra work), I couldn’t do it. On the other hand, I spent years of my working life surrounded by heavy smokers before indoor smoking was banned. There’s black lung and I guess if it’s from secondhand smoke, its gray scale lung (I’ve inhaled a fair amount of toner from exploded cartridges, too. Hazards of working in the Cubicle Ant Farm).  As it is, somebody with heinous music (Rebecca Black and “Friday” come to mind, as does anything by an American Idol “winner”) is fodder for at least 3 hours of complaining by the person on the next treadmill. Not wiping down the equipment after one has slimed all over it is just cause for extended bitching. I can just imagine the the comments after I’ve left my spleen, half a lung and my pre-workout oatmeal all over the equipment. Those little handy wipes they stock for cleaning? They’re reminiscent of a Robin Williams routine about changing a diaper: “It’s like using an oven mitt to clean up nuclear waste! No good!”  

I am not Okay Go on a treadmill. There are numerous instances of visual comedy with someone going ZIP off the back of a fast-moving treadmill. I have done this myself. I know we all slow down and stare at accidents. I just don’t want to be the car wreck.

However, I did resolve that I would do ask I was asked by someone TRAINED to pull people into shape. She wants me to run.  Oy vey. This will not end well.

Rip Your Own Arms Out of Their Sockets and Beat Yourself Senseless With Them

196.2 lbs. Steady as she goes since Thursday. (Sound of fingers drumming on table) This needs to end on a downward note.

Today, I was nearly hit head on by a woman cutting a corner in a parking lot. At least this one didn’t blame her bad driving on my shape.

The window between the blood flow being restored to my brain and my arms losing function for a couple of days is small, so this will be a short post today.

I doubt Christ felt as stiff and sore after His time on the cross as I did on Easter Sunday. Something to do with the lower body workout on Saturday.  I was mortally afraid of sneezing yesterday. I’m still not so sure it’s a good idea today.

Because personal trainers believe in both sides of the body and the curtains should match the carpet (if you can’t move either one), Torquemada set about inflicting maximum damage on the upper body today. She succeeded.

I am typing this with my nose.

After Saturday, I resolved to  let Torque just do her thing and leave my last experience with a trainer out of it and just do whatever she asked.

However…

Her first exercise out of the gate was something called “21.” Since she didn’t produce a deck of cards, please don’t confuse it with blackjack. When she was done working triceps, then biceps then delts (oh my. Yes, I’ve made that joke already. It’s a good one), she told me she’d read my blog and that this was the toughest exercise she’d be inflicting. Then she laughed. It sounded more evil than before.

I did actually cooperate. Well, up to a point. I did the pushups. I did them a second time. But when she wanted me to balance on knees and one arm while pumping a weight with the free hand, my instinctive reaction was “Hell mother fucking no.” And I said just that. Quite loudly. The Grunt Brothers on the big cable cross machine stopped trying to impress each other for a moment and just stared. They were already pissed because a couple of girls had taken over the machine and space they initially wanted. Just a word: I love certain sports teams, but getting their logo tattooed on me, no, not even for my Red Sox. In order to be drunk enough for that to seem like a good idea, I would have to be in my “passed out next to the toilet” phase. Since Torquemada has put the kibosh on red wine, that ain’t gonna happen any time soon. A bright red pair of lips on my right butt cheek, maybe.

Did I work hard today? When asked where I was feeling things or how I was feeling,  I could only pant and point. Nevertheless, this was effective communication. At first, it was specific points, then a weak hand wave indicated that I hurt all over. After a particularly vigorous effort with biceps, I kind of wiggled my fingers. I’m surprised I didn’t need to be wheeled out on a dolly.

After a particularly tough abdominal exercise (Look, if you’ve seen by abdomen, you know that hiccups are a good workout on The Great White Belly), I laid back, gasping for breath and thought perhaps I had died; there was a bright white light in front of me. I wondered briefly if perhaps I should go towards the light and be greeted by loved ones when I realized it was the skylight and I wasn’t floating towards it (Buoyancy is one advantage the plus-sized have over the skinny bitches. Fat floats). So much for seeing my grandmother again.  Just as well, she’d probably tell me I have such a pretty face, I should do something about my weight.

I Must Be a Masochist: I'm Paying For This

196.2 lbs. BUT, I was told a great secret today: sweet potatoes absorb water from your body. If that’s the case, I’m eating those suckers a LOT.

I had to go to Fresh & Easy today to get a truckload of sweet potatoes. Part of the adventure was running a gauntlet of local grocery union members trying to hand out leaflets to people attempting to shop in the store. There are billboards around LA proclaiming “Let’s Fix Fresh & Easy Together.” I don’t know what’s broken at Fresh & Easy but the last time we had a big grocery strike, the “picketers” were hanging around the front of the grocery store and turning their attention away from a football game on a radio boombox (sitting in a shopping cart from the store they were “picketing”) long enough to snarl “You know, you’re not helping us” at the people leaving the store then turn back to the game and drink more coffee (although I think a couple of them had beer, but that was 8 years ago). Guys, that’s where you lost me. This is YOUR cause and if you aren’t going to show me that you give a shit about it, how the hell do you expect to persuade me I should give a shit?

Here endeth the unrelated  complaint.

It is a bad sign when your personal trainer giggles and says “Okay” when you tell her that from now on, she will be known as” Torquemada.” My ass hates her right now. My ass hates her a lot.

I frustrated the poor girl today, I can tell. Certain areas, my defenses go WAY up and stand strong. The right knee with the asphalt in it and a long string of getting banged HARD into pointy objects is something I protect (and probably baby). Anyone who says “Man up” needs to wear my knee for a couple of days starting with banging it into an angled object (like the corner of a solid desk. We’re talking a direct hit on the kneecap). It hurts like hell (pain bad enough to nauseate me) and is extremely sensitive for days afterwards. If you want me to do something on all fours where the kneecap is in contact with the floor, I need a mat. I have fallen climbing stairs (fall forward, brunt of impact on wrist of outstretched hand. Navicular fracture), bruised or fractured my coccyx (hence the subsequent muscle spasms in the lumbar region. Well, that and The Great White Belly).  Consequently, each of my wrists has spent time in a cast. I have balance issues, not just because I’m in poor shape, but also because I have ongoing inner ear issues. I have had back spasms, broken toes and other similar injuries over time that, well, okay, I’ll just say it: I’m a big chicken about pushing myself on certain moves. And I just flat refused on a couple of points (like a horse saying “Oh HELL NO” to a fence), today being walking lunges. I’m angry at myself  because this is a trained professional and she’s not going to let me hurt myself.  The walking lunges put pressure on the damaged kneecap and I have wobbled and fallen out of them. But refusing to challenge myself is part of the reason I never got good as a skier (that and I hate being cold). I must overcome this.

The other exercise that made me hold back a bit was a step exercise with a stool that was maybe 18” x 18” on the step. I couldn’t focus as well on form because I was so worried about missing the step or falling off and twisting my ankle. Again, this is a pro. She’s not going to let me hurt myself. I must trust her.

I am also angry at myself for not giving her a clean slate, so to speak, on her training methods. I was bringing in “stuff” from when I was working with The King back in 2005. He wanted me to work muscles to exhaustion. He wanted me to work on free weights rather than machines because of the extra effort required without a machine to carry part of the load. She has a different approach. She knows what she’s doing and I should respect that and let her do her to make my life better.

On the other hand…

She took away hot dogs, tortilla chips and (temporarily) red wine. Great – no more liquid muscle relaxant. The greatest blow, though, was (Play “Taps,” if you would be so kind) almost no more beef. Filet mignon once a month, maybe, but no burgers, no ribeyes, no jerky (well, that stuff’s pretty salty for my taste, anyway). I think I’m actually going to go through the 5 stages of grief on this one.  I got a lecture on having gone to In N Out (ONCE! OKAY? ONCE! AND I DIDN’T KNOW THEY WERE GOING TO PUT SAUCE ON A SINGLE PROTEIN STYLE! I EVEN SACRIFICED CHEESE ON THAT MOTHER!) . I got even, though: I told her all about Five Guys Burger N Fries. When I see her on Monday, I giving her a Mapquest  print out to the nearest one. Heh heh heh heh.  I could see the lecture coming on a mini Edy’s ice cream  along with wine and tortilla chip consumption when I pointed out the date and explained that the Red Goddess had demanded sacrifices. She was not impressed. Or sympathetic.

(For the record, I have tried the Trader Joe’s no sugar added chocolate bars. The ones made with maltitol (I think that’s what the stuff is called). There is a warning label on the wrapper: that is the first red flag. The second, bigger red flag is that the warning is of a “laxative effect” if one eats too much. Not wishing to be a guest on “When Snacks Attack,” I will not be eating them again. Plus, they just taste gross.)

I told you this was a mean little person.  Seriously, she’d have to stretch to punch me in the kneecaps. And she just might, too.

Torquemada was smiling at me sweetly and asking, “Where are you feeling it?” when my knees were wobbling, my mouth was dryer than the Atacama Desert and I couldn’t breathe. I’m thinking she’s going to get flipped off at some point. However, she’ll probably just smile because trainers feed on your anger.

When asked to do “prison squats,” I blanched. I’ve seen “Oz.” Never, never, never bend over (or any move approaching that) in a prison. In keeping with my perceived politics, I seemed to lean towards the left, but that's only because she was was standing so far to the right.

I did get mad at myself with that one because I’m thinking that maybe I could have pushed a little bit harder and dipped a bit deeper, However, I resolve to try harder next time. Be fearless, be fearless.

And the little stinker had the nerve to give me homework: drop and do planks (or bridges) when I “feel bored.” And practice balance exercises (standing on one leg) when I’m bored with the plank.

According to the diet app (www.mynetdiary.com or just go to the app store on your IPhone or Android. I cannot endorse this more highly), today’s workout was good for burning over 500 calories. That’s more than I had eaten for breakfast (oatmeal with raspberries, flaxseed and a shot of agave). According to Torquemada, I need to eat that within an hour before training with her. Okay, I can do that, but no hot dogs? With Fab Hot Dogs down the street from the gym (Victory Blvd and Tampa Blvd. Go, go, go!). Aw jeez…

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m just going to go curl up in the Child’s Pose and whimper softly for a while.