How Do You Like Them Apples?

179.4 lbs.* Yeah, we’ve been in this neighborhood before. Didn’t stay nearly long enough.

So, It is Day 7 of HGC** Phase 2 aka Reduced Calorie Phase and it IS WORKING.

Hey, like I said, I tried it the “approved” way and weight loss didn’t happen. I do this, I lose weight. I’m sitting here in my Levi’s 501 jeans. Again.  

One of the goals is to be size eligible for the “it” brands of jeans like Lucky or Seven. (Nordstrom Rack). Lucky’s largest women’s size is 12. Yes, it’s superficial, but it’s my landmark. Besides, I took a good look, thought about it and I have a cute ass. A cute ass should have high end jeans.

Unlike the first round of HCG  for me (Jan 31 – Mar 13), I am exercising regularly and eating less beef (I have my diary from the first time). I have expectations of losing more weight this time than I did on the first round (26 lbs.). I’m also planning to revisit the length of time I’m doing this when I get to Day 21 (October 31). If the loss is satisfactory at that point, I’ll shift to Phase 3. If not, I’ll go to 40 days. Since the comments section on this blog has dust on it, I take it that none of my regular readers has an opinion one or the other as to my chosen methodology. (Type now or forever hold your peace. Not that it’s going to change my mind one way or another). I know, I know; the suspense is killer.

One of the features of the HCG protocol is something called “Apple Day.” When weight gets stuck (or one day in 7. I opted for 1 day in 7.), instead of the standard 100 grams of protein, 2 cups of vegetables, 1 fruit and measured Nut Thins, one eats 6 big ass apples over 24 hours and only 6 big ass apples over 24 hours.

Yeah, it’s gimmicky and nowhere near as much fun as a “Steak Day” (those are in the 3 weeks afterwards. 12-14 oz steak and sliced tomatoes. My kind of a diet.), but it works. It’s how I got the jump start for this project.

I am still hitting the gym (not as hard) and while putting in time on the elliptical cross-trainer the other day, one of the ladies from my yoga class got on the machine next to me. I don’t know her name, but she’s a sweet, friendly person and wanted to take a spin on the elliptical for the first time. We worked through figuring out her rhythm (Look, we’re human beings, we dig rhythm in all things and once we figure out a good groove, we stay there. Think about it) and how to program the machine. She hung in there for 20 minutes and then stopped. The next thing she said absolutely floored me: “I stayed on that long because you were doing it, too.”

Me? A role model? For EXERCISE? Am I in a parallel universe? This is the same person that gets all the pontificating from family members, draws the fat comments from shitheaded strangers and I’m a role model? An inspiration? I’m on a protocol that people either love or hate (the acupuncturist and therapist I trust – love. Dr. Oz – hate) and  still people look to me. That’s heady stuff.

Well, my yoga friend, because you stepped up onto the machine and out of your comfort zone, I’ve kept faith with my exercise regimen, even though with HCG, I could skip it altogether (I don’t want to lose ground, so I’ll keep going). Plus, it’s a tough crowd in yoga class: you miss one class and you get grilled by the other students when you return (practically need a doctor’s note. NOT Dr. Oz).

I need to prove 50 isn’t fatal. You are never too old to achieve (although the hot flashes are telling me that kids are out of the question. I’ve long considered adopting a 30 year old the best course of action; you miss diapers, teething, terrible twos, puberty and the cost of a college education). Hefner isn’t going to put me in Playboy, but I may turn a few heads yet (once I get rolling on E Harmony. Those bastards want the entire fee UP FRONT. I should put a Paypal donation link on here). Somewhere out there is a little black dress and a lucky man with my name on them.

*It’s 3 days after I started this post and it’s still 179.4. Annoyed sigh.

**Human chronironic (or something like that) gonadatropin

Say it Ain't So, Dr. Oz

186 lbs. Fine. Wonderful. Swell. More about this later.

In order to better work the tricep muscles (and say “Buh bye” to the arm flaps), I have been doing pull downs over on the Juice Bar in the free weights section of the gym (Juice Bar because of all the steroid cases grunting and clanging weights over there). So much testosterone in that area that I’m beginning to care about football. It’s cool; nobody hassles me and the unassisted movement of the weight stack is a better workout than the pulley machines. The arm flaps are indeed leaving town.

I’ve begun watching Dr. Oz in the afternoon (and no, I’m not about to become an Ozzie; one of his groupies). I made sure to tune in today because he promised it was his big “anti-aging” show. Hey, I turned 50 a couple of months ago and although AARP hasn’t sent me magazines (yet. Think of it as playing Hide N Seek with lobbyists, stuff starts happening in the body that needs to be addressed. I also don’t think I need to look it (or feel it). He had the audience members remove their makeup and I thought he was going to show them how to detect skin cancer or signs of other more systemic issues that might show up in the skin and should be addressed (age related).

Not so much.

He was talking wrinkles, age spots, dark circles and sagging skin. Get more sleep. Okay, good. Make sure you’re getting adequately hydrated. Excellent, although he didn’t mention a target amount of water one should drink. Go until you slosh with each step, I guess. And then, the products were trotted out. Not just “use a cream that contains THIS” or “avoid things containing THAT” (such as paraben), no, his guests were pimping specific products and procedures. Oh yeah: the wrinkle treatment in which you have blood drawn, it’s spun down to plasma and re-injected into your wrinkles. It’s called a “vampire facial.” I shit you not. Just a mere $250 per session. Why yes, it takes several sessions. Also a laser treatment for sun damage and creams in the $60 range (I took notes). We then proceeded on to “aging hair” and getting to sleep faster: more products. It took until then for me to sit back (well, lean back. I was on the elliptical machine) and realize something: Dr. Oz promotes a lot of specific products on his show. In my mind, the guy’s credibility took  a hit to the point where he’s slightly ahead of Vince the Shamwow (and Slap Chop) guy. You know the guy – looks like an elf on crack, got beaten up by a hooker.

He also talked about lingonberries as the new superfood because of their antioxidant content being off the charts (the German nihilists in “The Big Lebowski” were on to something ordering “ze lingonberry funfkuchen”. I want Brian Setzer tickets, so I’ll be trying to get Mark & Brian to play “Spot the Rocker” based on “The Big Lebowski” and a couple of other movies. Hint: the rockers are among the German Nihilists) and I will happily incorporate them into my diet, but I’m still troubled by the fact that the man was not so much showing health to his audience as shilling beauty products. In fact, one of the guests was from “Prevention” magazine, which had started out (nominally) about improving the reader’s health, but now, when you see the cover, it’s diets and anti-wrinkle. In fact, one of the products being touted today had won their “Anti-Aging” award. What the hell? Where was “eat more green peppers, drink water and almonds are a great source of protein and fiber?” Upcoming shows include “7 Health Scams” (companies using his advice to sell various products and he’s mad. Could be because he’s not getting a cut), Diet to End All Diets and The REAL Cleanse (he tells you what’s wrong with all the other ones out there, but, wouldn’t you know, Dr. Oz has one of his own to recommend).

How do all these threads tie in? The number: 186. I have been at or around that range for a couple of months and I am so sick of seeing the lack of progress that I could go postal. I have been faithful to the “eat less and exercise” edict that is the approved methodology. I measure my food, I avoid certain foods and for 5 months, I have been going to the gym at least 5-6 times per week, working out no less than one hour each time. Over the past two weeks, I have found that I have the time for Monster Burns and Godzilla Burns (weight training followed by either 2 or 3 hours of cardio. Dr. Best says that as long as the knee and back are okay with it, it’s fine by him). Supposedly, by obeying these rules, I should be losing 1-2 lbs. per week, which is acceptable to the “health experts.” Except…

It’s not fucking working.

I don’t expect to wake up tomorrow with 5 lbs. off my ass (which, although I have the gut, is a pretty decent ass, I must say. Never got any complaints), but I do expect to see the numbers decline. Otherwise, although my blood chemistry is improved and I’m stronger/more endurance, about 1/3 of the reason for my working out is failing.

I’m filling out the questionnaires for E Harmony and even though it’s supposed to be emotional/spiritual compatibility, your potential matches want a picture. I’ve done this before; they don’t want the fat girls and now, at 50, it’s even more difficult to match. Yeah it’s all in my head, but I’m undertaking a months/years long exorcism to rid myself of these demons.

That being said, HGC Round 2 coming right up. Oh, I know, I know: that’s an awful way to lose weight and nobody approves of it and you can’t possibly sustain that weight loss and yada and blah blah and “Well, Dr. Oz says….”

Fuck Dr. Oz. Oh, I’ll still watch his show for the ever-decreasing bits and pieces of free and “Hey, look at what you can do with what’s in your kitchen cabinets”, but if there was a way for him to make money from the HCG protocol, I suspect he’d have some of its biggest proponents on the show. I have done this before and it worked. 100 grams of cottage cheese in  the AM? With an orange and cucumber slices? No sweat; let me dump a bunch of granulated garlic and oregano on it (note: the orange is not in the cottage cheese and the cucumber slices work nicely into the herbed cheese). THIS WORKS FOR ME. The accepted methodology does not and I have pretty substantial evidence I’ve been following it faithfully.

Henry David Thoreau (the original hippie about 125 years ahead of schedule) once said, “If a man does not keep pace with his companions, perhaps it is because he hears a different drummer. Let him step to the music which he hears, however measured or far away.”

Dr. Oz and the health experts hear the Marine Corps band and are happily marching to John Philips Sousa. Me? I’m grooving with Ringo. Or Max Weinberg (Do NOT say “Neil Pert.” Rush makes me want to take a bottle of Ambien. When it wears off and I wake up 20 years later, they’ll still be playing the same damned song).

Something my parents had to learn the hard way: just let me do things my way and things work out.

Up From the Depths...

183.6 lbs. Annoyed sigh coupled with disgusted snort BUT…

Wednesday was not a fun day for those of us in Red Sox Nation. Not for Braves fans, either, I expect. However, pitchers and catchers report to spring training in 4 months. Hope springs eternal. And suck it, Yankees.

Having felt so good after Monday’s Monster Burn (which did not result in the 5 lb. loss I experienced the first time I did it) and having finished my work in plenty of time, I resolved for Wednesday to outdo Monday and ramp it up to a Godzilla Burn (1 hour of weight training + 3 hours of cardio) provided the gym wasn’t over-crowded. That’s the beauty part of being me: too stupid and self-deluded to realize my limitations so I go ahead with the plan anyway.

I didn’t make it to 3 hours of cardio. Before the chorus of “Awwws” (save those for pictures of kittens. Kittens make me go “Awww.” I need a real home so I can have a kitty. Maybe 2), let me tell you what I DID manage to do.

1 hour of weight training, excluding the machines that were out of order.

2 hours on the elliptical, keeping the heart rate in the “fat burning” range. Knee was holding up fine (upper back was cranky, but that means the trapezius muscles have earned themselves more sessions with the rowing. This is tough lover for acting out). And yes, I made sure nobody was waiting for the machine before I started the second hour.

And…

45 minutes on the stationary bike. The only thing that kept me from knocking out the additional 15 minutes on the bike was the fact that the seat was so damned uncomfortable. It’s bad enough for a woman, but you know, you don’t hear about Tour De France riders having big families. I don’t think Lance Armstrong had testicular cancer so much as squashed McNuggets. I TRIED to tough it out, but my keyster has its limits.

According to My Net Diary, this was good for over 2,000 calories burned. Hoo wah!

Today was a session with Dr. Best who is VERY pleased with my knee (Look out, Rotating Staircase of Death) and knocked over by the King Kong Burn (Not quite Godzilla, but bigger than your basic, generic, vanilla Monster Burn. I’ve seen “King Kong versus Godzilla.” Godzilla kicked Kong’s hairy ass all over Tokyo). He tested muscles and flexibility and gave me his blessing to continue working out to this level, cautioning me to stay hydrated (my lumbar region was cramping up on me. He didn’t find anything wrong and, using the easiest fix first principle, suggested that dehydration may be the culprit. It’s the Great American Fix: “Just Add Water.” Or duct tape).

I can do this. With sufficient access to the equipment, I can kick Godzilla’s ass. And my own in the process. Granted, this is not an everyday thing, but I can do it when the opportunity presents. And I have lost enough weight that I can take the San Diego Wildlife Park Zipline Tour, which I REALLY want to do. Anybody want to go with me? COMMENT!!!

What I cannot do (YET) is a push up. Marine Corps, girlie, Rocky Balboa, Pilates, Chadaranda, judo or plain, I cannot yet complete 1 push up. However, I promise you this: I’m not going to hit my original weight deadline (even with the stomach flu from Hell and THAT’S not going to happen because I got my flu shot. This year’s flavor is H1N1. Your insurance most likely covers it and you can stroll into Rite Aid or CVS to get one. I HIGHLY recommend it. Out of pocket? $27.95, but that’s cheap compared to losing 5 days’ pay because you’re too sick or risking the hatred of your co-workers because you infected them. Remember: I dislike false economy) but I WILL complete a push up by December 31,2011, as God is my witness and I will be ready to take down any and all zombie Girl Scouts that come my way (weird, scary dream and particularly memorable).

I can’t wait for tomorrow to get here so I can hit the gym again and successfully complete a Godzilla Burn. The Big Green Guy breathed fire. If I hit that damned bike for an hour, oh, I’ll have fire coming out of me all right, but…

I Am Here Because I Finally Give A Damn

184.4 lbs. Temporary, I assure you because…

The planets aligned, the work gods were kind and I was able to finish my work for today with enough time to hit the gym for a Monday Monster Burn (cue Tim Allen grunting sound). An hour with the weight machines! Yeah, Baby, bring it on! An hour on the elliptical! Love it, love it. A SECOND hour on the elliptical! You heard me: two hours of cardio on top of an hour of resistance training! When he wasn’t getting bopped on the bean with apples, Sir Isaac Newton posited, “A body in motion tends to remain in motion.” Well, this body was in motion. There were plenty of empty elliptical machines available, TNT was showing a bunch of Lennie Briscoe “Law & Order” episodes (Jerry Orbach, we miss you) and I didn’t need to be anywhere else. This body remained in motion. I felt great, not just the physical “endorphin rush” kind of giddiness that one gets after working out hard (it’s actually kind of a fun goofiness), but because I had, if only for one afternoon, recaptured the drive I had when I began this project and I had kept the promise to myself I had made when I got to the gym: today would be a Monster Monday.

Accomplishment is good for the soul and the self-esteem. As a reward, I bought Epsom salts and Aleve for the body, which will be deployed when I finish typing. With great power comes great responsibility. I think if I multiplied what I’m feeling right now by a factor of 50, I might be able to talk to someone who just ran the Boston Marathon about post-race recovery.

But I still feel damn good. YEAH.

My very good friend, Darci Monet (shared courtesy of her sister, the fabulous Mandi J. Smith, who writes the “Mandi Crocker” blog and bakes so well, Martha Stewart should watch her back) writes a blog called “The Magical Musical Messcapades of a Juicy Girl in L.A.”. About two months ago, she wrote a post that resonated with me titled “I Am Not Broken.” Here’s the link: http://darcimonet.blogspot.com/2011/06/i-am-not-broken.html.  Reader’s Digest version: a woman at a women and food retreat realizes that her eating issues stem from her mother having eating issues and trouble handling people around her who were not experiencing the same trouble (Okay, I may get corrected, but this is MY takeaway. Got it?). This woman realized this and said, “I am not broken.”

Just that phrase is powerful. Not broken means functional, able and perhaps strong. I’ve been turning this over in the back of my mind.

Darci also related a story (not sure whose) about taking dance lessons at the advanced age of 5 and wanting to quit; the storyteller’s mother said, “That’s okay, Honey, you didn’t really have it anyway.”

I heard that after I got a “D” in acting classes because I didn’t want to act out lesbian scenes for the professor (not sex scenes, but scenes as a lesbian relating to others. Not being a member of the Sapphic Sisterhood, I had and do not have a frame of reference for how to be a lesbian, but this woman kept insisting on having me improv it). My father, on seeing the grade, said, “Well, I guess you’re not really an actress after all. You can focus on your real classes now.” (I haven’t thought about this in years and I’m tearing up a bit. Excuse me). Understand: this was a guy who was eligible to attend Julliard for piano and that was blocked by HIS parents.

My late best friend/soul sister, the fabulous Nancy Kurrelmeyer, gave me a bumper sticker that has been on my refrigerator ever since I got it (along with the late lamented “I Love NY, Too, It’s the Yankees I Hate” that shredded the last time I removed it): “Those Who Have Abandoned Their Dreams Will Discourage Yours.”

Something else that added to the mix was Ragen Chastain’s recent blog post on “Dances With Fat”, the “Awkward Conversations” post, specifically, where she repeats the statistic that 95% of diets fail. http://danceswithfat.wordpress.com/2011/09/24/awkward-conversations/ (In fairness, there’s the link). My previous post in this space discussed my disagreement with the half-hearted support she advocates based on her (I perceive) theory that whoever is doing the work will just do a 180 and start gaining it all back anyway. It still nettles me, probably because of the story I just related.

I will turn a concept or a “problem” (and that includes algebra-style problems) over in my mind like a hamster on a wheel. On Red Bull. Even when it’s shoved to the back, part of the organic computer that is my brain will be crunching the data. Yesterday, it spit out a response that synthesizes all of the above and I wrote it down:

“I am working on this project because I care enough about myself to strive towards the best possible version of me that I can become.”

I realized that I actually do give a damn about me and not because of the family/friend pressure. The woman who was not monitoring what was going in to the body (in the food sense) did not give a damn, mostly because she did not want to appear to conform to the wishes of those who disapproved (The terms “Maverick” and “Rogue” have been ruined for me since late 2008) and did not take care of my body just to prove who has power. If my body was a car, it could have been sitting on cinder blocks in the back yard, quietly rusting with weeds growing up around it, sort of like a Jeff Foxworthy “You Might Be a Redneck” joke.

Well, she won. In 2009, attempts to control/shame/force submission were cut off completely and it has taken until now for me to see it that way. People who had been telling me all of my life that they had my best interests at heart and I should trust them implicitly were wrong because their own interests trumped mine in their worlds and always will. My best interests trump theirs in my world and if I need to completely separate myself from them in order to survive and grow, so be it. But I digress.

Don’t get me wrong: I like food. I like it a lot. I love to indulge my sense of taste (and my sense of smell. I need to come up with a term for window shopping for the nose at a fancy perfume counter). Sweet, savory, sour, sometimes all three at once, I love it. I’ll overeat something just to keep its wonderful flavor in my mouth. But I can stop, save the remaining bites of whatever and anticipate its flavor at another time.

As for exercise, I’ve learned to recognize the difference between lactic acid burn in the muscles and pain from something being wrong and I have taught myself to push through that burn because the rewards on the other side of it are worth it. The woman who was previously in charge hadn’t learned this and would give up easily (although neither one of us is really comfortable on a bike. A few nasty spills as a kid and some ongoing low-level balance issues). I care enough about myself to make my body work; make the blood pump, the tendons flex and the muscles do what they were created to do. I’m not shooting for immortality, but avoiding physical decline, hell, yeah.

I HIGHLY recommend this video by Darci (“Pipes”): “Go On.”

http://youtu.be/cjN4Xw-CWPw

I can relate to one of the stories in it (and yeah, I helped. You can’t see me in the crowd scene, but I’m there) as portrayed by fantabulous Kelly Goodman. It speaks to me of winning the mental battles that are the biggest obstacles in our lives. Don’t let fear drive the bus. Go on.

I am here because I care enough about myself to become the best version of me that I can. And I am here because I will…go on.

Garfield on Fitness

186 lbs. You know, I’ve lived in this weight neighborhood long enough.

There is an old (like, 1970s) Garfield poster where he’s sitting there in all his stripey body-by-lasagne wearing a pair of sneakers and saying, “I’m already in a bad mood. I might as well exercise.”

Welcome to today’s frame of mind. If this was “Office Space,” some annoying, chirpy, chubby broad would pull a cutesy face and announce, “Uh oh, looks like someone has a bad case of the Mondays.” And we would find out if it’s possible to give an atomic wedgie with pantyhose (I’m thinking you really have to focus the motion of the upward yank).

I’m in a rut. I don’t like ruts. I grew up in Rutland, Vermont and could not wait to get the hell out of there; the name was suitable. Still is, apparently.

Okay, to be honest, I’m better off than I was 3 months ago: I’m working and earning money (Hey, it is possible to work and not get paid. Ask a stay at home parent). I have medical insurance again and Dr. Best is doing great things with the right knee (still no Rotating Staircase of Death, but it can handle an easy hour on the elliptical. Emphasis on the “easy” part).

What’s bugging me is that I’ve been bouncing around the same weight for nearly 2 months. When God decided to wipe out the Earth with the Great Flood, it didn’t take Him this long to get the job done. Christ spent 40 days in the desert before beginning His ministry (what is it with the Bible and the obsession with the number 40? 40 days and 40 nights of rain? 40 days fasting in the desert? Wandering in the desert for 40 years? Should this be a given as a lottery number?). Again, it’s taking me longer to get back on the weight loss track. To think that the Almighty took His time and got bigger things done sooner is not a comforting thought. My weight to lose is of Biblical proportions? Yikes.

The self-discipline that has kept me out of the sugar and starch has faltered, much in the same way the Red Sox have faltered lately, although I don’t believe the two situations are linked (There is the legend of the Fisher King out of the Arthurian legends: as the king fell ill and suffered, so did his lands. You see this in the 1982 flick “Excalibur.” You also get to see Helen Mirren buck naked and a knight getting his freak on in full armor. Some mental images etch pretty deeply on one view). I do not think my health and that of Boston’s playoff hopes have some metaphysical link; as my pounds whittle down, so does the magic number. Yeah, no. One has nothing to do with the other.

I got a free issue of “Self” magazine and it was pretty much cover to cover how and why you should lose weight NOW. “The #1 Way to Erase 8 Pounds”, it screams next to Jennifer Hudson’s head (Since this IS a “women’s” magazine cover, the correct answer is “airbrushing.”). Butt blasting exercises, cute workout clothes, EAT EGG WHITES (that ain’t happening in this house).

My life must suck. Actually, today’s frame of mind, it kind of does, but not because I don’t have cute workout clothes.

As soon as I finished my workload today (and, thank you, Mortgage Gods, for giving me relatively easy loans today). I grabbed myself by the scruff of the neck and hauled off to the gym.

And burned 1200 calories. Yeah. An hour of weight training and an hour on the elliptical adds up.

There was a mild endorphin rush afterwards that lifted my mood somewhat. The Sox just beat the crap out of the Orioles within the past hour (after I had done my workout. Again, not necessarily linked, but…) and that lifted my mood a bit. So, we’ll see what the scale says in the morning.

Row, Row, Row Your Apparatus

183 lbs. Yeah, yeah, yeah.

I’ve had a couple of glasses of wine. In vino veritas. Two Buck Chuck Merlot = truth serum. Feel yourself blessed that this is not the 9/11 pontification I’ve been mentally writing and mentally delivering to the UN.

I saw Dr. Best on Friday and he hit my knee with more ultra sound. The “aches likes there’s no tomorrow” period was a lot shorter than last week AND this week, he put me on the roller table to loosen up my back (should have just handed me some Two Buck Chuck, same effect). I want one. If I can’t have my own massage therapist on standby, this is a an elegant alternative. You can’t always get to Brookstone to test drive the massage chairs.

Advice I also got from Dr. Best when I told him that some days, I just feel crunchy (Seriously, not stiff, but muscles, etc. feel like they crunch as you move. Usually, I take that as an indicator I should go back to bed and sleep it off). “Drink more water,” he says. The sensation is an early indication that you’re not hydrated enough

The good news is that he checked my arms and the triceps are getting bigger, which means the wobbly arms are getting tighter. Yee Ha!

Yesterday, I got in upper body weight training (there was no way the knee was going to tolerate anything lower body. Billy Ray Cyrus has NOTHING on this achy break) and I’ll do so again tomorrow. Based on last week’s experience, I should be fine by then to add the lower body exercises (leg curls, extensions, presses, etc.) back in.

I’ve written a book (which has been enjoyed by the people who have read it. Nobody wants to pay for the privilege and/or I can’t seem to get it to the distribution point) in which one of the characters rows for pleasure/exercise and was damned good at it. What do I know about rowing? It can be summed up in one word: Winklevoss. Or Winklevi, for the plural. Look it up. And I wrote this book 3 years before ANYBODY invented Facebook, so those overprivilged Harvard pukes can keep their lawyers muzzled (although if Mark Zuckerberg wanted to kick a few bucks in my direction, I wouldn’t stop him) . Since I wanted to 1) get in some cardio, 2) not give my knee an excuse to keep hurting and 3) keep working he upper body. There are two rowing machines at the gym that seldom get used. After today, I’m beginning to understand why.

I will not be competing in Head of the Charles anytime soon. Nor will I be part of the social scene as, if I am to understand correctly, I’m about 20-25 years too old.

I was trying to find a rhythm (everything is easier once you find your rhythm. I am not saying this to be funny; think about ANY task or activity you undertake and see if you can’t identify a rhythm to how you do it, a preferred pattern, if you will) when the overly enthusiastic spinning instructor went by and gave me some pointers (For those stalkers out there saying, “But Sunday is Pilates day”, the gym cancelled Pilates today. Nobody can figure out why because they held the class that precedes it, go figure. Spinning, on the other hand, was on like Donkey Kong).  You know, sometimes when you send up a flare to the Universe for help, it arrives, even though it would rather be on a bike.

For starters, I would say that if you’re regular about cardio, it cannot hurt to break things up and work two or three different cardio methods into your regime (not to be confused with the regime of a dictator on the run. There’s a lot of that going on lately). Since it is likely that that rowing machines at your gym (should there be some) will have a good layer of dust on them and therefore easily available, why the hell not? There are no rules that say you need your legs engaged to get your heart rate up and pumping. Granted, they’re bigger than arm and back muscles, but you can still get the job done and give them a day off. Plus, springing a surprise like this on the muscles keeps them on their toes. Ruts benefit no one.

According to Biker Joe, the trick is to break the move down into 3 parts: pull out, down, then up (that’s that best description I can give it) rather than the jerking motion I was doing. Once I heeded his advice, it was much more enjoyable.

It’s hard work and there is some leg work (you’re sliding back and forth as you “row”), but you are not putting your weight on the legs and there is no impact to the joints. I had twinges going on, but the biggest problem was trying to figure out how to keep my boobs out of the way as I row (the bra cups are nowhere near full as they used to be, but I’m not a titless wonder, either).Wilma Rudolph, the Williams Sisters. Chris Evert; amazing athletes all, but they all had to solve the boob problem first. I did this yesterday for 10 minutes and could manage 25 today. It’s a challenge. I highly recommend it, especially if you want to strengthen the upper body. We’ll see if I can actually move tomorrow. It’s a fifty/fifty shot right now.

Friends have seen fit to remind me of one of the big principles in the Law of Attraction, particularly now when I’m getting frustrated with weight, life, etc.: you have to be happy where you are before you can move on. I like the fact that I am getting back to and maintaining an exercise regimen. I like the fact that, okay, so I’m not where I want to be on the scale, at least I’m still a comfortable distance from where I was when I started (we’ll think of this as stopping for a couple of days on a cross-country trip). And I definitely like the fact that I have far greater flexibility than I did when I started this gig.  I am happy with those things.

In the meantime,  I’ll just keep on keeping on.

.  

Where It's At

181.6 lbs. I’ve been in this neighborhood before.

Let’s see; got my ass kicked from two different supervisors today, Red Sox just lost to New York because John Lackey decided it would be a good idea to plunk Francisco Cervelli. Over the weekend (and today), three groups of friends 1) went white water rafting, 2) went to see MY guy John Williams at the Hollywood Bowl and 3) went horseback riding, all things I am dying to do. I am talking myself out of pouting (“Grow up, Bitch.” That’ll do it). My right knee is aching like crazy. I’m taking this as a good thing; adhesions are breaking up and blocked nerves are sending signals again, just not pleasant ones. The guy who was going to help me launch a website and perhaps gain notoriety for being a cranky overweight (but not obese) crybaby has abandoned the project.

And tomorrow, August 31, is one of the two days of the year on which I take shit from no one and do not suffer fools. February 1 is the other day and even more so. These days mark the birth and death of Nancy Snow Kurrelmeyer, the best friend I ever had and the best friend ANYBODY could ever have had or ever will have.  I cannot torment her with “Bwahahahahaha, you’re 49!” phone calls. Of course, were she still on this plane( as opposed to the ethereal one), she’d be on the phone taunting me over the Sox losing to the Forces of Darkness. Bitch was a Yankees fans when she could torture me over it; most of the rest of the time, she was partial to the Dodgers. Especially the day we went to Dodger Stadium and her guys finished a three game sweep of my guys. For the record, the Dodger fans in the parking lot were LITERALLY (not a word I toss around lightly) in my face with such bon mots “Fuckin’ loser Red Sox!”, so the Brian Stow tragedy was inevitable. Sadly, every team has its bottom of the barrel knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing, really need to get a life and grip “fans” who are so insecure, that if their team loses, they will beat someone almost to death and when Mr. Stow is removed from life support, it will be complete.

And I am further from my goal weight than I care to be at this juncture.

What’s a girl to do? Write a blog. Buy a lottery ticket. Light a candle. Check. Check. Check.

Okay: I confess: I also snarfed  three (yes, all three) Chocolate Coconut Haystacks by Rawvolution. Raw, vegan, gluten-free and richer than Donald Trump. Mounds and Almond Joy can suck it; these are the real deal (from a place in Santa Monica. I got them at Follow Your Heart in Canoga Park). I don’t know what the minerals/nutrients are that are driving my chocolate and coconut craving, but these little beauties go a long way towards satisfying it.

I am supposed to get happy with where I am in order to progress to where I want to be. Well, let me take stock for a few minutes to see if I can find some happy sauce to pour on my mood:

1.       From someone who is not going to bullshit me (because there’s nothing to gain from flattering me. Tell me something good about myself and my first thought is, “Yeah, right. And what do YOU want?”), “You know, you have great skin.” I’d like to thank my need to stay out of direct sunlight and Coppertone’s SPF 450 for Babies.

2.       Since April, when I started my serious exercise regimen, I have met and passed the following activity milestones: Pilates roll-up (actually, I can do the Level 4 version, yea me), 1 full hour on the Rotating Staircase of Death (although Dr. Best has nixed that until further notice. And the Renegade Wretched Right Knee is enforcing that), heels flat on the mat in Downward Dog (still can’t hold Tree Pose and Crescent has to be on the floor), prior to the ban on stressful cardio, I could actually run for short bursts on the treadmill, I managed to hold Boat Pose today without falling over (back muscles getting stronger).

3.       I really like the fact that my waist is no longer bigger than my bust.

4.       I like my thinner face.

5.       I thought my legs looked good before. Now, long, lean muscles. And I have biceps. The triceps need work to make them pop out (and stop the wobbly upper arm ), but that’s coming.

6.       I have far greater flexibility than I did before. Dr. Best said he could move my leg through a 120 degree bend. That’s pretty good.

7.       For the first time in YEARS, I was able to comfortably sit in full lotus today. Prior to today, that damned right knee (Got a heart you want buried? I’ve got the Wounded Knee) made it uncomfortable for more than a few seconds (the sensation of pressure behind the kneecap).Today, no problem, so that’s encouraging (I also changed which leg I put on top and that may have helped). Even Lila noticed. I got pointed at and open-mouthed stare. It was cool.

Okay, so maybe I can make peace with my current “location.” It’s supposed to be the journey and not the destination, right?

Screw that: I want to get where I want to be. Philosophical mindset be damned.

I'll See Your Zumba and Raise You a Bhangra

Those of you who think Zumba is the latest and greatest when it comes to cardio classes? Yeah, sorry. I tried out a new cardio/dance/fun class tonight that will, I am confident, make your Zumba passe.

Tonight, the gym introduced a Bollywood style dance/cardio class.

First of all, I would have felt bad for the two girls who showed up and started unrolling yoga mats (because the Bollywood class replaced a yoga class) if the sign hadn't been on the door to the group exercise room for two weeks. They hastily re-rolled their mats and beat feet.

The instructor, we'll call her Kali for reasons about to become apparent, is a pretty young lady who looks like she could star in a Bollywood musical.Sweet smile, mean as a snake: she told us to take off our sneakers. Doesn't seem so bad? YOU didn't have your feet swathed in socks and Vitamin D ointment this afternoon. One wrong move and I'd have done involuntary splits. Remember JIm and Pam's wedding on "The Office" and how Andy Bernard injured himself? You get the picture.

Beyond that, I do not do a lot of barefoot. It's California and summer and unless I need more foot covering, I live in my flip flops. This does not make for toughend feet. "I don't understand," you say. Okay, try bouncing energetically barefoot on a hardwood floor doing moves that create FRICTION between the floor and your toes. Like me, you will develop a Jai Ho -normous blister on the bottom of your big toe in about 5 minutes of this activity (It's huge. It's disgusting. And the floor in the exercise room is filthy).

I soldiered on, though. I was not going to let a blister stop me. It did significantly restrict what I was able to do. Shark Week is coming on Discovery and I didn't want to leave a blood trail.

The moves are simple, but tough to do.Kali the instructor made them look so simple; fine, yes, I can cross step back and forth. Oh, you want the arms moving, too. And bouncing.  Energetic bouncing that shifts weight from side to side, arm movements, kicking and steps that are half bouncing and half skipping. We stopped a couple of times for some floor work, but at a brisk tempo. There were moves that I had done earlier in the day in yoga with Lila (Plank, Down Dog, Pigeon), but at much more measured pace. This was more like yoga on meth. We had a room full of people looking like they were trying to rub their heads and pat their stomachs.

I finally had to leave about 30 minutes in, not because I couldn't keep up (trust me, NOBODY but the teacher looked good in that  class), but the blister was threatening to rupture if I continued with the barefoot work (seriously, does this look infected?).

It's a great workout and I plan to return next Tuesday. I'm just going to keep my shoes on, though.





I

Ten HUT!

180.4 lbs. Extended commentary to follow          

Dear Whatever Parts of the Body Feel the Need to Shelter Excess Weight,

Okay, so potato chips were consumed, as were Jello shots (SUGAR FREE or so I was told) and Mandicakes (DAMN THE GIRL! KEEBLER ELVES SHOULD BAKE SO WELL!). There were days without hitting the gym because of the low level sinus bullshit going on and trying to get up to speed on work. You made your point.

However,

This is not wartime Amsterdam and that adipose tissue is not the Frank family. You have been to the gym every day since Saturday. The water intake has gone back to where it belongs, as had the sugar consumption. You’ve been getting as close to 8 hours a night as possible and yet, no. You decided to gain and hold. This is NOT an option. Either you can release the additional pounds or we’re going to consider some other options, such as intermittent fasting (Meaning no eating outside of a 5 hour window) or we’re going to play HCG Round 2. 500 calories a day for 3 weeks? 40 days? Want to play that game again? Purge the sugar, starch and oils from the diet and the system? I can do it standing on my head, which means you get to play, too.

Your choice, Body. You can play nice with the 6 days per week of exercise and 1200 calorie intake and get me past the 174.6 lbs. (aka 50 down) mark within the next 14 days OR we can contact Dr. Fit back in St. Louis and get some more HCG and do it that way. Oh and in case you’re considering protesting, I have a memo from Alberto Gonzalez that says I can pursue any of these options, God bless America.

You wanted coconut, I’ve given you coconut (curried chicken salad dressing: ¼ cup non fat Greek yogurt, 1 tablespoon Coco Lopez, 1 teaspoon curry powder. Stir together, refrigerate overnight and allow flavors to get to know each other. 200 grams of grilled chicken, cut or torn into bite sized pieces, ½ cup shredded coconut, ½ cup raisins and 1 apple cut into bite sized pieces. Makes 3-4 servings). Ralph the Renegade Sinus is holding the right inner ear hostage and demanded wasabi for ransom: I ponied up with wasabi almonds. You wanted chicken, chicken, chicken after tonight’s workout; what did I just give you? Did I exceed the recommended caloric intake to satisfy you? Yes. The least you can do in return is to turn EVERYTHING that’s been given to you into muscle and energy  and healthy organs.

So, here’s what we’re going to do: starting tomorrow, we’re back on the N acetyl cysteine, alpha lipoic acid and tyrosine to get the cravings back under control (While I am willing to indulge you up to a point, macaroons are not allowed. Sorry) and get the motivation geared up again. We’re going to figure out a way to make a wasabi/yogurt dressing for more chicken salad adventures (what else would go in such a salad? Cucumbers, definitely. Sort of like a kappa maki roll without the rice. Avocado? Maybe). What’s that? No. No mayonnaise, even it if endangers our street cred as a white Protestant. Mayonnaise is only good as edible mortar: all it does is bind the more interesting ingredients together. And that includes a tomato sandwich.

We’re back to pounding down at least 10 – 12 glasses of water per day. We are no longer going to eat unless there is an actual physical sensation that needs to be addressed and I am pretty sure reinstituting the amino acid regimen will reinforce this.

No alcohol. Water or tea or black coffee, that’s it until and unless you get with the program.

Chocolate almond horns? Not so much. Clearly, sugar is not your friend. You want sweet? Have some stevia.

So, Body, either you show me that you’re back on board with the weight loss project or the floggings will continue until morale improves.

Dismissed.

Toot Toot Beep Beep Yeah

179.8 lbs. If you’re a regular here, you know what I’m thinking. And you should wash your brain out with soap!

I love cats and have known my share of Mighty Hunters. However, despite all the tales of mice, bunnies, chipmunks and the occasional hornpout (apparently, when my mom and her siblings were still kids, my aunt’s cat, Peter, would go fishing and my grandmother would fry up his catch for him), I believe I have heard the winner: a friend just told me her cat brought home a turtle the other day and now regards it as his pet. Top that.

 Due to training for a new job (Yea! Work is always Yea! Mama needs new bras and Victoria’s Secret isn’t trying to sign me up as a model. Neither is Lane Bryant, but their stuff is lousy, anyway. We’ve covered this ), I was unable to get to the gym in my usual dark-thirty timeframe  and had to go in the late afternoon.

Let me tell you, I would rather bobsled naked at the Olympics (which, if you really know me, taps into my hatred of being cold and my refusal to be unclothed even for me) than do that again. I’d rather sleep with Rush Limbaugh. I’d rather cheer for the New York… you get the drift.

First, there was the fight for parking spaces in front of (or as close to possible to) the front door. One would think, were one a rational human being, that it might be a good strategy to park upstairs or far away from the door to, I don’t know, get a little bit more workout on the way in and on the way out. After all, that’s why we’re there.

Apparently not.

Horns, fingers, obscenities and the idiot who parked a Jeep Compass over two spaces. Dude, it’s a fucking Jeep Compass aka Piece of Shit That Caused Chrysler to Ask for a Bailout and Hire Eminem to Make an Ad For Them in a Desperate Hail Mary for Sales. I’ve driven one. Rosie the Elephant couldn’t make a bigger pile of …yeah, I know; too many vulgarities already (important language note: “shit” and “fuck” are vulgarities. “Jesus Christ”, “hell” and “damn” are considered blasphemies. Next week: the difference between “can” and “may”). However, I stand by my review.

Then, there was the gang of girls catching up with each other JUST inside the doors and blocking traffic in both directions. I waited a moment, thinking they’d finish and head off in separate directions. Nope. I had to escalate the “Excuse me” until I almost sounded like Gilbert Gottfried. I got a “tsk” and snotty “Excuse US!” as they moved.

Crowded? Oh yes. Did this cause people to behave more courteously? Naooooooo. The machine hogs were out and about, the “exercise buddies” who took up machines side by side and spent 2 minutes doing the exercises and 10 minutes chattering in between (Note: lots of places tell you to work out with a friend so you can keep each other motivated. Bullshit. I haven’t seen it work yet). And there were those who had to check email, Twitter, texts and tell their friends about all the assholes at the gym in between reps. Sadly, they neglected to mention themselves in the report.

I managed to work in my weight training routine (although I was so frustrated with myself over the new job skills I’m trying to master that I could have tossed a Rotating Staircase of Death across the room. I keep telling you: you wouldn’t like me when I’m angry. I’ve been known to get sarcastic). Luckily, there were a couple of kind, hunky guys who let me work in on the machines they were using. One even stopped me when I tried to reset the machine to his settings, telling me it was easier for each of us to remember our own settings, but it was kind of me to offer. I needed that little pat on the head.

My routine is to get in an hour of cardio after the weight training. Unfortunately, the Thundering Herd was in the house and all of the functioning cardio machines, regardless of breed, were occupied. Besides, I wanted to just get the hell out of the gym (pretty sure I saw Peppermint Bitch on my way up, so steam room was out of the question). So, Friday, I’ll double down, especially if this lousy plateau doesn’t break. Monster burn? Oh, yeah. GODZILLA burn. Tokyo doesn’t stand a chance. Neither does The Great White Belly.

Even though I’m stuck on yet another plateau (and a friend assured me that a plateau is the body’s way of preparing to drop more pounds. I’ll believe it when I see it between the toes), I can see things that keep me going. I don’t have to squint to see my collarbones. Those nasty inner thigh flap for which no one has come up with an insulting term (like “muffin top,” “cankle” or “ turkey wattle”) have SHRUNK. Wow. Those suckers haven’t changed in years and my legs have never been a problem area. Ladies, those two thigh machines that are like a trip to the gynecologist without the stirrups? They really, really work! Throw in a few leg presses, too.

My butt is changing shape. Again, not really a big problem area (everything’s a piece of cake compared to the Great White Belly), but it’s getting some definition. And the GWB is still collapsing. I can suck in my gut to the point where it almost looks flat. I do not expect six pack or washboard abs out of this, but it’s heartening to know that I can potentially make all the flab go away and the Truly Nasty Overhang with it. When it comes to clothing, I’m a fan of tailored, clean lines, no ruffles or flourishes and I guess I’d like to see that in my body lines, too.

When the job gets rolling, one of the things to be considered will be (gulp) dating. I say “when the job gets rolling” because I’m thinking of Eharmony (or Match.com. I have a friend who met her husband on there). Despite one week after turning 50, Mother Nature decided to turn on the surprise sweat machine (bitch) and randomly cut the switch to brain cells in charge of memory (short term stuff like “Okay, how many sets have I done so far?” and a particular actor whose face I recognize: I know him from “Chicago Hope”, he’s been on “ER” and “Aw and Order” and has a three-part name but I’ll be damned if I can remember it. He’s not Rocky Carroll or Obbe Babatunde. DAMMIT. The fact that my father has dementia makes these kinds of lapses even more unsettling), I am an optimist. There are 6 billion plus people on this planet, slightly less than half that are men ( and no, I don’t know what the gay percentage is) and they can’t ALL be assholes.

And I hear George Clooney broke up with his girlfriend. You know, it’s got to be my turn sooner or later.

Meditation From a Ladies' Locker Room

179.8, but it's down from the spike.

What follows is a repeat of a blog entry from my Myspace account dated at least 4 years ago.

     You wouldn't believe it to look at me, but I do hit the gym and work out (No, really, I do. I have the stinky sneakers to prove it. For the California audience: sneaker = tennis shoe. Don't worry; I'll have you speaking English in no time). I have also been in ladies' restrooms at numerous times in my life (without a doubt, the filthiest, most disgusting restroom is in a Taco Bell in Long Beach on the PCH. Coin-operated and can rival the ones in Trainspotting and Desperado). I find the behavior of women in these places to be both fascinating and universal. Men, if you want to know what happens in a ladies' room (or ladies' locker room), you will now find out without risking a Peeping Tom charge:

1. There will always be the oral hygiene fanatics. Women who bring toothbrushes and Crest to work. I really can't knock this - dentists want us to brush after every meal. However, there are the fanatics, as mentioned, and they not only brush but floss. This exceeds the boundaries of what is acceptable in society; nobody wants to see THAT far down your throat. I'm waiting for someone to give herself an annual check-up after lunch.

2. Makeup artists. Most women, if they care about appearance, will have a tube of lipstick or some powder to re-apply at lunch. In my case, it is determined by whether the men around me are worth the extra effort (generally, the answer is "no," even with initial attractiveness. It's not that familiarity breeds contempt, it's just that you get to see why they're single in the first place). The most extreme case came when I was working for a Fortune 500 company. I saw a woman wash her face and completely re-apply her makeup. Lady, you've GOT to be kidding me: nobody, but nobody in that office merited that kind of devotion. She had the full-size makeup train case including brushes and lash curler. If this was the travel kit, I'd hate to see the home edition. Of course, in her defense, she really, really needed the makeup.

3. The Adjustors: Men, we know you enjoy playing with the tatas. If you saw what I see, you'd treat them with a little more respect. Women will emerge from the stalls, wash hands while grimacing (makeup check) or stretching face (pore and potential zit check), then reach into bras and push, pull, shove, fluff (I can't think of a better description for the action), shake and tug. Doesn't matter that it's a public space. Doesn't matter if it's a room full of strangers; we're all female, so clearly, it's a safe space to maul the goods. Mine? Very well-trained; they stay where I put them and don't wander around like other women's do. One day, there will be a sign "$1000 reward for return of my boobs. They must have wandered off between 8 AM and noon because when I was groping for them after lunch, they were missing.Please help: they're too small to be on their own."

And, my personal favorite, the universal: The Ass Checkers. Someone please explain to me why my fellow females feel it necessary to whip around and stare at their backsides in locker room mirrors. It's there, Madam, I assure you. It's that white, lumpy thing under your "Hot to Trot" tramp stamp, right (and that's looking a bit runny these days). Weren't you just struggling to pull Spandex over it? And these women don't do anything after studying their posteriors. No tugging of pants or other adjustments, they just give it a narrow-eyed stare. Maybe squinting at it makes the thing look smaller - most of the ones being checked can be seen from the space shuttle. "Roger that, Houston. We've got the Great Wall of China, Zack just spotted a hurricane over the Atlantic, I see Donald Trump's ego and, hey, Zack, would you say that's a woman's ass down there? The big thing in hot pink? Yep, that's confirmed, Houston, we're seeing ass."

And that's it for now

No, Mr. Belly, I Expect You to Collapse (Read. You'll Get It)

179.8 lbs. About GD time. Mind over matter.

I have this movie scene playing out in my mind, something out of James Bond (probably because USA Network has been playing James Bond movies every day. Yesterday was “Goldfinger,” THE James Bond movie, I don’t care how dated. But, as usual, I digress). My body (especially the Great White Belly) is the villain in this piece and looks like Gert Frobe (Goldfinger. He was not an attractive man in my opinion) and my brain is Bond tied down to the table with the laser beam headed for his favorite parts (Sigh. Sean Connery. I had a thing for Timothy Dalton for years, but Connery is The Man. Even if Daniel Craig in a bathing suit makes me go stupid. By the way, that takes a lot). There’s that immortal exchange, “Do you expect me to talk, Goldfinger?”

“No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”

Without the zingy John Barry score, my brain managed to escape from the death trap and force the body into giving back 1.4 lbs. of the 2.4 it was hoarding. I didn’t have James Bond’s nifty swell gadgets, either. Nope. Because the scale read 181.2 on Friday, I push it into a Monster Burn: one and a quarter hours on weight training, 45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death and an hour on the elliptical, pushing it. This was good for 1962 calories and I was on the first weight machine at 5:15 AM.

And yet, despite all that work, the scale did not move yesterday. Ask me if I was angry (pissed off is just high level annoyance. I prefer to be annoyed in those cases). Go on.

Yeah. Oh, yeah. So, given the body’s intransigence, I socked it with a cardio session at 8:30 PM. Rotating Staircase of Death, Baby.

Goldfinger sucked out of the plane. However, not being gay, I will not sleep with Pussy Galore.

Today was Pilates day and (brace yourselves), not only did I complete a Pilates Roll-up, but I DID ALL OF THE ONES REQUIRED IN CLASS. LEVEL 2!!! AND LEVEL 3!!!! Huzzah! AND I was able to perform most of the other exercises at the intermediate level!

There was one low point (my fault): we were doing a squat series of exercises and my back and my butt were both complaining loudly to me. The instructor (the usual sweet, kind lady, not the JMPD from last week) told us to “push our tushies” down a bit more. I said, “My tushy hates you right now.” Fortunately, she forgave me, but this is not the first time the ass had an exercise opinion.

I used to live in Concord, New Hampshire and had started walking daily with one of my friends. We’ll call her Sally (she looks like she could be named Sally). Concord (pronounced “CONkerd.” Martin Sheen never quite got it right on “West Wing” and he was supposed to be FROM there) is hilly. We got to the worst on the walk (I cannot remember the street name, but it ran up by the hospital) and she was way ahead of me. She was ahead of me because I had to stop, bend over and not barf while puffing and panting. Sally turned to call back and see if I was okay. I told her, “My ass hates you and so do I.” Fortunately, she did not take offense and we are still friends. Of course, we haven’t really seen each other in a few years.

With success (sustained success, even) at the Pilates Roll-up, this only leaves sustained jogging and the Push-up as the remaining activities to be conquered. I discovered during class today that my right side (from the hip down) is not as strong as my left side and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the knee (and I do admit to babying it). That may present an obstacle to running/jogging, we’ll see.

I was talking to another friend last night, Annie, who just had surgery to repair the meniscus in her left knee. She had expected to get off the operating table and a day later, be able to get into her high heels and life would go on as before. It’s been quite a rude shock to her that she must now undergo physical therapy and it’s challenging. I was telling her about Pilates and my challenges and now, the gauntlet has been thrown down: I am now to work on mastering the “Man” push-up while she sticks with her PT and doesn’t expect to jump up and run. And believe me, there will be monitoring.

Ay yi yi.

Memo from Brain to Body

181.2 lbs. Again. Yeah.

Dear Body,

You were given fair warning yesterday as to what would happen if you declined to shed even part of the 2.2 lbs. spike in which you saw fit to indulge. I told you in person and I put it in writing through this medium.  You cannot claim to have been blindsided.

You have been getting fed very carefully, both in terms of what and how much. Unless you’re indulging in sleep eating (which I, the Brain, doubt as we are neither on Ambien nor named Jethro Beaudean), there is no good acceptable explanation for this behavior. Suspected problem foods have been eliminated, yet you persist in defying me.

Body, you know how important success is in this project. In fact, you are recipient of the benefit; I, the brain am merely guiding the actions. We did what you wanted for 20 years and look where it got us: 224 lbs., weak, on the verge of serious chronic health issues and completely miserable and alone. You put me, the brain, in charge and we’re actually achieving something.

You’ve been happy with the changes. Frankly, I’m delighted to look better in our clothes, everything is tickety boo and we’re on track, but…

You decide to act up. You decide that, despite agreeing to do things my way which, according to My Net Diary, should have us losing nearly a pound a day, you’re going to retain a lot of material and throw the program into reverse.

I’ve got news: I will not be deterred, merely delayed.

The 4:30 wake up call? That’s on you, Pal.

Hour and a quarter of weight training? To the point where your muscles were trembling and screaming from lactic acid burn? All you.

45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death? After the weight training? Wouldn’t have happened if you’d seen fit to give back even part of the gain. Did you enjoy the swampy socks? The river of sweat down the back of your neck? You thought the muscles were screaming during weight training, they were singing an octave higher by the time we got to the 30 minute mark. You were BEGGING to stop. Should have thought of that yesterday. You knew today was weights and cardio, yet you chose to ignore the warning.

Just to make sure you got the message, we hit the elliptical for an hour. More sweat, more damp clothes, more groans and protests from the muscles. And yeah: when it’s “Should I Stay or Should I Go?” or “Humans Being”, the command is “push it.” You know the drill: if the tempo is driving, we’re going to hit it harder. Same goes for “Nutrocker” and “Tessie.” We must show proper respect for the national anthems of the Bruins and Red Sox. Funny how most of the shuffle songs today were in the “push it” command playlist.

And now you feel exhausted from the hips down. Oh, by the way: nice try on trying to get the rhomboids and trapezius muscles to knot up and go on strike. If you noticed, they got some extra attention today. You’re welcome.

So, Body, since you chose not to part with your water or fat hoard (we are not part of a camel, even though that came up in yoga yesterday. As did the Beatles from Abbey Road), there were consequences. And those consequences entailed 1962 calories burned, according to My Net Diary.

By the way, Body, if today’s little adventure does not cause you to give up, there’s always tomorrow. I’m thinking 2 or 3 hours of cardio.

Fair warning.

The Part of the 179 lbs Woman Will Be Played by A 181 lb. Woman Today

181.4 lbs. No explosion. I think I know where I went off the rails. Damn you, sodium! Plenty of water down the hatch. Grumble. Grumble.

Two firsts yesterday (3 if you count the Mavs winning the NBA Championship. I want one of those “Cavs for Mavs” T shirts that they have in Cleveland). I tried kale and I walked out of Pilates class. We’ll take these occurences in chronological order.

After putting in my hour of cardio, I changed shoes, grabbed yoga mat and headed for Pilates class, anticipating the usual teacher. She wasn’t there. Instead, we got a substitute with JMPD (Jillian Michaels Personality Disorder). First things first; she headed for the cabinet to strap on the wireless mike (Red Flag) and started up some energetic music (Another red flag). Anus (not her real name) announced that she didn’t conduct traditional Pilates; she teaches something called “Piyo” (bright pink flag) and it was very popular in her home gym (Big whoop). We were told Piyo was very athletic, combining the most challenging elements of Pilates and Yoga (to quote Denis Leary “thus the fucking name.” He was talking about Dunkin Donuts, what so proudly I hail. Best iced coffee on the planet). We were going to sweat and be tired. Lady (and I use the term loosely), I already sweat and get tired in a standard Pilates class. I do not give a rat’s, Mickey’s, Minnie’s or Mighty Mouse’s ass if half the room had just finished up the Body Pump class. I regard these hybrids with the same lack of respect I have for designer dogs (Puggle? Chiweenie? IT’S A FRIGGIN’ MUTT!!!! ESPECIALLY IF IT HAS BEAGLE IN IT OR THE BLEND RESULTS IN A TRULY STUPID NAME!!!!! GO TO THE SHELTER!) and fusion cuisine (Deep fried sushi? Pass). Another regular started rolling her mat. She had just finished the Body Pump class (this is a very fit lady) and we both figured that this wasn’t our bag. This was right after Anus announced that she had subbed our class a couple of weeks before and gotten “very positive reviews” (Yeah, by the sweat junkies. I was out that day: jewelry making class). I reviewed with my feet. Now is not such a good time for me to raise bail because I had punched a PiYo instructor in the face. Of course, I might have been able to get a recommendation on a good one: there are a couple of guys with T shirts from bail bondsmen and probable prison tats. I’m thinking frequent fliers: 5 bonds, no skip, you earn the T shirt.

The other first was just about equal in the success department: kale. I had picked up a bag at Trader Joe’s, having heard good things about it and we all need to eat our dark leafy greens. The bag described the contents as a “wild cabbage” that was suitable for eating in salad or sautéing (instructions on bag). I pulled out a leaf and gave it a nibble. Tasted like cabbage. Okay, I can work with this. I dug out a pot, added a half tablespoon of olive oil and commenced to sautéing (with plenty of garlic. Garlic is our friend, especially when it comes to camouflage. However, some combinations have explosive potential and perhaps should be preceded by a good dose of Beano. Interesting fact: many cabbage dishes contain caraway seeds because caraway lessens the gas generated by cabbage). I dumped some chicken into a dish and awaited the kale’s complete wilting.

Perhaps I should have waited longer. To say the stems were tough is an understatement. It was like trying to bite a redwood. The flavor was changed by the cooking process and the tough, chewy texture was not an enhancement. I’m thinking next time, remove the leaves from the stems. It may work as part of a salad mix or be more palatable as just leaves. Warning: kale seems to have a lot of naturally occurring sodium. Proceed accordingly. I will be examining the recipes for Portuguese kale soup. Sounds like a viable alternative.

Today was weight training and an hour of cardio. The cardio would have been at least 45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death except that my right kneecap said, “Oh, no you don’t, Bitch” while I was on the abductor (outer thigh) machine. My right kneecap does not care for pressure and while I was moving boxes on Saturday, I managed to give it a good, solid head-on whack against. This means stopping still, clenching jaws like a Great White Shark with a mouthful of Robert Shaw and willing myself not to cry. It passes, but this shit hurts. It hurts a lot and is very defensive for a few days afterwards. No stairs, no treadmills. Elliptical, it is (I’m psyching myself up for another shot at the spinning).

A curious thing happened yesterday and today: I got so wrapped up in my music and keeping up with it that I forgot to watch the timer on the machine. Net result was rather than carefully timed 6 minute extra effort burns, I was doing 20 minutes at an accelerated pace. Yeah: one-third of the total workout sustained at a more intense pace without breaks in between intervals.

I used to have a pair of inline skates. And I was afraid of them. Well, afraid of falling off of them (and this was before the doctor who told me I was “too old and too top-heavy” for inline skating). One Sunday, I took them down to the parking lot of a local business that I knew wasn’t open. At first, I was tentative and my skating was choppy and erratic. Then, as I was trying again, my mind started to wander to some pressing issues I needed to resolve. I was so focused on those problems that I wasn’t paying attention to my skating. When I came back to reality (so to speak), I was skating with smooth, strong strokes and maintaining my balance without a problem.

The same thing happened yesterday and today with the elliptical:  I was so focused on something else and rather distracted that I didn’t notice I was working harder than usual and maintaining the harder pace. John Mayer’s cover of “Route 66” (from the “Cars” soundtrack. What’s your point?) and Van Halen (Diamond Dave) had me going and going hard. Torquemada saw me and gave me a thumbs up (she loves to see me suffering).

I’ve got your PiYo right here.

Sound of Sizzling

187.2 lbs. Oh, Jesus P. God! Why, God, why???? 

I worked out hard yesterday, resisted temptation, drank water and Boom! Spike. Mother fucking son of a bitch!

.4 lbs., lousy four tenths, two fifths, not even a mother fucking half of a pound and BLAMMO! All of sudden, my downward progress is using the 2011 Red Sox as a role model. “What? We’re on a win streak! Aaaargh!! Panic!” And then they’ll get embarrassed by Cleveland or the Sisters of the Blessed Shroud Junior Varsity softball team.

Too much joy over the jeans? Too much excitement over being so close to 40 down, it seemed like a done deal? Who the fuck knows?

Incredible Hulk, my ass! HE’S afraid of me when I’m angry. And that includes Lou Ferrigno, Eric Bana AND Ed Norton! And their little CGI alters as well. That goes double for Norton.

So how did I handle this setback? Obviously, not with Christian grace and equanimity. Put it to you this way: by 5:30 AM, my ass was on the lower back press moving 250 lbs. In fact, I moved up in weight on all of the machines.

It’s a good thing that it was too early for Douchebag Nation.

But wait, there’s more.

Torquemada wants me to drip sweat, cardio blast and hit an hour of cardio, she got it. Well, one out of three is .333, which is a very nice batting average. (Please note, four strikeouts by one batter in a baseball game is known as a Golden Sombrero).

I hit the Rotating Staircase of Death for 45 minutes.  And that included time spent listening to Sarah Palin try to spin her ignorance of American History (I’m thinking she was only half paying attention on the Old North Church tour), listening to a financial reporter (alleged expert) discuss foreclosures, underwater mortgages and totally blow the term “Deed In Lieu” (He called it “Deed in Lease.” Idiot, but since Sarah Palin opened for him, the moronic tendencies were less heinous).  So, we’re talking physical and mental stress. Didn’t do much to lessen the anger, but by God, it kept me pushing.

Nixon didn’t sweat this much debating Kennedy.

1404 calorie burn. Suck on it, 187.2.

We’ll see what happens tomorrow (sound of fist being pounded into palm of hand).