Still no surrender

179.8 lbs. HUZZAH!!! BELOW THE 180 MARK AGAIN!!!

And there was much rejoicing.

Okay, still not where I wanted to be by this point, but definitely better than where I was. I’m done with work for the day, I got to the gym early  and it’s the other end of laundry day (there is something magical and soul restoring about clean, fresh clothing, especially if you like the smell of your fabric softener). And the Red Sox are leading Texas for the moment. I emphasize the “for the moment” nature of this because these ARE my Sox and I know, from 40 plus years of following them, anything can happen, be it good or bad.

I had a breakthrough of sorts in yoga class yesterday. Still have a LOT of difficulty with the standing positions (but that’s okay since Dr. Best doesn’t want me doing them), but I achieved a goal: In Downward Dog, I GOT MY HEELS FLAT ON THE MAT!!! I’ve been working towards that goal since I started the class, working towards stretching the muscles little by little. I still have to have my knee on the mat for Crescent (and I have the chiropractor’s encouragement to do just that) and like I said, the standing poses are not my friends (balance on one foot. The right side is noticeably weaker than the left, which is odd because I’m right hand dominant, but that could be a function of the wonky knee and you’re probably so bored right now with this, you could shoot yourself). That’ll come.

Since I started writing this post on Wednesday, August 24^th  the weight jacked back up to 183.2 this morning with a stop at 181. My doing: I’ve been indulging in mindless eating yesterday and today by violating Susan’s Rule Number 1 to Avoid Eating the Wrong Thing: DON’T BUY IT AT THE STORE, DON’T HAVE IT IN THE HOUSE.  In this case, it was a Trader Joe’s trail mix called Peanut Butter Trax. Fruit, nuts and tiny little peanut butter cups (Danger, danger Will Robinson). ¼ cup is 130 calories BUT I didn’t stop at ¼ cup.  And today, I had lunch at Chipotle. I haven’t been to a restaurant of any kind in ages and I’m a fan of Chipotle’s. It wasn’t mindless, though: I made the decision to have a barbacoa bowl (with a little bit of rice, although it should be noted that starch is not my friend) and a beer. I haven’t had beer since December. And now, that’s done and out of my system.

I have also been back to the chiropractor and he treated that right knee with ultrasound (no fetuses found in the kneecap) and that sucker ACHED for a day and a half. I was warned off of any lower body  work by Dr. Best and the nasty-feeling knee reinforced it. So, no weight training Friday or yesterday (even though I was cleared for upper body). The Fucktard had no competition from me for the weight machines (Actually, I haven’t seen him around. Maybe he did finally verbally abuse the wrong person and got his ass tossed).

Although I dearly love this guy (in a cooperative and grateful within the boundaries patient sort of way), he used the “A” word on me with respect to my uncooperative upper back: arthritis. No. I refuse.

Look, nobody is going to condemn me any harder for backsliding than I will myself. I refuse to shrug it off as “Oh, well, you need a cheat day every now and then” and that is because I am a huge believer in the slippery slope. Thomas Jefferson said that “Eternal vigilance is the price of liberty” and the notion of staying on your toes applies to health improvement/weight loss. I’ve been down this road and I know that a little slack gets bigger and bigger and bigger until the whole project is undone and I have to go beg back all the fat clothes I’ve given away. Not this time.

I’m finding inspiration in odd places. With the see-sawing back and forth, I’m seeing a parallel to the uprising in Libya. My fat is the oppressive tyrant that’s been in control for decades (I’ll go 20 years to Gadhafi’s 42) and the muscles are the rebels taking control of one area after another, getting pushed back time after time, but ultimately, storming Tripoli and cornering the tyrant in its compound (that would be The Great Whit Belly). I’m getting closer to completing a push-up, so progress is still being made, even if the scale says something different. Unfortunately, the muscle/rebels of my body have not yet been recognized as a legitimate government (and part of my brain is saying that the guys raising hell in Libya are going to be as bad as what they’re replacing), that is coming.

So long as NATO doesn’t call in airstrikes on me…

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.

Pauses That Refresh

188 lbs.  Un fucking believable. If I was a cat, my tail would be swishing a mile a minute right now.

Making my way to an open Rotating Staircase of Death, I came across a woman in a harness attempting to run across the length of the gym while tied to another woman who was leaning back and dragging her feet (clearly, she did not want to follow her friend).  My first thought was that it was lucky that both women were about the same size or else it would have been Snoopy running like hell with Linus’s blanket in his mouth and Linus flying like a kite at the other end of the blanket.

I will paraphrase my Facebook update ((yes, I am that narcissistic and obsessed over this. Deal with it): Just because the extra 3 lbs. followed the body home from the gym (or wherever. It sure as hell wasn’t all you can eat buffet), my body cannot keep it. Either it goes overnight (for which there is precedent) or I will deploy the nuclear option and go grilled chicken, brown rice and broccoli, all of which have been purchased . Consider this Def Con 3. Def Con 4 involves a liquid diet.

As I did on Monday, I channeled my anger and frustration into my weight training today (even at 5:15 AM, the Grunt Brothers were all over the Juice Bar, which is the weight and cable set up that resembles monkey bars. Given the bulk, acne and generally obnoxious behavior observed, there was a reasonable suspicion of steroids , therefore  Juice Bar). I was able to increase weights on everything, including the Prone Leg Curl. (And I’ve figured out why it’s more difficult than Seated. With Prone, you’re lifting the weight up, so you’re battling gravity unlike Seated. All I know is, it’s a bitch. I’ve increased the amount on the stack, but it’s still a bitch).

Even though I’ve gone up on weights (and yeah, ha ha, weight under the belt, too), my legs are no longer trembling by the time I get to the end of my circuit (I go through legs, then upper body, then abdominals). Perhaps that’s an indicator that I’ve outgrown the machines.  Maybe I should throw a Paypal gadget on this blog to pay for more training sessions with Torquemada.  And a new wardrobe. And broccoli.  

Sox are leading the Forces of Darkness and the Bruins just took a 3 nothing lead on the Vancouver Cheap Shot Artists. (Bite me, Burrows)  It may end up as a good night to be a Boston fan. (It did indeed turn into a good night for Boston fans).

As mentioned, I got up at dark thirty this morning. While I’d prefer to be asleep for at least two more hours, I admit I love the stillness of the wee small hours. In a very crowded city, it’s a way to find some elbow room, even if it’s only for an hour.

I first moved to this area in 2002 and fell in love with the Topanga Canyon area. There is Topanga Canyon State Park with trails that will lead from Topanga Canyon over the Santa Monica Mountains to Sunset Boulevard, an 8 mile hike. (It’s not the Eagle Rock Loop Trail) Not having a ride waiting at the other end and being mindful of snakes, I set out early one Sunday morning on this trail to go as far as I could and still return (about halfway).  

It was early and misty. I was the only person on the trail and I enjoyed the soundtrack provided by nature including quiet. I detest winter, but I love the silence that comes with a snowfall. Sometimes, you need just that to reboot your soul. If you’re performing an activity in the middle of it where you can maintain a rhythm, there’s a meditative quality to it. I was walking at a steady rate so I had that going. A hawk soared past my head at one point and I could hear the air moving through its feathers. Since I was wearing a red sweatshirt, a hummingbird buzzed me.

The trail I was on hugged some steep cliffs and I couldn’t see around the corners. As I approached one especially sharp curve, I heard running coming from the other side. I moved to the side of the trail closest to the hill (I’m not a big fan of drop-offs, so I stayed away from the edge) and prepared to smile and wave at the runners coming around the corner.

Except that they weren’t runners.

As I came around the corner, I found myself face to face with three deer. I froze. They studied me for a couple of minutes, then scrambled up the embankment. Five minutes later, a group of bicyclists rode by and as I returned to my car, groups of chattering hikers started to hit the trail. The spell was completely broken, but I had witnessed something that they wouldn’t. You need to be silent for those moments.

For the moments when you’re pushing 248 lbs. on the leg press, you need AC/DC.

Amazingly Enough, My Scale is Still In One Piece

187.2 lbs. God, it is rumored that You have created Man in Your own image. Is this Your way of telling me You have a fat ass? Or are You jealous of me getting into those 501 jeans? Huh?

As a “fuck you” gesture to the 2.2 lbs. of water weight stowing away on my body, I just ate a Chocolate Almond Horn. This still has me with a 1602 calorie loss for the day, so no apologies.

Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not one of mine. Insert annoyed sigh. Torquemada just shrugged and said, "That's the name of the game." Oh, really? You mean, if I do this the way everyone says I should, it's reasonable for it NOT to work? Is that what you're saying? Fuck that noise.

Yoganesia (yo-GUH-neezha): (noun) The syndrome in which the yoga instructor completes a series of poses for one side of the body and completely forgets the other side of the body.

Despite yesterday’s post about being angry at the 2.2 lbs. (which I still am because the little fuckers haven’t left), I am not hormonal. It is not “that time of the month,” nor am I 1)with child, 2) freshly dumped or 3) recently insulted by a cheerleader. Sometimes, a chocolate almond horn is just a chocolate almond horn.

The only thing mitigating my anger at the moment is the Red Sox are winning. Against the Yankees (aka The Forces of Darkness).  However, as the great Yogi Berra (the only NY Yankee I ever liked. We are not discussing members of the local Tee Ball team here) said, “It ain’t over til it’s over.”

1400 calorie burn yesterday was not enough to budge things downward. Fine. Plan B is another big burn tomorrow (I would have done an hour of elliptical today, but I took too long to get to the gym before yoga class) BUT tomorrow’s food is going to be mostly protein. We’ll see if replacing more meals with the protein shake makes a difference.

It would be nice to wake up to a lower number on the scale tomorrow. Yes, I feel entitled. I’ve put the work in on it. And while we’re at it, a winning Mega Millions ticket and George Clooney’s phone number would also be nice. As Yul Brynner said (seemingly every 10 minutes in “The Ten Commandments”), “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

In a shocking development today, just before the start of yoga, I was describing Pilates class to a well-built young gentleman (yoga regular and damned good at it, too) and especially the dreaded Pilates roll up which, as of Sunday, was still beyond my abilities, I don’t care how you modify the fucking thing. He didn’t know what I was talking about so I demonstrated it for him…

And completed the Pilates roll up. How the hell did that happen? I tried it couple of more times and did it pretty easily. I began to hear the “Twilight Zone” theme.

I held a Tree Pose for more than a nanosecond today. On each side. It was an out of body experience because CLEARLY this was not my body doing these things. You know, when the aliens abduct you and do their experiments, you never remember it. Somebody swapped my body with that of a much fitter person. Who is probably pissed off. My body is probably running from Marvin the Martian right now, holding the Illudium Q 37 Exploding Space Modulator  (Bugs Bunny stole the Q 36 version. Steven Jobs is hinting that the IQ 38 may be introduced in time for Black Monday Christmas shopping. Or it may be delayed, something to do with an unstable supply of instant Martians).

Have I reached critical mass, though? Has the Great White Belly shrunk enough to permit (duhn duhn duhn) PAINTING MY OWN TOENAILS????? Between the yoga and the shrinking belly, could be. God knows, I think I’ve learned the Vietnamese for “Okay, I think I have the winner in today’s biggest feet pool!” (Size 9.5 or 10, depending on the shoe) and “Have you ever seen such weird toes?” (I have Roman toes, meaning the second toe is longer than the big toe. Marilyn Monroe had Roman toes. We also share June 1 as our birthday) or “I bet she can pick up a dime with these toes!” (No, I can’t. But I did win a contest with my younger sister one time by picking up car keys, an emery board, a quarter and a nickel. It was her idea)

I had that day last month where I dropped 5 lbs. overnight. That was a great day. I’d like to have another one. Every day or week is too much, but I don’t see a problem with once a month. Well, how about that; it’s a new month!  What are the odds?

Despite the most recent setback, I’m feeling good enough that I would hit on Hugh Jackman. I have a short list of men from whose wives I would fully accept an ass-kicking in exchange for knowing their men in the Biblical sense. Mrs. Jackman is Number One on the list, mostly because there is no Mrs. George Clooney. I would accept a gang beatdown by the wives and girlfriends of the men from “300” (chick flick) provided the men were whipped back into cape and loincloth shape.

But I digress. Pardon me while I wipe some drool from the corner of my mouth.

This gain plus plateau is getting busted, one way or another, and getting busted to my liking. I am getting my ass into those jeans, dammit.

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).

Photo HIstory

A brief history of me through the years and the pounds.

From 1979 (My high school graduation photo) to 1983 (My UVM graduation photo) to a 1989 candid shot with my mother. Notice that I didn't look like a beached whale. As far as I can tell, things went wrong somewhere around 1992 to 1993. The fourth shot was taken June 28, 2000 (If someone recognizes that guy, let me know) and the final picture was taken July 4, 2010 at Marie Pettit (that's her in the picture) and Chris Gregson's Fourth of July party. Not only do I look bloated, but I also look ill.

Picture Number 6, is dated May 13, 2011.

THe point being, despite getting feedback to the contrary, I have not been overweight all my life.