August 19, 2010
Because sometimes, for absolutely no reason at all, even after you’ve been complimented, and you’re still sore from killer workouts, and you ate a superhealthy dinner the night before…
Sometimes, you get on the scale, and you see what, to most people (including some part of yourself that you cling to like a life preserver), are perfectly reasonable and healthy numbers. You see those numbers, and you wish you could just figure out how to go back.
So it’s a good thing you can’t find your lamp, because wishes should sometimes really not be granted.
August 18, 2010
On a 3½% tip, the stairmaster that looks like actual stairs is *much* more effective than the other kind. This kind? Is made entirely of pure evil and PAIN.
I’ll be doing it again tomorrow. *sigh*
Also, why do I find that Jimmy Dean planets commercial to be so cute?
In other random thoughts, did you know that iPhone’s autocorrect feature is adaptive? That is, over time, it will recognize things that you type regularly – onomatopoeias that you use regularly, or words that you intentionally misspell (I CAN haz cheezburger!), etc. A recent conversation made me think about how interesting it would be to gather a group of people and compare their personal lexicons for their iPhones. I suspect this would reveal some interesting qualities about the users and their relationships to the people they text and email the most.
August 12, 2010
I’m working on something about child-free zones, etc. But I don’t have time for that now, because work wants me to work, condo wants to be cleaned, friends want to be visited, and pool wants to be played. And, also, dinner wants to be cooked.
So I’ve been having much success with Trainer, who finally got around to measuring my body fat %. According to my Evil Scale of Doom, I’d lost only 8 pounds, but about 4% body fat since I’d last measured. According to Trainer’s (theoretically) more accurate apparatus, it’s closer to 6% since I started working with him (I did not disclose my previous measurement). All of which makes me feel great.
Though, this percentage? Does not look like I thought it would. At least, it doesn’t to me. I can still see things I’d rather not, still don’t fit into things I could wear 6 years ago. But the facts are there. I am in the “athletic” range for my height and age, and this is what I look like now.
It’s not an easy thing for everyone, accepting what they look like even when they’ve done everything they’re supposed to, even when the numbers say they should be thrilled.
So, yeah. I’m not going to worry about it, and I’ve been enjoying making myself healthier, fresh-food dinners, and working out really hard, and pushing myself farther than I thought I could go. I’ve been enjoying letting go of my expectations, too. Aspirations will always be welcome here, but expectations are another animal altogether, I think.
August 4, 2010
I was going to wear heels today, but ran into two problems.
The first, is that today’s workout has left me feeling somewhat two-dimensional – a condition under which raising one’s center of gravity seems unwise.
The second, is that today’s workout has left my legs feeling somewhat irritated towards me, and as I reached for the heels, they *ETA: (my legs, not the shoes!) detached from my body and kicked me until I promised that I would employ the flattest shoes I own.
That’s what it feels like, anyway.
July 28, 2010
Trainer has decided to get creative. And by “get creative”, I mean “indulge his long-denied fantasy of being a drill instructor”.
He’s been cribbing moves from special forces training manuals, apparently. Which is why I was crawling like there was barbed wire a few inches above my body, crouch-walking the length of the exercise room several times over, and various other things that had my legs shaking with exhaustion by 15 minutes into the workout.
If I had wanted to be special forces, I probably would have, you know, SIGNED UP TO BE IN THE MILITARY. As it is, it will probably TAKE special forces to get me up the stairs to my condo by the time I get home this evening.
On the plus side, the gold lamé dress is going to look fantastic, and I’m pretty sure that’s not something they let you wear when you’re special forces. Not unless The Nanny is their new wardrobe consultant.
July 19, 2010
You might think that a hyperindulgent weekend would result in one feeling terrible on Monday. You might think that six women in a condo 500 feet from tax-free outlet stores and .5 miles from a cocoa-centric spa would result in excessive purchases of clothing that would refuse to button the following week.
You might be wrong.
I’d been apprehensive about the weekend – I tend to feel gargantuan around most of my female friends anyway, as I am 3.5″ taller than the next tallest (who, it might be noted, wears clothes 3 full sizes smaller than mine), and they are all athletic and gorgeous. Not to mention smart and funny. Lovely and intimidating.
Also, I’d never been to a spa before. I signed up for one of the packages, thinking that the people who put these things together probably know a thing or two about producing enjoyable spa experiences. And we’ll talk more about the “rain shower” another time. But the massage? The massage induced the most blissfully languid epiphany:
I want to take care of myself.
I’ve had this body for kind of a while now, and I’ve hated it since I was six. For a while, I hated it passively, making it sit around on couches while I fed it all manner of junk food. Then I hated it slightly more actively, engaging in mild exercise while swearing off almost all foods, save a bizarre ritualized assortment of things I consumed only when alone. Then I hated it more damagingly, partaking of “tiny little flaming sticks of death” on a regular basis. And then I hated it a litte more responsibly, working out 4-5 times a week and eating more healthfully than I ever had before (though that’s not saying much). But I’ve never not hated it.
At least, not until somewhere in the middle of that massage, when it occurred to me that I didn’t. For at least 3 minutes, I not only didn’t hate it, but I loved it, and wanted to take care of it, rather than beat it into submission.
And this morning, I slept for an extra 45 minutes and neglected to put sugar in my tea. I also cringed at a few photographs from the weekend.
May 10, 2010
But, I Have Managed To Convince Myself That I Should Eat Dark Chocolate Every Ninety Minutes, So How Bad Can 4 Hours Of Sleep Be, Really?
I had one of those bizarre weekends where I did not manage to sleep in nearly as late as one might think. And last night, I went to bed at 12:30, having been pretty awake up until that point waiting for the ibuprofen to kick in so that neither spasmodic “lower back pain”* nor random convulsions of my gastrocnemius muscles** would interfere with sweet, sweet slumber.
And then I woke up at 4:45, to get to the gym this morning and then drop off dry cleaning that I have to pick up at 6:00 pm today if I’m going to have anything to wear in New Orleans later this week. Because I’m going to New Orleans for work, this week***. 😀
And then I got into the office and the first email I see is a daily digest of some personal interest to me, that highlights an article about a study done on mice in which epicatechin, a flavenol ingredient in dark chocolate, significantly reduced stroke damage in mice, when administered within 90 minutes of the attack. So clearly, I should eat dark chocolate every 90 minutes, just in case I’ve unwittingly had a stroke. You probably should, too.
*oooh, look! A present from the euphemism fairy!
**So, my new running shoes have made it possible for me to run 4-5 days a week, except that my trainer really worked my legs last Wednesday, and when I went for my run on Friday, I could but hobble in pain for the last 1.75 miles. Strictly muscle pain, but boy howdy – when my calves are tired, they don’t f*ck around.
***Sure, be jealous, because I would be too. But just so you’re not too jealous, let me also mention that my new cue? The one I’ve been drooling over for forever? It’s supposed to get here TOMORROW. After I LEAVE. I don’t get back until Friday. That is entirely too long to have to go without playing with my preciousssssss.****
****Heh. That sounds really dirty. I should get 4 hours of sleep more often. Also, I think I’ve given the euphemism fairy another phrase to use!
May 5, 2010
-roared the anguished Humbug, who suddenly realized that that was exactly what he’d eaten twenty-three bowls of.
It’s Wednesday! And we know what happens on Wednesday – I voluntarily submit myself to Trainer for a good pummelling. Today was no different.
Except, well… normally, he has me do X number of reps for each exercise, and that number is announced before I start, and he counts them down for me. And he’ll tell me when I’m halfway done, as a sort of encouraging measure.
Also, when he has me run on the treadmill without turning it on, for three minutes? He’ll tell me when I’m halfway done with that too – which would be more encouraging if time didn’t slow down to half-speed whenever he has me do that. Anyway.
So, normally, that’s what we do. And last week, he increased the weight I was using for a number of the exercises, and that was cool. Painful, but cool. This week?
This week, he KEPT ADDING TEN MORE.
40 reps on the leg extension? Sure. Oh, you’ve got ten more in you, let’s see ’em.
40 reps on the leg curl? Oh, you’ve got ten more in you. Let’s see ’em.
35 reps on the tricep pulldown? 30 on the assisted dip machine? Let’s see another ten on each.
I have never felt so cheated in my life. Okay, that’s a lie. But I certainly thought it was the truth at several points in time this morning.
Which doesn’t explain why – when he had me doing this squat to jump to squat to jump back thing, and he told me to do 50 reps, and then tried to tell me I was done at 40 – why, exactly, I told him that I still had ten more to do.
Because that’s just like asking for another bowl of Subtraction Stew, when you know exactly what it is you’ve eaten twenty-three bowls of already.
April 27, 2010
Honestly, it really didn’t take that long. Compared to birthdays past, it was a portrait of moderation in all things, including moderation.
When Thursday is one’s birthday, and Thursday is also one’s league night, one warns one’s teams that one might not play one’s best. Which is why I’m not at all upset about losing the one match that I played. Also, there was alcohol to enfuzz my memory. And, there was cake.
Cake! For me! With my name on it! And singing! It was a total surprise.
W took me home, and promised to help me retrieve my car the next day, which I mostly spent lazing about. Mostly, that is, until I couldn’t take it any more, and went for a run in the lovely spring weather, because I fail at sloth.
It really is so much easier to keep going, once you start to see good progress. Once things start to fit better, and you can see the lines just beginning to show around your abdominal area, and you can look at the stack of jeans in your closet and daydream, instead of wincing.
And so yes – I am recovered from the weekend of birthday celebration – but I feel like I’m also recovering from the past year or so of being just a little too indulgent, just a little too much of the time. Recuperation is a process, but I honestly feel like I’m getting better after a long illness of sorts.
It will be *great* to be 100% healthy again.
April 15, 2010
Lately, running has been that thing I do when I can’t motivate to go to the gym, or don’t have time for the gym. Running I can do with a quick change of clothes, with no driving or parking or scanning in or stashing my stuff.
But it’s been allergy season around here, and that’s stalled my runs somewhere in the 4-4.5 mile range. I usually follow it up with Level 3 of the Shred, but still – I’m not making any progress towards my previous 10k glory. My runs have been occasionally punctuated with brief periods of walking, with having to talk myself back into a faster pace.
Also? The most bizarre pain ever.
I get it when my hips hurt, when my knees creak in protest, when my calf spasms or when my hand gets tired of holding my iPod (I loathe the feeling of an armband). I know what tightness of chest signifies.
But this? is the MOST BIZARRE PAIN EVER. Because it is somewhere under my right boob. Specifically in the upper left-hand quadrant of my right boob, if one is facing me.
And while I wouldn’t put it past the Universe to bestow an affliction on me solely for the purpose of amusing passers-by as I stop running and try to, um, apply pressure to ease the pain, I stopped to think about it.
FYI, I go to the doctor regularly. And thankfully, along with my “you-don’t-have-cancer-you’re-just-abnormal-please-come-back-in-six-months” diagnosis, the various white-coated types I see were able to confirm that my heart is in *great* shape. Seriously. 100/55, RHR of roughly 51. The cardio, it pays off!
So, I tried to describe the pain – it’s a really sharp pain, and after it starts, breathing hurts like a m*&^@#f!~+<@#. After walking for a bit, it subsides, and then I run some more. And the doctor, she says that sounds like a runner’s stitch. And I point out that it’s in my boob.
And she says that it sounds like I’ve got a stitch. In my boob.