Tuesday, December 25, 2012

The Best Gift

So, Merry Christmas! It was a great day of family, friends and food-- lots and lots of food.  He-who-trains came for dinner, though I had to be clear: he was only allowed as my friend.  Even the Pudgy Parson is not silly enough to invite the trainer for dinner.

Certainly, the day is not about gifts, but... I got an unexpected gift that thrilled me.  I'd told my mom I wanted sweaters-- and told her to buy them a size smaller than normal.  I reasoned that if I couldn't quite wear them now, I probably could soon.  But surprise! They fit really well!  (And one was even too large...)

But maybe fitting in a new size wasn't the best gift.  Maybe the best gift was knowing that I'm a new person.  That tomorrow, after a day of eating what I want and enjoying it, I'll be back to working hard.  That the holidays won't ruin me.  That, this year, when I make a resulotion, it will actually happen.  That being the Pudgeless Parson is much more than a distant dream.

Sunday, December 23, 2012


So after yesterday's whiny blah blah blah... I always mess up this time of year... blah blah blah post, I fessed up to He-who-trains.  (Not that I needed to, because dude is kinda like Santa Claus-- knows when you've been bad or good.)  But he  knows me, and my life as a pastor, so he's backed off on me this week-- knowing that I was struggling.  And while I appreciate his giving me a little breathing room and not being the training nazi this week, I also want more for myself.

I let him convince me to meet him at his gym, after he'd done a fine job convincing me that I was ready for it.  Up until now, he's trained DH and me at home-- in the privacy and comfort of our own little den. (Um, which is blessedly without mirrors.)  But he was right, I was ready.  Things were definitely amped up a notch or two. He swears that my next post will read, "He-who-trains took me to the gym...and DANG!"  But he's wrong.  Because I wasn't whipped.  Because after a minute of feeling crappy in the middle, I was ready to work. He had us doing cardio after burning us out on the weights, but I could've gone a lot longer and harder than I did.  He also swears that I'm not going to be able to lift my arms to do the benediction today, but I aim to prove him wrong on that too. (Now what he doesn't know is that my calves may be too toasted to wear heels.  Moses preached barefoot, right?)

So I didn't hate going to the gym with him as badly as I thought I would.  I hated the mirrors, which he kept insisting I use.  I hated some of the looks I got.  But I liked the new things.  Even though I was freaked out by what he kept calling the "next phase of training", I liked the amped up feeling.  I liked that he didn't stop me when he might've liked to, because he looked in my face and knew that I wasn't lying when I said "I'm fine."

It was a redemption of sorts-- at least a redemption of a week of bad behavior.  It was a chance to see that my body is getting stronger, to be reminded that what I eat matters, and to look to a future when the strange looks turn to looks of awe.  Yeah.

And in other news, it was weigh-day.  After a month of not looking at a scale, the news was decent.  8lbs down. I haven't had a chance to ask He-who-trains about it, but I'm guessing most of that loss was fat.  (And I'm also guessing that there was a gain of some muscle mass too, but since He-who-trains hasn't yet subjected me to fat-pinchy things, then we'll just have to guess about that.  And really, I'm ok with that!) For that loss to happen during the worst time of the year for me...well, that's a win. Imagine what I can do when I can give this a lot more time and enery.

Saturday, December 22, 2012

The same (sane?) struggle

Lord a mercy, it's been a week.  And the Pudgy Parson has been all about the parson part, but not so much about the Pudgy part.  I've been going nonstop since last week, and my commitment discipline has been waning.  I've been watching my calories (sort of) but I haven't even looked at the ratios of food I've been eating. I don't remember how many days its been since I've had a protein shake. I've only worked out with He-who-trains once (but as a recall, my arms were jello by time he left.  It was a holy mess of effort to make my arms work together well enough so that I could put my work clothes on.)   I'm longingly looking at Fudge Covered Oreos when I pass them in the store ( You know, because a sugar sandwich isn't enough-- we should cover it in Fudge too. At least I'm still passing them by...) I'm tired and grouchy.  My heart rate is back to staying way too high.  I've been running on the verge of dehydration for a week. And I'm frustrated because, this is the time when I do this every year.  The time when self-care becomes so low a priority that I sabbotage myself and inevitably get sick. The time that makes me have to repent and start again after Christmas. (Here's what I wrote last year about this same.dang.struggle.)

This season started out so much better-- I had hopes that I wouldn't fall prey to the same patterns.  Maybe I just need to get in a good workout.  Maybe I need to make myself start sending food logs to He-who-trains again (because that look is enough to scare me straight.) Maybe I need to get the "Eat Crap, Feel Like Crap" lecture again.

 Or maybe I just need to let some things go and quit pretending that I'm superwoman.  Maybe it's not too many commitments and worship services and to-dos that ruin me this time of year. Maybe it's thinking that I'm superwoman, who should be able to juggle all these things gracefully.  If I could get myself one gift for Christmas, it would be a reminder to let myself be who I am, not who I want everyone to think I am.  It would be something that would remind me that taking care of myself is more important than setting a pretty Christmas table in a perfectly clean house, next to a tree with delightfully wrapped (and homemade) presents.

On the upside, I'm seeing progress. In just shy of two weeks, I lost 2.5 inches from my waist alone.  Maybe that will be enough to help me hold on to my motivation until the real Pudgy Parson surfaces again. (This tired, apathetic person writing under the Pudgy Parson's name is not the Pudgy Parson.  The Pudgy Parson is a conquering rockstar sort of person.)

Friday, December 14, 2012

What I'm not doing this weekend

I would have been on my way to New Orleans by now, going to see a friend and his sweet family.  And then doing a half marathon on Sunday.  Oh that.

It was decided in March-- before I got sidelined with the shin splints that wouldn't quit, before my world got all unsettled in a move that I didn't expect. I remember running down in the cornfields, feeling free, knowing I could make it happen.

But clearly, it didn't.  I haven't run in so long now that I'm not sure I could even do 1 mile, much less 13.1. (Though I'm getting a lot stronger and my endurance is increasing--so who knows.  Maybe I could do two?) And he-who-trains has grounded me from running.  (On days like yesterday, I was almost willing to do it anyway, and get the look, and deserve his ire.  If only I hadn't given my word...I took a nap instead.)  I guess I'm a little sad. At not seeing my friend whom I miss (but who may come this way around Christmas).  At not taking a fun trip.  At not accomplishing the thing that I wanted to do.

If I were doing the half like I'd so neatly planned, there are some things I wouldn't be doing this weekend. Like inviting my new church family into my home for a Christmas open house.  Like training with my husband, who has joined me in this new life. (Really, really excited about that, but that's a post for another day.)  Like strengthening my body and losing weight well.

I might've been able to do the half.  But there's a good chance I would've hurt myself in the process.  I might've been able to push harder and harder.  I might've cried every time I walked.

I don't want that.  I don't want to limp across the finish line just to check something off a bucket list. When I finally run the half, I want to cross the finish line having given it everything I have, knowing that I worked with my body, seeing that I was strong enough to do it well. I want to cross the line, grinning from ear to ear in a way that says "Booyah, World!"  For me, victory is no longer just crossing the line and having done it.  Victory is putting in the time and effort to transform my body, so that it does all the things my brain wants to do.

So, I'm not running a half this weekend. But that's ok.  Because the girl who would've run it wasn't ready to do it well.  And that girl, the one who would stupidly fight with her body instead of working with it, well she doesn't exist any more.

Thursday, December 13, 2012

What Do You Eat?

DH and I went on a trip with all the church folks yesterday. The church folks who know I'm working really hard to change my lifestyle.  The church folks who've been watching what I'm eating at every meal.  The ones who offered to distract He-who-trains at a mexican restaurant so that I could eat chips and salsa.  (They cleary don't know about his ability to know things without seeing them.  He's worse than a parent, with eyes in the back of his head.  He doesn't even need eyes.  He just knows.) The ones who were unimpressed with my lunch of Greek Yogurt and a banana the other day-- and vowed that if that's what it took, then they weren't interested in losing weight.   But I said (and meant), "I don't eat much differently than I did. That's probably what I would've had for lunch anyway. I eat the things I like.  I just make sure that I eat the right amount of things.  And then, there are some things that I don't eat."

I knew it was going to be interesting spending the day with them, and trying to show that I could eat well. We were prepared for the difficulty of eating not one meal out, but two.  We cringed as we stopped a "Southern" restaurant... after all, that is not typically a place where it is easy to eat well. ( Don't misunderstand.  I love Paula Deen, and cried when she found out she had Diabetes.  I'm not opposed to southern cooking that uses a stick of butter per dish.)  But we navigated that well, and each had a smoked pork chop.  I enjoyed it, and didn't feel a bit sad that I wasn't having any of the cornbread or things dripping in butter.

But, later, when DH and I were shopping alone, we stopped at Chick-fil-a.  I was a tracking super-star so I knew exactly how many calories I had left.  I knew that despite He-who-trains advice to take a splurge meal, that I hadn't. I knew that I could reasonably eat a small thing of nuggets without splurging, and did.  But the thing that seemed splurge-worthy was a peppermint chocolate chip shake.  After all, that's been a Christmas tradition for a few years.  (And um, not just one during Decemeber--but you know, after I'd been shopping strenuously.  After I'd put up Christmas decorations.  After I'd gotten a haircut. After I got out of bed. You know, only when it was really deserved.) But this time, I wanted to know exactly how bad the splurge was.  So I looked it up on my handy app and was completely appalled by what I found. 850 calories?? I knew it was bad... but bad in my mind was more like 400 calories.  I had no idea...

I sent a picture to He-who-trains, and even though he advocates a splurge once a week, I think he might have actually stapled my lips closed if I had eaten it.  I could feel the look through the phone.  Apparently, spending 850 calories to get 16 grams of protein is not justifiable.

So, what do I eat? Well, I ate just like I did.  Except that I don't eat (er...drink) milkshakes from Chick-fil-a.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012

Put me in, Coach!

He-who-trains has two looks that I hate getting.  The first is his "I-don't-yell-ever-but-seriously?" look.  It's the one that says "you're kidding with this, right?".  (It's kinda like my dad's raised eyebrow look.   Wow, I must've been an easy kid.  Just a look stikes terror in my heart.)  The second is the look of concern after I've fessed up to something-- like my knee hurting or being a little dizzy.  It's the look that means he's gonna stop me from doing whatever it is that caused the problem.

I'm getting the first look a lot less often than I was.  Maybe that's progress.  But I'm getting the second look a lot more often than I'd like.  If it weren't for fear of getting the first look, I might just not acknowledge that anything is wrong. Except that he knows.  He always knows. (Um, he can have his back turned and know that I'm holding my breath. He's that good.)

My body (my spirit of ferocity?) has changed enough that I am beginning to actually get annoyed when he stops me.  I just want to go.  I just want to do this.  I don't want to give it less than I have.  I want to be all in. Just a few weeks ago, I was praying that he'd stop me-- you know, just so I could take care of the basics, like breathing. So I could franctically suck down water in hopes that I didn't just die right there.  But now, something is different.

I have never been this person, but I feel like the kid that the whole team is counting on-- the one who has worked so hard.  The one who it seems like always has the rotten luck of getting sidelined by an injury. The one who says "Put me in, Coach-- it doesn't matter if my leg is dangling at some unnatural angle-- I can play.  I want to play.  I need to play." But of course, no good coach would do that. No good coach would let stupidity ruin an athlete.  No, the coach takes him off the field until his body can heal and restregthen, so he doesn't hurt himself.

The problem is that I have a good coach--one who values the long term goal much more than these five minutes.  Not, of course, that that stops me from narrowing my eyes and saying (praying?) "please don't stop me. Put me in, Coach.  I'm fine really."

Monday, December 10, 2012

Use It or Lose It

He-who-trains is very clever.  I must've made a big enough stink about not being allowed to run that he knew he would have a battle on his hands if he didn't get me something else that I loved almost as much.  So he brings martial arts back into my life, and makes me wonder why I ever quit.  (No seriously.  Why didn't I keep on going and keep on training?  I could've done that through college and seminary instead of hustling pool. What? Every girl needs a vice or two.)  He-who-trains has done martial arts forever and ever, amen-- and he's crazy fast.  Occasionally, he will demonstrate things for me--kicks and punches so near to my head that it takes an act of God for me to stand still.  Oh, he's tremendously accurate and I have no worry at all that he'd ever miss, but I'm pretty sure he's gonna make me wet my britches one day.

I miss doing Tae Kwon Do.  I wasn't ever very good at it, but I really enjoyed it. That was what I always wanted to do as a kid, but never did.  When I finally did it as an adult, it was every bit as fabulous as I thought it would be.  I would spar with my judo-loving friend who made me work really hard not to let the fight go to the ground, because I was toast. I sparred-- somewhat disastrously (though neither one of us will admit it to the other) with my 6'8" lawyer friend.  I would've sworn that I never got a shot in on him because of those long arms and legs, but he later told me I left him with some good bruises.

But all that was a lifetime ago.  My whole world (and body...blrrrgh) has changed since then.  And I've forgotten so much that I'm beginning to wonder if I made up taking TKD for as long as I did.  I've forgotten even the basics.  He-who-trains is having to take me through everything so slowly that it's like the first time I've seen it done. It's taking a phenomenal amount of mental energy to follow what he's doing and make my body even begin to think about replicating his movements.  I wasn't ever stellar at TKD, but I don't remember it being that hard for me to follow the instructors. I wasn't usually the first person to get something, but I caught on a lot faster than a good bit of the class.  Is this what it's like to get old? Or is my brain just a lot more full than it used to be?

After he left, I led myself through the movements again and again, slowly, until it made some sense.  Things started coming back to me--memories of doing touch and go crescents to warm up my hips. How to rotate my feet and body to get them in position for kicks. They're vague, useless memories right now, but at least they're in there.  Maybe muscle memory will eventually take over, until my old, cluttered, distracted brain can pick up the slack.

He-who-trains is stirring up something.  Because of my knees, I may never be able to be the runner I want to be.  But maybe the running, at least for me, is partly about conquering the seemingly unconquerable. I sure haven't conquered martial arts.  Maybe that's something I could pour my energy into again.  I think getting at least a black belt is back on my bucket list.  Only when I go back, I'm not gonna let it fall from my memory.  Maybe one day when I'm the age  He-who-trains is now,  I'll want to show off for some young person and make them hypervenilate from my sheer speed and martial arts prowress.  I can only do that if I make it a point to use it.

On a side note, it was indeed the good workout I'd hoped for and needed. My heartrate was comfortably high.  My muscles were getting fatigued to the point where I was getting sloppy--er, sloppier--in my kicks. But I felt like I could've kept going for a while.  I felt like I had more to offer than was being asked. My body is getting stronger.  I don't feel like I owned the workout, but for once, I don't feel like the workout owned me.  I'll take it.

Saturday, December 8, 2012

Overcoming mental hurdles

I woke up this morning with a 1000 things running through my head-- not that that's unusal for me.  The house is a holy mess (and nowhere near ready for the aforementioned open house), I didn't get nearly enough done yesterday, and on top of that, we had a sick dog last night so we didn't get much sleep. Oh, yeah and it's Advent.  The time when the rest of the world waits in Holy Expectation-- the time when pastors are a frenzied lot.

But my brain quickly shifted, and I realized that today was Saturday. It's a training day. Several weeks ago, my brain would've reminded me of all the things I should be doing.  It would've told me it was ok to bail on He-who-trains, to let everything else become more important than this. Which, of course, is how I've done things before.

Today, though, my brain knows that training might just be the most important thing on my calendar.  And strangely, body and brain are looking forward to it. He-who-trains told me the body is like a machine--it gets pumped when it gets on a schedule.  The mere act of putting on workout clothes or drinking the afternoon protein shake is enough to trigger the body's memory-- to make it ready to go harder. I'm not sure that my body is a machine yet, but this is definite progress.

Funny, the way it is.  How things change.  How the body adapts and grows.  Where only a few weeks ago, I kind of dreaded working out (especially with a trainer), today I'm all in and making sure that nothing stands in my way.  I'm looking forward to a workout that is hard enough to wipe me out and leave me drained.  I'm hoping my shoulder muscles ache a little bit tomorrow when I do the benediction. Today, I hope will be a "Go Hard or Go Home" sort of day.  No aching knees.  No racing heart. No mental wishy-washyness.  Just a day to make my body stronger.

The Pudgy Parson is comin' out to play, y'all.  I knew she was in there somewhere.  She just got buried under a to-do list the size of Montana.

Friday, December 7, 2012

Open House, Not Open Heart Surgery

I've been a ponderin' and a plannin'.  Most people are smart enough not to start a new lifestyle during the Holidays, because there is just too much fun to be had. The pudgy parson, on the other hand, dived right in and started all of this during the week before Thanksgiving.  Which has actually been fine, and I don't feel like I've missed any of the fun. (I actually feel better this year than I ever have.  Read about it here)

But the problem comes with the open house that I've been planning since I took this church in September. Entertaining is serious business to me, and normally, I would've already been cooking for a week or so by now. I would have been making lots of sweet things, and things wrapped in bacon.  I probably would've gone through at least six blocks of cream cheese, a bag of chocolate chips, half a bag of flour, half a bag of sugar, a bag of confectioner's sugar, and at least a pound of butter by now. The thought alone makes my stomach do flips.  And I could do it this year, without worrying about sabbotaging myself. I would be fine to make all those things and not eat any of them.

Of course, I realize the hypocrisy of doing that.  Here I am trying to create a healthy lifestyle, and at least mentally, walking around with a "please don't feed the pastor" attitude.  How can I do that while simultaneously feeding my guests things that aren't good for any one?  Especially when I'm getting ready to start a program at the church that focused on creating a healthy community?  Yeah, I can't.  At least not in good conscience.

So, this year's open house guests will be treated to a variety of healthy things.  I've gotten the new Hungry Girl cookbook (which I LOVE).  Her whole thing is that everything is under 300 calories, and each recipe has the nutritional breakdown. She gets creative about using non-traditional ingredients to add nutrients and texture (like pumpkin mix into brownie batter-- instead of all the other stuff.)

I've been wrestling over how to handle the open house for a while. But I'm pleased with my decision.  I really don't think people will notice that I'm feeding them "healthy" things (or at least they wouldn't if I hadn't talked to so many of them about the lifestyle I'm creating.) Even if they did notice, I don't think they would miss the other things.  And besides, this gives me a chance to bear witness to the fact that choosing to be healthy isn't the burden that many people think it is.

Now that this is settled, the only other thing I have to figure out is how many calories polishing the silver burns.  And if my pearls go with a cute suzie-homemaker sort of apron.

Thursday, December 6, 2012

I get by with a little help from my friends

"... I'm gonna try with a little help from my friends." So say the Beatles anyway.

If you'd asked me to describe myself in a few words, one of the words I can guarantee that I would've used is "independent." As in, for the most part, I'm capable of doing what I want to do.  That was a source of pride--kinda like how I feel about never having owned a car that wasn't a stick shift. You know, just some small feather in my cap. (I didn't say, mind you, that these things made any sense. I have no idea why driving a stick shift causes any sort of pride, but a girl has to get her kicks where she can.)

I'm beginning to think that my independence isn't always productive or helpful. There was a scene on Grey's Anatomy (not that the Pudgy Parson would watch that less than wholesome show...) a few weeks ago that painted a pointed picture of me.   Arizona was a new amputee.  She didn't know how to operate her new prosthetic leg, but she didn't really want help to learn, either.   She made the therapist mad and he left her alone.  So she fought on and tried to do it herself, and fell flat on her face.

I've realized that I'm getting close to the point where I've fallen before.  If I were doing this alone, I think I would've gotten so frustrated at my grouchy knee that instead of taking time to strengthen it, I would've tried to push through. I've never like the expression "might makes right" but I know I've been guilty of using that tactic with my body. I know that if I were on my own, I'd be forcing myself to run, never mind that my knees are sometimes screaming when I just walk. I know that I've done daft things with how I eat (not like cabbage-soup-for-a-week dumb, but probably only because it sounded too gross to even think about.)

I'm in a place where I'm dying to power through-- to just go all in.  To do this, quickly, fiercely, and with no regrets.  But of course, my body is less excited than my brain is.  After all, it's my body that's having to do all the work.  It's my body that's having to overcome my past mistakses.  It's my body that's having to create new habits.  My body is throwing temper tantrums.  One day it's a knee.  Another day it's a random skyrocketing heartrate.  Another day it's feeling like my feet are tied to concrete blocks.

But He-who-trains is a rockstar. He's watching and making notes and adjusting. He's making sure I'm honest, both with him and with myself, about where my body actually is. He's forcing me to work with my body, so that I don't hurt it.  So that I don't repeat the cycle of pushing too hard, doing things incorrectly, and then winding up sidelined for weeks and months.

Whatever doubts I had about working with a trainer are gone. Even if it means making promises that are hard, but are for my health.  Even if it means having to report back to some one, honestly.   Even if it means having to sacrifice a little independence.  Because He-who-trains and I both want the same thing-- for me to live in a body that's strong and healthy and capable of all the things my brain wants to do.  But, it turns out, that only of us really knows how to get me there.

Oh, I get by with a little help from my friends...

Wednesday, December 5, 2012

Maybe not this year...

For perhaps the first time ever, I don't think I'm worried about the inevitable weight gain that seems to come with the holidays. First of all, He-Who-Trains has forbidden me from getting anywhere near a scale for a month.  Even if I gained, I wouldn't know it.   But more than that, I don't really think that's a possibility-- unless of course, I'm gaining muscle. (This, of course, is where He-Who-Trains would jump in and tell me that I should let him body-fat calliper me. This Pudgy Parson is getting braver, but not that brave yet.  No fat-pinchy things near me. No way.  Nuhuh.) The things that have been tempations for me are not this year.  I've had nary a glass of eggnog (or even just what makes eggnog fun).  I think I could probably make a whole batch of my favorite Christmas cookies and not even have a bite of the dough. I may not have any idea what the scales say (and that's a blessing, because at least they aren't saying "One at a time, please."), but I'd call that progress. I've fought it every year.  Every year, I've felt out of control of my body. Every year, I was certain that I was just doomed.  Every year, I let myself believe that gaining weight is just what people do at the holidays. Every year, I've felt gross well into January, and then proceeded to make the same stale resolutions.

Maybe not this year. Because this year, I'm in charge. This year, there are things I want more than Christmas cookies.

Sins of Omission

Apparently, it's my mouth that gets me into trouble: promising things that I later have to fight to mean, agreeing to things that I wish I hadn't agreed to.   He-who-trains wants me to keep a log of everything I eat.  Well, that's fine.  I'm already doing that.  I've been using my iphone and the Livestrong app to keep track of my food intake for several weeks now.  I've been proud of myself, getting pretty close each day to the number of calories He-who-trains wants me to eat and the ratio of carbs, proteins, and fats he wants me to maintain.  It was a struggle, but the Pudgy Parson is a conquerer. I was all about the food log.

But then I realized that he wants to actually see my food log.  And while my brain was saying "No way, bozo", my mouth was happily saying, "Oh, ok.  I can do that.  I think I can export directly from my app.  How often would you like that emailed to you?"

See.  It's the brain-mouth connection that's a problem.

But a bigger problem is that I don't particularly want to send him my food log.  I've been really honest in it, having gotten pretty skilled at tracking during the Weight Watchers years. I think a food log is a great tool.  Yet, now I think about what happens if I want to cheat.  Oh, He-who-trains is ok with a splurge meal.  (Oops I almost wrote "splurge day"--- Freudian slip? Wishful thinking?) I could tell him that I ate pizza or burgers one night. Though I'm betting I'd get the look if I said I ate pizza and burgers one night.

So what do I do if in a stress-induced eating fit, I gobble up a chocolate cake? Do I accidentally forget that I ate it? Or do I write "slice of chocolate cake"? Granted, I haven't even been tempted by these things lately.  I haven't wanted sugar.  I haven't wanted to cheat. In fact, I've wanted to be brutally honest.  I want to finally be healthy.

But now that I'm supposed to be sending him my food logs, all of the sudden I'm starting to think about these things.  Like more accountability makes me want to be less accountable. Like I need the freedom to be off the radar.

I just have to keep telling myself that sins of omission are just as serious as sins of commission. So maybe if I eat the entire chocolate cake, I have to admit to both myself and He-who-trains that I ate the entire chocolate cake.

Or maybe, it would be easier to just keep doing the things I have been doing, and eating well.  Sans Chocolate Cake.

Tuesday, December 4, 2012


Yesterday was my low intensity day... and my trainer agreed to let me take my dog for a walk instead of putting my pudgy parson's rearend in the seat of a recumbant bike...or worse in a bathing suit.  I had a marvelous time-- I hadn't been on just a walk in so long.  Lately, all of my exercise has been structured and carefully planned... and thought inducing.  Gone are the days of mindless walking and running.  But he gave me permission.  It was a clear, cool night.  There were Christmas lights to look at, and a small-town charm to absorb.  Bella was beyond happy...she's missed it too.   It was one of those night that if I hadn't made a promise to my trainer that I wouldn't run, I would've.  Wowee, was it tempting. But I think he would've known, and I'm not eager to incur the wrath of He-Who-Trains. Besides, a promise is a promise--even if it's hard to keep. So I set out, with only two guidelines.  1) That I would keep my heartrate in the 130's. 2) that I wouldn't hurt my knee.  "I won't.  I promise." (I started to add, "Daaaad"-- because I've gotten that same lecture from my dad a number or times in my life. It seemed only natural, in the way that a rebellious teenager would eye-rollingly say that to someone whom she was certain was being completely over-protective.)

But the marvelousness of the walk was short lived. Because 37 minutes in, my knee started hurting.  The decree of He-Who-Trains was that I'd stop if my knee started hurting. I promised that I would.  And I promised (Clearly, I need to stop making promises.) that I would give him a report on how it went.

Which, of course, is why I didn't particularly want to see him this morning.  Because I knew what he'd say. That I was grounded.  No more walks, not even the hills that made me want to curse just a few weeks ago. No more carefree time to be hit on by 10 year old boys (who whistled at me, and then promptly wanted to play with Bella.)  No daydreaming times.

At least until my muscles are stronger.  At least until He-Who-Trains thinks my knee is capable of better behavior.

My knee and I are grounded. (I guess I'm guilty by association?) At least He-Who-Trains didn't make my knee write a letter of apology.

Saturday, December 1, 2012

Going Rogue

Going Rogue: To go "rogue" means to make a large deviation from one's strict training. For example, in the United States agents like FBI, Secret Service etc. get special training and are indoctrinated to follow the rules of their profession. If an individual agent starts to behave contrary to the rules he or she has gone rogue.

I've spent my life believing that one's personal health and fitness are only that person's business. But maybe that's because it's always been a struggle for me. Maybe it's because I'm not comfortable broadcasting my weakness.  Maybe it's because I just wanted have a fabulous "after" picture, and pretend like there was no "before". 

On January 1, I'll be inviting my congregation into my journey to become the person that I am in my head-- the person that God intended me to be.  I'll be sharing this blog with them, and creating another one as we seek to become a healthy church together. I'm going to ask for my congregation's support as I begin creating a healthy way of living my life. (I'm going to be embracing a "please don't feed the pastor" campaign. 

I've always written this blog annonymously.  There are lots of people that I'm really close to that don't know anything about it.  I wanted it that way. I wanted the security of keeping it a secret.  But I've realized that keeping it a secret gives me an out.  If I've not said anything about my plans, then no one will hold me accountable when my motivation starts to flag. No one would be in my business. 

I've never been successful before, either. 

I took a step and have started working with a trainer-- which was new for me.  That's one other person that I've let be in my business.  That's one other person that I have to be honest with. He's helped me realize that being accountable only to myself isn't really being all that accountable. 

So today, I'm going rogue.  I'm deviating from what I strictly adhered to.  I'm going to be linking this blog to my facebook page-- so that my friends and loved ones will actually see it.  I'm going to be owning my identity as "The Pudgy Parson" and admit that I've spent years neglecting my health.

Deep breath. Push "publish".  Be better than before.  Go rogue.