I have thirty five pounds of flour sitting on my kitchen counter. It's annoying. It will be in the way. It will make me angry. And I'm not moving it. Because it represents the 35 annoying, in the way, anger provoking pounds I'm carrying around that is too much for my body. It also reminds me that there was an ugly day when I would've had 20 bags of flour instead of 7. I'm all about visuals.
Or at least when I'm sitting here, post workout, sore and tired, and wondering why I thought it was a good idea to give He-who-trains carte blanche to help me meet my goal. Of course, he's pretty helpful--especially in the texting department. (Hmmm...clearly I wasn't super functional when I sent that text though.)
My bikini motivational squad of a cousin is also pretty helpful, though I didn't seem to get any sympathy from her either. But on the upside, she is mailing me one of her bikinis to put up at my house. (My goal weight for beach week is close to her weight, and we're built a lot alike.) I'll be like that Yoplait commercial, where fittingly, the song "Teeny Weeny Yellow Polka Dot Bikini" plays and the woman dilligently eats her yogurt while staring at the bathing suit. And then of course, the yogurt is so awesome, that the shoulder strap falls right off when the girl finally wears it. Yeah, that.
I will never admit this for fear that he will take it as an invitation to figure out new ways to torture me, but I kind of like this way of training. I'd take going as hard as I can and (safely) pushing my limits over a pansy workout any day. I love that feeling of proving myself wrong when my first thought is "There is no way I can do that." I love having to dig deep to make it happen. I even kind of love the soreness (I say that until I wobble around in heels trying to lead worship tomorrow) because it tells me I did something, it reminds me that I'm alive and well, and that I've got things I want to achieve.