I knew today was going to be bad, ever since He-who-trains came to me a few days ago and said it was time. Time to do the God-forsaken, horrible, no good thing: the fat pinchy thing. (Err.. skin fold analysis.) That's worse than being weighed in the doctor's office. For a long time, he insisted that we'd wait until I was lower in weight because it might discourage me. I told him I was in and that I'd be fine and to quit protecting me from myself. But that was before I was in this body funk. Funk or no, he was fat pinching a few other people, so it was my lucky day too.
It was horrible, though maybe differently horrible than I imagined. And I did not love wearing shorts in public-- which I'm not sure I've done since at least my first year in college. (Umm... the fact that I wear spandex to the gym now so I can see my trouble spots notwithstanding. Seeing my legs was more than I could handle!) After he'd been working with me only a few weeks, my self-confidence experienced a major boost. But today, for maybe the first time since those first horrible weeks, I felt just like I did then. Nervous and clammy. Worse, childish and whiny. Like I would rather be anywhere but there... like I really just wanted to tell him I'd changed my mind (and that he'd lost his!). One of the things I most appreciated about He-who-trains the very first time he trained me was that he didn't give me room to whine or make excuses or tell him I wouldn't. He walked in, told me what I was going to do, and helped me learn how to do it, and that was the end of that. And he didn't give me that space today. Too his credit, he also did not say that I was being a childish brat.
I told him I didn't want to know the results, and I wasn't kidding. Yup, I was a child about the whole process. But he knows that I'm in a bad body place. He knows that I'm struggling. And he's brilliant enough to let my body give me the lecture he didn't the other day. I don't like the number he gave me, but it was lower than I thought it would be. (And wow... for the record... I can't imagine how high the percentage must've been all those pounds ago.)
So... my motivation was flagging. Now I'm having the opposite problem, which has happened before. I get hit by the stupid branch and want to go drastic and not eat and workout six times a day and run until my knees fall off. I won't. Because at least now I realize it's stupid and that it will only hinder my achievements, which is progress I think. So really, I won't But the thought process is there. But maybe it is the kick in the pants I need, because the only way I've been able to make today ok is to tell myself that today was the worst it will ever be. I asked him what percentage of fat he thinks I'll have at my goal weight, and I was about to see what my body role model's is, but I realized I don't care right now. What I do care about is my number and watching it shrivel.
When the awful part was done, and I was ready to start my workout, He-who-trains said something I don't remember hearing him say: "Get after it." Even if I had heard it, it took on a different meaning today. Yeah, I can do that. I can get after it-- and stay after it. In other words, Motivation: found.
(And I suspect He-who-trains knew that would happen, which is exactly why now, right in the midst of my pity party, is why it was really time. Seriously, the stuff just got real...)
Saturday, June 14, 2014
Friday, June 13, 2014
The Pudgy Parson has been quiet lately. Not due to busyness. Not due to lack of desire. But something much worse, lack of noticeable progress. Which is making me the perfectly pouty Pudgy Parson.
Two months ago, I went to He-who-trains and explained that I was three months away from a beach trip and that I expected to be in a bikini. He amped up my workout routine. He changed my meal plan. He gave me what I wanted, but more importantly, what I needed to achieve my goal. Only my body and my fat have become really good friends after such a long time together, and they are having a really tough time parting ways. There's been some two year old worthy temper tantrum throwing on the part of my body, which is ardently refusing to come on board with the bikini or bust plan.
I've been busting it. I've been eating well. And I weigh exactly what I did two months ago. My body is the same size and shape it was two months ago. I'm seem to be throwing myself a pity party. There's a mean, but right convincing, voice in my head that says "It doesn't matter what you eat, so you might as well have fun." I've shut her up so far, but for the first time in months, it's a struggle. I'm just plain discouraged. I'm angry that I am nowhere near where I thought I'd be, and that once again, I'm gonna want to hide my body at the beach. (But there is a cousin and a workout partner and others who keep telling me to wear the bikini proudly. We'll see.) I wasn't expecting perfection, but I was expecting progress.
I whined to He-who-trains about my flagging motivation. I was almost hoping for a lecture because maybe that would wake me up. And when this has happened before, I've gotten an ear full about how he can't make me want this and how that has to come from me. His certification says "Master Trainer", but it doesn't mention that he is also a master lecturer. But this time was different. We both know how badly I want this, and how hard I'm willing to work to get there. He came up with a new attack plan to see if my body will respond better, and he did gently remind me that I'll never be a body builder if I can't stay on myself even in the plateaus. (As a side note, I give He-who-trains a lot of grief, both in person and on this blog because he is always challenging me and making me challenge myself. But the truth is that I really have no idea how people do this without a He-who-trains. When something isn't working, I'm lucky enough to have someone who can figure out the problem and keep changing things until a solution is found. If you've ever wondered, yeah, it's worth it. Having a trainer is the best investment I could make in myself.) But he said something that I really needed to hear: Remember how far you've come and focus on that right now.
I was digging around on my computer, and I found some pictures of me at my heaviest that I didn't remember existed. (As a rule, I pretty much avoided the camera.) So beside the picture of fitness supermodel Jamie Eason that is on my refrigerator, I'm putting these:
Apparently, losing 80lbs makes a difference. I'm not where I want to be. But I am definitely not where I was.