It takes three weeks...

Fitness magazines say that "on average, it takes three weeks for a person to notice a difference in her body after starting a workout plan."  It takes six weeks for family and friends to notice.  And it takes ten to twelve weeks for the rest of the world to notice.  I guess that's a way of reminding well intentioned but anxious people that results don't come immediately.

I've been striving (not entirely successfully, but that's a post for another day) to eat according to my trainer's guidelines for two weeks, and have been working out with him for only a week, but my clothes are definitely looser.  Two weeks ago, the pants I had on today were a little snug.  Today, there was plenty of wiggle room.  I happened to be wearing the same Tshirt this time last week as I have on now, and there is a definite difference in how it fits.   Since my trainer has banned me from checking the scale for a month (uh...Merry Christmas to me? All I want for Christmas is to weigh myself?),  I won't know how many pounds I'm losing. But I can see the small changes that are beginning to take place--slightly looser clothes being only one of them.  Because I am also sleeping better.  I am coping better with stress.  I'm not craving sugar any more.  I am giving thought to my meals and making arrangements for them. I'm getting braver and more willing to try new things. I feel more in control of my life and my body.  These things are progress-- and right now they matter more to me than a number on the scale anyway.

I've been asked how committed I am to all of this-- this exercising and very specific meal plan and the whole works. And I don't know how to answer.  Because I'm on fire right now.  But I also know that I've quit before which makes me doubt myself.  I've gotten busy.  I've not seen results as quickly as I wanted.  I've pledged 100% commitment to my trainer for three months.  And I guess both he and I are wondering what will happen after that three months.  Am I strong enough to make this a lifestyle change? I told him that I was 90% certain that I was and that's the most honest answer I know how to give.  I know that there is something different this time.  I know that I am in a better place mentally and otherwise to really do this.  I know that I will have more support and accountability than I ever have before.  I know that I'm really over my body telling me what my limits are.  I know that I'm too young to feel as old as I sometimes do.

But maybe the thing is that I'm also now really aware of the hardest thing.  When I'm finally the pudgeless parson, I don't think I'm going to look back and think that losing the weight was the hardest thing I've ever done.  I think I'm going to look back and realize that the hardest thing I've ever done was live in a tired body that neither looked good nor felt good. I don't think I'm going to think that pushing myself was some monstrous beast to slay-- I think I'm going to remember the allowing myself to settle was the monstrous beast.

So am I in, really in? I believe so.  Because if I'm not, then I'll never know what it was like to completely exceed my own expectations and push past my previous failures.  And that is a result that I won't see in three weeks.

Slow and Steady wins the race...?

If I had written this yesterday, I think I might've called this post "Yeah, so...my trainer is nuts." (And I could say that to him, because he's also a friend... but I would've gotten that look.) Last week, on my "low" intensity day, he asked me to walk the distance up this huge hill (read: mountain) and let him know how long it took.  I'd walked it before, and it was definitely a challenge-- since my body got awfully used to being a flatlander. So I sent him a text telling him that it took me six minutes to go the requested distance.  I was not prepared for his response.  "K.  Now do it another five times." I remember staring at my phone incredulously, like "He's kidding, right? I'm gonna die!" Only he wasn't kidding.  Being both fierce and dedicated, I walked up the mountain six times.  (We did however compromise, and he let me jog down the hill each time.)  I was about to lose my religion, but I thought to myself "Wow--by next boot season, I might actually be able to find a pair of boots that fit my calves."

Yesterday was another "low" intensity day. I was prepared for him this time, and had already steeled myself to hike up the mountain another six times.  Oh, if only...

Because he's all about keeping the body from adapting too much. So here was his decree:  Walk up the "hill" and jog down.  Walk backwards up the "hill". (yes, I'm that crazy lady you see walking backwards, like "Oh, don't mind me, this is a perfectly normal thing to be doing." Remind me to remind the trainer that this is a small town, and that I actually know some of the people who are giving me weird looks as they pass by.) Jog down.  Right over left up the hill, and jog down. "Oh, and don't let your  heels touch the ground."  Left over right up the hill and jog down.  And he wasn't kidding.

I just had to keep thinking about the fabulous boots that I was gonna wear soon. This pudgy parson's calves were on fire.  And not only that, but the whole process was so slow.  Painfully slow. I rocked out to some Tom Petty and the Boss and some terrible music on my running list that I'm embarrassed to admit I love.  And I went as slow as it took to both do it well, and to keep my heart rate as slow as he wanted. I didn't realize yesterday, but sometimes slow is a gift.  Lately, I feel like I'm always in a flurry of activity, and never have enough time.  But when you're forced to slow down, there's room to think idle thoughts.  There's time to put yourself back together when the world has been too much in your face. Maybe in this frenzied time of year, I need to be made to go slowly and deliberately sometimes.

I was surprised at all the muscles that felt like they were getting a workout yesterday: my calves and quads were a given, but I didn't expect my low back and my side obliques and whatever muscle is under my saddlebags to feel it so much.  That's a pretty good return on my investment.  If it takes going slowly to work those rarely used muscles, then maybe I can embrace the slow... at least for a few minutes.

Turns out, my trainer is not, in fact, nuts. Maybe next time it's a do-funny-moves-up-the-mountain day, I'll wear a ski mask.  He might not be nuts, but folks will think I am.

A Safety Net

Despite my initial reluctance, I think I'm really going to like working out with a trainer.  I'm one of those people who believed that you couldn't get much of a workout at home, but wow, was I wrong.  I'm also one of those people who didn't really think the 5 lb dumbbells I had would do a whole lot of good.  Wrong again.

My trainer is all about the idea that people can get in shape with a minimum amount of equipment--and I'm starting to believe him. (And had I known earlier, maybe I would've began working harder sooner.) I wonder how many times I've chosen to do nothing, because I didn't have time to go to the gym. Blrrgh.

One of the things I think I love about working with a trainer is the fact that I will let him push me harder than I would push myself.  And not just in a "Go! Faster! Harder! Higher!" sort of way. But in a way that I will trust myself into his hands.  I have full confidence in him and his knowledge, and I know he is paying more attention to what my body is saying than I know how to do yet.  It kind of sets me free to go really hard without worrying that I'm going to injure myself or go harder than I can go.  I guess it's like how trapeze artists feel knowing that they are working with a safety net under them-- like they are free to fly and flip and soar without having to worry.

Did I particularly enjoy working out with my heart rate hovering in the 190's? No.  But I loved the feeling of being able to push and challenge myself without having to worry about my body.  When I couldn't quite do something (ummm... hello ab exercises) he was quick to adapt the plan to what I could do.  When I worked myself to the point of muscle exhaustion, he was keeping a careful eye on me, making sure that my body could handle it. If I were working out on my own, I wouldn't have gone nearly as hard.  I would have treated my body more gingerly than I should.  I would've cheated myself out of the feeling of giving it everything I had.  What a freedom to not have to play it safe, because you know someone has your back.

During this taxing season when I seem to be really bad at taking care of myself, I'm glad to have the freedom to go harder than I would on my own. I need the outlet.  Exercising at such a high intensity has a marvelous way of clearing my mind.  (Uh-- but next time I've got to finish the sermon before I train with him-- my brain, and my shaky arms, were both pretty much done last night-- and the sermon wasn't. It was an early morning for this pudgy parson.) And wowee, am I sleeping soundly! Like almost hibernating soundly.

So maybe this is what I've been needing during the High and Holy (i.e. manic and frenzied) seasons of the church: a person to push me, a person to stay on me about taking care of myself, a person to act as my safety net until I learn to fly.

Survivor: Day 1

“Promise me you'll always remember: You're braver than you believe, and stronger than you seem, and smarter than you think." Christopher Robin to Pooh

So... I survived day 1 with a trainer, and was pleasantly surprised. Gasp-- I actually enjoyed the time.  (Uh. Minus looking like a beet, having my body parts jiggle all over the place, and breathing like... well, I don't know what to compare it to, but it wasn't pretty.)  I enjoyed the challenge and I could definitely feel exactly which muscles are never getting used. (Apparently people are supposed to work their abs.  Huh.) I won't lie-- I was surprised by how quickly the time went.  It was high intensity (umm...yeah) but there was enough variety that my mind didn't have a chance to wander-- or do anything except making sure my lungs were getting enough air so that I didn't fall over in the floor.  I love that he gave me a flashback to my Tae Kwon Do days and had me doing cresent kicks and the like.  Granted, last night's kicks weren't pretty, but my body seemed to remember how to do them.  I'm excited to watch as some of that begins to come back to me. 

The deal I made with the trainer is that he would train me so that I could be a runner. (Even if it involved me making a deal where I wouldn't run for several weeks, so I could build up my muscles.  Apparently he didn't think it normal that I was spending hours with frozen peas on my shins so I could walk the next day.) I think that even with several weeks of little to no running, I'm going to be way ahead of where I was if I was just slogging away at getting in miles.  I can tell that my legs and back will be much stronger, and that my endurance will increase rapidly. 

Everyone on facebook is listing something they are thankful for each day in November. I haven't been doing that (at least not on facebook.) But today, the trainer (also my friend) gets my gratitude.  For calling me on my stuff, for caring enough to tangle with me and not giving me the time to give him much lip, for challenging me to set a standard of strength for myself.  But most of all, for shattering my long held belief that being in any shape other than round was an impossibility. 

I'm in kind of a fierce mood today. Like "Move, world.  I've got things to do and I don't have time for you to stand in my way." And maybe that's the start of something...

Awake Again

Good Morning, World-- It's me, The Pudgy Parson-- who has apparently been hibernating like a bear for the last several months. I've been busy.  You know, with getting set up at a new church and making my house a home and turning twenty five (again).  But I've also been playing games with myself, telling myself that once life settled down, I'd start up again.  Pushing myself to be a runner, even if my muscles were hurting so badly that I cried when I had to walk.

But I'm awake again, really awake.  And I've made a new commitment. I'm starting work with a trainer tonight--which I'll admit makes this pudgy parson more than a little nervous.  I'm one of those people who likes to pretend (at least for myself) that I've got it all together.  I know that when I begin work tonight, I'm going to have to admit to myself (and at least one other person) that I've let myself take the easy route, that I've gotten kinda lazy, that the foods I eat matter, and that I'm not any longer the athletic person that I am in my brain. I'm nervous because this trainer is also a friend of mine but at the same time, I guess I'm excited.  So, I guess this pudgy parson is going to let down her guard and let a friend help me do one of the things I've never been able to do on my own.  (But I'm not above praying that I don't jiggle too much in the process.)

So I'm being brave and taking a step-- and I'm going to recommit myself to documenting the journey in writing. I love the church where I serve, and I'm soon going to be inviting my congregation into this journey, not only to support me, but to partner with me so that we can all make some changes together. I keep reminding myself that part of my job as a pastor is not only to care for myself, but to raise the bar on how we are as a community.

I found one of my old Tae Kwon Do shirts this morning, and was reminded of what used to be my favorite quote.

It is not the critic who counts, nor the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions, and spends himself in a worthy cause; Who, at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement; and who, at the worst, at least fails while daring greatly, so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory nor defeat. (Teddy Roosevelt)

I've been the critic. Today I choose to get in the arena.  Today, I remind myself that I am worth fighting for.

Back in the Saddle

It's been a long, unhealthy summer, as evidenced by this pudgy parson's poorly fitting clothes.  But, at least there's been a good reason for it! (Hey, I can rationalize with the best of them!)  We've been in flux since June, when we realized that we would be moving!

But, we're here now (at least our bodies.  Our stuff, well...that's in process). And it's time to start undoing all the damage, and hopefully quit popping buttons off my ill-fitting britches.  But we've made the decision that we're going to do better things in this new place.

And to our credit, the very first day we joined the gym here.  I've gone on really long walks (read: hikes. These here mountains ain't no joke!) with my doggy almost every day. We've made better choices food wise. (Read: we quit stocking Little Debbies in the cabinet.) We've made plans of ways to fit exercise into our lives.  (Read: well, you gotta start somewhere and a plan is as good a place as any)

Last night, though, I surprised myself.  I went to a spin class. I only thought I was going to die a few times.  It wasn't pretty, but at least I had a bike in the back. (Anyone who would've been behind me would've gotten a very jiggly view.  Spin class is apparently not so great for hiding your backside.) I have avoided spin classes in the past as they've kind of intimidated me.  But I went, and it wasn't as bad as I would've guessed.

While I was spinning there, getting nowhere exactly, Bon Jovi's "It's my life" came on.  That used to be a ramp up, play on repeat over and over, song for me. Hearing it again reminded me of my promise to myself-. In it, though the words never said it, I was able to hear me telling myself that I want better for myself and that I'm willing to work for it.  So these are my new words:

It's my life.
It's now or never.
I ain't gonna live forever.
I just wanna live while I'm alive.

A few more reasons to run...

I would choose this view over staring at the tv any day of the week...

The Cornfields by Dawn's Early Light

Who doesn't smile to see a hugemongous sunflower?

Sunflowers...as far as the eye can see