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.

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.

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...

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.

Grounded

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.

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.