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.

Redemption

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.

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.)

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.

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.

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."

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.