"Small" Achievements!

I keep reading how much having a positive outlook affects weight loss, but truth be told, the Pudgy Parson is sometimes a lot more pouty than positive.  I've had a tendency to focus on my failures or slow progress rather than celebrating the success.  But I'm trying to do better, so...

In the name of "slow and steady wins the race" (my favorite of the Aesop fables!), I was pretty excited to realize that I am wearing size 8 pants and a small sweater, which is a decided change from the size 20 pants and size XXL tops I used to wear.  I'm pretty sure I was in middle school the last time I wore a size 8 anything!

So, here's to not letting myself quit, no matter how slow I go. Here's to my favorite so far: small achievements!

(And also fun: Every single pair of boots I tried on fit over my calves. That has never happened!)

Rehab

You know how you're in a situation and all the sudden a song starts playing on repeat in your head? I was trying not to cry while holding an...uhem... 3lb dumbbell. I guess my brain was trying to distract me, and my mental ipod started playing Amy Winehouse's "Rehab".

"They said I should go to Rehab, and I said No! No! No!  They tried to make me go to rehab and I won't go, go, go!"

My brain chose that song certainly because that is how my body was feeling.  I've somehow injured both my back and my shoulder, and yesterday was my first day back at the gym in a week.  He-who-trains was trying to teach me some dynamic stretches that would help, and we kept having that "How bad does it hurt, on a scale of one to ten?" conversation.  Only my version of the pain scale is more like one to "If you don't stop, I might actually kick you in the shins as hard as I can."   He wisely stayed out of kicking range.

He was very clear with me though.  If I wanted to be back to doing things, then first I was going to have to do the hard work of rehabbing the injuries.  I was going to have to do some really deep stretches that hurt like... well a whole slew of very unladylike words.  In other words, I was going to have to put myself in pain in order to bring about healing. And I was going to have to do it over and over.

My first thought was "No, never mind. I'm good.  Really.  I can do a lot without moving either my back or my shoulder.  Like sharpening pencils.  I could be a professional pencil sharpener."  My second thought was maybe "Why on God's green earth would anyone do this to themselves?" But then I realized limping along, paralyzed from pain, is no bargain either. And maybe that's not just a body lesson, but a spirit lesson too.

So today is looking to be an exciting day filled with ice bags and heating pads and foul-word inducing stretches.  It's a day where, even if I can't yet "embrace the pain", then I at least won't run from it. In the words of another great song, "If you're goin' through hell keep on going/ Don't slow down if you're scared don't show it/You might get out before the devil even knows you're there."

Because on the other side of the hellish and painful, is healing and wholeness.

So here's my slightly revised version of the song-- that I'm gonna keep singing (albeit through gritted teeth.)

"Gonna go to rehab, and I said Oh! Oh! Oh!" 

Tearing Down and Building Up

I love words-- especially great sounding words that I can casually slip into conversation so that it sounds like I know something.  Like catabolism for instance.  I feel smarter just for having said it.  The first time I heard this word was a few weeks ago when He-who-trains described my new workout plan that involved running between every. single. exercise.  My workout partner has been running all her life, so she digs it.  Me? Well I've only really dreamt about running, which does not seem to have prepared my body for actually running. The idea behind this super "fun" workout is catabolism, which is, technically speaking, "the breaking down in the body of complex chemical compounds into simpler ones."  In my case, it means breaking down my muscles.  It sounds weird and counterintuitive, but there's a good reason for it. (And for the record, it's working. 1.5 inches lost off each calf muscle-- which is more than I've lost during the entire time I've been training.  Hellooooo, fall boots!)

What I learned as I was researching this death-by-running-the-building plan was that there is another process that does the exact opposite, called anabolism.  It's basically the building up of things.

I like the idea of the latter -bolism a lot more.  Who doesn't?  It seems a lot more useful to build things up than to tear them down.  The problem is that, lately, I'm experiencing what feels like a lot of breaking down of things-- some things more precious than muscles.  The nature of those things is a subject for another day. The wounds are too fresh, the fog still feels too foggy.  But I've been in a hard place.

I've always loved the verse in Ecclesiastes that says "To everything there is a season" (Turn, turn, turn?) A season for building up, and a season for tearing down.  It seems like one thing happens, then the other thing happens.  But what I love more than that idea is how the body deals with those things. Both the tearing down of things and the building up of other things happen at the same time, all the time. Maybe what I love about that is the realization that even as some precious things are in the process of breaking down, in the very same life, something else that is just as precious, just as necessary to vitality, is being built up.

Catabolism, as I learned (am learning) the hard way is physically painful.  And metaphorical catabolism is no less painful.  But the promise of seeing the beautiful thing emerge makes it tolerable.

Rock Your Body

Three months ago, I went to He-who-trains and told him that I had three months to be bikini ready, since my motivational cheerleader of a cousin issued the decree that this was the year where I was no longer allowed to hide.  We changed some things around with my workouts and eating.  And I have been busting it.  But just because my spirit has a time table does not mean my body is interested.  I've been stuck for three months, at least pound wise.  (And though the same dress size, I'm starting to see some new definition.)

It's been bumming me out for a while-- and now I'm coming up on my deadline. I'm definitely not where I want to be, or where I realistically thought I'd be by now.  So I had a decision to make: give it another year, or do what the Black Eyed Peas suggest and "Rock That Body."  (Yeah, yeah... I know I'm not exactly talking about the same kind of uhem... rocking.)  I've had some great people that have given me some courage including a gym friend who told me to "Wear the Bikini.  Let's face it, you'll look better than 80% of the people who decided to wear their bikinis that day." And my workout partner is awesome-- she has mad ignoring skills when I'm having my own whiny pity parties, but more than that, she won't let me get discouraged or give up. The people in the gym affectionally whistle and tell me that I look great, because they remember where I started.

It's awesome to have people like that, and they've made all the difference.  But at the end of the day, it's not about them.  It's about me, and how I feel in my skin-- even in this body.  It's been a summer of firsts for me.  I purchased my first pair of not-running-shorts in over a decade.  I've hung out at the pool, and it wasn't a thing. I've worn strappy sundresses and sleeveless shirts. When my picture-loving cousins demand selfies, I'm gonna smile broadly and with pride.  And soon, I'm gonna unapologetically put a bikini on this body.  I'm gonna rock my body.

I know I said it wasn't about anyone else's thoughts about me, but it was pretty much awesome today when the tiny, sweet, nonagenarian of a church matriarch was trying to get me eat at the fellowship luncheon (that was mostly sacrificed long ago), and I said "I'm going to the beach soon and I'm going to wear a bikini" and she got a huge grin on her face and enthusiastically said "Good for you! You go girl!" Yeah, that's a win.

Childishness and a kick in the pants...

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...)

On Pudginess and Perseverance

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. 

What Would Jamie Do?

I admit it.  I was whining.  And I ought to know by now that that never goes as well as I think it will. He-who-trains decided I wasn't having enough fun throughout the week, so he added in another workout: 3 minutes flat-out cardio then Ab exercise.  Repeat til you puke... or something like that.  I told him I would start it today, but then woke up this morning crazy tired-- like can't peel myself off the couch, like taking a shower seemed like a monumental effort.  (Uh, not too much effort mind you.)  So I sent him a text telling him I'd do this fun thing next week.  His response: "wimp".   He KNOWS that that is not a name I appreciate being called.  Then he sent another one asking "WWJD?"  Sacrilege aside, the question was intended to ask what Jamie Eason-- fitness model and bodybuilder (whose picture lives on my desktop wallpaper, phone wallpaper, refrigerator and bathroom mirror, to remind me of my goal) would do.  It was a guilt trip extraordinare, no doubt.

The problem is that that stuff works on me.  I spent a while trying to eat and nap and psych myself up and make myself go.  But the more I thought I about it, I realized the answer to "What Would Jamie Do?" isn't what I would've thought it was.  You look at a body like hers, and you think "of course she would go and push herself."  Wrong.  If she has a body like that, by now she has learned to listen to it.  Of course, she goes hard.  But when her body says, and means, "Sit yo behind down today before you have to sit yo behind down for several days" that is surely what she does.

So that's what I'm doing.  I'm day offing-- and only a little embarrased to admit that it's 2:30 in the afternoon and I am in my pjs.  And I might just stay that way for the rest of the day.

Besides, tomorrow is death-by-leg-day, which He-who-trains has been making a big deal about for now over a week.  If I bail on that, I will. never. hear. the. end. of. it.   I might have to crawl out, but I'd better at least show up.  And I'd like to make it more than three minutes.  So yeah, I can park it today, and make sure I've had enough to drink and actually rest.  Because tomorrow when the question "What Would Jamie Do?" comes to my mind, the answer will be "Wear it out.  Give it more than you have. Go home proud."





Oh and just for fun: for anyone who loves leg day as much as I do.  I'm just saying...