I have no clever stories, no fun pics, no humor to hide behind. I just need to spew out what's in my mind. At 2:25am on a Sunday, when I am suppose to wake up in 2 hours.
So . . . here goes:
I made big decisions last week. Decisions that I haven't told many people about. So why not blog about it for the masses to see, right? smh
I quit WeightWatchers. Officially. I haven't worked in a meeting for almost a year, due to scheduling, due to feeling like a phony, not being at goal, due to my day time gig taking over my life in some way. I made it official with my WW manager, and it was a tremedous relief, because with her approval and empathy, I became a member again. A member who lost life-time and is trying to get back to goal.
So now I am ready to be a member again! Yay!
Well, sort of yay, I think.
This is a new place to be. Before, when I joined WW in 2008, I had never been fit, at goal, healthy. So when I lost the weight initially, it was a dream that became tastier and more real with each week, at every meeting that I would weigh in. This time around, even if I lose a few pounds, it isn't so juicy, because all I can think is, "You suck! This is nothing to celebrate! You've gained back half the weight you lost, so you have WAYSSS to go."
I'm trying to ignore that asshole voice in my head and rekindle that drive. I swear, it's like rekindling a relationship that feels stifled. I envision this drive as a poor horse that should be put out in the pasture.
Now, now, don't panic. It's the scenario, the plateau that I wish would be put out of it's misery. Not myself. I happen to think I'm pretty great, just experiencing one of the biggest challenges in my 32 years of life: being healthy and human. Healthy so that my knees don't hurt when I walk a few blocks because I'm heavier, and human so that I don't beat myself up and accept that I am not perfect.
Also, I am cleaning house in general. Cleaning my life of clutter, people, and possible career plans. Trying to create space for what counts. As funny (and annoying) it is, I truly feel like I have no time for "that", that being the long list of bullshit currently clouding my life/perspective.
Look, I am not the easier person to deal with. I'm no fool to that. I may not be available all the time, and I may have to blow you off for work because all I have is me to rely on, and perhaps when I am in a dire situation, I handle it before I reach out to anybody, because my momma raised me to handle my shit, to not depend on anybody, and to be mindful of putting your own problems on other people, because everybody has their own stuff to handle. But damn it, my heart is enormous (metaphorically speaking. I'm not that unhealthy/overweight to have an enlarged organ) and if I let you in, you best be aware of how huge that is for me, and how lucky you are. Does that make me sound vain? Maybe. But if you know me, you know that I am the least vain person in your circle, hands down. This isn't about vanity, this is about reality. When I love, I love hard.
Where am I going with all this? I don't even know. I am really just ranting. And preparing. And accepting that none of this is going to be easy. None of it. And if it means ridding myself of some complacent situations because of certain fears/insecurties/pendejadas (foolishness), then so be it.
For now, I think my brain/soul can enjoy this respite thanks to this blog, where I can come and let out all the heaviness that kicks in some times.
And with that, it's bed time.
Sunday, August 18, 2013
Sunday, August 4, 2013
Gotta start somewhere. I did, on 43rd ave and 41st street!
Today began day 1 of my 5k training. For more info, see video below.
Trying something new, you guys, following the advice/guidance of my fellow blogger friends:
Vlogging. A video blog. Another tool to fufill the vanity we all have.
So here it is:
Day 1: Flinging is not an option
What do you guys think? I'm not sure if I enjoy this method of blogging, as I do not like a medium where I can not go back and edit. Additionally, it took like 20 minutes to u
Ok, TOTALLY digressing.
Any who, some more thoughts. As
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Also, let me correct my friend's twitter handle who told me to ice down my old lady back. It's actually Kellyfit1220, not Kellyfitgirl.
More on running on Tuesday, scheduled Day 2. Off to do some laundry and
Trying something new, you guys, following the advice/guidance of my fellow blogger friends:
Vlogging. A video blog. Another tool to fufill the vanity we all have.
So here it is:
Day 1: Flinging is not an option
What do you guys think? I'm not sure if I enjoy this method of blogging, as I do not like a medium where I can not go back and edit. Additionally, it took like 20 minutes to u
Ok, TOTALLY digressing.
Any who, some more thoughts. As
Also, let me correct my friend's twitter handle who told me to ice down my old lady back. It's actually Kellyfit1220, not Kellyfitgirl.
More on running on Tuesday, scheduled Day 2. Off to do some laundry and
Wednesday, July 24, 2013
Behaving like a boob
Allow me to state the obvious: my lack of attention and priority towards my
health, weight loss, and, more importantly, this blog, is quite tragic,
irresponsible, and dumb. I'm choosing, subconsciously, not to lose weight.
Sure, I complain when I'm out of breath after climbing up some stairs, I pout
when last season's jeans start to encase my midsection, and I roll my eyes when
my mother sizes me up and says a silent prayer to God that I give up late-night
visits to CVS for Doritos and Jujubes.
All that sucks!
That said, there has been a new development that has made this reality a little less . . . painless.
Boobs.
Allow me to explain:
When I lost 60 pounds, there was no greater feeling than NOT feeling my midsection. The same midsection that would torture me like an uninvited fruit roll-up under my t-shirt. Additionally, being able to cross my toned legs, not being smacked in the face by my under-arm flappers when holding the overhead bar on a crowded N train, and joyfully skipping towards the Banana Republic dressing room to try on some size 4s, were all just amazing things.
However, I was NOT prepared for the discovery that would become apparent on that fateful June summer morning. I'll never forget it. It was mid 2009, and I was all pumped and happy for completing yet another successful a.m. Muay Thai session with my trainer. I arrived home from the gym and had about an hour to prepare for work, so I quickly jumped in the shower, did some early morning sing-a-long to Britney Spears, "Three", because, you know, that's what you do, and sprinted to my bedroom. I decided on an outfit for the day and proceeded to get dressed as usual.
It was at that moment that I realized something was wrong. I wasn't feeling very . . . um, supported.
"Hmm. Maybe this bra grew in the washer."
Yes, that thought entered my brain. My college-educated brain.
I quickly tried on another bra.
Same thing. In fact, I remember feeling very, somewhat . . . breezy.
It was as if I was bamboozled. Not only because I didn't expect I'd be losing boobage, but less than a month before I had invested in some new support in a pricey bra place on the Upper East side.
Clearly this was a joke.
Of course, by nature, especially when it comes to my self-image, I tend to focus on the negative. All the other parts of the weight loss, all the aforementioned above, were quickly forgotten when I realized that my breasts were changing. It goes deeper than the usual bra cup that I had so easily filled before. In 2008, when I was 200 pounds, my girls were a sizable part of my identity, a symbol of sexiness and femininity, in a world where I seldom felt attractive. Listen, I wasn't hideous, but I clearly was drowning in my weight, and I needed something to hold on to for dear life (really, no pun intended).
Fast-forward a year later and all that was changing. I had lost the weight and I was finally embracing my health and newfound confidence in my body. And the one feature that I had been hiding behind was slowly deflating (honestly, ignore the pun).
It was an intense moment. And something I would struggle with for some time. I was beyond proud of myself for being svelte, healthy, and present. Living in a world where I felt beautiful, a world I could never imagine. But there was a slight sadness, as I could no longer hide behind my loyal buddies.
Fast forward, yet again, to the last 6 months. This weight gain has been a smack to the ego. I haven't gained back all the 60, but enough to begin to panic.
However, I was once again bamboozled when, during a recent morning, as I prepared for work, I felt a little . . . um, stifled.
After taking a peak in the mirror I realized that . . . well, they were rather present, more present than usual, and it was all too familiar. The girls were sort of... back, in full bloom (I had flashbacks of being a 17 year old late bloomer when, in a dressing room in Mandee's, I realized that I was no longer a little girl).
I wasn't immediately thrilled. I mean, it was another reminder that the weight gain was very real. That I couldn't blame the scale or the washer for shrinking my clothes (my college-educated brain finally figured that out). There was no way to blame other factors, like the environment, water, air, the City, the Media, Al-Qaeda, etc. My weight gain was happening, and my choices were making it very concrete.
That said, I started to feel mildly happy. It was a nice moment, like seeing an old friend, one that did you good in the past. Also, my confidence began a happy dance, which is always nice.
I made my way to work that day with an extra skip in my step. It had been a long time since I liked what I saw in the mirror, so I was on cloud nine. But, throughout the day, I also got to thinking how much emphasis I was putting on this one characteristic, and how maybe I was defining myself on something really superficial. And then, I thought of my momma.
Allow me to explain:
It goes without saying that I got my figure from my mother, a beautiful Liz Taylor replica. Always gorgeous, elegant, and, quite frankly, a knockout! She carried her appearance with grace, and, also, always took care of her health.
Sadly though, in 2007, she had come face to face with a life changing reality and, from that, made a powerful decision. My mother gave up her breasts for the opportunity to live. Cancer tried to take her by taking them. Her response to Cancer, " Fuck off. You can have them. Me? Think again." And, with that, Cancer fled, but not without taking her breasts and some of her right lymph nods.
Almost six years later, and she is healthy and still the most beautiful, most feminine woman I know, and will ever know. Those who have met her would agree with me, 100%.
Momma is also incredibly wise. She showed me that, as women, your breasts don't define you. More specifically, they do not define what a real woman is. When cancer confronted her, my mom taught me what it meant to be a real woman. A real woman will put her worth first. A real woman is brave. A real woman is defined by her courage, dignity, and selfless yet steadfast decisions.
Which brings me to a lesson that is presently unraveling: a real woman will realize how important it is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, so that the likes of Cancer, Heart Disease, and High Blood pressure never make an appearance. The journey must continue, no matter how long it takes, no matter how life's circumstances may throw a wrench in things.
A real woman will never ever give up.
Since my reacquainting with my breasts that morning some weeks ago, I've been thinking a lot about how lucky I am. Sure, it's great to be curvy. No doubt about that. But it's even better that I have my legs to run on the elliptical, my arms to do intense kettle ball exercises, my torso to hold proper form for squats and ab work, and my brain to make smart choices on diet and activity.
And, unfortunately, I am NOT maximizing or taking advantage of any of these wonderful features that make up who I am.
Clearly, I am behaving like a moron. Being proud of your boobs, no matter the size, is a given, a necessity. Behaving like one, though, it's out of the question.
Dedicated to my beautiful mommy. Her lessons are great and everlasting, no matter where my journey takes me. I love you, momma <3
All that sucks!
That said, there has been a new development that has made this reality a little less . . . painless.
Boobs.
Allow me to explain:
When I lost 60 pounds, there was no greater feeling than NOT feeling my midsection. The same midsection that would torture me like an uninvited fruit roll-up under my t-shirt. Additionally, being able to cross my toned legs, not being smacked in the face by my under-arm flappers when holding the overhead bar on a crowded N train, and joyfully skipping towards the Banana Republic dressing room to try on some size 4s, were all just amazing things.
However, I was NOT prepared for the discovery that would become apparent on that fateful June summer morning. I'll never forget it. It was mid 2009, and I was all pumped and happy for completing yet another successful a.m. Muay Thai session with my trainer. I arrived home from the gym and had about an hour to prepare for work, so I quickly jumped in the shower, did some early morning sing-a-long to Britney Spears, "Three", because, you know, that's what you do, and sprinted to my bedroom. I decided on an outfit for the day and proceeded to get dressed as usual.
It was at that moment that I realized something was wrong. I wasn't feeling very . . . um, supported.
"Hmm. Maybe this bra grew in the washer."
Yes, that thought entered my brain. My college-educated brain.
I quickly tried on another bra.
Same thing. In fact, I remember feeling very, somewhat . . . breezy.
It was as if I was bamboozled. Not only because I didn't expect I'd be losing boobage, but less than a month before I had invested in some new support in a pricey bra place on the Upper East side.
Clearly this was a joke.
Of course, by nature, especially when it comes to my self-image, I tend to focus on the negative. All the other parts of the weight loss, all the aforementioned above, were quickly forgotten when I realized that my breasts were changing. It goes deeper than the usual bra cup that I had so easily filled before. In 2008, when I was 200 pounds, my girls were a sizable part of my identity, a symbol of sexiness and femininity, in a world where I seldom felt attractive. Listen, I wasn't hideous, but I clearly was drowning in my weight, and I needed something to hold on to for dear life (really, no pun intended).
Fast-forward a year later and all that was changing. I had lost the weight and I was finally embracing my health and newfound confidence in my body. And the one feature that I had been hiding behind was slowly deflating (honestly, ignore the pun).
It was an intense moment. And something I would struggle with for some time. I was beyond proud of myself for being svelte, healthy, and present. Living in a world where I felt beautiful, a world I could never imagine. But there was a slight sadness, as I could no longer hide behind my loyal buddies.
Fast forward, yet again, to the last 6 months. This weight gain has been a smack to the ego. I haven't gained back all the 60, but enough to begin to panic.
However, I was once again bamboozled when, during a recent morning, as I prepared for work, I felt a little . . . um, stifled.
After taking a peak in the mirror I realized that . . . well, they were rather present, more present than usual, and it was all too familiar. The girls were sort of... back, in full bloom (I had flashbacks of being a 17 year old late bloomer when, in a dressing room in Mandee's, I realized that I was no longer a little girl).
I wasn't immediately thrilled. I mean, it was another reminder that the weight gain was very real. That I couldn't blame the scale or the washer for shrinking my clothes (my college-educated brain finally figured that out). There was no way to blame other factors, like the environment, water, air, the City, the Media, Al-Qaeda, etc. My weight gain was happening, and my choices were making it very concrete.
That said, I started to feel mildly happy. It was a nice moment, like seeing an old friend, one that did you good in the past. Also, my confidence began a happy dance, which is always nice.
I made my way to work that day with an extra skip in my step. It had been a long time since I liked what I saw in the mirror, so I was on cloud nine. But, throughout the day, I also got to thinking how much emphasis I was putting on this one characteristic, and how maybe I was defining myself on something really superficial. And then, I thought of my momma.
Allow me to explain:
It goes without saying that I got my figure from my mother, a beautiful Liz Taylor replica. Always gorgeous, elegant, and, quite frankly, a knockout! She carried her appearance with grace, and, also, always took care of her health.
Sadly though, in 2007, she had come face to face with a life changing reality and, from that, made a powerful decision. My mother gave up her breasts for the opportunity to live. Cancer tried to take her by taking them. Her response to Cancer, " Fuck off. You can have them. Me? Think again." And, with that, Cancer fled, but not without taking her breasts and some of her right lymph nods.
Almost six years later, and she is healthy and still the most beautiful, most feminine woman I know, and will ever know. Those who have met her would agree with me, 100%.
Momma is also incredibly wise. She showed me that, as women, your breasts don't define you. More specifically, they do not define what a real woman is. When cancer confronted her, my mom taught me what it meant to be a real woman. A real woman will put her worth first. A real woman is brave. A real woman is defined by her courage, dignity, and selfless yet steadfast decisions.
Which brings me to a lesson that is presently unraveling: a real woman will realize how important it is to maintain a healthy lifestyle, so that the likes of Cancer, Heart Disease, and High Blood pressure never make an appearance. The journey must continue, no matter how long it takes, no matter how life's circumstances may throw a wrench in things.
A real woman will never ever give up.
Since my reacquainting with my breasts that morning some weeks ago, I've been thinking a lot about how lucky I am. Sure, it's great to be curvy. No doubt about that. But it's even better that I have my legs to run on the elliptical, my arms to do intense kettle ball exercises, my torso to hold proper form for squats and ab work, and my brain to make smart choices on diet and activity.
And, unfortunately, I am NOT maximizing or taking advantage of any of these wonderful features that make up who I am.
Clearly, I am behaving like a moron. Being proud of your boobs, no matter the size, is a given, a necessity. Behaving like one, though, it's out of the question.
Dedicated to my beautiful mommy. Her lessons are great and everlasting, no matter where my journey takes me. I love you, momma <3
Tuesday, June 4, 2013
Shame on me!!
I haven't posted on here in 2 months!!! Unacceptable!! So much to catch you guys up on.
Where to begin? Where to begin?
Well I'll fill you on a few tidbits (in 50 words or less as I have to be up in 4 hours).
1-Hit a weight plateau. I thank my birthday, long weekend in Jamaica, my birthday, 8 day cruise, and my birthday. I am incredibly loved therefore I had much celebrating. And since my loved ones know me, I had a shit ton of cheese fries. And alcohol. Bringing me to my next update.
2-Cold turkey. I have given up alcohol until further notice. Today is day 9. I feel ok about it. Booze is expensive and, thanks to texting, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I have made a shit ton of mistakes, where the next day it's like a perpetual, "Ohh maaan! Did I really do that?" Also, I have felt sluggish, unhealthy, and depressed. All bad bad side effects of alcohol. Am I giving it up forever? I don't know. Much like this journey, I won't make any definite decisions. Just one day at a time.
3-I'm tan. Sounds hilarious, but it's worth noting. I never ever get tan. And so this is all new to me. It appears, interestingly enough, that when you are tan, you appear svelter. I have had a few people tell me how thin and fabulous I look since I returned from my cruise, which is a big pile of poo. Not that I think they are lying, but I think with the right outfit and this tan, it works!
But the scale can give 2 shits about my tan. It made it clear that I have a lot of work to do.
So here I go!
I'll report back soon, y'all! So so much to tell you all!
Where to begin? Where to begin?
Well I'll fill you on a few tidbits (in 50 words or less as I have to be up in 4 hours).
1-Hit a weight plateau. I thank my birthday, long weekend in Jamaica, my birthday, 8 day cruise, and my birthday. I am incredibly loved therefore I had much celebrating. And since my loved ones know me, I had a shit ton of cheese fries. And alcohol. Bringing me to my next update.
2-Cold turkey. I have given up alcohol until further notice. Today is day 9. I feel ok about it. Booze is expensive and, thanks to texting, and being in the wrong place at the wrong time, I have made a shit ton of mistakes, where the next day it's like a perpetual, "Ohh maaan! Did I really do that?" Also, I have felt sluggish, unhealthy, and depressed. All bad bad side effects of alcohol. Am I giving it up forever? I don't know. Much like this journey, I won't make any definite decisions. Just one day at a time.
3-I'm tan. Sounds hilarious, but it's worth noting. I never ever get tan. And so this is all new to me. It appears, interestingly enough, that when you are tan, you appear svelter. I have had a few people tell me how thin and fabulous I look since I returned from my cruise, which is a big pile of poo. Not that I think they are lying, but I think with the right outfit and this tan, it works!
But the scale can give 2 shits about my tan. It made it clear that I have a lot of work to do.
So here I go!
I'll report back soon, y'all! So so much to tell you all!
Wednesday, March 27, 2013
As promised
Weighed in today at 169 . . .
3 pounds up.
No permanent harm. No foul. Dusting off and am going to keep trekking forward.
Stay tuned folks!
3 pounds up.
No permanent harm. No foul. Dusting off and am going to keep trekking forward.
Stay tuned folks!
Tuesday, March 26, 2013
Having a life is fattening
I threw an infamous Claudia tantrum today in a meeting room near the editorial department at the office. I pulled poor unsuspecting Yoda into said room and went on a rant about how this weight loss shenanigan is NOT happening fast enough. I mean, sure. I've lost over 8 pounds in 7 weeks, but I expected a lot more. Kind of like when I lost the 60 pounds in 9 months back in 2009. I essentially lost about 2 pounds a week then. This time around, the average I am losing is 1.25 a week (but whose counting).
"You know, it's not like when you lost the weight some years ago because now you have a lot less to lose AND now you have a life. You aren't living like a monk this time around."
That hit me like a ton of bricks. Not because Yoda was wrong (because seldom is she wrong). But because she was right. Without getting into too much deets, I was not my happiest in 2009. I was recovering from some massive life changes, including a breakup, a move, and the cancellation of ER. Additionally, I was enduring terrible "Virgin Mary" hair and was attached to wife beaters and baggie jeans.
Not my finest hour.
Therefore I threw myself into working out, eating at home and having lots and lots of salads, yogurts, boca burgers, and WW brownies. It was my life goal, not because I wanted to be healthy, but because it was what got me out of bed. Seeing the numbers decrease every Wednesday gave me oxygen and purpose. Not to mention all the lovely compliments I received.
Fast forward to 4 years later, and I am WAY happier. Plumpier, but happier. I have a great gig at work, a business that is thriving, an amazing apartment in Sunnyside, wonderful friends throughout the world, and gravity hasn't quite hit the twins, despite going through a weight gain-loss. My mom is still feisty and full of life, I really have the best felines in the universe, and I have been jumping out of planes, traveling the world, and not being sucked into terrible reality TV.
All in all, a huge success.
That said, it seems that :
Having a happy life + being over 30 (because all I keep hearing is everything gets harder when you leave your 20s) = slow weight loss.
Must I sacrifice this happiness for a higher butt, tighter arms, and sleeker quads? Does having a life really mean having to be overweight? Case in point: I went to the Poconos this weekend and redefined the word "Lazy." In fact, I was in this position for 80% of the weekend:
Sans the suitcase, sans the suit. I was in my jammies and it was glorious!
And I ate Pirate Bootys and Cheese sandwiches and used fruit as garnish and to enhance my red wine. I'd say it was essential nutrition! Because, you know, I needed constant nutrition for being horizontal the entire time.
And then, there was this:
The most amazing place on Earth. The place where my love of Cheese fries is perpetuated. And where I lose all sense of caloric control and just about propose marriage to my dinner. Like I did. En route. To the Poconos. My inner fat girl sort of sounded like this:
Not my finest hour.
That said, I honestly had a great time this weekend with my friends. It was relieving and foreign and wonderful to turn "off" Claudia, who always has a deadline, client, errand, or phone call to make. This weekend, I literally only worried about brushing my teeth, showering, and . . . that's about it!
But when I got home, back to reality, I realized that I may not be happy at weighin tomorrow. In fact, I was thinking of not going (which is an essential NO-NO when traveling this weight loss journey). But my choices will be mocking me at the scale tomorrow, and it's got me thinking of reverting back to "monk" life.
Or maybe. Just maybe, I can balance both. Embrace this weight loss journey in a slower pace, yet still have some great experiences with some wonderful people, because, well, it makes this girl happy. I just have to remember to satisfy this 31 year old girl, and not the former fat girl within.
To be continued, really. I have no method to decipher which is the right way. But I intend to try the balance. The worst that can happen is that I fall, get up and keep going. Not a bad outcome, if you ask me.
I will get weighed tomorrow. Pinky swear. And I will report back.
Fair warning: it may come with a tantrum. The only way a 31 year old girl can throw one.
"You know, it's not like when you lost the weight some years ago because now you have a lot less to lose AND now you have a life. You aren't living like a monk this time around."
That hit me like a ton of bricks. Not because Yoda was wrong (because seldom is she wrong). But because she was right. Without getting into too much deets, I was not my happiest in 2009. I was recovering from some massive life changes, including a breakup, a move, and the cancellation of ER. Additionally, I was enduring terrible "Virgin Mary" hair and was attached to wife beaters and baggie jeans.
Not my finest hour.
Therefore I threw myself into working out, eating at home and having lots and lots of salads, yogurts, boca burgers, and WW brownies. It was my life goal, not because I wanted to be healthy, but because it was what got me out of bed. Seeing the numbers decrease every Wednesday gave me oxygen and purpose. Not to mention all the lovely compliments I received.
Fast forward to 4 years later, and I am WAY happier. Plumpier, but happier. I have a great gig at work, a business that is thriving, an amazing apartment in Sunnyside, wonderful friends throughout the world, and gravity hasn't quite hit the twins, despite going through a weight gain-loss. My mom is still feisty and full of life, I really have the best felines in the universe, and I have been jumping out of planes, traveling the world, and not being sucked into terrible reality TV.
All in all, a huge success.
That said, it seems that :
Having a happy life + being over 30 (because all I keep hearing is everything gets harder when you leave your 20s) = slow weight loss.
Must I sacrifice this happiness for a higher butt, tighter arms, and sleeker quads? Does having a life really mean having to be overweight? Case in point: I went to the Poconos this weekend and redefined the word "Lazy." In fact, I was in this position for 80% of the weekend:
Sans the suitcase, sans the suit. I was in my jammies and it was glorious!
And I ate Pirate Bootys and Cheese sandwiches and used fruit as garnish and to enhance my red wine. I'd say it was essential nutrition! Because, you know, I needed constant nutrition for being horizontal the entire time.
And then, there was this:
The most amazing place on Earth. The place where my love of Cheese fries is perpetuated. And where I lose all sense of caloric control and just about propose marriage to my dinner. Like I did. En route. To the Poconos. My inner fat girl sort of sounded like this:
Not my finest hour.
That said, I honestly had a great time this weekend with my friends. It was relieving and foreign and wonderful to turn "off" Claudia, who always has a deadline, client, errand, or phone call to make. This weekend, I literally only worried about brushing my teeth, showering, and . . . that's about it!
But when I got home, back to reality, I realized that I may not be happy at weighin tomorrow. In fact, I was thinking of not going (which is an essential NO-NO when traveling this weight loss journey). But my choices will be mocking me at the scale tomorrow, and it's got me thinking of reverting back to "monk" life.
Or maybe. Just maybe, I can balance both. Embrace this weight loss journey in a slower pace, yet still have some great experiences with some wonderful people, because, well, it makes this girl happy. I just have to remember to satisfy this 31 year old girl, and not the former fat girl within.
To be continued, really. I have no method to decipher which is the right way. But I intend to try the balance. The worst that can happen is that I fall, get up and keep going. Not a bad outcome, if you ask me.
I will get weighed tomorrow. Pinky swear. And I will report back.
Fair warning: it may come with a tantrum. The only way a 31 year old girl can throw one.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Crying for planks
Disclaimer: My words today may not be in usual chipper form, but it's a part of this journey that is important to share. I've been trying to be more honest during this process, as it's the only way healthy results are guaranteed. I promise to include more funnies next week. Until then, welcome to a more intimate part of me.
Last time I checked in, I was on a cloud nine of sorts, excited for what was to come!
Happy to report I'm down over 8 pounds (wheee!), about 1/3 of what I need to lose to get to goal. It feels great! I've been working my ass off to get there, and it's nice when I stand on the scale to see that all the portion control, planks, and non-alcoholic choices have all been paying off.
That said, it's been one hell of a week.
In a nut shell, I called it quits with someone I was seeing, am on the cusp of losing a very dear friend over something I have no control over, had what appeared to be a terrible sinus clusterfuck all weekend, missed an annual poker game I had really been looking forward to due to said clusterfuck, and stepped in cat vomit this morning.
I mean, come on! Could it have been any worse?
The one thing that kept me sane, besides my dear confidants and TONS of deep breathing, was exercise. I was desperately looking forward to the challenge of Refine more than ever, looking for an outlet to release all these emotions that was swirling through my insides. I wanted to hold planks longer, up my weights when possible, and exhaust my quads until the burning alone kept my legs vibrating even after I had stopped moving them. I needed a release. A release that usually involved cheese fries, and/or crying. I refused to turn to calories for solace, and somehow, I had no desire to cry this week. No desire to feel anything.
Until this afternoon.
It all began while I was half way through my second refine class for the week. I was fully aware that in my first class yesterday evening, I was having trouble keeping my usual pace, partly because my lungs were congested, partly because I was unusually lightheaded. So ok, fine. Maybe I was still under the weather, but I refused to let some pansy sinus infection hold me back from taking class. But I wasn't prepared for the limitations my body threw at me yesterday. I was so mortified, that after class, I went up to Katie, the amazing Refine instructor, and apologized for not being able to give my all.
She looked at me like I was bat shit crazy and then gave me the warmest smile. "Claudia, you were fine. I love when you take class. You work so very hard." Suddenly I felt my lower chin quiver, my throat tighten up, and my already high-pitched voice rapidly soaring to "hamster mating-call" levels.
"K thanks Katie. Bye."---I ran out of there so fast, refusing to cry at Refine. I instantly thought of one of my favorite Tom Hanks moments:
There is no crying in Refine!
Until this afternoon.
I started feeling dejavu moments all through class today, as I had to stop during lunges, planks, push ups, and jumping jacks, because spots were appearing again, and my breathing was challenging. I couldn't get oxygen in my mouth fast enough. I was beyond frustrated. I took a moment when the class continued on with side lunges, and took some water, and started to take deep breaths. We were finishing up the final set of jumping jacks when Laura announced the final component of the final circuit of the night: elbow planks. Laura, another favorite instructor of mine, is so encouraging, challenging, and thoughtful. She, just like Katie and Brynn, are the kind of instructors you WANT to work hard for, instructors you don't want to disappoint; that the idea of them catching you taking a break, modifying, or working in faulty form is beyong mortifying. They are wonderful.
Therefore, when Laura made the final direction to get into plank, I was on a mission to hold that 60 second plank with every ounce of strength that I had left. It turns out, though, that I probably had only 7 seconds of strength left. My legs gave out.
"&#*#^#$^$&#&^%$%"--Was what I mumbled, in Spanish no less, letting my frustration roll off my tongue in an aggresive haste. I took another deep breath and attempted more planking.
7 more seconds. Collapse.
My frustration was beginning to shoot through my arms and overwhelm my shoulder blades. I was pissed, but I simply could not give up.
"15 seconds, guys. Come on, you can do it. Your body is stronger than you think." Laura was not letting us give up.
I uploaded my exhausted and stubborn body into plank position and held. My core started to shake. Sweat started to drown my eyes, beads skiing down my sore biceps. A familiar failing feeling came creeping back. I was done.
"You got this, Claudia. You can do this. You are doing great. Don't. Give. Up." Laura's docile voice, with conviction, suddenly scared the option to quit out of my system. It was an option no more.
I held on.
"5, 4, 3, 2, 1."
My body crawled into child's pose. And, in an odd turn of effortless events, I began to cry. Right there, in a dim studio on the Upper West Side, drenched in sweat, in child's pose. Tears came down my face. All this frustration, emotion, pent up anger, sadness, and, well, the week, flooded out of my already soaked eye sockets. Lucky for me, because I was already drenched in sweat, nobody really could notice I was sobbing like a bitch.
But I took full notice. Couldn't explain any of it at that moment. Just went with it.
On the train ride home, I thought about why I cried. I came up with a whole slew of reasons: my frustration for having to rest in between circuits, my anger at my body for being a douche (or in recovery. Whatever), the fact that a dear dear friend of mine is falling within my grasp and the idea of not having her in my life is down right tragic, the realization that people hurt others for no reason, the fact that I couldn't hold the fucking plank for 60 seconds.
Or. It could have been the cat puke.
Who knows.
What I do know is that tomorrow is a new day to keep trying. I'm grateful that I am getting healthier, that I am beginning to fit into some smaller clothes, that my booty is not quite apple-bottom, but there is definite pomegranate potential. And for this:
.JPG)
I'm also beyond grateful for Refine. Yes, it's so wonderful to flex and pose when I brush my teeth in the morning (and evening. and sometimes midday at work) so I can stare at my biceps in the mirror. But, it's also pretty amazing to be able to release all the bullshit of daily life, 3 times a week, in the form of a plank.
Last time I checked in, I was on a cloud nine of sorts, excited for what was to come!
Happy to report I'm down over 8 pounds (wheee!), about 1/3 of what I need to lose to get to goal. It feels great! I've been working my ass off to get there, and it's nice when I stand on the scale to see that all the portion control, planks, and non-alcoholic choices have all been paying off.
That said, it's been one hell of a week.
In a nut shell, I called it quits with someone I was seeing, am on the cusp of losing a very dear friend over something I have no control over, had what appeared to be a terrible sinus clusterfuck all weekend, missed an annual poker game I had really been looking forward to due to said clusterfuck, and stepped in cat vomit this morning.
I mean, come on! Could it have been any worse?
The one thing that kept me sane, besides my dear confidants and TONS of deep breathing, was exercise. I was desperately looking forward to the challenge of Refine more than ever, looking for an outlet to release all these emotions that was swirling through my insides. I wanted to hold planks longer, up my weights when possible, and exhaust my quads until the burning alone kept my legs vibrating even after I had stopped moving them. I needed a release. A release that usually involved cheese fries, and/or crying. I refused to turn to calories for solace, and somehow, I had no desire to cry this week. No desire to feel anything.
Until this afternoon.
It all began while I was half way through my second refine class for the week. I was fully aware that in my first class yesterday evening, I was having trouble keeping my usual pace, partly because my lungs were congested, partly because I was unusually lightheaded. So ok, fine. Maybe I was still under the weather, but I refused to let some pansy sinus infection hold me back from taking class. But I wasn't prepared for the limitations my body threw at me yesterday. I was so mortified, that after class, I went up to Katie, the amazing Refine instructor, and apologized for not being able to give my all.
She looked at me like I was bat shit crazy and then gave me the warmest smile. "Claudia, you were fine. I love when you take class. You work so very hard." Suddenly I felt my lower chin quiver, my throat tighten up, and my already high-pitched voice rapidly soaring to "hamster mating-call" levels.
"K thanks Katie. Bye."---I ran out of there so fast, refusing to cry at Refine. I instantly thought of one of my favorite Tom Hanks moments:
There is no crying in Refine!
Until this afternoon.
I started feeling dejavu moments all through class today, as I had to stop during lunges, planks, push ups, and jumping jacks, because spots were appearing again, and my breathing was challenging. I couldn't get oxygen in my mouth fast enough. I was beyond frustrated. I took a moment when the class continued on with side lunges, and took some water, and started to take deep breaths. We were finishing up the final set of jumping jacks when Laura announced the final component of the final circuit of the night: elbow planks. Laura, another favorite instructor of mine, is so encouraging, challenging, and thoughtful. She, just like Katie and Brynn, are the kind of instructors you WANT to work hard for, instructors you don't want to disappoint; that the idea of them catching you taking a break, modifying, or working in faulty form is beyong mortifying. They are wonderful.
Therefore, when Laura made the final direction to get into plank, I was on a mission to hold that 60 second plank with every ounce of strength that I had left. It turns out, though, that I probably had only 7 seconds of strength left. My legs gave out.
"&#*#^#$^$&#&^%$%"--Was what I mumbled, in Spanish no less, letting my frustration roll off my tongue in an aggresive haste. I took another deep breath and attempted more planking.
7 more seconds. Collapse.
My frustration was beginning to shoot through my arms and overwhelm my shoulder blades. I was pissed, but I simply could not give up.
"15 seconds, guys. Come on, you can do it. Your body is stronger than you think." Laura was not letting us give up.
I uploaded my exhausted and stubborn body into plank position and held. My core started to shake. Sweat started to drown my eyes, beads skiing down my sore biceps. A familiar failing feeling came creeping back. I was done.
"You got this, Claudia. You can do this. You are doing great. Don't. Give. Up." Laura's docile voice, with conviction, suddenly scared the option to quit out of my system. It was an option no more.
I held on.
"5, 4, 3, 2, 1."
My body crawled into child's pose. And, in an odd turn of effortless events, I began to cry. Right there, in a dim studio on the Upper West Side, drenched in sweat, in child's pose. Tears came down my face. All this frustration, emotion, pent up anger, sadness, and, well, the week, flooded out of my already soaked eye sockets. Lucky for me, because I was already drenched in sweat, nobody really could notice I was sobbing like a bitch.
But I took full notice. Couldn't explain any of it at that moment. Just went with it.
On the train ride home, I thought about why I cried. I came up with a whole slew of reasons: my frustration for having to rest in between circuits, my anger at my body for being a douche (or in recovery. Whatever), the fact that a dear dear friend of mine is falling within my grasp and the idea of not having her in my life is down right tragic, the realization that people hurt others for no reason, the fact that I couldn't hold the fucking plank for 60 seconds.
Or. It could have been the cat puke.
Who knows.
What I do know is that tomorrow is a new day to keep trying. I'm grateful that I am getting healthier, that I am beginning to fit into some smaller clothes, that my booty is not quite apple-bottom, but there is definite pomegranate potential. And for this:
.JPG)
I'm also beyond grateful for Refine. Yes, it's so wonderful to flex and pose when I brush my teeth in the morning (and evening. and sometimes midday at work) so I can stare at my biceps in the mirror. But, it's also pretty amazing to be able to release all the bullshit of daily life, 3 times a week, in the form of a plank.
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