Tag Archives: goals

That’s Just What Muscles DO

In the here & now, , ,

vest

One of the things that I’ve come to value the most about this journey that I’m on, is the discipline I’ve developed around pulling out learning from situations that happen around me. I’ve never been very good at seeing what’s happening right under my own nose – people I hang around with have been known to go on holiday, then come back and fill me in on what’s been going on whilst they were away. I get very absorbed in my own carry-on, maybe a little too much sometimes, you know? I’m fascinated by people, but only when I remember to look.

It’s two weeks now since I first stepped foot into the Kingdom of Pain, and apart from all the hurting, some good things have happened. I’ve got to admit, I rocked up with huge trepidation last night, for two reasons. Firstly I’d booked myself into a session at 6.30am, but written it down in my calendar as 6.30pm. At 6.30am I was still tucked up in bed snoring my head off…whoops.

God of Pain texted me enquiring as to my whereabouts…oh shit. Hello bad-books, here I am… rumour has it that bad things happen to folk who don’t show up. I apologised of course, and immediately re-booked myself onto the actual evening session, but when I realised it was the same class I’d done on my very first visit, my heart sank even further. Yes, it was that one…the one that nearly killed me. I hadn’t repeated it since that first time, so I had two reasons to be scared as I pulled my lycra pants on last night.

Closely followed, it has to be said, by two reasons to be relieved. First of all, I wasn’t flogged, or bawled out, I didn’t even get the stare. Perhaps he’s more forgiving, when it’s the first time..? There won’t be a second, I’ll make sure of that. And you know what else I worried about for nothing? Last night, I kept up.

Two weeks ago, all the getting down and getting up again left me wrung out ’till I couldn’t get my breath. My knees barely survived the experience and some of the exercises were beyond me. Now don’t get me wrong, by the time we’d finished last night I was wringing wet through and tired, but I did it. I did it all. It wasn’t fast and it wasn’t elegant and I still have a hall pass on assorted body parts being allowed to touch the floor where other folk have to keep theirs suspended in mid-air, but in my own little corner, I kept up.

I am genuinely astonished at how far I’ve come in the last two weeks. I could never have imagined that my body would respond in the way that it has. But do you know what I’ve learned, in the course of pushing myself? I don’t need to be scared of things hurting a little bit, in the moment. People who are really really fit hurt too. Who knew? My muscles don’t scream when I push them because I’m fat…my muscles scream because that’s what muscles do when you make them work hard.

This particular lightbulb switched on for me a few days ago when I found myself  doing my own wonky version of a plank next to one of the uber-fit skinny string beans. Towards the end of the minute, long after my arse had migrated north in a desperate attempt to end the agony, she remained firmly in her plank, even though her whole body was trembling like she had her own personal earthquake going directly underneath the yoga mat. She was hurting, just like I was, even though my plank was a bit on the pathetic and short-lived side in comparison to hers.

Somehow, I’d always imagined that demanding these things of my body hurt me far more than people who were fit. And that pissed me off. I felt aggrieved, like it wasn’t fair. I imagined that once you were skinny and fit, it was easy to stay that way because sore muscles would be a thing of the past…working out would be a doddle if you only had one arse inside your yoga pants, right?

That’s bollocks. I totally get it now…you work out, you hurt for a bit and then you reap the benefits afterwards when you feel more flexible, or stronger, or fitter. It doesn’t matter how fit you are, working out hurts, in the moment. It’s supposed to. It sort of means you’re doing it right.

It’s probably one of the biggest light-bulb moments of my journey so far. The second I realised that actually everybody hurts, I stopped feeling like nobody understood how hard it was for me because I’m fat. For the very first time ever I totally embraced the fact that I’m just one of them. Hurting right alongside them in pursuit of the life I want to live. Just like they are.

It’s a fucking revelation 🙂

 

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Adjusting To My New Normal

In the here & now, , , , ,

adjustI didn’t really know what to expect this week as I shuffled into the bathroom for my weekly encounter with the bitch. The asshole voice was trying to engage me in conversation right off the bat, before I’d even got out of bed in fact, by pointing out that unless I’d dropped at least ten pounds this week I should resign from the fitness studio with immediate effect and admit that this body was not built for the kind of things I’ve been asking it to do.

I didn’t lose ten pounds, but I did lose two, and I’ll happily take that. I’ve only got five pounds to go until I hit the five stones mark and then in just one more stone’s time I’ll be able to say that I’m officially halfway to Skinny Town. I’m not going to lie, it’s been a long old slog to get this far but with your company and a few laughs along the way it’s not proving to be as bad as it otherwise might have been, you know?

Writing less often feels very strange. I’m not sure that I like it, but some of the pressure has definitely gone. You lot have been brilliant, in fact I’m blessed with an extraordinary amount of support and I think my fears about not blogging every day having an impact on the strength of the glue holding my feet in the sweet spot have proved to be unfounded. So far, at least.

I waved goodbye to a lot of my favourite fat-girl clothes last week too, after I sold them on eBay…man that felt good. As I handed them over at the Post Office parcel by parcel and waved them off to start a new life on someone else’s curves, I swear I felt lighter by the minute. The Asshole voice had an opinion, obviously. No no no nooooo…not the blue daisy top, that was your favourite!! What if you ever need it again, you’re bound to put the weight back on at some point and you’ll never find anything that you liked as much as that…

Maybe that’s true, you know? Not the re-gain, I mean I have no intention of going back there but maybe I wouldn’t ever find a fat-girl top that I liked as much as I liked that one. I felt nice in that top, I thought it hid a multitude of sins. Looking back on the photographs, it did not. What I actually looked like was a moose in a blue daisy top, so somewhere along the way, someone was getting fooled.

Anyway, as I slowly adjust to wearing clothes four sizes down from where I started, even my old favourites are no longer welcome. No emergency fatter-girl clothes needed in reserve because my new normal won’t be requiring a fallback position thank you very much.

I’m adjusting to a bunch of other stuff too…waking up and counting the number of body parts which provoke an ouch whenever I move them, then feeling happy because I remember why they’re aching…I’m working hard. Fitting at least one fitness session into my schedule every day. Saving stuff up in my head to chatter about with you guys instead of spending quite so much time at my keyboard…it all counts, and it’s all moving me to a better place, it just takes a bit of getting used to that’s all.

So, my thoughts have turned to my next goal – I’m only just nicely in a size 20, but I’m pitching to be in a comfortable size 18 by the time I go on holiday, in the middle of August. That’s do-able in 3 months, right? I might even get there more quickly, especially now I have the God of Pain on my side…by rights I should be a size 10 by next Sunday.

I did try cracking a joke in that general direction during my last session and he just nailed me with the stare, which on that occasion I interpreted to mean don’t be so fucking ridiculous. Fair enough 🙂

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The One In Charge Of Me

In the here & now, , , ,

PT

My weekly appointment with the Bitch in the bathroom was banjaxed slightly this week given that I wasn’t here. I have to admit, in the past my Asshole voice would have immediately latched onto the fact that there was going to be a longer-than-normal interval between weigh-ins, and positioned it as a reason why I should take my foot off the gas, you know? Cut myself a bit of slack…I’m happy to report that this time I was having none of it.

I weighed myself a day early on Saturday, and I’d lost one pound. This morning I went for the pincer movement and got weighed again and I’m delighted to report that another of the little blighters has melted away at some point over the weekend, so despite the treats I’ve allowed myself, the balanced approach of earning the right to indulge and managing it within my food plan has paid off. I need to be a bit careful, I mean come on, I’m in danger of behaving like I’m actually the one in charge here. Oh…wait a minute…that’s right, I am 🙂

I was thinking you know, that I should probably try and get a couple of gym sessions in this week whilst I’m off work. I’m still a long way from being fit, and my Cuba Trek is now only 5 months away. That’s twenty weeks…sweet Jesus that’s hurtling towards me like a freight train. I know I have the elliptical here at home and I’m walking a fair bit, but I’m starting to realise that it’s not enough. In fact, it’s nowhere near enough.

When I was in the gym at the hotel yesterday, I wouldn’t exactly say I was pacing myself  against the proper people who looked like they belonged there but I couldn’t help comparing their pace to mine, and it dawned on me that in fitness terms I’m still more of a sloth than a cheetah. And whilst I know I don’t necessarily need to be a cheetah to conquer that mountain range, I do need some of the key ingredients that I’m missing, like stamina and strength.

I have neither. Which is kind of a flaw in my plan, right? In comparison to where I was, I’m a rock star. And mentally, I’ve got it all going on, but in terms of being where I need to be physically, I’m barely off the blocks.

I think this has got to be my reality check. The gravitas of what I’ve committed to has finally made it as far as ringing the bell in my head. Over five days I need to trek 90km of rough terrain, in heat and humidity, and as of right now I still weigh 257lbs. What the actual fuck have I done.

I’m going to have to join a gym aren’t I? I’m looking at it every which way up, and without a proper plan – and someone to push me – there’s no way I’m pulling this off. And there’s no way I’m backing out either, so much as I hate the idea and God knows how I’m going to find time, I think I’m going to have to. It’s time to dig in and start really fucking hurting. I need a Jillian or a Bob in my life. Someone who’s going to make me throw up in a bucket without allowing me break my stride on the treadmill.

To be honest, the very thought of it terrifies me, in fact it makes me want to bungee jump into a river of cheese balls and stay there until the world goes dark. My hamstring is still sore from doing the splits five weeks ago, my knee still hurts a bit and whilst I can walk for maybe five miles or so before I need a breather, that’s an awfully long way from match-fit. However. The responsibility of being the one in charge of me means I’ve got to do what I’ve got to do. The longer term benefits outweigh the fact that in the short term I just about want to shit my pants at the thought. I just need to man up and go for it.

Rightio. Best find a gym then.

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Thanks…Enough Now!

In the here & now, , , ,



compliment

I could get used to this…having packed such a lot in to the last few days I feel like I’ve already had my weekend, and yet it’s only Sunday with a Bank Holiday tomorrow...get in. I just had my weekly encounter with the bitch in the bathroom and the number hasn’t moved this week, which is annoying, but all it drew from me was a Paddington stare and a silent fuck you. To be honest, it hasn’t put a dink in my Sunday at all – I’m still riding the euphoria of the last couple of days.

On that though…whilst I sincerely appreciate all the love and the compliments which have come my way, I’d like to point out that it would have been much more helpful if you’d all emailed and said you didn’t look bad but Christ on a bike look at the size of your arse...I’ve got the Asshole on my case now with a full blown campaign designed to persuade me that enough is enough.

In the past, it’s sometimes taken just one compliment for me to down tools. Such-a-body said I’m looking good so I think I can leave it there, well done me, I’m done. And when I actually think about it, a compliment combined with me feeling better generally has pretty much guaranteed that me and whatever diet I was doing would head directly to splitzville. Dee and the diet remain the best of friends and wish each other well for the future but are now consciously uncoupling and will be seeing other people…

I need to shut the Asshole down immediately…I’m still eight stones too heavy for my frame and whilst I’m able to do far more now than I could at my heaviest I’m a million miles away from the person I see in the daydreams which I’ve hugged to myself for the last few months, you know? Me, sashaying down the road in skinny jeans without a care in the world. Me, whizzing up that mountain in Cuba without breaking a sweat. Me, enjoying myself doing whatever without giving a monkey’s chuff about what I might look like.

I can pretty much write the script of how it would go if I took my foot off the gas now…I’d be careful for ten minutes and then lose the plot altogether, which is basically what I’ve done my whole life. I think it was Dr. Phil who used to say that the best predictor of future behaviour is past behaviour…he’s got a point, right?

Even when I did the VLC liquid diet and got to my skinniest weight I still stopped a bit short of the goal weight I’d set myself when I started because I’d reached the point where one more chalky soup would have tipped me over the edge. I mean, I might have actually even killed someone. As soon as that BMI number nudged point nought nought nought one inside the boundary of normal that was it. Finito.

What I’ve come to realise is that the number you moot as your ideal number at the start of your journey is an important psychological milestone. Actually mine isn’t a number, it’s a dress size. UK 12…that’s my holy grail. If I stop at a 14 or a 16, I’ll just continue to bounce around because I’ve set size 12 as my anchor. My cornerstone. So if I stop short, essentially I’m buggered.

I love how you all jumped in to make me feel a million dollars, you knew instinctively that I needed that confidence boost and good Lord did you ever come through for me. But I’m going to tuck those lovely words away for a while now, okay? I might wheel them out once in a while if I’m having a down day, or if the Asshole’s chewing my ear and eroding my confidence. But for now, I need to gently shut the door on them and get on with the business of getting skinny!

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Degrees Of Light And Shade

Diet update, In the here & now, , ,

whoops

I think I hit the 60lbs milestone last weekend. At least that’s my best guess…I’m still kicking myself for not getting weighed right at the start of this journey, but let’s just say back then my relationship with the bitch in the bathroom wasn’t in a good place. If you’ve been reading along you’ll know I’ve encountered a buggeration factor or two in recent weeks, so I ended up treading water for a bit. Annoying but hey, if you’re treading water at least you’re not sinking, right? But, I’m on the move again and 60lbs off is pretty awesome, if you’ll forgive me a big fat happy dance.

When I started this diet, like every one before it my intention was to hit it completely straight – no weeks where my weight stuck, no weeks where one of those minxy little pounds snuck back into my pants when my back was turned, and certainly no close encounters with my trigger foods. Hmm. I am at least having the good grace to look a bit sheepish but you know what, life just isn’t like that is it? And I’m actually starting to appreciate the degrees of light and shade that I’m encountering on this journey.

Every time I’ve stumbled, I’ve done a bit of a post-FUBAR debrief, and what I’ve realised is that most times where I’ve struggled a bit, I’ve gained a soupçon of insight that maybe I didn’t have before. That’s helping me. And more importantly that that, I’ve come to understand that struggling is different than failing. Now all of you might know that already, but it’s taken me a while to catch on.

It used to baffle me when folk talked about enjoying something more if they’d sweated their cahoonies off to get it. It always struck me as far too much like unnecessary hard work, you know? Working overtime for six straight months with no treats and no new handbags in order to pay for your holiday didn’t mean you’d enjoy it more than if you’d banged it on a credit card and saved the bill for Ron, surely?

Similarly I’ve fantasised often about what it would be like to just wake up one day in a gorgeous skinny body. I mean like go to bed fat and wake up skinny. Instant skinniness…it’s every fat girl’s dream. But I can tell you exactly how that fantasy would have played out…by the end of week one my skinny pants would be a bit on the snug side and within weeks those sleek smooth limbs would start to resemble a lumpy old pillow. Because that’s what would’ve happened if you’d attached this head to a perfect body…they wouldn’t match.

So, my journey so far has been about as straight as a dog’s hind leg. It doesn’t look like I intended it to when I set out but you know what, the degrees of light and shade are making it stick. Instead of perfect-perfect-perfect-fail-the end, it looks more like try-try-succeed-whoops-yes!-celebrate-scratch head- try-try-happy-pissed off-try-lightbulb-try-succeed-try-shit-happy…not straight, but beautiful in its own way.

That’s why I feel sure that eventually, when I do wake up in my skinny body – my hard-won long awaited skinny body – all these learning opportunities mean it’ll be attached to a wise old head who cherishes it and treats it well, and no matter how hard the asshole voice nags, deprives it of cheese balls until the end of time.

Here’s to the next 60lbs…onwards! 🙂

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