I'm not known for being good at moderation. I know people who do a great job with it, but I am not one of them. I'm either in or out. On or off. Full steam ahead or dead standstill. I don't do much in-between.
So that's why I am having such a hard time with finding a way to live harmoniously with sugar. It is a major impediment to my workouts, nutrition, and general happiness, but I still keeping trying to find room for it in my life. It's as if sugar is an old friend from high school that I have grown apart from, but she still wants to hang out. We don't really have much in common anymore, and I'm just into different stuff now. We have some mutual friends and I see her from time to time, and I don't really have much to say but I feel like I should at least be polite. Then after a while I remember that she was the kind of friend who stole my stuff and talked bad about me behind my back, and I'm reminded of why I didn't want to hang out anymore. It's not that we didn't have some good times, I'm just in a different place.
For the most part, I avoid sugar completely. I've even gone for long stretches where I didn't have any at all, but then BAM! It hits me square in the face. Usually on a Saturday, when my defenses are down and I'm in a party mood.
Before I know it, I find myself in the situation that occurred this weekend. I was sitting on the arm of a sofa watching my husband and our friends play Rock Band when one of my best girlfriends asked, "how's the training going?" "Great!" I enthused, popping a handful of mint m&ms into my mouth. The irony did not escape me, I just chose to ignore it.
Later that evening, birthday cake took the stage, and against my better judgment, there I was. A couple of hours later, stomach aching, I bemoaned my momentary lapse of sanity and vowed never to eat sugar again. I knew in my heart that it was an empty promise, but I knew that even deeper down, I was serious. I want to find a way to get sugar out of my life once and for all.
I feel like such a hypocrite. I've always maintained that a little splurge once a week or so is good for us, and I've savored my chocolate frosted brownie on Saturday night feeling like I had earned it for all of my hard work during the week. But a little voice in my head sang out, "you're not being honest..." I pushed it away. Me like chocolate. Chocolate is good. Yummy yummy yummy. And then, 20 minutes later, I'm feeling gross and wishing I hadn't "treated" myself to a stomachache.
I have a little motto that I self-righteously share with people when they talk about "treating" themselves with sweets or whatever food they deny themselves on a regular basis. I remind them, and myself, that eating crap is not a treat. Putting trashy food into your body is not a treat. Why is self-sabotage considered a treat? Because it's tasty?
I was so proud the day that a friend told me that she had shared my little motto with her Weight Watchers group and that they had actually printed it on bookmarks so they could remember it in times of temptation. I felt so smart and smug. And I was truly happy that my message had resonated with someone. I maintain that by calling these little diversions "treats" we are tricking ourselves into thinking that we've earned them as a badge of honor, but in reality we are taking two steps forward and one step back. So instead, I try to call a spade a spade. Eating chocolately goodness is not a treat. It is yummy and it is fun for a while, but it is not a treat. It's a step back in this process, and one that is rarely worth it.
Well, now it is time for me to heed my own advice. I don't know exactly how I am going to do it, how long it will take, or whether I will succeed, but sugar and I need to have a talk. It's not you, sugar, it's me.
Well no, actually, it is you.
Monday, May 26, 2008
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
Like, OMG!
You're downloading music from "High School Musical"?
I could detect the hint of judgement in my husband's voice as he looked over my shoulder and watched me click the mouse on the "purchase song" button in iTunes. I had been found out. The gig was up. I was forced to take stock of the playlist on my iPod and, well, face the music.
In the 20th week of my training, it was time once again to update my running music and find something to keep me energized and help me ignore the humidity of May mornings. I just had not realized how much of a closeted 13-year-old I had become when choosing music for my morning run. It started innocently enough, but has now turned into a full-blown monstrosity that must be dealt with.
Last summer, Green Day's "American Idiot," was the only thing on my iPod. I listened to it every day and it never failed to propel me forward through at least 45 minutes of hard cardio. It was as if they designed the album specifically for runners, with the way the songs transition and the tempo stays upbeat. I couldn't imagine listening to anything else for my run.
I don't remember why I shifted, but around the fall I added some lighter fare to shake things up. By October I had memorized the words to "Mambo No.5," and "Funky Cold Medina." When "The Biggest Loser," was on NBC, I downloaded the theme song, and then realized it isn't nearly as inspirational to listen to the whole thing at 4:30 am than to hear the edited version on your couch while watching out-of-shape people get born again by Jillian Michaels. But I did keep Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff," and Joe Cocker's "You Can Leave Your Hat On." You just can't help but move when those songs are playing.
Around the beginning of the year I transitioned to more recent stuff, like Natasha Bedingfeld's "Unwritten," and KD Tunstall's "Suddenly I See." Soon Amy Winehouse joined the crowd and I started to feel a little more current, almost as if I were not someone whose only connection to news and pop culture is whatever happens to be on NPR between 6:00 and 6:15 am.
Then my playlist began to take a definite turn for the pre-teen. I heard, "Walking on Sunshine" on the radio and immediately placed it as number one. As I jogged along and be-bopped to the upbeat song, I realized the version I had downloaded wasn't the one I was used to hearing. Upon closer inspection, I found that it was recorded by a duo called, "Aly and AJ." I vaguely remembered seeing a glimpse of their reality show on MTV, in which one of them fails her driving test. The next two songs were by Avril Lavigne. Then, Beyonce. Somehow, my iPod had come to resemble what I imagine would be playing at skating rinks if that was still a cool place for teenagers to hang out. Since I am neither cool nor a teenager, I have no idea what the equivalent would be today.
Regardless, I liked it. I felt happy and peppy and practically sprinted down the street when Avril sang about how she doesn't like my girlfriend and thinks I need a new one. And faster than I could text my BFF on the way to Biology, I found myself in front of the computer entering the words, "High School Musical," into the search field. I was ashamed, but as a (former?) theatre geek, I am forever at the mercy of all-cast musical numbers with full-on jazz hands. And, "All for One" has the perfect tempo for a nice 9-minute mile. So I clicked.
Go ahead and judge me, I don't care. Thanks to Zach Efron and pals, my morning jaunt on the pavement is laced with promises of a beach party and fun in the sun. And besides, it could be worse. I happen to know for a fact that one of the biggest guys in my gym listens to Kelly Clarkson.
I could detect the hint of judgement in my husband's voice as he looked over my shoulder and watched me click the mouse on the "purchase song" button in iTunes. I had been found out. The gig was up. I was forced to take stock of the playlist on my iPod and, well, face the music.
In the 20th week of my training, it was time once again to update my running music and find something to keep me energized and help me ignore the humidity of May mornings. I just had not realized how much of a closeted 13-year-old I had become when choosing music for my morning run. It started innocently enough, but has now turned into a full-blown monstrosity that must be dealt with.
Last summer, Green Day's "American Idiot," was the only thing on my iPod. I listened to it every day and it never failed to propel me forward through at least 45 minutes of hard cardio. It was as if they designed the album specifically for runners, with the way the songs transition and the tempo stays upbeat. I couldn't imagine listening to anything else for my run.
I don't remember why I shifted, but around the fall I added some lighter fare to shake things up. By October I had memorized the words to "Mambo No.5," and "Funky Cold Medina." When "The Biggest Loser," was on NBC, I downloaded the theme song, and then realized it isn't nearly as inspirational to listen to the whole thing at 4:30 am than to hear the edited version on your couch while watching out-of-shape people get born again by Jillian Michaels. But I did keep Donna Summer's "Hot Stuff," and Joe Cocker's "You Can Leave Your Hat On." You just can't help but move when those songs are playing.
Around the beginning of the year I transitioned to more recent stuff, like Natasha Bedingfeld's "Unwritten," and KD Tunstall's "Suddenly I See." Soon Amy Winehouse joined the crowd and I started to feel a little more current, almost as if I were not someone whose only connection to news and pop culture is whatever happens to be on NPR between 6:00 and 6:15 am.
Then my playlist began to take a definite turn for the pre-teen. I heard, "Walking on Sunshine" on the radio and immediately placed it as number one. As I jogged along and be-bopped to the upbeat song, I realized the version I had downloaded wasn't the one I was used to hearing. Upon closer inspection, I found that it was recorded by a duo called, "Aly and AJ." I vaguely remembered seeing a glimpse of their reality show on MTV, in which one of them fails her driving test. The next two songs were by Avril Lavigne. Then, Beyonce. Somehow, my iPod had come to resemble what I imagine would be playing at skating rinks if that was still a cool place for teenagers to hang out. Since I am neither cool nor a teenager, I have no idea what the equivalent would be today.
Regardless, I liked it. I felt happy and peppy and practically sprinted down the street when Avril sang about how she doesn't like my girlfriend and thinks I need a new one. And faster than I could text my BFF on the way to Biology, I found myself in front of the computer entering the words, "High School Musical," into the search field. I was ashamed, but as a (former?) theatre geek, I am forever at the mercy of all-cast musical numbers with full-on jazz hands. And, "All for One" has the perfect tempo for a nice 9-minute mile. So I clicked.
Go ahead and judge me, I don't care. Thanks to Zach Efron and pals, my morning jaunt on the pavement is laced with promises of a beach party and fun in the sun. And besides, it could be worse. I happen to know for a fact that one of the biggest guys in my gym listens to Kelly Clarkson.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Diabolical: It's How I Roll
After my last blog post, I was flooded with emails from concerned family and friends thinking that I was being too hard on myself, not having a healthy attitude, and taking this to the extreme.
Calm down. I'm fine.
In my eyes, the difference between people who talk about doing things and people who do things, is that the people who do things do them. I am done talking about this. I am doing it. And as I screamed into my pillow last night*, I will do this.
Being intense is kind of my hobby. It's what I do. The only thing new here is that I used to do it when no one was looking, and now I am blogging about it on the internet and sending it to my friends. I have always been crazy. Now you just know about it.
So kindly please step aside and let me get back to my diabolical plans for genetic domination.
Last week I said that it was time to get hard-core, and a week later, I am so glad I did. My workout this morning was fueled with the kind of energy you can only get by knowing that even though you might not be in control of your destiny, at least you're present for it. Last week, my runs were plagued with shin splints and sore calves. This morning, I sailed down the street and felt the angst and fatigue of last week melt away. Coincidence? I think not. I've upped my game, and I've also gotten some sleep. It's a magical combination.
I had spent the weekend in reflection. I've been stressed - stressed at work, stressed at home, stressed about my workouts and nutrition, and stressed about the effect all of that stress was having on me. I thought a lot about my goals and where I am in relation to them, and I updated my plan for getting there. And, I spent some time with myself. I took a day off from work and vegged. I bought a cute dress. I called my mom. She told me to stop being so hard on myself.
The truth is, I have been hard on myself, and I am tired. But, the two are not necessarily a pair - I can be driven and focused and intense in my journey to reach my MGP and also be tired, and the reverse can be true as well. Either way, I'm taking time to change up my cardio, enhance my nutrition, and alter my strength training to accomodate the need for rest and recovery. And, I am making some more room for stress relief, fun, and chill time when I am not bossing myself around. Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts, but I am giving it a shot.
So relax. I'm fine. Still going hard core, still being tough on myself, and still moving towards my MGP with an unrelenting drive to come out on top. I'm just doing it with a little more sleep.
*I did not actually scream into my pillow last night. That was a joke. Relax.
Calm down. I'm fine.
In my eyes, the difference between people who talk about doing things and people who do things, is that the people who do things do them. I am done talking about this. I am doing it. And as I screamed into my pillow last night*, I will do this.
Being intense is kind of my hobby. It's what I do. The only thing new here is that I used to do it when no one was looking, and now I am blogging about it on the internet and sending it to my friends. I have always been crazy. Now you just know about it.
So kindly please step aside and let me get back to my diabolical plans for genetic domination.
Last week I said that it was time to get hard-core, and a week later, I am so glad I did. My workout this morning was fueled with the kind of energy you can only get by knowing that even though you might not be in control of your destiny, at least you're present for it. Last week, my runs were plagued with shin splints and sore calves. This morning, I sailed down the street and felt the angst and fatigue of last week melt away. Coincidence? I think not. I've upped my game, and I've also gotten some sleep. It's a magical combination.
I had spent the weekend in reflection. I've been stressed - stressed at work, stressed at home, stressed about my workouts and nutrition, and stressed about the effect all of that stress was having on me. I thought a lot about my goals and where I am in relation to them, and I updated my plan for getting there. And, I spent some time with myself. I took a day off from work and vegged. I bought a cute dress. I called my mom. She told me to stop being so hard on myself.
The truth is, I have been hard on myself, and I am tired. But, the two are not necessarily a pair - I can be driven and focused and intense in my journey to reach my MGP and also be tired, and the reverse can be true as well. Either way, I'm taking time to change up my cardio, enhance my nutrition, and alter my strength training to accomodate the need for rest and recovery. And, I am making some more room for stress relief, fun, and chill time when I am not bossing myself around. Yeah, we'll see how long that lasts, but I am giving it a shot.
So relax. I'm fine. Still going hard core, still being tough on myself, and still moving towards my MGP with an unrelenting drive to come out on top. I'm just doing it with a little more sleep.
*I did not actually scream into my pillow last night. That was a joke. Relax.
If Success Breeds Complacency...You Can Keep It
As I mentioned in my last post, I recently attended a conference for work. And as with all conferences, I came back with a Steno pad full of ideas and, my favorite, inspirational quotes.
I love me some inspirational quotes. I scribble them on sticky notes, tape them to my computer monitor, write them on cards and in emails to my friends, and insert them into articles I write for trade magazines. Walking into my office is like walking into a haven of self-affirmation. I feel like they help motivate me and keep me focused on the positive impact I have on my own life, and they remind me that I am ultimately part of something bigger than myself.
So when I hear a good quote, I remember it. One in particular kept rearing its head at me last week and even made its way to the dry-erase board in my office: Success breeds complacency. It references our human nature of never trying anything new until we are certain that we will succeed, and therefore never feeling the sting of defeat or crushing misery of failure. And as a result, we never challenge ourselves to do more. So, our success is our demise, because it makes it so easy to accept the status quo.
I immediately saw the application to my personal life. I have not had much success in my goal of reaching my MGP. I've been at it for more than 15 years and have only recently begun to gain some ground. So I would like the opportunity to experience complacency once in a while.
But all of this deep thinking has made me wonder...if success breeds complacency, does failure have the opposite effect?
It definitely does for me. Last week, neither success nor complacency were part of the equation when I had my body fat tested. After six weeks of training, I had lost a crushing 0.5% of body fat. As I looked at the number and let reality wash over me, I realized that I wasn't even angry. I wasn't at my usual level of fury. I wasn't even the slightest bit confused. It was the first time that I took failure in stride and accepted it like a grown-up. I got into my car, ate my protein bar, and drove home. I thought to myself, if success breeds complacency, failure breeds me.
I spent the rest of the day in contemplation. I went over the past six weeks and wondered where I went wrong. I searched for the tiniest crack, the one point of weakness. I ultimately decided that focusing on the past was not going to get me anywhere, and I resolved to not look back any longer. Lesson learned: I am not in charge. I get it. Let's move on.
When I was a kid, there was a bridge near my house that was under construction. One rainy morning, the paper showed a picture of a lone runner jogging in the rain through the construction, over the bridge. The runner was my dad. I knew my dad went running every day (even on Christmas, which amazed me as a kid and still does now) but I didn't know that he did it despite all odds. That picture inspired me on so many levels. Not only did it represent working towards a goal despite obstacles, it showed my dad as someone with drive and resolve. It fueled in me the determination to be the same.
So, if success breeds complacency, and complacency breeds me, what do I breed? I thought about this as I ran this morning, and couldn't decide. I need more time to think about that. For now, I am thinking about that 0.5%, and how I never want to see that again. It might be in the past, but it won't be in my future.
If success breeds complacency, you can keep it. It's time to get hard-core.
I love me some inspirational quotes. I scribble them on sticky notes, tape them to my computer monitor, write them on cards and in emails to my friends, and insert them into articles I write for trade magazines. Walking into my office is like walking into a haven of self-affirmation. I feel like they help motivate me and keep me focused on the positive impact I have on my own life, and they remind me that I am ultimately part of something bigger than myself.
So when I hear a good quote, I remember it. One in particular kept rearing its head at me last week and even made its way to the dry-erase board in my office: Success breeds complacency. It references our human nature of never trying anything new until we are certain that we will succeed, and therefore never feeling the sting of defeat or crushing misery of failure. And as a result, we never challenge ourselves to do more. So, our success is our demise, because it makes it so easy to accept the status quo.
I immediately saw the application to my personal life. I have not had much success in my goal of reaching my MGP. I've been at it for more than 15 years and have only recently begun to gain some ground. So I would like the opportunity to experience complacency once in a while.
But all of this deep thinking has made me wonder...if success breeds complacency, does failure have the opposite effect?
It definitely does for me. Last week, neither success nor complacency were part of the equation when I had my body fat tested. After six weeks of training, I had lost a crushing 0.5% of body fat. As I looked at the number and let reality wash over me, I realized that I wasn't even angry. I wasn't at my usual level of fury. I wasn't even the slightest bit confused. It was the first time that I took failure in stride and accepted it like a grown-up. I got into my car, ate my protein bar, and drove home. I thought to myself, if success breeds complacency, failure breeds me.
I spent the rest of the day in contemplation. I went over the past six weeks and wondered where I went wrong. I searched for the tiniest crack, the one point of weakness. I ultimately decided that focusing on the past was not going to get me anywhere, and I resolved to not look back any longer. Lesson learned: I am not in charge. I get it. Let's move on.
When I was a kid, there was a bridge near my house that was under construction. One rainy morning, the paper showed a picture of a lone runner jogging in the rain through the construction, over the bridge. The runner was my dad. I knew my dad went running every day (even on Christmas, which amazed me as a kid and still does now) but I didn't know that he did it despite all odds. That picture inspired me on so many levels. Not only did it represent working towards a goal despite obstacles, it showed my dad as someone with drive and resolve. It fueled in me the determination to be the same.
So, if success breeds complacency, and complacency breeds me, what do I breed? I thought about this as I ran this morning, and couldn't decide. I need more time to think about that. For now, I am thinking about that 0.5%, and how I never want to see that again. It might be in the past, but it won't be in my future.
If success breeds complacency, you can keep it. It's time to get hard-core.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Kicking My Own Glutes
In the 17th week of my training, I hit a new low. I bought Glute magazine. My lower-body workouts have been lacking due to the hinderance of my knee brace, and as a result I have been stressing (and complaining to anyone who will listen) about the mushy state of my legs. So, when I spied Glute at the grocery store, featuring a smiling model on the cover coyly looking over her shoulder to better show off her glutes, I plunked down my $3.99 and settled in. The cover story was called, "Your Tight, Sexy Butt," which sounded kind of like a title that should be on the cover of a different kind of magazine. But I was intrigued.
My husband burst out laughing when he saw Glute sitting on my bedside table. He has taken to calling it "Bootylicious," and is amazed that there is an entire magazine dedicated to glutes. But he can laugh all he wants. It became my trusted companion this week.
I needed Glute because I was out of town most of the week at a conference. This is not a new occurance for me; I travel periodically for my job and have faced many a hotel gym and catered lunch. But this time, I wanted it to be different. I was so sick of being disappointed with my away-from-home workouts, and having to navigate sticky buns and criossant sandwiches to find healthy, clean food puts me on the fast track to a bad attitude. So, I took matters into my own hands - I packed an ice chest of food and decided that workouts were going to be my way or the highway. I really didn't want to run on the highway, so I prayed that the convention center had a decent gym.
I also prayed that I would have the discipline to do this on my own. My trainer has spoiled me. Solo workouts used to be the norm, but lately I've been throwing my own private temper tantrum when left to my own devices, and I lack discipline when left with no accountability. The past few times on the road, I have gone down to the hotel gym in the wee hours of the morning, found myself facing a tired treadmill and a few mismatched dumbells, muttered, "I can't work with this," and headed back upstairs. As a result, I spend the day in a funk, not having had my daily dose of martyrdom and accountability. Even if the gym is decent, I still find myself doing a few bicep curls, some overhead presses...but it just isn't the same when you're alone. I used to be self-directed, but now I am dependent. I know that kind of behavior is not going to get me to my MGP. I am beyond the point of exercising to maintain good health; I have a goal. I need to suck it up and work.
So I turned to my old standby - organization. When the going gets tough, the tough get organized. I knew this week would be a bear, so I went in with a clipboard and got anal about it (pun intended). I opened Glute magazine and others to map out workouts for each day complete with supersets, rest times, and sequences. I knew that even if the gym was crummy, there would still be no excuse.
My prayers were answered when I showed up at 6:00 am (what kind of gym doesn't open until 6:00 am???) to find all of the cardio equipment taken, except for one lonely stationary bike which I left alone. So, I hit the weights first and kept an eagle eye out for a treadmill. I shot a longing look at the smith machine and said a silent prayer for my return to the sumo squat, but turned my attention to my little list. I tucked my water in a corner and got to work. I usually love working out with a group so we can banter and gossip and engage in friendly trash talk, but today was different. My shuffle was cranked up and I was in my zone, sweating it out and really enjoying the new pace. Glute didn't let me down. By the time a treadmill opened up and I began to run, I was exhausted. In the elevator on the way back to my room, I wanted to lie on the floor and take a nap. I felt so hard-core.
Throughout the rest of the day, I moved a little more slowly, stood up a little more cautiously, and sat a little more gingerly. I don't know if I have a tight, sexy butt yet, but that workout and the ones on the following mornings proved to me that if I really, really have to, I can do this on my own again. I liked being stubborn and driven like in the old days, and am almost looking forward to my next business trip so I can give myself another good kick in the pants.
But not until someone publishes Hams.
My husband burst out laughing when he saw Glute sitting on my bedside table. He has taken to calling it "Bootylicious," and is amazed that there is an entire magazine dedicated to glutes. But he can laugh all he wants. It became my trusted companion this week.
I needed Glute because I was out of town most of the week at a conference. This is not a new occurance for me; I travel periodically for my job and have faced many a hotel gym and catered lunch. But this time, I wanted it to be different. I was so sick of being disappointed with my away-from-home workouts, and having to navigate sticky buns and criossant sandwiches to find healthy, clean food puts me on the fast track to a bad attitude. So, I took matters into my own hands - I packed an ice chest of food and decided that workouts were going to be my way or the highway. I really didn't want to run on the highway, so I prayed that the convention center had a decent gym.
I also prayed that I would have the discipline to do this on my own. My trainer has spoiled me. Solo workouts used to be the norm, but lately I've been throwing my own private temper tantrum when left to my own devices, and I lack discipline when left with no accountability. The past few times on the road, I have gone down to the hotel gym in the wee hours of the morning, found myself facing a tired treadmill and a few mismatched dumbells, muttered, "I can't work with this," and headed back upstairs. As a result, I spend the day in a funk, not having had my daily dose of martyrdom and accountability. Even if the gym is decent, I still find myself doing a few bicep curls, some overhead presses...but it just isn't the same when you're alone. I used to be self-directed, but now I am dependent. I know that kind of behavior is not going to get me to my MGP. I am beyond the point of exercising to maintain good health; I have a goal. I need to suck it up and work.
So I turned to my old standby - organization. When the going gets tough, the tough get organized. I knew this week would be a bear, so I went in with a clipboard and got anal about it (pun intended). I opened Glute magazine and others to map out workouts for each day complete with supersets, rest times, and sequences. I knew that even if the gym was crummy, there would still be no excuse.
My prayers were answered when I showed up at 6:00 am (what kind of gym doesn't open until 6:00 am???) to find all of the cardio equipment taken, except for one lonely stationary bike which I left alone. So, I hit the weights first and kept an eagle eye out for a treadmill. I shot a longing look at the smith machine and said a silent prayer for my return to the sumo squat, but turned my attention to my little list. I tucked my water in a corner and got to work. I usually love working out with a group so we can banter and gossip and engage in friendly trash talk, but today was different. My shuffle was cranked up and I was in my zone, sweating it out and really enjoying the new pace. Glute didn't let me down. By the time a treadmill opened up and I began to run, I was exhausted. In the elevator on the way back to my room, I wanted to lie on the floor and take a nap. I felt so hard-core.
Throughout the rest of the day, I moved a little more slowly, stood up a little more cautiously, and sat a little more gingerly. I don't know if I have a tight, sexy butt yet, but that workout and the ones on the following mornings proved to me that if I really, really have to, I can do this on my own again. I liked being stubborn and driven like in the old days, and am almost looking forward to my next business trip so I can give myself another good kick in the pants.
But not until someone publishes Hams.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Go Time
It's the 16th week of training, and I am starting to freak out.
I recently received a fitness magazine showcasing the top contenders in a fitness competition, and I devoured it like a refugee who had stumbled upon a chocolate-chip muffin. But when I sat and looked at the pictures of figure competitors who looked unlike anything I thought my body could do, and began calculating the numbers of hours I would have to workout, grams of protein I would have to eat, and dollars I would have to spend on plastic surgery to achieve that type of body, my husband looked over my shoulder and said, "those women look gross."
They did look kind of gross. They looked like some kind of nightmare freak Barbies. I know a lot of it is tanner and oil and posing, and they don't look like that when they're pushing the buggy at Target with the rest of us mere mortals. I looked at those women and thought, ew. And then immediately, can I even get there?
I have my doubts. Sure, I can get my body fat down and workout really hard and eat the perfect diet, and be in really good shape as a result. But these women have a genetic makeup that lends itself to this line of work. I don't know if I have that. I'm not sure how far hard work, drive, and determination can get me in this game. At some point I'll need to alter my DNA, and I don't have the skill set for that.
I spent the weekend reuniting with my college girlfriends, fully engaged in a diet of homemade cookies, mexican food, and ice cream. I enjoyed the diversion from my usual regimen of egg whites and protein shakes, but I also craved a workout and looked forward to going back to my clean eating ways. I realized that my splurge days are becoming more rare and less enjoyable. I'm glad for that, because it signals a permanent change that I am ready for.
As I sat in the airport during my four-hour layover, I contemplated whether I was setting myself up to be a laughing stock, and if I should quietly fade into the background, letting this project become a memory and hoping no one would notice my absence. But as I walked down the aisle of the plane and searched for my seat, I felt the fire build inside of me, enraged at the thought of quitting. And as I looked through the window at the shrinking landscape and let the clouds envelop me in white space, I closed my eyes and tried to visualize myself at the finish line, imagining what that would look like and how that would feel. I had a hard time seeing it, and it was then that I realized that the finish line would never be there.
I opened my eyes and looked back through the window of the plane. By now we were above the clouds and the sun was shining on us. I opened my magazine and looked at the unreal statue-like bodies of the professional figure competitors and thought about the vast differences between their hamstrings and mine. And then the fire returned, this time cheering me on. I might never look like a tanned, shiny, frekaziod Barbie on steroids, and to be honest, that's okay. But I do want to reach what I have been calling my MGP - my Maximum Genetic Potential.
Will my MGP cut the mustard next to elite gymnasts, professional figure models, and genetic lottery winners? We'll find out. Either way, I have stopped looking for the finish line and started training for the long haul.
Fitness magazines, websites, and television shows can be great motivators for anyone working on a healthier lifestyle. But at the end of the day (or in my case, in the wee hours before daybreak) it all comes down to you, your nutrition, and your weights. When those planets are aligned, it's go time.
So let's go.
I recently received a fitness magazine showcasing the top contenders in a fitness competition, and I devoured it like a refugee who had stumbled upon a chocolate-chip muffin. But when I sat and looked at the pictures of figure competitors who looked unlike anything I thought my body could do, and began calculating the numbers of hours I would have to workout, grams of protein I would have to eat, and dollars I would have to spend on plastic surgery to achieve that type of body, my husband looked over my shoulder and said, "those women look gross."
They did look kind of gross. They looked like some kind of nightmare freak Barbies. I know a lot of it is tanner and oil and posing, and they don't look like that when they're pushing the buggy at Target with the rest of us mere mortals. I looked at those women and thought, ew. And then immediately, can I even get there?
I have my doubts. Sure, I can get my body fat down and workout really hard and eat the perfect diet, and be in really good shape as a result. But these women have a genetic makeup that lends itself to this line of work. I don't know if I have that. I'm not sure how far hard work, drive, and determination can get me in this game. At some point I'll need to alter my DNA, and I don't have the skill set for that.
I spent the weekend reuniting with my college girlfriends, fully engaged in a diet of homemade cookies, mexican food, and ice cream. I enjoyed the diversion from my usual regimen of egg whites and protein shakes, but I also craved a workout and looked forward to going back to my clean eating ways. I realized that my splurge days are becoming more rare and less enjoyable. I'm glad for that, because it signals a permanent change that I am ready for.
As I sat in the airport during my four-hour layover, I contemplated whether I was setting myself up to be a laughing stock, and if I should quietly fade into the background, letting this project become a memory and hoping no one would notice my absence. But as I walked down the aisle of the plane and searched for my seat, I felt the fire build inside of me, enraged at the thought of quitting. And as I looked through the window at the shrinking landscape and let the clouds envelop me in white space, I closed my eyes and tried to visualize myself at the finish line, imagining what that would look like and how that would feel. I had a hard time seeing it, and it was then that I realized that the finish line would never be there.
I opened my eyes and looked back through the window of the plane. By now we were above the clouds and the sun was shining on us. I opened my magazine and looked at the unreal statue-like bodies of the professional figure competitors and thought about the vast differences between their hamstrings and mine. And then the fire returned, this time cheering me on. I might never look like a tanned, shiny, frekaziod Barbie on steroids, and to be honest, that's okay. But I do want to reach what I have been calling my MGP - my Maximum Genetic Potential.
Will my MGP cut the mustard next to elite gymnasts, professional figure models, and genetic lottery winners? We'll find out. Either way, I have stopped looking for the finish line and started training for the long haul.
Fitness magazines, websites, and television shows can be great motivators for anyone working on a healthier lifestyle. But at the end of the day (or in my case, in the wee hours before daybreak) it all comes down to you, your nutrition, and your weights. When those planets are aligned, it's go time.
So let's go.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Form for (Better) Function
I need to work on my form.
I hear it every day, in some variation, in the deep baritone voice of my trainer:
"Watch the knees, Heather."
"Arch your back, Heather."
"Straighten those arms, Heather."
"Flat back, Heather."
I know what the problem is - I'm rushing. I do the same thing in my lunchtime Pilates class, always reminding myself to slow down, we're not in a race. I live my life in fast-forward, and so it shouldn't be much of a shock that I am also GO GO GO when it comes to my hobby. I don't know if you've gathered this in your reading of this blog, but patience is not a quality I possess.
So I am making a concerted effort to slow down, enjoy the process, and work on my form. I had my first opportunity last week when I shared some information I had read while googling fitness competitions on a Saturday afternoon: that in one event, the womens' bench press was done with 60% of her body weight. I pondered what 60% of my body weight would be and whether I could bench that much. My mathematics skills lacking, I left that task up to my trainer, who told me that it would be 81 lbs. I was currently doing an easy chest press with two 25 lb dumbells (full extension, Heather) and replied, "okay, something to work towards."
We moved on to a series of overhead shoulder presses (elbows in, Heather) and I watched out of the corner of my eye as said trainer set up the bar with some plates. As he rolled a bench over and centered it beneath the bar, my suspicions were confirmed. My training buddy and I grabbed our towels and tried to brace ourselves. I went first.
I sucked.
On my second set, I did better. On my third, my arms turned to cement and I felt frozen in time as I willed myself to push the bar higher and felt absolutely no response. Somehow it was re-racked and I cringed. As I wiped my sweat from the bench and resumed normal breathing, my trainer calmly announced, "that was 85."
And we went on to cable pulls.
I love that process. The process of identifying a goal, determining the likelihood of success, and then testing myself to see if I can pull it out. It's something I want to do every day, whether in the gym or at work or at home. But, I know that just going through the motions doesn't count. I don't want to get stuck in a routine of going to the gym, running my regular route, doing my usual elliptical intervals, and robotically going through a weight routine just so I can check it off of a list. That's what I've been doing lately. But, today I'm giving myself a jolt: time to wake up, focus on my form, and start pushing myself again.
I left the gym that day feeling stronger, but also wondering...if I could do 85 lbs...could I do 90? Someone hang up the carrot, please.
I hear it every day, in some variation, in the deep baritone voice of my trainer:
"Watch the knees, Heather."
"Arch your back, Heather."
"Straighten those arms, Heather."
"Flat back, Heather."
I know what the problem is - I'm rushing. I do the same thing in my lunchtime Pilates class, always reminding myself to slow down, we're not in a race. I live my life in fast-forward, and so it shouldn't be much of a shock that I am also GO GO GO when it comes to my hobby. I don't know if you've gathered this in your reading of this blog, but patience is not a quality I possess.
So I am making a concerted effort to slow down, enjoy the process, and work on my form. I had my first opportunity last week when I shared some information I had read while googling fitness competitions on a Saturday afternoon: that in one event, the womens' bench press was done with 60% of her body weight. I pondered what 60% of my body weight would be and whether I could bench that much. My mathematics skills lacking, I left that task up to my trainer, who told me that it would be 81 lbs. I was currently doing an easy chest press with two 25 lb dumbells (full extension, Heather) and replied, "okay, something to work towards."
We moved on to a series of overhead shoulder presses (elbows in, Heather) and I watched out of the corner of my eye as said trainer set up the bar with some plates. As he rolled a bench over and centered it beneath the bar, my suspicions were confirmed. My training buddy and I grabbed our towels and tried to brace ourselves. I went first.
I sucked.
On my second set, I did better. On my third, my arms turned to cement and I felt frozen in time as I willed myself to push the bar higher and felt absolutely no response. Somehow it was re-racked and I cringed. As I wiped my sweat from the bench and resumed normal breathing, my trainer calmly announced, "that was 85."
And we went on to cable pulls.
I love that process. The process of identifying a goal, determining the likelihood of success, and then testing myself to see if I can pull it out. It's something I want to do every day, whether in the gym or at work or at home. But, I know that just going through the motions doesn't count. I don't want to get stuck in a routine of going to the gym, running my regular route, doing my usual elliptical intervals, and robotically going through a weight routine just so I can check it off of a list. That's what I've been doing lately. But, today I'm giving myself a jolt: time to wake up, focus on my form, and start pushing myself again.
I left the gym that day feeling stronger, but also wondering...if I could do 85 lbs...could I do 90? Someone hang up the carrot, please.
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