As I previously blogged, I am getting my ass in shape. And IT IS HARD. It is like a second job, only I dislike it a lot more than any job I’ve had before (okay, except maybe when I worked sales for a communications company. I’ll take working out any day over that). I try not to talk about it too much because I don’t want to turn into one of those people that’s like “oh, well today at the gym…” or “have I told you about my diet in the last hour?” Every one knows those people, and generally, those people are fun suckers. They suck the fun right on out of any conversation. But, since I’ve made it publicly known that I’m working toward a specific goal (losing some weight and gaining a better self image by 30) I figure I may as well give an update now that I’m a month in.
1. I am very strong.
My first session with my trainer I thought I was going to die. I’ve done small group training sessions before, but nothing one on one where all the attention was focused on pushing chubby ol’ me to my limits. So going into the first training session I thought I was going to die, not from physical pain, but because I was terrified I wouldn’t be able to do what was asked of me. That I’d be too weak or too out of shape, despite working out fairly consistently for the last four years. But I swallowed all that down and forced myself to go into it as fearless as possible…and it worked. Even from the first day I went harder than even my trainer expected. And it’s not just when I have someone there pushing me, I get in there and do it on my own as well. In my mind I’m Sydney Bristow (hell, even when I’m putting in my cardio time I get Alias going on the trusty Netflix app and picture myself running shit in the CIA). I know my abs and thighs don’t resemble hers, but sweating away in the gym leads me to believe I’m strong enough to take on any villain, even the ones in my head telling me I can’t do this.
2. I am very weak.
I’ve now cried at the gym three times. I’ve seen Biggest Loser (okay, well I’ve seen previews for it, which seems like enough for me) and I HATE when people cry at the gym. Boohoo, this shit is hard. Suck it up! It wouldn’t be a work out if it were easy. Well…now I’m that person. Except, I’m not crying because it’s physically too hard and I don’t want to do it. I’m crying because I’m doing it and I’m giving it every thing I’ve got, and it still doesn’t seem to be enough. At the beginning of my third week I’d lost only 1.5 pounds and every day I was going home dead tired. For what? For 1.5 pounds? I wanted to quit. Why bother, I thought. If working this hard gets very minimal results, why bother? So I cried out of frustration, and mainly out of weakness. As much as I hate that these people on TV are crying because the workouts are hard, I hate even more that I was crying because I too was expecting this to be easy. Not the actual work, but the results. I wanted to give in because I wasn’t being instantly gratified with a miracle weight loss, or even just a noticeable weight loss, and I’m still fighting this weakness every day that I step on the scale, or put on my size 8’s and don’t see and feel a difference. This mental battle is ten times harder than the physical work I’m putting in and remains the one area where I really need to become stronger.
3. Five fucking pounds.
THAT’S IT?! When I stepped on the scale yesterday that is all I could think to myself. FIVE FUCKING POUNDS?! A month full of healthy eating, no booze drinking, and more hours in the gym than in front of my TV or in bed with a good book and it’s only gotten me five fucking pounds?! Fuuuuuuuuuuck.
4. Five pounds is five pounds.
After about twelve hours of pouting, I thought about this; I have three months to go before my 30th birthday. Even if it seems slow, if I continue to lose five pounds a month, I will have lost 20 by the time I am entering into my third decade. And you know what? Twenty pounds would be the best present I could ever ask for, no matter how slow it was to come off.
5. I am a pretty great cook.
Well, great by my standards. It’s been well documented that I am a picky eater. For me, eating healthy is difficult not so much because I love fast food and sweets and drink a million pops a day, but because I am so dang picky about what I want to eat. It would be so easy if I just loved chicken and could eat baked chicken and steamed veggies all day long, but I can’t (okay, I could, but I would very quickly become absolutely sick of it and devour the first pizza put in front of my face). So I have to work really hard to come up with meals that A) include ingredients I can stand and B) are healthy and have an appropriate amount of calories and fat in them. This can be a tricky process, especially after working a full day and spending two hours at the gym when making any sort of meal for myself sounds absolutely dreadful and, again, devouring the first pizza placed in front of me just sounds so much easier, but I’m slowly figuring it out. I spend a few hours on the weekend cooking meals for the upcoming week, making picante fish or turkey chili or gluten free pasta with a sauteed mushroom, olive, and onion sauce, and suddenly eating better after a long day doesn’t seem so daunting when all the work is already done and the meals don’t involve baked chicken.
Some days I still think about nothing more than going home after a long day of work and clearing out my DVR in one sitting and allowing myself one delicious slice of pizza in the Liz Lemon style:
But so far, every day I end up in the gym, busting my ass and wanting to feel more like this (you know, with the guns, just without the actual gun):