Ash and You Shall Receive

It's the most wonderful tiiiiiime of the year....



last year's cross

OK, well I get that Ash Wednesday is definitely not as hyped up a holiday as Christmas is, but I actually look forward to this day more than Christmas if you can believe that (probably not). Where the Christmas story is on a sugar high induced by reindeer, glitter, and twinkle lights, Ash Wednesday is very simple, totally straight-forward and with absolutely no bells and whistles whatsoever. In fact, in my opinion Ash Wednesday is basically the holiday equivalent of a smack in the face...or...smudge on the forehead. It is the day that kicks off the season of Lent, a time which is often translated as being: The 40 day New Year's Resolution in which most people "give up" some kind of carbohydrate but mostly just end up giving up on giving something up. Last year I didn't buy food or eat at restaurants for the entire season of Lent (I even created a blog called "The Lent(il) Project" to chronicle that experience, which you can feel free to read). I ate only from my fridge, freezer, and pantry for 40 days. I didn't actually get around to finishing that blog, but I did learn how to make my own yogurt and get incredibly inventive with beans.

The contents of my pantry from last year's Lent(il) Project, which includes 10 lbs of beans

This year's Ash Wednesday started out very differently from the previous year. For one thing, I was up at 4AM struggling to throw on gym clothes (which is quite the challenge when you're working off of six hours of sleep) so that I could attend 5AM Spin. For another, I may or may not have engaged in a heated conversation with the lady at the front desk before said 5AM Spin class. I won't hash out the details but suffice it to say that never in my entire life did I ever think that some day I would vehemently dialogue with another person over a sign-in sheet for a 5AM Spin Class... Anyway, I went to class with quite a bit more un-Christ-like aggression to burn than is normal for me. Once Spin ended, I had to book it back home in order to clean up before mass started.

In the Lent(il) Project, I describe, in great detail, my history with Ash Wednesday services. I started going to them because I needed chapel credit for college but ended up really enjoying the liturgy (especially in the reverend's Irish accent which, let's face it, could make a reading from my car's owner's manual sound sexy). When I moved back to NJ after school, I actually attended two masses on Ash Wednesday: one from the Catholic church and one from the Episcopalian church near Jersey Fitness. I wish that I could tell you I did this out of some deeper yearning for greater spiritual truth. But the fact is, I went to the Episcopalian service because when I was calling around for Ash Wednesday service times, the church secretary said, "The homily is at 9:30 and there will be a coffee and hot cross bun reception once the service is over". Needless to say, she had me at "hot cross bun reception".  Once the Catholic service ended, I booked it across town to St. Peter's quicker than you can say a Hail Mary. I have no doubt that while I wiped off my Catholic ashes, a little piece of my dignity went with them. This year, my eyes are definitely on the prize of getting to my goal weight, but there is a non-negotiable Hot Cross Bun/Good Friday Cannoli Clause built into my weight-loss contract. This clause allows for the consumption of baked goods for religious purposes (I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere). Had cannoli been around in the time of King David, I have no doubt there would be a whole slew of psalms devoted to thanking God for them.

a very religious experience...

This year's Ash Wednesday service was everything I'd hoped it would be. Thankfully I was not bawled out by one of the parishioners (who looks exactly like my Aunt Lori) for accidentally not eating the Communion wafer in front of the Crucifix (a mistake you do not repeat twice in the Catholic Church). I also managed to avoid getting the squeaky knee rest (unlike my across-the-pew neighbor. Rookie mistake, succccckkkkaaa!). Also, the priest had a fantastically thick Spanish accent in addition to a quirky sense of humor. I found it quite charming to be asked, "How many of j'ou gonna geev up the con-dees and thee shoo-gar for Lent, ah? Do j'ou theenk God wants the con-dees...or...(long dramatic pause) j'our heaaaart?" I'm serious, accents just make the mass for me. The priest asked us to really think about what we intended to give up for Lent. It made me pause to consider something my friend Heidi said about not necessarily losing something for Lent (because at this point I've already lost two happy knee caps, weight, a social life, and 90% of my clothing to Jersey Fitness alone) but perhaps adding something; for example, adding a special time to pray, have devotions, quiet time, etc. I thought this was a very thoughtful and brilliant idea, actually.

For whatever reason, I really feel like adding yoga to my morning routine for the forty days of Lent. I should probably point out that I am not a morning person. That I go to 5AM Spin at all says more about Chrissy's teaching abilities than my self-discipline. I love to sleep more than I love eating, dancing in Zumba, watching Korean dramas, riding on hayrides, and shopping at farmer's markets...combined. Also, I'm not really a yoga person, either. If you re-read my post entitled "Yoga: A History" you will learn that I am not terribly coordinated and will more than likely tip over. A lot. It is because of my propensity to fall that makes me give Chrissy the stink eye whenever she has us "warm up" in kickboxing by balancing our bodies over one foot. In short, I really have zero desire whatsoever to get up early in the morning and do yoga. And yet, it is because this practice is outside of my comfort zone that I am drawn to pursue it. My life is fairly busy and I don't often get the opportunity to concentrate on the understated value of just breathing. For me, this is not about losing weight, it's not about pushing the limits of my body, it's about acquiring balance both spiritually and physically (I better rock at lunges by Easter Sunday). Now, so as to not totally wipe myself out, on the Tuesdays and Thursdays that I might attend 5AM Spin, I will opt to do yoga at night with the super amazing, indescribable, spandex-clad, foot tatted, Jim. I cannot wait to hear him say hip op'ner for the first time...it will be magical, I know it.

Happy Ash Wednesday, everyone!
  

Dump & Run

In the past, whenever I've complained about struggling with studying/learning something new/employment/cooking a difficult meal, my dad would often say (to my annoyance): No one wants to hear about the labor pains, they just want to see the baby.

Yesterday was the Pump & Run challenge and here's the "baby" (because if this is what you want to see, you can ignore the rest of my detailed account of the labor):

-I ran 3.4 miles in 38ish minutes
-I did 10 reps of 80lbs (technically, I was supposed to lift 120 lbs but I'll have to hold out til 2014 for that one)

I competed and completed the Pump & Run challenge: It's a girl!

And now for the labor:

Because I've been lifting/pumping about four times a week (give or take) in addition to six days of cardio-heavy classes, I've made some necessary tweaks to my eating habits. Mainly, I've been almost completely low carb for a few weeks now. When you're trying to convert your body's wobbly bits into a lean, green, running machine, you need a fair amount of protein and vegetables. I didn't forsake the bread/potatoes because I wanted to jump start my weight loss; I just happen to feel physically better without them. I've also been drinking at least a gallon of water a day in an effort to boost my metabolism and flush out my system. So far, these tweaks have been working in my favor (I lost 8 lbs since the start of the competition).

On the evening before Pump & Run, I decided that in addition to eating well and drinking lots of water, I'd take three heaping tablespoons of psyllium powder, dissolved in water, to "clean the slate" before my weigh-in the following morning. If you aren't familiar with psyllium powder, it's basically these little ground up husks that are 100% pure fiber. You put them in at least 10 oz of water or juice, stir them up, and drink. The worst part of drinking psyllium powder is its texture. It's like drinking Cream of Wheat flavored saliva. And in my foolish, well-intentioned heart, I really thought I'd wake up the next morning feeling clean as a whistle (especially after getting up twice in the middle of the night to pee). The next morning, I hopped on my scale (because I hate the element of surprise) and to my shock and annoyance, I gained 2 lbs within 24 hours. I was flabbergasted by this change but assumed that perhaps I could still...uh..."drop" some weight by the time I had to get on the gym scale.

I walked into the gym and immediately saw a ring of blue Pump & Run t-shirts surrounding the entrance of the weight room. I knew from the beginning that we'd all obviously pump and then go for our run for the competition. It's one thing to know it, it's quite another thing to see everyone watching, cheering, and clapping while someone is lying on a bench and lifting weights while Chrissy counts (I love Chrissy dearly, but when she hovers around a bench press or a scale that I'm using, she intimidates the crap out of me. Although not literally enough on that particular morning...). To make matters worse, the guys in the weight room were stopping to watch this portion of the competition. Right then and there, as I walked by my crowd of buddies and fellow Pump & Run-ers, I felt my resolve begin to crumble. I booked it to the nearest bathroom and attempted to squeeze out any remaining drop of weight that might still be lounging around in my lower intestines. Unfortunately, I couldn't tell if the brick in my belly was anxiety or a crapload (no pun intended) of fiber. One frightening and frustrating weigh-in with Chrissy later, it was definitely the fiber; I gained 4 lbs in 24 hours (the gym scale said I was 2 lbs heavier than the reading I had on my scale at home. See? Surprises suck!). Even though I lost 8 lbs in 8 weeks (which included the food-heavy holiday weeks of Christmas, New Year's, and my birthday), all I could feel was the remorse of those four extra pounds.

I know I've warned against the power of the numbers on the scale. Chrissy has warned against the numbers on the scale. Everyone warns against the numbers on the scale. And yet, there I was, sobbing in the women's locker room sauna over numbers on the scale. I wasn't grateful for the 8 lb loss, I wasn't proud of the fact that I could bench 80 lbs (even though I started out with the 45 lb bar eight weeks ago). All I felt was miserable over numbers and I let them mean way more than "idiot who drank too much fiber". I'm not sure how crappy moments work for you, but for me it's one big domino effect. I got upset by numbers on the scale, which then made me upset that I couldn't bench 120 lbs, which then made me upset that I didn't personally weigh 120 lbs, which then made me want to shrivel up into an Ang-sized raisin in the women's locker room sauna (By the way, I know that it's totally random to have a meltdown (literally) in a sauna, but it is like my favorite little nook in Jersey Fitness. I do all my best thinking/meditating/meltdown-ing in there). But somewhere in whatever portion of my brain that remained logical, I told myself to get out of the sauna and dry my puffy eyes. And that's when I came face-to-face with my friend/instructor Beth (the one who gave me excellent ski advice in the previous post).

I didn't think anyone got a shot of me pumping! Thanks, Johnna!

I explained to Beth about the scale, how I didn't want to be fat anymore, and that I didn't want to be cheered on for doing well "for where I am". I actually want to be a gym beast, I want to bench 80 lbs because that is 70% of my body weight and not just what I can handle "for where I am". I want what I cannot have yet "for where I am" and it pisses me off on an almost daily basis. Fortunately, I am just angry enough to be motivated to attend classes and lift weights, but not so angry that I hurl kettlebells into the classroom mirrors. Beth understood why I was upset but wisely pointed out that at the end of the day, all those people in the blue shirts were my friends, they all knew how far I'd come this past year (and not just in the past two months of Pump & Run), and that we are all in this competition to encourage and support each other. And with that said, we walked out of the locker room together.

I benched 10 reps of 80lbs, got up, and threw on my running gear. Oddly enough, up until that morning, I was actually dreading the running portion the most. Even though I do a lot of cardio throughout the week, I haven't really been running faithfully and wasn't quite sure if my body could just jump right into a 5K. Fortunately, I have a tried-and-true method for running: I maintain the same pace from start to finish. For as pissed off as I was about only benching the 80lbs, I could not have cared less about my running time or speed. And you know, the crazy thing is that for all my crying and whining, the pumping and running segments went by pretty quickly.

Johnna & Chrissy: Johnna got us the awesome shirt/pics and Chrissy was the ringleader of this here Pump & Run shindig

When we all finished up, we milled about on the gym classroom floor, and Chrissy gave us our certificates of participation and various awards. I was still pretty annoyed with myself over my previous attitude and behavior, but when Chrissy handed me my participant card with all my numbers (starting weight, ending weight, reps, running time, body fat percentage, fullness), all I kept thinking about was next year's Pump & Run. I wonder what 2014 Pump & Run-Angela will think about this first competition. I wonder what she'll look like. I pinned my certificate and my participant card onto the mantel of my window as a tangible reminder of what I'm working towards.

This is what Chrissy wrote on my participation card after I told her about my fiber fiasco. She's too much.

That night, just as I was about to go to bed, I called my sister Kim and told her about Pump & Run and the fiber incident. She cracked up at my unintentional sabotage and said, "Sounds like Angie wanted a little Dump & Run!" I talked about my meltdown and how I hated feeling like I was doing well "for where I am" which is just a nice way of saying "for still being overweight". She said, "But the thing is, Angie, is that you care now. Seriously think about who you were a year ago, what would that girl say about you benching 80 lbs and running a 5k?" And she's absolutely right. I do care now. I care about being healthy so much that even though I was upset over the numbers, I still completed the competition. In fact, I knew that I would end up pumping and running even while I was sobbing in the sauna. I knew I would do it partly because I was certain that my friends in the blue shirts, and particularly Beth and Chrissy, wouldn't let me give up on myself; but mainly I knew I'd see it through because deep down I cared more about finishing than feeling sorry for myself.

I got "Most Improved". I thought my prize was a candle, but it was actually a daisy growing kit. I realized this after 5 minutes of sniffing..

 I really really wish that this post about the Pump & Run challenge didn't come with about ten bags of drama, but it did (and not for the sake of this blog, I assure you). Weight loss is not a simple, clean-cut process that's all sunshine and daffodils. It can be as brutally honest and gut-wrenching as a three-sided dressing room mirror. In fact, this process basically is one big mirror, one that forces you to take everything in, the good and the bad, and challenges you as if to say "Your move". And the longer you ignore what's staring right in front of you, the harder it gets for when you actually do rise to the occasion.

 I am beyond grateful for the Pump & Run challenge, for everyone in the blue shirts, and even for the warm hug of the sauna room. For as much as I hate that I had a pre-schooler meltdown, I am that happy that I continue to care.  

Ice Ice Baby

(At lunch with my friend Scott a couple months ago)
Me: You know, I've never been skiing
Scott: Really? Oh, we're going...

(Last week at lunch)
Me: Hey, remember when you said we should go skiing...think we'll actually get around to doing that?
Scott: Yes, I do. How's next Wednesday work for you? Can you take off work?

So on Wednesday I went skiing for the very first time with the aforementioned Scott (and can I just say, I don't remember him ever calling my bluff quite so quickly before). I know that I've mentioned Scott before in older posts. He's the one who suggested we should run a 5K together (I completed the Couch to 5K program and have since run a handful of races....though none with Scott, oddly enough) and he's also my right-side dancing buddy in Zumba class. But Scott and I actually go way, way back, back in the day when the gym just happened to be that building near the donut shop. In fact, about 20 years ago, our parents (his mom works with both of my parents in the same office) thought it would be a good idea to breed our respective family dogs. And that's the context in which I first met Scott. Technically I don't actually remember him at all during this awkward arrangement. What I do remember is asking my father why Lady kept trying to hide from the other doggie (The dog matchmaking never did pan out. Lady, as it turned out, didn't exactly live up to her moniker and ended up getting impregnated by another cocker spaniel, a runaway named "Bandit". And no, I'm not making any of this up). Fastforward about 8 or 9 years and I (quite pragmatically) asked my parents if I could get driving school lessons for my 16th birthday. As it turned out, I had to share my lesson with another kid: Scott. By this time, I had already repressed the dog mating incident, but I did remember that our parents worked together, so I was grateful to share the lessons with a familiar face. I'm not sure exactly when we fell into our friendship over the course of learning how to parallel park, use turning signals, and make K-turns, but I do know that it was pretty much instantaneous. Back in those easy-breezy days when gas was well under $2 a gallon, Scott and his new license would drive me around Salem County pretty much every single day. And that's how we started out.

circa 2002

2012

One of the best things about our friendship now, in our twenties, is that we're both much more confident and secure individuals than we ever were as teenagers. And I'm not sure if this is an aging thing or an "I'm tired of being the fat kid" thing, but our health is much higher on the ol' list of priorities now, as well. Scott has already trimmed down to his goal weight (I've got another good year ahead of me) so his approach to things like running, skiing, or zumba, for example, is eager and adventurous. When he first proposed that we run a 5K together, he just looked at me as though what he just said was fact and not a suggestion. I, at 200+ lbs, was a bit more skeptical. See, if you were to propose the subject of "running" to most Big Girls, 9 times out of 10 they will ask you, "In this running scenario you speak of...am I being chased by a serial killer or just a mugger?" But what I've noticed about people like Scott or my fitness instructors, is that they never at any point assume that I am physically incapable of these feats. They don't look at me and think "can't" (Chrissy probably just thinks "Faster!"). When they do this, it's like some crazy Jedi mind trick that convinces me that yes, yes I can run 3 miles on a treadmill or going flying down a mountain! So let me just say this and then I'll go back to my skiing story: One of the biggest reasons I push myself forward in all of this is because I have these people to look me in the eye and say, "You're going skiing" or "There's no stopping, cheaters!" or my favorite (and please forgive the cursing this one time) "Get your ass on that floor and give me a burpee!". Back in the day when I'd sit at the table with my plate piled two stories high with food, I'd laugh about "starting over tomorrow" because I knew that tomorrow would never happen. I had soothing words of sympathy from my skinny friends, empathy from my bigger friends, and nothing ever changed. Life was simpler, I was never sore....and in my heart, I was miserable. I like to think that saying yes now to new challenges, like skiing, is my way of taking one big step away from that hopeless lump I once was.

That said, I had no idea what to expect or even what to wear for this ski excursion. Scott told me I'd need "a coat, gloves, snow pants, and warm socks". So I went to Dick's Sporting Goods and spent over an hour trying on snow pants. 'Dick's' has now been added to that long list of stores that has its own definition of  "size 14" that differs from the rest of world's clothiers. Without getting too graphic, let's just say that the pair of overall snowpants went on and a baby kangaroo of belly fat hopped out over the zipper. Thanks for the boost to my ego, Dick. When I arrived at Scott's house on Wednesday morning, he let me borrow some head coverings and a pair of goggles (see picture below). We both hopped in the car and headed out to Spring Mountain.

When we arrived at the Spring Mountain ski lodge, and I could actually see the slopes and lifts, everything became very real all of a sudden. Me and my "Men's Large" snow pants were actually going to propel down the side of a hill. We went inside the lodge to get the lift tickets and I immediately spotted two tall, cute Asian guys ahead of us in line. I turned to Scott and whispered, "Well babe, so far so good". Once we got the tickets and I signed a piece of paper that probably said something like, "If the Fat Girl breaks her legs while flying down the slope without health insurance, then......succcckkkkkkkkka! Please sign here" we headed out to the locker room to get the boots. I think Scott was most excited about seeing (videotaping) me walking in the ski boots more than anything else. If you've never worn ski boots before, dear Reader, a word of caution: They're very tight (I have bruises along my calves) and they basically force your legs to bend into a mildly uncomfortable, pseudo-squat. Also, they make you clomp around like a drunk T-Rex (much to the delight of your iPhone-happy friend in his cozy, astronaut-worthy, snowboarding boots). I will say this much for my weight loss, though: it has made me much less painfully insecure than I used to be. I would have probably burst into tears with the snow pant situation alone, but then to have Scott wrastle my boots and skis onto my feet the way he did, it probably would have sent me over the edge of a body issue meltdown. I managed to survive both incidents without a single panic attack.

When we finally got to the slope, I paused and told Scott, "Look, babe. You want to be a parent some day, right? Think of today's ski trip like a practice round of sorts for parenting. I am no different than a 4 year-old kid learning how to ski for the first time and you are the parent-figure here. If by some chance I flip out and throw a tantrum, and you can't handle the situation patiently, well...then you might want to rethink procreation..." Scott just laughed and said, "OK, you can be my child...so long as you never disappoint me". The slope we started out on had just a smidge of an incline to it. It was the perfect kind of hill to practice going straight, slowing down, and stopping when you're a first-timer (at least, that's what I thought at first). At one point I asked Scott, "What do I do if I fall down? How do I get back up?" Unfortunately, Scott has never skied before, but has only ever snowboarded (apparently there's a difference in how they fall). So he suggested I fall over and go from there. So I did...and I didn't get back up for a good ten minutes. I was supposed to have asked my friends Rachael and Heidi about this before I went skiing, but I never got around to it. I vaguely recalled my friend/instructor extraordinaire Beth giving me excellent ski advice and then adding, "Oh, and when you fall you ________" Something about using the poles and upper body strength.  Unfortunately for me and the poles, I had no upper body strength that morning. I gave all my upper body strength to HIIT class the night before, where we did mostly push-ups, burpees, and squats with dumbbells.

Every time I scrambled around, clutching for the ski poles to lift me up, I would look up and see the sun shining behind Scott and his perfect blue eyes and winning grin as he looked down at my pathetic efforts. After about five minutes of flopping around like a dead fish, I swatted at him with the ski pole, "You know, you're not making this any easier by just standing over me looking like the angel Gabriel!" He just smiled, "You have to figure it out somehow. I can't just help you up every time you fall. Use your upper body strength!" I swatted again, "I have no upper body strength! Chrissy took all of it!" But he was right; I had to figure out how to fall and get back up on my own without assuming he would be zooming around to help me up each time. So I told Scott to hit the slope without me and that by the time he came back, I'd either a.) still be lying on my back like an overturned turtle or b.) be practicing my snow plough moves. I don't think I've ever perspired so much in my entire life as I did while trying to upright my body. Every time a skier flew by I kept thinking, "Oh for the love of God, please, just fall already so I can get myself out of this crap situation!" Thankfully, a family of Orthodox Jews skidded by and two of the kids flopped over. I watched as both kids just unhooked one of their boots, propped themselves up with their newly freed foot, and snapped their ski back on before gliding away. And this was exactly how I got back up from falling for the rest of the trip. My friend Rachael would later ask me, "But why didn't you just use your upper body to push off the poles when you fell over?" There was nothing around me that I could use to swat at her.

Scott allowed me only a couple baby slope practice runs before pushing me towards the Lift. I protested, "That hill is not a bunny! It's a freaking full-grown hare, Scott!" He reassured me that I would be just fine (classic parent line). The Lift ride kind of reminded me of my first time on the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror in Disney World. You're on the ride, gradually ascending, and giggling happily with the person next to you. Then all of a sudden you're at the top, you get a quick view of everything below, and VOOOOOOOM! DROP! My first time getting off of the Lift was probably not unlike everyone else's first time. My ski tips were pointed up, the chair lowered, and I stood up for a whole five seconds before promptly faceplanting into the snow. And because I had this overwhelming fear of being at the bottom of some crazy ski lift pile-up, I immediately started sprawling awkwardly towards Scott and the fenced off area like some blood-crazed zombie. The snowboarders behind us told me I needed to use my poles and push off with my upper body once I got off the Lift. Seriously, has no one ever been to HIIT class!?

But it wasn't getting off the Lift that proved to be my greatest challenge. Once I managed to get to my feet (using my handy dandy Orthodox trick) I noticed that there was a large curve that led from the Lift exit and down into the slope (curves=speed, unless we're referring to Big Girls). Idiot that I was, I felt fairly confident that my moves on the baby slope would translate easily onto the bunny slope. I pushed off on my poles down the curve (big mistake), with my skis close and straight (even bigger mistake), and realized about five seconds in, that I was now re-enacting the saucer sled scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I literally had to make myself fall over so as to not run into a snow machine. I have no idea what Scott was doing up until this point. I'm thinking he just kind of snowboarded behind me and slowed down whenever I slammed into the snow. By my second fall, one of the ski patrolers swished up and told me I needed to work on my "pizza slice" or for you non-skiers, the wedge shape that you form with your skis to slow down. I'm sure the patroler meant well, but mainly he came off pretty patronizing (probably because I didn't hand him $80 for his 10-minute ski lesson). As I made my way down the slope (slowly), he trailed behind me shouting "You're making a pizza slice! PIZZA SLICE! PIZZA SLICE!" Now I know I've lost a lot of weight in the past year, but I'm still a Big Italian Girl at heart. If you insist upon shouting "PIZZA!" at me, you better have a steaming flat box in your freaking hands; otherwise shut your pie hole, you carb tease.
That first ski run wasn't so great and I insisted upon working on the basics (like how to be slow) at the baby slope while Scott tried the bigger trails on his own. What bugged me was that every time I successfully slid down or stopped, I kept hearing "Good job!" This made me turn around excitedly, half-expecting to see one of my instructors nodding approvingly at my efforts. Instead I kept catching glimpses of 5 year-olds gliding along effortlessly down the slope, without poles, and being praised by their doting parents.

Scott was pretty insistent that I give the slope another try. So back onto the Lift we went. When the Lift ride was about to end this second time 'round, I shot a knowing look at the Lift operator that said, "You really want the little pre-school skiers to see some fat zombie girl lying on the ground again?" and he slowed it down enough for me to hop off and remain upright. I faced the treacherous curve and, so that I wouldn't have to deal with listening to Pizza Slice guy ever again, spread my skis apart and wedged them as much as possible before I took the run. This time I also hunkered down, putting as much weight on my thighs as was humanly possible. And it worked. I slid down at a quick, but not deadly, pace and at one point I shouted back to Scott, "HOLY HANNAH! IT'S ALL JUST NON-STOP SQUATTING! IT'S JUST LIKE CHRISSY'S CLASS!" When I got to the bottom, Scott was just as amazed and surprised by fall-less run as I was. The next couple of runs we took weren't bad either, once I stopped panicking about running into small children. There were quite a few times when I'd zip around a family or a random skier and would shout "EXCUSE ME, I NEED A WIDE BERTH!"  in warning (much to Scott's amusement). But overall, I think that I was every bit a successful child learner as Scott was a patient parent figure; nevertheless, I was exhausted by the time I got home.

he's *SUCH* a sweetheart...

People always say that the worst part about skiing is waking up the next day. As I may have mentioned before, my body usually takes a while to let me know how and where I've hurt it. On Thursday morning, I woke up feeling alright and went to 5AM Spin class. I know you're probably thinking I'm insane for putting the lower half of my body through the trauma of 5AM Spin so soon after skiing but...well....I'm a class junkie (you should know this by now). About halfway into the class, right when we had to lower our bodies over the seats and slowly move back and forth over the handlebars, I felt sharp jabs of pain in my sides. Apparently my muscles couldn't repress their memories of yesterday's excursions. I suddenly had this flashback to Fall #2 when I slammed the left side of my body into the side of the slope. These flashes happened a few more times as the class progressed, usually around the same time Chrissy yelled out, "TURN IT UP!" It wasn't until Step class at 5:30 (told you I was a junkie) that I started to feel the bruises along my hips and rear end while we were doing squats. I know that I should have probably rested up yesterday but not failing at skiing made me feel a little powerful, truth be told. I'm like this unrecognizable version of myself who skis and then gets up to do Spin (although I did more slumping than spinning) and then does a Step class later that night. I feel like this is something my gym beast buddies would do.

Now that I've had about 48 hours to mill over my thoughts about my recent ski adventure, here's what I've decided: Skiing is not unlike the process of losing weight. I had to learn the basics and start out low and slow in order to familiarize myself with the process itself. And in the beginning, especially, I had to learn how to fall and get back up on my own without being enabled by another person (and my means of getting back up aren't always perfect). At some point, I had to actually tackle the slope itself and not automatically assume that I would fall every time I got off the Lift or turned the bend. Once it was all over, I had to actually accept that I was capable of succeeding all along. And now I am ever so grateful that I had someone with me who never once doubted my success, but pushed and encouraged me toward it every step of the way.

Joy & Pain (pump it up! pump it up!)

This particular post marks the celebration of two significant events this week. The first is my one year anniversary of taking my very first gym class at Jersey Fitness: Zumba. As you may have read in "Intro to Group Exercises" that first class made a huge impression on me (and continues to do so, particularly in the kneecap and booty regions). Up until that point, however, I kind of did my own thing with my basic $10 gym membership (classes not included). I'd walk on the treadmills, go on the elliptical, or read a magazine while I lounged on a recumbant bike (I take the word recumbant very seriously); and at the time, just starting out and getting into the routine of exercising, all of that was enough for me. I'd go to the gym, put in my 45 minutes, and then log what I did into my calendar each day. When I went to throw out good ol' 2012, I skimmed through the pages to look back at my gym schedule in the pre-beast mode life I used to lead. Here's what I learned: 1.) I used to take every other day off from exercising each week and 2.) Zumba was the only class I attended until mid-May (when I started experimenting with Spin and Piloxing). I jokingly told Chrissy that these were my young and carefree days, before all the gym classes started knocking me on my rear end on a daily basis.

 When I skimmed through whole weeks of "treadmill/bike/elliptical" I felt like it had to be divine intervention that I joined a class when I did. I was, without question, about to reach that point of "I'm bored with this routine and therefore I think I'll just give up this exercise business altogether". It's that moment that all Big Girls dread once the zeal of  "starting over" wears off. This can happen when you walk on the same machine, listen to the same playlist, re-read the same 4 month-old issue of Us Weekly, and stare at the same clock wondering why an hour at the gym is not quite the same as the "hour"-long back massages at a salon. But for as bored as I was just looking at my old schedule, I know that at 250+ lbs, this is where I had to start. That time before classes (B.C.) really wasn't about reconditioning my body so much as it was about reconditioning my mind. My main objective was simply to make exercising a habit (weight loss also happened to be an excellent incentive). I've done the crazy crash diets, I've had lap-band surgery on my stomach, and I  had to learn the hard way that extreme does not always equal success, or at least not for long-term anyway. So I went old-school with changing my diet and exercise habits and, wonder of wonders, we're now entering Year 2 of healthy living. I don't think that 250-lb me would have been ready to take on classes right away, though, and I definitely don't think that 250-lb me would have appreciated Chrissy as an instructor at that point, either. I worked out on my own for about four months before I eyed up Friday night Zumba class on the January schedule. After four months of exercising regularly(ish), I was finally able to get the ball up and rolling. By January of 2012, that ball was ready to pick up speed. Enter: Chrissy.

When I went to that first Zumba class, Chrissy was pretty much her own crazy ball of energy and she just about knocked me over with it (well, mostly it was just me knocking into the people next to me). I won't repeat all the details of that first class because you can read it (or re-read it) in "Intro". I will tell you that I left that class feeling exhausted, sweaty, and incredibly pissed off at myself. This would be the first of many times that I would be overwhelmed with the reality of my weight situation and have a quasi-meltdown. Obviously I didn't expect to get all the dance routines right away (unlike some jerkface newbies named Scott) but I also didn't think I'd feel so worn out so easily. I had to work really really hard to try and keep up with the music (I didn't bother trying to keep up with Chrissy). But when you're carrying around an excess of 130 lbs, every step is a challenge in and of itself. I remember standing in the back of the room and watching Chrissy dance around effortlessly, and beneath the surface of my envy and confusion I felt this sudden rush of hope. Let me be clear: I don't think anyone can actually match Chrissy's energy (I can't even imagine what she must have been like as a toddler). But watching her dance around so easily turned this whole 'working out thing' on its head for me. See, I really really love to dance...and...you know...I do what I can with what I've got. But when you watch someone who is ridiculously good at dancing get down, it makes you want to aspire to that level of excellence. Before that class, I would have told you "I want to lose weight to be healthy" or "I want to lose weight to be finally be thin". After that class, I would have said "I want to lose weight so that I can dance like that crazy lady up front". And when I went home that night, I called up my best friend and told her, "Stace, this is insane but...I went to Zumba and the instructor was so flipping good that for the first time in my life, I actually want to lose all this weight immediately, get a six-pack, and just dance the crap out of everything". And I waited for Stacy to laugh at this blatantly ridiculous statement (because me and the skinny blondes aren't always simpatico). Instead, she replied as though she'd been waiting the duration of our friendship to hear me make this statement, "Aww, hon, that's so great that that happened! I totally think you can do this."


But right now, at this moment, I don't really think I can do it. I go home after class and shower, and I've got all this reality marked on my body in the form of rolls, arm fat, and stretch marks. And I have these moments, or sometimes hours and days, where my "can'ts" just drag me down to a really dark and dismal place. In the past, during these moments, I would just concede and eat my emotions. But now when I take those hits, they still suck and I still feel overwhelmed, but I just can't choose nothingness over the classes (Unless it's the Endurance 5AM ride. Then it's straight to the 5-lb block o' dark chocolate from Trader Joe's and some quality couch time with Downton Abbey). I know when the classes went from habit to addiction, I just don't know when they transitioned from addiction to love. I mean seriously, if my gym classes had a theme song it would be that 80s hit "Joy and Pain". And at some point, these gym classes became my social life. It was probably around the time I guffawed at my friend Darlene for choosing to go on a date instead of doing Zumba. But I think that the most amazing aspect of the gym classes is the community of people itself. I have all of these friends who are just beasts when it comes to the gym. Most importantly, though,  they're kind, encouraging beasts. I'm used to being amongst a community of people who "cheat" by ordering dessert at a restaurant or have second helpings at dinner. The people I work out with "cheat" by adding more weight to a bench press, or run an additional mile, or decide to put in some extra lifting before a class.  And when I think about why I want to lose weight now, it's more like, "I want to lose weight so that I can dance/kick/punch/step/run/pump/spin like all my gym buddies". Because at some point, not sure when, those nameless beasts and that crazy lady up front stopped being nameless and...well, okay, Chrissy's still crazy; the point is, they're my friends. To give up on working out, and ultimately myself, would also mean giving up these people and it's just not a fair trade. I don't want to quit on myself, for sure, but I also don't want any of these people to think that I'm the kind of person to give up on me either. So I keep moving forward, even if it means stumbling along the way.

So on a final and more personal note, I'd like to commemorate the second significant event of this week: Chrissy's birthday. I'm not going to gush about her because if you've read any of my posts, you know that she is someone that I admire, respect, and...sometimes fear. Instead I'll say this about Chrissy, Dana, Beth, Laurie, Sam, Lucas, Tara, Tara, and Jim: when I leave your classes, I am so happy that I forget about scales, arm fat, and stretch marks, and I am grateful to be part of this process. And to all of my classmates, your support and encouragement make me feel as though I've already succeeded. So Happy Birthday Chrissy, and I hope you know how glad I am that I didn't listen to those goobers who told me a year ago that I might not like you, your yelling, your crazy fast pace, or Zumba class itself. I happen to love all of it.

Happy Anniversary, Jersey Fitness!

Happy New Year

My New Year's resolutions aren't terribly creative. For as long as I can remember, the ball would drop and I'd think to myself (because I never openly admit to being a resolution-maker), "Alright, it's January 1st again. I should probably do something about this (at which point I'd clutch my fat rolls)." Honestly, making a New Year's resolution is basically the adult version of making a wish; the kind that I'd always indulge in as a kid but never took seriously. They usually involved blowing out birthday candles, wrestling over a wishbone (which is super gross to me now as a vegetarian), spotting a shooting star, and (to my humiliation) rubbing the rhinestone belly button of a troll doll.
 Because I've been fat since the age of 9, I have all of these vivid memories of wishing for the same thing: to be thin and pretty (because I viewed them as being one and the same). Nowadays, my New Year's resolutions are more like practice runs for the season of Lent in that they involve me "giving up" something unhealthy that I like to eat (i.e. potatoes). My resolutions start out great until around January 2nd, when I realize that my birthday is a month away. And then I play the ever delightful, classic Big Girl/Guy game of "I'm really going to start eating better right after__(Insert holiday/event)____". (This never works out for me for the very simple fact that I celebrate both Jewish and Christian holidays. That basically wipes out like 8 months right there, and I flat out refuse to make latkes out of beets). So I hold out on eating well until after my birthday, which, according to my friend Rachael, warrants a week of no holds barred kind of eating. And this "week" is clearly in Narnia time because by the time Ash Wednesday rolls around, I've put on about 20 lbs of birthday weight (10 lbs for Jesus', 10 lbs for mine).

After 14 months of working towards this big goal of mine, I've decided to end my tradition of resolving to give up _____ and/or to lose weight. Don't get me wrong, I'm still going to keep busting my butt at the gym and watching my food intake. But I think John Lennon put it best when he said, "I don't believe in the Beatles, I just believe in me". The truth is I've never really believed in the Resolutions, but I made a huge mistake in not believing in myself and my ability to change. I don't think that when I started all of this, back in September 2011, that I saw the person that I am now (even with 60 more lbs to go). When you make the decision to tackle weight loss, really and truly tackle it, you never see all the little victories because all you have ever known are the failures. Fourteen months ago, I can assure you that I did not ever see me running four miles in the freezing cold wind and stomping up and down my high school bleachers ten times. I didn't see it because I didn't believe myself capable of doing something like that.

So to my fellow Resolution makers who will say to themselves today "I should probably do something about this". To my kindred people, my Big Girls and Big Guys, who will probably join a gym (http://jerseyfitnesscenter.net/JerseyFitness/index-3.html), start a diet (www.loseit.com), and make a wish for a healthier version of themselves: 1. I think that's amazing and you have my full support and encouragement. 2. Now that you've made this decision, take the necessary actions to fulfill it. After years of blowing out birthday candles and counting down with Dick Clark, I never actually made any changes. I did absolutely nothing and just assumed that change would just happen to me. And in a way it sort of did; I had a panic attack in the bathroom over a blind date (Please refer to "Paul Tales" for this account). But that incident alone didn't warrant the change, it inspired it. For you, your inspiration may come in the shape of your family, the death of a loved one, a super scary physical exam (Like the notes the school nurse used to send home to my parents that said "Your child is obese." That's it.). But change doesn't happen on good intentions alone, but through action.

So please, take the good parking spaces at my gym. Grab a vacant treadmill (especially if it belongs to a regular) or one of the fourteen bikes in the Spin room. Fill up the entire back section of all the gym classes. Dance awkwardly in Zumba class. Do all of these things with my blessing and my support. But don't tell me about your can'ts. I don't say this to sound condescending or unsympathetic. What I am saying, what every single one of these blog posts has been saying, is that you will shock yourself with the things that you are capable of, even when you're 120 lbs overweight, if you give yourself a fighting chance. You will also find that when it comes weight loss, your biggest battles will not be with the scale, but with the limitations you place on yourself from within your own mind. Now, if you're a Big Girl or a Big Guy and you're happy with yourself the way you are, and you don't want to change then don't. I've long since stopped thinking that being fat is synonymous with being ugly. But don't confuse a "can't" with a "don't want to" (For example: Angela doesn't ever want to dance the riverdance/country ho down song in Zumba class vs. Angela can't do the Tootsie Roll because her knees throb in pain every time she tries to turn them out).

As I mentioned earlier, I ran four miles. Yesterday morning when I woke up after 4 hours of sleep, completely dehydrated, and surprised by my menstrual cycle, I was going to play my "Girl" card and do some light lifting (translation: no boob punching). But I somehow found myself running with my fellow Pump & Run-ers, John and Lisa, and I ran to my high school stadium. I charged up and down the bleachers ten times. I ran back to the gym and lifted weights. And I did all of this because I have finally gotten to the point where I want my Big Goal weight more than I want to make excuses. So I've decided that I'm not going to welcome in 2013 by making a New Year's resolution to be thin and pretty. Instead, I'm going to keep busting my butt at the gym with a calm assurance that some day, maybe some time this year, I am going to step on the scale and see my number.

So to 2012, the year that brought me so many firsts and gave me back so much hope, I want to say thank you. Thank you for my milestones, my walls, my community of friends and family, for my instructors that tell us in every single one of our classes that we can do it, and for each new day that brings me closer to my Goal. And to all of you Resolutioners, I leave you with the lines of the song that played when I finished up my fourth mile:

The dog days are over
The dog days are done
The horses are coming
So you better run
Run fast for your mother,
Run fast for your father
Run for your children
For your sisters and brothers

Pimp & Run

The title of today's post is a shout-out to my sister Chrissy who misread one of my facebook statuses and thought I joined an event called "Pimp & Run". I briefly conjured up mental images of my fellow Pump & Run buddies dressed up like pimps and, well, hookers running through the streets of Pennsville. The problem is that thigh-high leather boots just don't allow the feet to breathe; we wouldn't be half a mile out before the blisters set in. Anyway, I found her blunder to be precious and subject line-worthy.

So the blog is now nineteen posts in and you've probably already deduced that I really love my gym. I can assure you that my inner Big Girl cringes every time I say this out loud, though. She has very specific opinions about people who make obnoxious statements like, "I'm addicted to working out" and "I just had a killer run today" out in the open. And yet here I am, 14 months into my gym membership (not just a donation) and every time I walk into Jersey Fitness it's like I can hear the theme from "Cheers" playing in the background. I usually walk in, chat (flirt) with the guys up front, wind my way through the main room while conversing with the same five or six regulars on their preferred machines, and then rush to get dressed in the freezing cold locker room before class. **Side Rant: It's amazing how bonded the regular members become to specific machines. I definitely have a treadmill and a Spin bike that I gravitate towards, but I'm not yet at the point where I start saying things like my bike or my treadmill. I have been on the other end of that, unfortunately. I have been told that I couldn't use a specific bench press because another member used it at that specific time on that specific day every week for the past 12 years. I kind of expected this attitude from the weight room, though (as you'll read about later). What I did not expect was a stare down from a grandmother while I was running on the treadmill instead of attending a class. At first I thought my feet were clopping too loudly on the belt and disturbing her workout. But then the second I hopped off and wiped down the machine, the grandmother threw her magazine down and climbed on, impatiently. I understand that people have their preferences and their routines, especially if they've been members for a number of years. The thing is, I remember how insecure and intimidated I was when I first started going to the gym. I thought everyone was looking at me and silently judging my form and physique. So when I see that "my" Spin bike by the right side of the room, second from the back, is occupied by a doe-eyed new girl who has no idea that Chrissy's 30 minute "Express Ride" is going to be the longest, most intense, crotch numbing half hour of her life, I don't get upset over it; that was all of us at one time. End Rant**
 
Once I'm in the classroom, I have the same conversation with my classmates: that is, we usually complain about the difficulty of the previous night's class and whichever body part happens to be sore from it as a result. I love the ritual of these pre-class conversations. I enjoy the familiarity of standing in a cluster of ladies and collectively assessing the instructor's mood and/or the likelihood of being asked to do burpees/lunges/squats. Despite the fact that we all participate in the classes as individuals with very different levels of fitness, there is an understood camaraderie amongst all of us. It's pretty much the exact opposite of my gym experience in high school (man, do I miss the days of being picked last and having teenage girls jacked up on hormones and aggression yell at me for hitting a volleyball into the net...). In short, Jersey Fitness is kind of a comfortable haven of familiarity for me.

...with the exception of one spot: the weight room. Up until a few weeks ago, I never stepped foot into the free weight room at the gym. I grudgingly walked by the weight room in order to get to my classes or the locker room, but I usually turned my head and avoided direct eye contact with its inhabitants.  I have to be honest here when I say that the guys in that room scare the crap out of me. Perhaps it's because I'm physically attracted to skinny, nerdy men of Asian and/or Jewish extract and I'm genetically wired, as a robust woman of Sicilian descent, to want to nurture (fatten) them. And there's just no nurturing a guy whose neck veins pop whenever he benches. Perhaps it's because every guy in that room looks like the kind of guy that could kill me and make it look like an accident. Perhaps it's because whenever they look me over as I walk in, I feel like I'm being mentally sorted into a weight class. I know that these thoughts are unfair and I'm sure all the weight room guys are teddy bears....with bulging neck veins...and weird, territorial claims on bench presses...

The first time I went inside the weight room, I was with my friend Jenn and I distinctly hesitated for a full minute outside of its entrance. Jenn who, for lack of a better description, has the ballsiest attitude I've ever encountered in another short girl, strode into the room, threw her stuff next to a bench press, and starting loading weights onto the bar. I, on the other hand, took note of the number of guys in the room, calculated the distance to the nearest exit, and scoped out any potential weapons within an arm's reach. Jenn had a pretty straightforward attitude about lifting and waved off my concerns about the guys in the room. The weight room is pretty no nonsense with its monochromatic color scheme (black, white, and grey). It looks like any other weight room you'd see in any other gym (or prison) and I can see why it's so guy-friendly (as opposed  to the gym classroom, which has a predominantly female population). The classroom space also has weights, balls, mats, and kettlebells but they come in a variety of different colors. The weight room is open to the main floor and crammed with equipment while the classroom is a closed off, almost completely open space, with floor-to-ceiling mirrors everywhere. I mean, the two rooms pretty much scream "Dudes here" and "Chicks there". And I admit it, I like my hot pink 6-lb weights, my aqua blue foam mat, and the mother-of-pearl Pilates ball. I sometimes can't not look away from my reflection in the mirrors whenever my arm fat is rippling steadily during kickboxing class. The free weight room at Jersey Fitness was totally foreign territory to me*, as was the entire process of "pumping".

*I say me because I'd like to point out that there are some guys that work out in the classroom and some girls that lift in the weight room. I'm just emphasizing my being a pansy about it still.

This is where I'm incredibly grateful for the people in my gym community like Jenn. They will simply point me towards a bench press and talk me through it. Which brings us to the subject of bench pressing. Remember when I said that the gym has separate definitions for real words, like with "spinning"? This is also true for "bench pressing". This is actually gym-speak for "boob punching". The bench has it easy, as far as I'm concerned. I had no. freaking. clue how weak I was until I started the boob punching portion of "Pump & Run". For those of you who are unfamiliar with "bench pressing" it's where you lie on your back, on a bench, and you repeatedly lift a heavy, weighted bar just above your chest. During my first bench press my arms were quivering when I lifted the 45 lb bar, right before Jenn asked (very gently), "Should we add 5 more lbs to each end?" She could tell what I really wanted to say. She's been there. 

By our third or fourth session, I was lifting (wobbling) 75 lbs and everything was absolutely fine for the first 15ish hours that followed. I was sore, but it wasn't unbearable. I went to kickboxing and punched and jabbed without a problem. But then came the jacks. Jumping jacks, that is. I have a theory that jumping jacks were invented by a flat chested fitness instructor who somehow wanted to make her well-endowed female students suffer for distracting her line of vision with all their excessive bouncing. At the time of this particular kickboxing class I made the colossal mistake of choosing the "crap-I-need-to-do-laundry-and-this-is-my-in-case-of-an-emergency-go-to" sports bra that doesn't support me all that well. Every time I got jacked I'd close my eyes and open them up, expecting to be dangling from the ceiling and surrounded by little Mexican children swinging bats at my fun bags. By Tuesday's HIIT class I had to actually cross my arms over my chest during the jumpy, stepping segments to limit their movement (much to Chrissy's amusement; she crossed her arms and started Riverdancing).

I'm trying to look at lifting as an investment. Cardio is more like a budget with very clear parameters that I work with. After an hour of _____, I've burned ____ number of calories to be used or saved. With lifting, it's like I have to learn to accept that even though I'm constantly sore, and even though "muscle weighs more than fat and that's why you gained 4 lbs", I have to keep telling myself that I'm investing in my future healthy, toned, and less ripply-armed self. Mostly I still resent lifting, but I'm going to keep at it. My body still resembles a half melted ice cream cone, but I'm starting to get little hints of hope, here and there; the shapes of my quads, the way my knuckles and wrist bones are more pronounced, and these firmer lines just inside my waist. The signs are there, so I'll continue to pump and run, or pimp and run. But I am putting my foot down against the jacks... 

Pump & Run: The Prequel

It's officially Hanukkah/Christmas season for me (cause I rock both). In just a few weeks' time, my siblings will be flying in from Portland and El Salvador to the home base in Jersey. This is always a chaotic, activity-packed season in the Livesay house. There are late night games of rummy, hundreds of half-empty coffee mugs and water glasses scattered all over the place, and more Hallmark made-for-tv Christmas movies on our DVR than you could possibly fathom. And this is probably the oddest time for a person to take on something called "Pump & Run". But first, let me dial this back a year.

Last January, the 20th to be exact, I upgraded my gym membership to take classes, attended my very first Zumba class, and later wrote the following Facebook status about it:

"A Note About Zumba:
-Imagine a wedding reception dance floor, on crack, that consists of a lot of girls from my high school graduating class. Who are now married. And like...moms..
-I spent 80% of the first class laughing hysterically in confusion...especially during moves that required shimmying, gyration, and booty pops
-I discovered that while my inner dance spirit was keeping up with the instructor, most parts of my body were like Montessori children moving at their own pace and often NOT in unison with one another
-Do not Zumba behind the girl who confesses to have eaten a Fiber One Brownie just prior to the class
-Do not underestimate the 50 year-old up front. She will drop it like it's hot and you will...well...hold onto it like a lukewarm cup of decaffeinated tea."
 

I was strictly a Zumba girl until late April (which was kind of surprising to me to find out that I've been attending classes for only sevenish months). I guess it was some time immediately following my annual Good Friday trip to Philly, or more specifically, to Isgro's Bakery, I decided to up the ante on attending classes (mere coincidence). This meant actually looking at the gym class schedule as opposed to breezing by it on my way to the magazine stack. There were some classes on the schedule that I knew I'd probably never be able to take due to my work schedule; morning classes like Pilates, Circuit Training, and whatever the heck "Instructor's Choice" is (to this day I have no idea what 'Intstructor's Choice' means for someone like Chrissy. I have frightening mental pictures of her laughing maniacally as she makes everyone in the class do lunges and burpees to angry, heavy metal music). I vaguely remember seeing Pump & Run on the gym schedule back in January but, as I said before, if it didn't involve dancing, I didn't bother.

Since the last Pump & Run, working out has gone from being "something I try to fit into my week" to being as salient to my life as my vegetarianism. I don't say this lightly, either. I know perfectly well that if a stranger met me at Jersey Fitness right now, they'd probably assume that I was part of the "New Year Weight-Loss Resolution" crowd. I still don't look like my gym buddies, yet, but I know where I started and I know where I'm going. Enter: Pump & Run. One thing I love about my gym is that their names for classes are pretty straightforward; HIIT=High Intensity Interval Training; Cardio Sculpt=Cardio+Weight Training; Step=Stepping. Pump & Run is basically pumping iron and running. Except that whenever Chrissy is involved, a class is never "basically" anything, but intense from start to finish.

Our first meeting was informational. I took that literally and went to the gym in my Sunday clothes and ballet flats (it was probably the first and last time I've ever left Jersey Fitness without having my hair matted in sweat). It was kind of surreal, actually. I was in the same classroom, with the same classmates, same instructor...and yet we were all sitting around...not moving at light speed. Then Chrissy gave us the rundown about what to expect for the next eight Sunday mornings.

-Weigh-ins: It's funny, I can totally say "I lost 60 lbs" on Facebook for everyone to read and comment upon, but the thought of hopping onto a scale and having Chrissy view and then record that number is mildly terrifying. As you might have read in prior posts, I'm usually completely alone (and naked) when I'm weighing in at home. When I have to weigh in at the doctor's office, I sometimes spontaneously burst into tears. I'm hoping that my deep respect and admiration for Chrissy will outweigh (no pun intended) my anxieties regarding this portion of the Pump & Run. Frankly I'd rather not have her see me naked or crying. Like, ever.

-Running: For the first hour, we're running. Chrissy gave us different distances (2, 3, 4, 5 miles, etc.) to pick from. I'm super fortunate that my friend Betsy asked to partner up with me for the running portion. However, come Feb 10th we'll all be running five miles together.

-Pumping: I will be building up to lifting 70% of my body weight. Without getting into specifics, let's just say that my 70% weighs more than Chrissy and her abs put together. To be frank, I'm actually more intimidated by the pumping than the running. While running may not be my favorite form of cardio, it's something that I can understand and even occasionally enjoy. Lifting weights is difficult, it hurts, and it doesn't make sense when you look at the numbers on the scale. But my body needs to lift weights. Every time I catch a glimpse of my reflection when I'm punching, kicking, squatting, or popping in those floor-to-ceiling mirrors at the gym, it's like looking back at a human water bed that doesn't. stop. rippling. Translation: Gotta tighten up. 

Overall, I'm pretty excited about Pump & Run. Every time I try out a new class, I'm hit with the same butterflies in my stomach, the same waves of fear and insecurity. But then I give it a shot, acquaint myself with it, and months later I find myself getting up at 4AM, or doing a handstand against the wall, or doing a 'mambo mambo' around a step. Now I can honestly say that I truly love all of my classes, even the ones in which I struggle the most. When I finish one and I'm driving home, I literally could not care less if I ever see 120 on a scale; I don't care about pant sizes or arm fat or muffin tops. All I know is that what I'm doing makes me insanely happy, like all the time. So yeah, right at this moment, the thought of running five miles and lifting a Chrissy is a bit unnerving. But I'm going to take this thing one week at a time and enjoy every minor victory and wall for what it is: a step in the right direction. But first, I will have to apologize to my fellow Sharptown UMC-ers in advance. Normally I make real efforts to look decent for church; unfortunately, from now until February I will be arriving to church as one big, sweaty, shlubby mess in hoodies and sneaks. And you're just gonna have to love me anyway because Jesus says so.

:-)