Runner's Low

All through elementary and middle school I had chain-smoking gym teachers. This fact was not lost on me during particularly bad gym days, like when we had to square dance or run the mile. Square dancing was pretty miserable on its own (Sorry, Uncle John), but I absolutely detested the day we were forced to run the mile. There's nothing worse than being an awkward fat kid wheezing around a track while all of your faster, malicious middle/high school peers look on and shout things at you. It's even worse when the aforementioned chain-smoking gym teacher joins in as well.

So you can imagine my joy when, amidst all the chaos of working out and going to classes, my friend Scott suggested that he and I run a 5K together. I know he didn't mean for this suggestion to be taken as some kind of punishment but, well...it was. For as much as I love dancing, I hate running even more. For years I have never understood the kind of people who would choose to run for their own amusement. Whenever I heard people talking about their awesome runner's high, I would usually shoot them the same condescending look I give to people who swear that their eyes change color depending on what they're wearing. No, I want to say, this is all total crap that you are telling yourself in order to alter reality and feel special. To runners, I'd say that by the time you're done running, you're so freaking happy that your lungs are no longer on the brink of exploding that every other feeling could be interpreted as a "high".

But I have a hard time telling Scott no. For one thing, we've known each other since we were 16 years-old. He knows me far too well and can anticipate every one of my excuses and doubts before they even register on my face. When I do protest (and I still do), he will nod and smile indulgently the whole time before finally informing me, in no uncertain terms, that we will be running a 5K together at the end of September. His polite stubbornness used to bug me so much when were teenagers. Now in the twilight of my twenties, I can read between the lines and know that this is how Scott is encouraging me in my process to lose weight; to run and complete a 5K would be a huge accomplishment for a girl like me. My second, and most important, reason for not telling Scott no is because he faithfully attends Zumba class with me every Friday night. He's the only guy in class and rather than wallflower the back row, he quite loyally (or foolishly) dances by my right side in the smack dab center of class. It's challenging enough for me to convince my girl friends to dance next to me in the middle; dancing brings out all sorts of insecurities in women. But on Scott's first day of Zumba, he made it a point to dance right in the center, and in the center is where we stay. He doesn't hold back, either. One of our current areas of contention is the fact that he continues to outdance me (which is incredibly frustrating when I think about how long it's taken me to dance half-decently). It also doesn't help matters that all the ladies in the class, including (especially) Chrissy, just adore him. It's hard not to. He can shake, pop, and body roll without a trace of embarrassment or self-consciousness and it's kind of a beautiful thing to see in a guy (he often catches me ogling).

So yeah, there was no way I was getting out of running with him. Instead, I turned to an excellent program that I've tried out about 6 or 7 times (I never progressed past Week 3, not because it's too taxing but because I was too busy trying out other gym classes): Couch to 5K. If you're curious, here's the link: http://www.coolrunning.com/engine/2/2_3/181.shtml

Essentially, it's intervals of running and walking. The first time I ever did Couch to 5K, I thought that the 60 seconds of running felt more like 20 minutes. By the third workout, however, I was ready for 90 seconds of running. To all potential Couch to 5K candidates, running really is just a game of mind over matter. If you can find a focal point in the gym, or perhaps if you listen to an excellent 90s rap song (I like Kriss Kross), you can totally sike yourself out during the running portion of the program. Each week I look at the impending workouts and think "Oh dear God, I don't think I can run for 3 minutes in a row..." but then I do. And once I do the first set of 3 or 5 minutes of running, I know that I can do the next set.

Running, especially with this program, is a lot like the process of losing weight itself. When you look at the end goal, yes, it will scare the living crap out of you. Even now, I am a smidge concerned that I will not be able to trudge those 3 miles with my very fit, very good-looking friend Scott by the end of September. But each day is an opportunity to push forward, bit by bit. This is exactly what weight loss is like, too. I can't fixate on the fact that I've got 80lbs to lose. If I fixate on that number, it will overwhelm and then cripple me back into sedentary living. This is a very common mindset for Americans, in general. We'd like to do _________ but it's just too big and lofty an ideal, so we will do nothing instead. There isn't even an attempt at meeting in the middle, it's just all or nothing. Here's another Big Girl Disclaimer for you, then: there are no perfect bodies, therefore there's no need for perfectionist mentalities when it comes to eating well or exercising. Don't set yourself up to fail before you have even begun. You just have to accept that you're going to have days when you'll eat the cake or you'll sleep through the 5AM Spin class. Or you'll do both on the same day. It happens.

Running, as you may have guessed, is not one big, happy Kriss Kross song. The worst part about running isn't the running. It's me and this imperfect body. While I make it a point not to dwell on the 80 lbs, they definitely dwell on me. I'm not gonna lie, fellow Big Girls or Big Guys, running when you're obese is really challenging. Sometimes when I'm running I feel like there are chains dragging me down, like I'm the Jacob Marley of Jersey Fitness. My friend Mary actually caught me fist pumping on the treadmill when I finished my very first 3 minute running set. I felt like I won my first major battle against the 80lbs even though my joints definitely suffered some losses.

I'll keep you all updated about the good, bad, and the ugly of my first 5K. Since I first mentioned my training on Facebook, I've discovered that 5Ks pop up like dandelions in this area. There's even a 5K in Pittsburgh where you're chased by Zombies (not gonna lie, I really want to try that one). In October, there's even a Muddy Bottom Run at the summer camp where I worked. This is an 8K course lined with mud pits, slides, a lake, and other fun obstacles. I will absolutely force Scott to do this one with me.

I'll end this post on a (runner's) high note with a line from my new favorite running song:

"If you're lost and alone, and you're sinking like a stone, carry on. May your path be the sound of your feet upon the ground, carry on."

Post Disclaimer: This one's a bit of a Debbie Downer....

Because I think it's important to understand all aspects of this process, even the bad parts, I'm going to be straight with you, fellow readers: the 'eating well' aspect of losing weight is not a piece of cake. Except when you encounter an actual piece of cake, which was preceded by two helpings of homemade pasta, two glasses of wine, and a large (beautifully made) salad.

I wish that I could blog only about the good days, the victorious triumphs on the scale, and the funny-awkward moments that are good for a laugh. But this would be unfair to you and a complete disservice to my own efforts. So we'll call today's post "A Big Girl's Disclaimers" so that you understand what I mean.

Big Girl Disclaimer #1: Losing weight (and keeping it off) takes a crapload of time.

There are some days...well, to be technical it would be the six days prior to my period...when I think about the fact that it might take me another two years to get down to my goal weight, and I feel like falling apart. At times like these, I would love to eat my way through my sorrows and just give in to the hopelessness of the situation. But for whatever reason, there is a switch turned on inside me and I cannot go backwards. I can only accept that some days are going to be worse than others, some meals are going to be worse (in calories, never quality) than others, but I must. move. forward.

Unfortunately, I am the product of a generation of people with microwave mentality. Everything that I want can be attained almost instantly, be it food, dating, conversation, music, or information. Instant gratification isn't all bad, mind you, but when it becomes your only way of living life, it is incredibly unhealthy. This mindset of immediacy does not translate to long-term weight loss, either. I should know, I've tried every kind of diet you could possibly think of and when those weren't fast enough, I resorted to weight-loss surgery. At the time, I was 20 years old and I looked at lap-band surgery as my last chance at a normal, happy existence. And for the first six months or so, I believed that it was. It's amazing how much weight a person can lose when they're put on a four week liquid diet followed by two weeks of eating only soft foods. The problem is that when you don't change your poor eating habits prior to the surgery, you're pretty much setting yourself up for failure afterwards. When I started to balloon back up to my pre-surgery weight, I was overwhelmed with feelings of shame, failure, and humiliation. I felt like I blew my last chance at happiness and instead of dealing with those feelings, I ate them. Now when I go to Zumba, Piloxing, Yoga, Cardio Sculpt or the two times that I've tried Kardio Karate, I walk into a room that is covered in wall-to-wall, floor-to-ceiling mirrors. You know that saying "Everywhere you go, there you are"? This is literally true in that room. In moments of great personal frustration, I look at myself in the mirror and all I can see is 80 lbs of regret and failure staring back at me.

I'm not writing any of this to incur your sympathies or pity. I write this because I have been forced to re-condition my mind, body, and spirit to welcome the pace through which my victories come. Each pound is a step in the right direction and each struggle is an opportunity to grow. If you find this cheezy and clicheed then by all means, please time travel back to 2011 and have a chat with me about the likelihood of attending 5AM Spin classes, or Jersey Fitness for that matter.

Big Girl Disclaimer #2: You are the only person who can motivate you to lose/gain weight, not anyone else. 

I decided to lose weight after I had a panic attack about being set up to meet a guy. That guy, however, is not the reason I'm doing this. I am. I'm the one who gets on the machines, I'm the one who goes to classes, and I'm the one who gets up at 4:10AM to go to Spin classes on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. These 80lbs that I carry with me are mine, too. I ate the potatoes (and tiramisu), I flopped on the couch, and I continued to pay for a gym membership (donation) that I didn't take advantage of. In short, I take must take full responsibility for my actions, or inactions. I can assure you that God does not issue out any 250 lb, 5 ft-2 people.

And while this journey is my own, I love meeting new people along the way. As I mentioned before, getting a membership to Jersey Fitness wasn't easy for me; however, my options were this: make the best of it and make this place your community or pay an exorbitant amount of money to another gym. So I opted to make friends. What's great about group classes is that when you're new, there are always other new people who are struggling awkwardly along with you. This common struggle, in conjunction with endorphins, forms an instant bond of camaraderie. I'll often come into classes, joke around about whatever body part is hurting me as a result of another class, and fall right into place with everyone else. Whenever I bring in new people to Zumba class, for instance, I will make a point to dance up on them like a total idiot. My theory is that when you're too busy cracking up, you forget to feel out of place. When you're new at a gym, it's very easy to think that the other people there are watching you in silent judgment. I'm sure that this might be true to some extent, but mainly everyone's just doing their own thing. In every single one of my classes, there is always someone offering a word of encouragement or assistance, if needed. This goes for the instructors as well. When I stopped feeling intimidated by Chrissy's dance skills, and when I stopped misconstruing everything Lucas was saying in Spin class, I found out that they're really likable, patient, easy-going people. At last year's Relay for Life, I actually joined the Jersey Fitness team. And when I was determined to walk 10 miles that night, all of my classmates were there cheering me back to the tent after my 40th lap. Lucas even convinced me to walk two more laps with him.

If I were to reduce my point to a sports analogy, I'd say this: You're the only one who can run this race, but make sure you have plenty of people cheering you on in the sidelines and at the finish line. I really don't know what this process would look like for me if I didn't have the support system of my friends, family, church, and gym.

Big Girl Disclaimer #3: Do not live and die by the numbers on the scale.

 My doctor is kind of hot and I won't lie, that's definitely a perk to doctor's office visits. Unfortunately, in order for me to admire his hotness, I am required to step onto his rather loud, relic from a World War II battleship, balance scale. It's the kind of scale that makes a loud, resounding CLANG when you step onto it. The bells of Notre Dame are quieter than this thing. This scale also comes with a smug nurse who will spend about ten minutes pushing the marker to the right in order for the stupid thing to be perfectly balanced, all while raising her eyebrows and saying something like, "Well...it looks like you're at 251, Angela". I often would like to respond by saying, "Yes, I can see that. And even though I ate a burrito and about 32 ounces of water 20 minutes before I walked into this office, I am so glad you decided to screw with my already fragile emotions by letting that marker do the Cupid Shuffle around 250 for the past 10 minutes, all for the sake of accuracy." By the time I see hot doctor, I've got PTSD. Post-traumatic scale disorder, in my case.

Luckily, not all scales are created equally. I certainly don't break down into tears every time I hop onto the digital scale back home (the same cannot be said for Hot Doctor's balance scale, though. Every time I'm on it POOF! Instant waterworks.). In addition to learning to embrace the slow pace of weight loss, I have also had to emotionally disconnect from scales. I hop on them once a week in order to track my progress on the piece of paper hanging in the Bills' cupboard. Obviously I'll feel a sense of joy or frustration over the number, but I'm really trying to not let the numbers dictate my progress. I'm trying to view the numbers as reminders to keep trudging forward. Sometimes, however, I do something completely idiotic like last night when I ran upstairs to weigh myself after having a dinner with friends that consisted of: a huge salad, two variations of pasta (one in a butter sauce), a piece of chocolate cake, two cups of wine, and a large mug of coffee. I have no idea why, in a carbohydrate infused euphoria, I decided to hop onto the scale but I crashed almost immediately. Moments such as this serve to remind me that 1.) You should only ever weigh yourself in the morning after you've peed and 2.) It's just a number, not a prophecy of impending doom.

Life goes on.

I apologize if this post is a little bit darker than the previous ones. I just didn't want you to get the impression that I wake up every morning and look forward to taking a nice long run, or a super early bike ride (Confession: On Friday mornings, Scott and I usually do send each other texts saying how excited we are to go to Zumba class). Most of the time I have to push myself into the gym and do what I gotta do.

But it is absolutely worth it. Losing weight is difficult, challenging, frustrating and slow-going. It's also the most rewarding thing I've ever done for myself. If you're looking for a quick fix answer from me, my friends, you will not get it. If weight loss is something you're struggling with, I will not be the girl to tell you, "It's not that hard, I promise". I will be the girl who will say "I know exactly what you mean. Wanna come to Zumba with me?" The only promise I can make is to provide you with as much love, support, and encouragement as others have shown me.

Yoga: A History

I'm going to open this post with an apology. Because this post is about my personal experiences with yoga, I am absolutely going to copy and paste some excerpts that I've written about the subject from my other blog, The Lentil Project. Let's start with my personal yoga history, which began (surprise surprise) on the West Coast about four years ago. 

When I lived in Portland, Oregon, I joined an amazing 24-hour gym that had everything: pools, hot tubs, saunas, elliptical machines with TVs, and dozens of classes. And because it was open 24-7, I ran out of my usual excuses for not going. So on a Saturday morning not unlike the one I just enjoyed, I ate a nice breakfast, and went to my very first yoga class. My first yoga class which, as it turned out, looked like an open audition for Swan Lake. I had never seen so many ridiculously perfect female figures in my whole life. Their bodies were meant to wear form-fitting yoga pants and cute, snug tank tops. I, however, sauntered in with baggy gym shorts, hairy legs (this didn't bother me so much. I was in Portland, after all. They're pretty loosey goosey about body hair) and a sloppy t-shirt bearing a photo of the male leads from "The Godfather" on it. It also didn't help that most of the yoga goddesses were toting around diaper bags and strollers, a fact which I noted with a most un-yoga-like resentment. If anyone in that class looked as though they just had a ten pound baby ravage all their best body parts for nine months, it was me. Nevertheless I unrolled my sister's mat waaaaay in the back of the studio and was determined to nama-stay. 

Fun fact about yoga: You shouldn't eat anything for several hours before or after a class. A couple of lotuses and awkward pigeons later, I was feeling every bite of scrambled tofu that I had eaten that morning. The instructor kept saying, "This yoga workout is giving your organs a much-needed massage" while I kept thinking "Dear God, please don't let me be 'Fat Hairy Vomit Girl' in this yoga class..." But as I transitioned to downward dog, the tofu began to upward heave. Do you have any idea how hard it is to quickly (and quietly) make your way through three dozen mats full of yoga goddess freak of nature mothers doing tree poses? I was like a rhinoceros barreling through a forest of perfectly-bodied trees, to the soothing background music of Enya. I just barely made it out the door before I shoved my head into the nearest trash can and released all of my inner peace...s. I never did go to another class in Portland, and yoga was quickly placed in the category of "Exercises That Only Skinny People Do (like Running, Spin and Pilates)" 

But last September when I felt compelled to make exercising a habit, one of the first things I was given (well, lent, but I have little intention of giving it back yet) was a copy of "The Biggest Loser Yoga Workout". It took me a very long time to muster up the motivation to give it a go, but then, wonder of wonders, it turned out to be an amazing workout video. While I despise the Biggest Loser show itself, I truly loved the yoga video. It actually had fat people on it bending, sweating, huffing, and puffing to Bob's firm but gentle, Southern-style instructions. It didn't even matter that I almost always fell over during the first three weeks of doing the DVD because I kept thinking "If those fatties can do this, then so can I". There's no question that that DVD, combined with regular walking, helped me shave off my first fifteen pounds.

So with a renewed faith in yoga, I went to my very first group class at Jersey Fitness since Vomitfest 2008. I braced myself for being the lone short, hairy, Italian with baggy clothes on amidst the Jersey-style collection of the yoga goddesses (they come with spray tan). What I did not prepare myself for was being half of the female population in that Saturday class. I was greeted warmly by six older gentleman in their late fifties to early sixties. One of them in particular, Jim, said "Wonderful, we have another girl! I hope you ladies don't mind if I just stick my mat in between you two! (wink)" Jim was attired in a tie-dyed Rita's Italian Ice t-shirt and baggy jeans. I was slightly perplexed at the thought of this older man doing yoga poses in jeans, but my concerns were immediately rendered unnecessary. Within what I can only describe as a striptease second, the jeans were whipped off, leaving behind the tightest and shortest of spandex biker shorts. It took every ounce of newly acquired inner yoga strength to NOT shake with laughter at that very moment. 

Fun Fact #2 about yoga: You shouldn't wear baggy shirts*** especially when your entire class is doing all of their movements directly in front of floor-to-ceiling mirrors. After my first plank, I looked up to see most of my chest waving its salutations to anyone looking my way through the mirrors. From then on, I spent most of the class with my shirt collar yanked up and clenched between my teeth so as to avoid anymore National Geographic-worthy flashing. Jim, I found, was not nearly as concerned with his body parts, which were quite clearly displayed through his skin-tight biker shorts. I wasn't trying to look, honest. Yoga is a lot like the game of Twister; sometimes you end up in positions where you're involuntarily looking upon random bits of another person. Jim breathed, bent, stretched, and twisted with the most astounding gracefulness and personal confidence that I've ever seen in a man whose shorts could make Richard Simmons blush. At one point during the cool down, we were instructed to lie on our right side and only allow our minds to fixate on a single word (ideally it would be love, peace, God, hope). I was staring at the back of Jim's tye-dyed Rita's shirt thinking "Rita's....Rita's...heeeey, they have free water ice this Tuesday. That might be a loop-hole to my Lent(il) Project because technically I'm not buying any food. It would be free. Crap, I have to focus on one word. Hmm..Free. Free....water ice. Maybe I'll get mango..GAH! Focus! (Brrrrrrrrrrrrrrrreeeeeeeeeeeep) Was that...did one of the guys just fart? How the HECK can I focus now? I can't even stop shaking. Dear God in Heaven please don't let me fart because I'm laughing too hard..." 

***Because I started taking several group classes at the same time, there was a good two week period in which I was a total moron about proper gym attire, hence all the crazy boob references in the past two posts. I have since invested in several tank tops and sports bras. To any of my instructors or classmates reading this, you're welcome***

That first class was back in March. I kind of took a break from Yoga classes for a while because I was too busy with all of the other ones offered at the gym. When my friend Tanya started going with me to the gym, she mentioned that she wanted to try the yoga class. I was excited about taking one of Jim's classes because he had made such a lasting impression on me as a co-participant back in that first Saturday yoga class.

Here's what I absolutely love about Jim: you would never in a million years look at him and think "That guy's definitely a yoga instructor". A truck driver, maybe, but not a yoga instructor. I originally thought he was in his early sixties until Chrissy informed me that he was, in fact, 79 (go yoga!) He always wears a t-shirt bearing the name of some branch of the military (I usually like to make bets as to which one he'll wear each week), he still rocks the baggier jeans, and he has the fluffiest grey mullet you'd ever hope to see; it's like a wolf's fur and in weak moments I want to touch it. Jim also has the thickest, southerny South Jersey accent I've ever heard. Actually I'm not even sure if he's even from South Jersey...it could be West Virginia for all I know. The point is, it is the craziest, funniest voice to hear instructing you on yoga positions. For example: Explaining when and how to breathe is pretty much mandatory in all yoga classes; however, when Jim talks about breaths, he pronounces it like "bress" which sounds like breasts to my ears (and Tanya's, too. I'm not alone in the gutter). It's not uncommon for me to giggle like a second grader when it sounds like I'm hearing Jim say, "Now take two big breasts for this position. Good. Now two lil' breasts. And when yer takin' yer breasts, think about what yer feelin. You feel good? You feelin' some tightness anywhere? You'll loosin' up in time. Jus' keep on breathin"  I really do make great efforts to clear my mind of this, but I'll take one look at Tanya and just start shaking with silent laughter. I apologize for not being more mature about this, but honestly, when Jim speaks I half expect to look up and see him in a rocking chair, whittling a piece of wood while he calls out positions; I don't expect him to be all twisted up like a pretzel on the floor. He is also, hands down, the King of Similes. In every class of his that I've taken he's said, "You keep doin' these hip op'ner positions ever' week, and you'll be as happy and healthy as you was when you went on stage fer yer 8th grade graduation!" Just last night, he told us "Some o'these positions can be a challenge. Like when I was in high school an' I saw a perty girl that made my heart go pitter-pat. You just got to keep workin' at em and you'll git it. You do it regular, you'll be in full lotus by Christmas" I have a feeling that Jim is pretty much convinced that we'll all be using our feet to massage our heads by Christmas. I remain skeptical.

Then there's the Captain. The first time I met the Captain was actually not in yoga class. I was running the Couch to 5K program (the first of about eight failed attempts) on my favorite treadmill. Yes, I know it's pathetic to have a favorite machine but almost every regular at the gym has a favorite machine of some kind. Spin people are the worst, though. If you're a newbie who hops on a regular's bike...holy hannah, it's practically a turf war. Anyway, I was running on my favorite treadmill by the back wall when I looked over and saw this old man twisted backwards on the floor right next to my machine. First of all, it takes a very brave or foolish person to lie right next to any machine that I'm stampeding on. I can't even begin to tell you the number of times I've knocked my phone, ipod, keys, or a magazine off of those machines. Secondly, it's a little disconcerting to see someone that age be that flexible all up close and personal (I know, I'm a terrible ageist). I kept watching him and stumbling off of the belt.

When I went to my first Jim class, I was completely unsurprised to see my treadmill yogi, or Captain as he is referred to by Jim. I have no idea why the Captain is the Captain. Frankly, I don't care. I wish there were more characters in my classes like that. Lucas occasionally calls me Corn on the Cob, but that moniker doesn't have as much finesse as Captain. The Captain and Jim have a cute, friendly banter that they keep up via yoga poses. For example, while my pelvis is screaming at me during the basic 'hip op'ner' positions, Jim will comment, "You can stay in this position...or if you're like the Captain, here, you can bend yer whole body forward and twist yer hands behind yer back. Captain always likes to out-twist me!" The Captain could probably twist himself into a small bundle that could fit into the back pocket of my jeans if he wanted to. He has the flexibility of a 12 year old Romanian gymnast, but I'm sure he's about 200 years old.

I respect the calm, easy pace of yoga (and especially Jim's yoga) but I don't think we're going to be besties until I lose Jude (Jude being my largest fat roll and thus named because every time I look down it's like "Heeey..." Still there). Balance and stomach gut do not play well together. I can squeeze my "abs" in as much as I want but I almost always tip over in class. I hate tipping for the very obvious reason that I do not wish to draw any more comparisons to other large mammals than is necessary (which is why I absolutely refuse to shop at Dress Barn, as well. I mean, seriously? Barn?). When I do tip, I have the most un-yoga slew of words flood silently out of my brain and aimed at any other person who dares to look balanced and graceful; usually the Captain. Also, it's kind of difficult for me to be quiet for an entire hour. In my other classes, I'm a bit of a chatterbox and giggler. I have a very "we're all in this together, guys" attitude towards my other classmates, so I befriend as many of them as I can. So when I go to yoga and sit on my own mat, in my own silent space, I get antsy and start mentally reciting recipes in my head. But because it was my Biggest Loser Yoga DVD that helped jumpstart all of this, I will keep attending the yoga class and look forward to the day when I will no longer be weighed down but will stand with balance, strength, and grace.

And big breasts, of course.

Namaste

Intro to Spin (Alternate Title: I'm sorry, Lucas)

Dave Ramsey often advises people who are struggling with finances to 'do what rich reople to do' when it comes to maintaining healthy spending habits. To clarify this point, he explains, "Look, if you want to be skinny, you do what skinny people do. If you want to be fat, you do what fat people do". Dave uses this quote a lot in his seminars and podcasts. As a fat person myself, I never took too kindly to the analogy, but the point is valid nevertheless. I mean, I suppose other fat people have intense, complicated relationships with potatoes....and elaborate desserts with foreign names...and Indian food. On some level, though, I always thought I was a product of bad genes, not bad habits. Don't get me wrong, my genetics are definitely not in my favor; my grandfather's nickname was "Fats". But what I've learned through this process is that biology is not determinism; my health is a product of personal choices. It also means that my relationship with Jersey Fitness will have to be a lifelong commitment if I wish to avoid ballooning up to 250 again.

After several months of fumbling my way through Zumba, I started asking myself, "Alright, the momentum is good, but I should do more. What would a skinny person do? I bet a skinny person would probably do all those other group classes, too". As I mentioned in the previous blog, whenever I used to think about classes like Spin, Pilates, or Yoga, I would wave them off claiming that "Those are exercises that only skinny people can do". This is complete nonsense, but it allowed me to justify not going and that worked for me. Until it didn't. Until I found myself in Zumba class frustrated as hell for not being able to keep up with everyone else. Because of that class, I realized I needed to be doing more.


I know how stupid this looks in print, but I really am determined to dance the crap out of that class. There are women in my Zumba class who have crazy fit bodies. Now, the cynic in me used to roll my eyes in their direction and think something particularly snarky against their impossible-to-attain physiques; however, after connecting with the class as a whole I now look at these other women (and Scott) and I think about the amount of strength, discipline, and sheer determination they have to be healthy at any age. And by any age, I mean any age. There are women in their forties, fifties, and sixties who can out-booty pop me any Friday of the month. At first I found them kind of endearing in that "Aw, look at the old girls go!" kind of way. Now it's kinda starting to piss me off (not seriously though)! I want my moves to look that effortless and this is currently not the case. Don't get me wrong, I have a very good time and any one of my classmates will tell you that I will boldly venture into some pretty un-Christian dance move territory. But I've got these 80 lbs that I carry with me to every. single. workout. These 80 lbs are my dance partner in Zumba, they're invisible chains that pull me down when I go running, and they tip me over in yoga like I'm a cow in Elmer on a Saturday night. In short, they gotta go.

Enter Spin class. Spin. See, right here let me tell you the first thing you need to know about Spin class: It has its own language and I'm calling it Spinnish. Perhaps you're like me and when you hear the word "spin" you conjure up childhood memories of actually spinning, around and around, until you fall backwards into bubbles or a field of daisies. In the World of Fitness, or Jersey Fitness these days, Spinning translates to sitting on a stationary bike in a small, dark room with black lights, a strand or two of Christmas lights, and a wall covering depicting the sunset over a lake while the dulcet tunes of Flo Rida pound through your ear drums. I appreciate the fact that the low lighting and fast music are trying to give the class a kind of clubbish atmosphere; however the sad truth of the matter is this: that room could be Studio 54 and your bikini line would still feel like it was being sledgehammered by that freakin' bike seat.

 Clearly the idea of Spin class initially had no appeal to me whatsoever. If I didn't have that stupid Dave Ramsey mantra "Do what skinny people do" running through my head, I would never ever have taken a Spin class for the rest of my predominantly unhealthy life. But that fat-ist quote kept nagging at me until I told myself that perhaps if I went to Spin long enough, I could learn to love it. I've been Spinning now for a couple of months and while I wouldn't say we're in the honeymoon stage of our relationship, I actually do look forward to my classes each week. Even the 5AM classes (sort of). I love what they represent more than anything. I love that my determination to attend these classes trumps my personal insecurity over Spinning with about a half dozen triathletes in attendance. The first time I stripped off my top shirt and biked in my tank, with my arms bare for the first time ever in a public setting, I nearly cried at that small feat of personal triumph (only Chrissy could ever have me pedaling so hard that in the battle of sweat versus body insecurities, sweat would win out).

Back to Spinnish. When I went to my first Spin class, I had absolutely no idea what I was doing. I didn't know how to adjust any part of the bike and I certainly didn't know that attending a Spin class meant learning another language. When I found out that the instructor, Lucas, was a man, I had zero intention of asking him questions. Lucas is a great guy and an awesome instructor, but there was no way, on that first day, that I was going to ask for his help to "adjust" my form on the bike. A person's figure on a stationary bike is pretty unforgiving, especially when that figure is so full that it was busting out of its brand new bike shorts, flowy shirt, and non-sports bra. Think bike wench. When Lucas asked if anyone was new, I made it a point to avoid direct eye contact. There was no way on God's green earth that I was going to ask him to examine the placement of my hips or legs in front of the rest of my Spin class. **Potential Spinners, when you go to your first class, make sure you let them know you're new. No one else in the class will judge you, and your unnecessary insecurity may cost you a pulled lower back as it did me.**

When Lucas got the class pedaling and the black lights were turned on, everything seemed to happen all at once. I kept hearing him shout out things like "Stay at One!" "Up to two!" "Down to three!" I thought he was just counting us down until I looked around and saw people actually moving into different positions on their bikes. Luckily my friend Valerie was there to serve as a translator for me. This was particularly helpful when, halfway through the class, after Lucas kept repeatedly shouting "If you can't get on that beat, you're too heavy on the bike!" I gave a sharp look to Valerie and said (with just a smidge of aggression), "Who the heck does he think he is!? Why does he think "Too Heavy's" on this stupid bike getting her butt all blistered in the first place!? If he says I'm too heavy one more time, I'm about to get off this bike and pedal my foot up his-" Valerie waved me down, "Angie, he doesn't mean you're too heavy for the bike. He's saying your resistance is turned up too heavy for you to get on the beat". You'd think that this correction alone would have humbled me a little bit towards the guy, but not even ten minutes later Lucas called out, "I see too much bouncing. Take that bounce out!" I immediately looked down at my chest which, up until that point, was all but punching me in the face every time we changed positions or jumped (literally using your legs to propel you on and off of the bike seat). Again I turned to Valerie. "I can't stop them from bouncing, Val! I haven't had time to buy a new sports bra yet! I don't even get how that's relevant, anyway!" Valerie quickly explained the Spin concept of centering. Just to be clear, centering is not when you take a break in pedaling to ask yourself existential questions about life. Centering in Spinnish is when only your legs (and not your whole body) pedal. Your body stops bouncing around and you begin to feel as though someone has set your thighs on fire. And, as I found out then, it has nothing to do with unsupported breasts. Sidenote: I warmed up to Lucas after that class. Or I should say, after I realized that he didn't have a personal vendetta against voluptuous fat people. Keep in mind that I was just a tiny bit sensitive and completely nervous about doing Spin for the first time. Also, everything south of my belly button was sore, so someone had to feel the brunt of my wrath.

The second thing you should know about Spin, after learning the lingo, is that you will be sore, and even possibly blistered. I won't insult any of my friends who are mothers by comparing the soreness from that first week of Spin to the pain of labor or post-labor recovery; but at least you broads got ice pack underwear after your exertions. To make matters a bit trickier, my first Spin class was on a Monday and I do two hours of volunteer farm work on Tuesday mornings. I do not recommend crouching over an onion field to pick weeds 15 hours after bouncing around on a bike seat. I learned the hard way that my delayed muscle response is exactly 15 hours after exercising. Every time I knelt down I kept saying over and over "I'm sorry! I'm sorry!" I'm not sure how long the soreness lasts. The thing is, by the time your lady parts have adjusted to the seat, you realize that your knees, neck, lower back, and calves have complaints of their own. 

The crazy thing about Spin is that when I'm pumping my legs in that dark, loud room where I'm drenched in sweat and matted hair, my mind completely empties itself. It's the only time during the course of the week when I can actually clear my head and listen solely to my body. I really do try doing this in yoga, but unfortunately (or fortunately) yoga class is when I come up with my best menu plans for the week. It must be a blood flow thing. All I know is this: my Spin classes teach me that my body is capable of greatness. My 5AM Spin classes teach me that my body is capable of greatness on limited supplies of sleep and energy. Pedal on.

Intro to Group Exercise

My experience with working out has always been one big war against time and boredom. When you watch movies in which characters go through this huge weight-loss transformation, it's usually a tough, quick montage to the beat of some fantastic 80s hit. This was not the case for me (except for it being incredibly tough and to the beat of several 80s hits). It's also not like you see on weight-loss "reality" tv shows, either, with all the cathardic breakdowns and insanely, overstrenuous workout regimens. If I am going to reduce my work out experience to a cheezed out tune, it would be "My Way" (not from the 80s, but I couldn't think of anything better and I kept getting 'Eternal Flame' stuck in my head). I didn't freak out (unless you count the pre-epiphany panic attack at the sink) and I didn't go crazy pushing myself all at once. With a very un-Livesay-like calmness I took this whole thing one day at a time (because when you start thinking about needing to lose 120 lbs, you have to take it one day at a time or you'll become a hopeless mess). **By the way, I know I'm writing this in the past tense, but please remember that I'm still very much battling on in the present**

It's sort of crazy how exercising regularly evolved from walks in the park and a borrowed "Biggest Loser Weight Loss Yoga" DVD to six days of running, yoga, piloxing, spinning, weight training, and, my personal favorite, Zumba. What I really mean is that this is all crazy (and new) for me. Usually about three weeks into a newfound zeal for diet and exercise I would stumble across a television show or pastry that would demand my immediate attention more than my current personal health binge. And in fact, there have been several times during the past 10 months where I've asked myself "I wonder when I'll stop caring again?" It's not a thought that I dwell on, but let me just say that no one is more surprised by my new-found love of aerobics more than I. I usually made fun of people who constantly updated their Facebook status about a "good run" they just went on for billionth time. Snooze-fest.

That said, getting a gym membership in the same town where I went to high school as a fat girl was not an easy decision. Also, to add insult to injury, said gym happens to be smack dab in between a donut shop and a Rita's Italian Water Ice stand. So getting a membership there would mean facing two of my greatest enemies on a regular basis: reminders of high school and refined carbohydrates. I was sorely tempted to invest nearly $1,000 on a gym membership to a swanky gym far, far away from the place where my right butt cheek was groped in front of my entire second period Spanish class; however, I couldn't afford to buy a car for $1,000 let alone the luxury of an overpriced gym membership. So with the most colossal of chips on my shoulder, I grudgingly signed on to a $10-a-month Jersey Fitness membership with very few expectations.

I have no idea when I started taking the classes, but I have a sneaking suspicion that it must have involved me using the same elliptical machine, reading the same People magazine, and listening to the same Gym Mix on my ipod over and over and over and over again. That kind of monotony in conjunction with sweat and heavy breathing could make anyone go nuts. All those classes of Pilates, Spin, and Yoga, or the "Exercises that Only Skinny People Do", were starting to look strangely appealing. And then the gym started offering Zumba and it was all over for me.

Minor confession: I freaking love to dance. It is a passion that I've safely harbored for years. I actually avoided school dances like the plague. I never went to homecoming, I went to the beach instead of junior prom, and a movie instead of senior prom (Did I mention I hated my middle/high school experience?) All that repressed dance energy has since exploded into a collection of crazy, cheesetastic moves that pop up at various church functions and wedding receptions (to the chagrin of conservative Baptist extended family members). When I started hearing all this fuss about Zumba, I asked a couple of people what they knew about the class at Jersey Fitness. The consensus was this, "It's fun, but uh...Chrissy's insane. She yells at you and she's really, really fast, so I'm warning you that you might not like it. Or her". So in the spirit of not letting fear make my decisions, I decided to give it a shot anyway, despite the mixed review.

Ah, my first Zumba class. I quite strategically planted myself in the back row with other equally uncomfortable and mildly awkward-looking classmates (little did I know that Chrissy often likes to switch directions so that every row gets to be the front row). We all gave each other the "I-have-no-idea-what-the-heck-to-expect-but-if-this-gets-really-bad-I'm-totally-going-to-make-a-mad-dash-towards-the-door-even-if-that-means-cha-cha-cha-ing-over-you-to-get-there-understand?" look. And then in saunters this petite blonde decked out in baggy pants, a hoodie, and a doo-rag over her hair. She messes around with an ipod and some speakers but makes a brief introduction. "Hi, I'm Chrissy. If this is your first time here, don't be nervous. No one's lookin' around at you, we're all here to just have fun. So just have a good time. Also, don't worry if you can't keep up with me, just do what you can. Alright?" I gave nervous, good-hearted raised eyebrows at my neighbors and waited for it all to begin.

That first class is a total blur to me now. Not because I don't remember it, but because I spent half the class stumbling over my own steps, giggling awkwardly like an idiot, and I spent the other half gawking (in the non-creepiest of ways) at Chrissy's dancing. It wasn't even dancing, really, it was more like the bottom half of her body was flying and bouncing from one end of the platform to the other like her rear end was possessed by the devil. I was stunned and in my defense, when you see someone walk into a class decked out in sweats like they just woke up for class, you do not expect that kind of energy. I vaguely remember only being able to do one step to about seven of hers but not for lack of trying. My fellow Big Girls know that when you're dancing, different parts of your rear end and belly will move to different beats and often not in harmony with one another. I wasn't the only struggling, either. Looking around, everyone was drenched in sweat and panting amidst Chrissy's shouting "HOW WE DOING?! ALRIGHT?!"

Here let me reflect on what I was told to expect from Zumba class, what with my instructor being super fast and yelling at you all the time. First, she is fast. That is an indisputable fact. I have been going to her classes for nine months now and I still shake my head in disbelief at her energy. But all that crazy high energy is infectious, too. When I attend Chrissy's classes, I cannot help but try to keep up with her no matter how frustrating and impossible it can be (and it is). When I'm in Zumba class, I'm equal parts frustration and motivation. I'm super pissed off with myself for becoming so unhealthy that it's affecting my dance moves. I want to keep up with Chrissy. All that self-anger evolves into sheer determination to do whatever I need to do in order to keep up. Even if that means going to the gym six days a week and avoiding eye contact with half the population of the weight room.

 Secondly, yes she yells, or as I like to call it, "motivation at a high volume". She yells, she sings along with the songs, she refuses to let you look miserable in her class, and she occasionally chuckles at your valiant efforts to dirty dance. And none of this comes from a mean place;  it comes from a lady who clearly loves her job and loves the community of people she gets to work with and work out with. I could never ever write enough words (in a non-creepy way) to express my gratitude to Chrissy for all of her encouragement and energy each week. She really is just the nicest lady and she's not the only one. Pretty much everyone that works at Jersey Fitness or is a regular at Jersey Fitness is super friendly, encouraging, and very patient (I ask questions). There's a familiar diner feel to the place now because I'll walk in and have about five or six different people say hi and ask me how my 5K training's going...

After my first 3-hour Zumba-thon with Stacy and Nealy

And so began my experiences with group exercise classes with other equally awesome and talented instructors that I shall document about on here another time. But that first Zumba is where I became an official group class convert and to this day, nine months later, I will rearrange my social schedule so as to not miss a Friday night Zumba class. I cannot say the same for the 5AM Spin classes, though...

Paul Tales

June 2011-My heaviest weight; my best eating year ;-)

Nearly a year ago I was crouched in front of my bathroom sink having a quasi-panic attack in front of two of my friends. I was supposed to be in church, meeting a nice Christian boy with such infallible qualities as sobriety, gainful employment, and home ownership. I, in turn, had my own womanly treasures to offer: personality and cooking skills (which usually translates to 'fat girl' to most guys anyway). At the time I was actually quite alright with my list of qualities. I've been a long-time veteran of fad diets, weight loss surgery, and gym donations (I call them donations because to use the term membership would imply active participation on my part). I had spent the better part of the year with a "Screw it" mentality and was basically eating and couching my way to a solid 250ish lbs. And when you're 5' 2, the only reason the scale should ever read 250 is when you pull another equally short friend up onto it with you for kicks and giggles. But as I mentioned before, I just didn't feel like caring anymore. So I didn't. Or at least I pushed caring to the back of my mind behind my chocolate ice cream recipe and my memorization of "The Jabberwocky".



June 2011-These are three of my favorite people in the world

Here's the funny thing about being set up with the mystery bachelor (Let's call him Paul). About 6 hours before we were supposed to meet, I woke up feeling not so good about my list of qualifications. I also came to the realization that when you're 5'2 and weighing twice as much as you should, the average American guy isn't going to look at you and eagerly anticipate your witty commentary or baked ziti. His thoughts are more or less "Yikes." And in the forefront of my mind I kept picturing Paul's look of disappointment and I just couldn't take it (Sidenote: I concede that it was a smidge wrong of me to not give the poor guy the benefit of the doubt). By the time my friends found me crouched in the bathroom, I came to two important conclusions: 1. That I could not bring myself to face Paul's disappointment and 2. I was not happy being fat.

At this point, I'd like to state something important. Not every fat person is unhappy...just like not every skinny person is happy. I'm not a wholly depressed, sad person. I have a pretty full, awesome life. The purpose of the Paul story isn't to state that being fat=a miserable, dateless existence. I've known many heavier people whose amazing personalities and humor transcend body image. They're happy and whole just as they are. And there's a big part of me (no pun intended) that wishes that this blog was coming from the point of view of a girl who's big and proud of it. Instead, this is a blog about someone who recognized the cause of her fears and insecurities, and is currently in the process of changing that. I can't be a happy fat girl but I have nothing but respect, admiration, and the greenest of envy for anyone who is or was. The Paul tale is just the beginning of what has proved to be a very long, challenging, arduous, exhausting, interesting and rewarding process for me. It's also pretty funny at points, too.

I never did meet Paul, but he's not really the point of my doing all this;he's just the impetus. I had put myself in between a rock and a hard place; I felt completely afraid and helpless...and yet my situation was also entirely within my own control.

So here's this blog. I'd like to point out right away that I am not a success story by any means. Dear God, I'm still about 80ish pounds away from my goal weight. Let's call this a succeeding story instead. I still have terrible eating habits and the weight loss element itself is painfully slow (which is why the Biggest Loser should be called the Biggest Liar). I am trying very hard to appreciate the glacial pace of my progress because I'm hoping that when I've met my goals, I'll be all the more proud of the accomplishment. Mainly the pace sucks. There, I said it.