Goodbye Couch, Hello 5K!

One of the best aspects of my Couch to 5K training program was that, up until yesterday, it was all done on the easily controlled environment of a treadmill. I can totally wrap my mind around a treadmill. With this one machine I have the elements of time, speed, and incline at my fingertips. Even the Couch to 5K program itself is set up in nice, adaptable increments for my convenience. All of this was totally working for me for the last six weeks. The problem is that when you're training for a 5K, at some point you actually have to do the 5K. I decided a few weeks ago that my first 5K was going to be the Miles for Miracles Memory Walk (http://miracleformateo.kintera.org/faf/home/default.asp?ievent=1032957). The thought of actually running outside has been dwelling in back of my mind. It's one thing to run on a conveyor belt in an air-conditioned gym with a timer and an emergency STOP button available; it's a whooooole other story to run the trail in Riverview Beach Park. Riverview Beach Park may be beautiful and historic, but its walking trail is totally unpredictable and unpaved. There are parts of the path that are sandy, parts that have uneven chunks of concrete jutting out, and then there's the large population of geese to contend with. I don't know about you, but when I see a mafia of geese milling around and obstructing my path, I have zero desire to run, at full speed, towards them. Maybe I've seen Alfred Hitchcock's "The Birds" too many times, but I just have these scary mental images of wings and beaks beating me into a bloody pulp before they finally kick me into the nearby pond with their webbed feet. I know that this is a completely ridiculous and unlikely scenario; however, my fears and concerns kept me running contentedly on the treadmill for six weeks.

Until I met Jensen. Jensen is a high school sophomore that Chrissy is training. I started seeing her trailing around Chrissy in the gym, but we didn't start chatting until we were both in Lucas' Intro to Spin class. When I spotted Jensen glaring at the bike seat, I couldn't help but befriend her. She told me about her training and how she was going to run a 5K in Marlton Park. As the weeks went by, I felt comfortable enough to give her little encouragements, or, as the situation would require, mild corrections (I'm a youth group leader at church, so I feel pretty comfortable doling out words of wisdom/experience to teenagers). I'd tell her honestly if I thought her form sucked on the bike or if she wasn't pushing herself hard enough. Exercise isn't something you can mess around with; if you don't take your workout or form seriously, you can really hurt yourself. To Jensen's credit, she takes my comments in stride and jokingly refers to me as Chrissy Jr. When Jensen brought up the fact that her 5K was only a week away, I knew that I would be at Marlton Park cheering her on. I don't mention this to sound smug; my gym community has been such a blessing to me, I am more than happy to be there for one of them in return.

The week before the 5K in Marlton Park, I ran for 20 minutes in a row on the treadmill. I'm not sure if the after-effects of that endorphin high were still lingering around in my system, but on the day before the 5K I decided I was going to run. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it, though, because this wasn't my run; it was Jensen's and she worked her butt off for it. My plan was to run for exactly 25 minutes, as my Couch to 5K schedule required, and walk the rest. I reasoned that I would have to start running outdoors anyway because my 5K at Riverview Beach Park was only three weeks away. So the plan was to run for 25 minutes, walk the rest, and give Jensen a big bear hug at the finish line. At some point between Friday night and the morning of the race, my plan changed (except for the hugging Jensen part). As I mentioned in the prior post, I have been working on breaking through my walls. When I went to Marlton Park on Saturday, I thought that this run might be a wall that I needed to climb over.

Me, post-run, with coffee in hand

The nice thing about the Marlton Park run was that a handful of my gym buddies signed up to do it. I knew that because of my slower pace I would be running alone, but their presence was comforting nonetheless. We all lined up on the grass to begin the race and I immediately played "The Distance" by Cake on my ipod. Those first fifteen minutes of running were the most difficult for me. I wanted to keep up with the high intensity energy level of the pack when they all took off; however, I am not quite there yet and it took me a good fifteen minutes to get back into my normal running rhythm. We were to run one loop around the track, follow the marked route in the adjacent neighborhood, and then circle back for a final loop around the park track. When Jensen first told me about her 5K at the park, I thought everyone would just run the track. Chrissy then explained that the course went off of the park trail and I was mildly concerned by this fact. This was definitely beyond the realm of my personal control and far outside of my comfort zone.

By the time I finished my first loop and started running the marked route, my mind started buzzing with a million doubts over my ability to run the whole 3.1 miles. Fortunately, it was at this time that my Jersey Fitness buddies (who are all seasoned runners) were already heading back to the park for their final loop. Just as I was about to convince myself to settle for my 25 minute goal, one of them would jog past me shouting "YOU GOT THIS ANG!", "YOU CAN DO IT!" or "KEEP GOING!" So I kept going. I'm not going to say that their encouragements made the actual running portion of the race easier. My legs felt like lead, my lungs were throbbing, and I could feel every single one of my excess pounds in each step. But in my mind and in my heart, I was going to finish the race. I mean, that's all running is at the end of the day; the age-old race between the mind vs. the body. By the final loop, to be honest, I really really wanted my mind to lose this race. But every time I seriously thought about stopping, I would look up and see Jensen and Chrissy turn the corner ahead of me in the distance. This detail in and of itself is not all that significant. If all I saw was just the back of their forms running in the distance, I probably would have decided to walk the last bit as I had planned. But every time they turned a bend, Chrissy would crane her neck back to check where I was. I would give her a thumb's up, she'd wave, and I'd keep on running. I know that this detail may not seem like a big deal and it might even be just an occupational habit of Chrissy's to gauge how everyone's progressing during a workout; however,
after 9 months of attending her classes, I know that Chrissy goes above and beyond the role of the average fitness instructor. She genuinely cares about the people she works with. I may have run that 5K by myself but I was far from being alone.

Me and Johnna after the race

I didn't think I would run the whole thing. When your history with diet and exercise resembles mine, you get into the bad habit of accepting failure as the only possible outcome. But then, after what felt like forever, the finish line was in sight and it was all over.  I didn't have a meltdown like I did last week when I ran for 20 minutes in a row. I just hugged Jensen and my gym buddies and made my way back to the pavilion for coffee and water. Some time later they announced times and awards but honestly, I could have cared less. Don't get me wrong, I cheered on my gym buddies (I think they all won some kind of award) but I was still in a post-run stupor over the fact that I actually finished the race. I certainly didn't need a ribbon to tell me what I accomplished. I didn't even care about my time, really. Do you know the last time I ran 3 miles? Never. When Chrissy told me my time was 39 minutes, I didn't really dwell on what that meant. All I knew was that I ran a 5K.

I've been asked how it felt to run/finish the race. I hope this post is doing a decent job of conveying all that. Just in case it didn't, here are the 3 biggies:

1. Still in shock/doubt that I did it
2. So proud of Jensen and Kristen for doing it
3. So blessed by the group of ladies that also ran the race. They literally encouraged me from start to finish.

Also, I was kind of surprised by some of the physical side-effects of running my first 5K:

1. My nose freaking hurt after the race. Breathing in all that cold air made me feel like a coke head for all the soreness I experienced in my nasal cavity.
2. I didn't have to go to the bathroom during the race (thank God) but about 20 seconds after I got into my car, my entire system decided to go haywire. It was a rather inconvenient time for one to get caught in Woodstown's Fall Festival traffic.
3. My fat rolls decided they were not ready for a 5K. All the back fat roll friction created two rather painful rashes along the sides of my waist.
4. My thighs hate me.

I'm looking at this picture below and I still can't believe I'm in it. These girls would post pictures of their runs on Facebook and I used to think "Seriously. These people run for actual enjoyment and not because they're being chased by murderers?" And now I'm just so proud to have stood with them in this photo. I could not have asked for a better experience. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

Jensen, Lidia, Ceal, Jessie, Lisa, (no idea, lol), Dana, Jen, Me, Bailey, Cooper, Chrissy, and Johnna

Hitting a Wall

I should preface this post by saying that I didn't literally hit a wall. That is, unless you count using my legs to climb up the mirrored wall for a handstand in last week's Cardio Sculpt. Or if you count the times I slam my fist against the treadmill whenever I finish a running segment of my Couch to 5K program. The subject of this post, however, is strictly a metaphorical wall.


Last November, in the meager beginning of my exercise epiphany, I flew to Portland, Oregon for Thanksgiving. My sister Kim took advantage of my new found zeal for healthy living and suggested we go for a quick run downtown. I took one look at my sad excuse for exercise attire (this was definitely in the pre-sports bra and pre-spandexy gym pants days) and then took another look at the rain/leaf covered pavement, and grimaced. But Kim is very difficult to say no to. Not unlike my gym instructor, Kim has her own kind of infectious energy that you sometimes find yourself swept up in. We started running and I was fine for a good forty seconds before I felt like my lungs were about to cave in. I slowed down, ready to stop, when Kim bellowed out "That pain you're feeling, it's all the fear leaving your body. Just keep going, Angie. Let the fear out!" When you're 100 pounds overweight and you're running on wet pavement with heavy legs and unpredictably wobbly ankles, and then you hear a petite, athletic chick say that kind of Biggest Loser psycho babble sentence, your eyes will start to zero in on all the rocks within arm's reach.

Now, nearly a year later, I've been thinking about that quote a lot lately. It does have some element of truth to it; although I could never say it to someone while keeping a straight face. I have become much more aware of the moments in class when I choose to rest, or stop when I feel my muscles screaming out in pain. Something will happen, like I'll try to catch my breath in a dance, or my thighs will start burning while I'm running on the bike, or everything will just be too much all at once. So I will stop, or I'll slow down, or lower the resistance. The relief from these moments is temporary before I become frustrated by chumping out instead of conquering the moment.

This was definitely the case last night in Kardio Karate. Kardio Karate is pretty much exactly how it sounds. It's a series of punches and kicks (and squats) that move at a fast enough pace to keep your heart rate up for an hour of cardiovascular exercise (ten minutes into class I looked up at the clock and was like, "SERIOUSLY!? THAT'S ALL YOU GOT FOR ME!?"). I actually think that this class was much more physically challenging than HIIT (although I am certain that I will be eating my words in the near future). For one thing, I spent the majority of this class completely confused by the fast paced routine (even though Chrissy repeated it at least 100 times). I always assumed that because I'm pretty good at following the instructions of a recipe, I'd probably be alright following the instructions of a Chrissy. This is not so, or at least not for now. Secondly, I am not a terribly coordinated person. I know that this is a strange admission from someone who loves Zumba as much as I do; however, Kardio Karate is definitely not a Zumba class. There's no personal rhythm that you can add to a jab and you can't improvise a hook. The movements are structured, swift, and powerful. My movements are soft, wobbly, and unbalanced. At one point in the class we did Karate Kid kicks (so named by my friend Mary) and each time I jumped and kicked, I would land and wobble a bit before regrouping. It felt like every one of my lackluster punches or kicks were hitting invisible walls of my own making.

 Throughout the class I would check out my reflection in the mirror, and even more so when I stripped off my top shirt and finished the class in my tank top. Because I have serious issues with my arms (and about half of my female readers just nodded in agreement), I do not strip down lightly. It is a sign that my physical exertion has won the battle against my physical insecurity. Last night's class was the first time I ever stripped down to a tank in the main class room, though. It's a very scary thing to look over at your bared body parts moving around in wall to wall mirrors. What I saw was the physical embodiment of my internal struggle. As much as I want to be like the Karate Kid in this class, my body still resembles Kung Fu Panda. I think that what bothers me the most about the times when I have to stop, slow down, catch my breath, or lower the resistance is that I feel like there's this healthier version of myself trying to bust out and keep up with the Chrissys, the Kims, the Jessies, and Marys in my life. When I hit my walls, I feel like the current unhealthy version of myself is saying, "That's OK. Just stay here with me, it's what you know".  And there's a part of me that would love to just stop right now and be content with the weight that I've lost. This blog could just be about a Fat Girl's experience with working out. The Fat Girl would not have to actually change, per se, but just tell a story about the interesting characters and awkward moments that happen in a gym.

The problem with this is that on Sunday afternoon I actually climbed over my first wall (figuratively). As I mentioned in an earlier post, I've been doing the Couch to 5K running program. I've been progressing quite well because the running segments were only 3, 5, and then 8 minutes at a time. On Sunday, I was supposed to run for 20 minutes in a row. I have never ever run for 20 minutes in a row, not even when I was at a healthy weight (at like, age 7). In my mind I kept hearing "Can't. Can't. Can't" and then "Must. Must. Must". I went to the gym, climbed onto the treadmill, and put one foot in front of the other. I had already figured out that 20 minutes running=five songs on the ipod. After each song I told myself, "OK, one down _____ to go". But at some point I stopped reminding myself to just keep going. I was going. And when "Shake it Out" came on, I could see the end just ahead of me. And I started to cry. Again, let me just say that I do not recommend crying while running. The noises that escaped my throat were borderline Wookie-ish. Finishing that 20 minute run was amazing and awful all at once. It was awful because absolutely no one was there to see what I had done. I wanted to hug the first familiar face I could find but it was 1 o'clock on a Sunday, so the gym was pretty much dead. In retrospect, I think it's better that it happened this way. My accomplishments are mine, after all. Just as my walls are mine, too ( I relished in my post-run glow for a good thirty minutes before I had to plaster it all over Facebook).

In light of my 20 minute run, I have to start pushing myself more in the other classes. I am at the point in this journey ( blech, journey's bad enough so I'll refrain from using the word 'crossroads') where I need to just start climbing the damn walls, already. So yeah, in the end I guess Kim was right about "just letting the fear leave my body" because this is definitely a 'mind over matter' matter. I'm just really glad that none of the instructors say that kind of cheesy crap, though. They keep their encouragements simple, straightforward, and usually summed up in these four words: You can do this.

YOLO!

On Friday, I thought I was having a moment when I was quite contentedly walking around Sedona, Arizona, and climbing up a hill to explore the church that Lloyd Wright built right into the red rocks. The view from the top of the church was breathtaking and the crimson of the rocks made me feel as though they were pulsating with life. Everything was alive (despite what you may think of the desert) including me. I wasn't bouncing around in Spin class or trudging my way through a run that day, but I could feel their lasting effects on me, physically. But this wasn't my moment, not even when I was inside the sacred, albeit small, space of the church itself with its tall windows overlooking Sedona. I didn't even have a moment when I went running the next morning on one of the four machines at the hotel in Fountain Hills (although going for a run at all, let alone on vacation, is a miracle in itself).


My moment came, not surprisingly, on the dance floor at my Aunt Judy and Uncle John's 50th Anniversary party. I have no idea what song my cousin Tom was playing, but it was good and it was fast. Beriah (brother-in-law. I usually omit the in-law, though), Kim (sister), Hank (cousin), and I had been dancing in a cluster together when my Uncle John twisted in with us. And then a few minutes later I was bouncing my hip against my Aunt Judy (we kept a pretty fantastic beat if I dare say so). It was one of those mental polaroid moments that you just keep with you for times when you need to think of something, anything that will make you happy again.

In that moment with my family, I came to a kind of understanding about something that's bugged me for years. Whenever I turn on TV specials about men or women that weigh half a ton (and I don't watch these shows much) I am struck by how often I hear the same thing: I don't know how I let things get out of control/this bad. I am grateful to God that I have never gone past 250. I'm not celebrating this fact, mind you; I'm pretty sure that when you're 5'2 there's only so much weight your frame can take before your rolls just start spilling over. I wasn't yet in spill over mode, but all the back fat was starting to make me look like Heimlich from A Bug's Life. Because losing weight has been so difficult and paaaainfully slow, I have a tremendous amount of respect and awe for anyone who has been able to lose 100 lbs or more. But getting back to the question of wondering how, how do we let our physical health slip through our fingers and lose control of the one thing that is truly our own: our bodies.

Based upon my own life experience in conjunction with what I felt on that dance floor with my family, my answer is (not simply) this:We take our lives for granted (the we is intentional).

Because I woke up, drew breath, and saw that the sun rose again, I live indulgently in the comfort and ease of knowing that this will happen again and again. Right now it's today and there will always be another tomorrow for me to atone. Except that when my life became one big today, with plenty of holidays and weekends to enjoy before seriously thinking about my health, that's when I gained these 120 lbs of reminders that what I do today does matter. One of the most annoying/amusing things that my youth group teens will shout out occasionally is "YOLO!" YOLO=You Only Live Once. Unfortunately, for their generation this usually translates to: Make Stupid Decisions Now Based On Your Sporadic Emotions And Heightened Hormones That You Will Come To Regret Later. That acronym doesn't fit well on the butt cheeks of beach shorts, though. For my generation it means don't give a crap about what you're doing to your body because we're all gonna die anyway so you may as well enjoy yourself. Except that enjoying yourself shouldn't be the only dominating behavior; it should be in harmony with responsibility and self-control. I lived 27 years with very little care or concern towards my long-term health. I made myself morbidly obese (by medical definition) because I always assumed that at some point I would buckle down and magically regain model health.

And now I'm buckling down and it's so. freaking. hard, even at my age. My friend recently asked me how she should advise her daughter to change her unhealthy habits. My first thought was "I am definitely not in a place to give health advice. I am a long ways away from being truly healthy myself". My second thought was one of regret. If I could go back to age 12 and change, I would. I wish that I had started earlier so as to avoid having to undo so much damage. But everyone has to come to these conclusions for themselves and in their own time. I could give this girl stats and personal testimony until my lips went numb but it truly is her decision. I only hope that she doesn't wait as long as I did.

That said, I cannot fixate on all the regretful behaviors that have led to the 120 lbs. If I fixate, without making any proactive changes, I will only continue to wave off my health with "Once I get past this _____, I'll have time to ______, and then I'll be able to concentrate on losing weight". It doesn't happen this way. Something had to really slam me onto the bathroom floor so that I could find the strength to change. And then I had to shimmy my hips with my Aunt Judy and Uncle John on another floor in order to understand just how precious and meaningful life can be. It is true that you only live once and after my weekend in Arizona, I hope that my life resembles that of my aunt and uncle's. I hope that I continue to be surrounded by loved ones, that I will take advantage of my travels, and that I show others the same kind of love and compassion that I have been shown. But I cannot live up to this kind of potential if I do not first work on me.

So if you, too, are struggling as I am, and you do want to change here's what I'd recommend first: a change of attitude. I do believe that at least half (if not more) of exercising/eating well is about your mind over your matter (or mass in my case). As I've said before, if I just focused solely on the big number in my mind and on the scale, I would (and have) failed before I even started. I have had to condition myself to treat each day as a gift (not a right) and each gym class or meal as an opportunity for improvement. Even if that means telling myself over and over that I will be the kind of person who will run, Spin, dance, HIIT, pilox, yoga for fun (HIIT will take more convincing). I go into my classes with a good attitude and try to smile as much as I can, even if it's through clenched teeth. For me, though, it's hard not to have a good time when you've got awesome classmates and instructors. But the main thing is developing a positive attitude towards eating well and exercising regularly, even if it means smiling through clenched teeth.

My Zumba instructor, Chrissy, is sort of amazing at noticing the small details about the people in her classes. In Spin class, she will angle her head or hop off the bike so as to better gauge how many people are "cheating" or lowering the resistance on the bikes (in my defense, I rarely cheat and then it's only out of sheer self-preservation). In Zumba class, she knows when people aren't really dancing and having a good time, but just going through the motions. When this happens, she will occasionally turn down the music and shout, "If you don't want to be here, there's the door!" And I think that this one sentence sums it all up. You either want to be healthy or you don't. You are either in it with your whole being, or you are not. But I've played that middlish ground where I'd go through the motions of saying how badly I'd want to lose weight and then...French fries would happen, or birthday parties, Christmas, etc. You are either happy being a big girl/boy (and as I said in my first post, there are happy big girls/boys, I'm just not one of them) or you are not. If you don't want to change, then stop complaining and be content with your choice. If  you aren't happy, then be prepared to change. I just got to the point where I was tired of seeing myself to the door.


I want to be here.

HIIT me baby one less time

Exactly one year ago today I was crouched onto my knees, gulping in big breaths of air, and trying to keep calm. All because of some guy I never met. So it makes perfect sense that this afternoon I was...well...crouched onto my knees, gulping in big breaths of air, and trying to keep calm. Except this time, it was because of a chick. A chick that I see several times a week when I attend her classes, and who will call me out by name depending on what I'm doing, or, as is often the case, what I'm cracking up over. I didn't purposely plan to go to HIIT (High Intensity Interval Training) on the 1 year anniversary, it just sort of happened. One week I'm joking around with some of the HIIT attendees about how I just keep "missing" the class. Next thing I know I'm doing a bunch of burpees... But in order to understand HIIT, let me go back to when I first started doing Cardio Sculpt because they're sort of similar (I call Cardio Sculpt 'Baby HIIT').

  As I mentioned in the previous post, I took a class called Cardio Sculpt.To save you the trouble of re-reading that post, I'll re-explain what that is. Cardio Sculpt is a class that consists of multiple stations that you go through three minutes at a time. Three minutes of mountain climbing, three minutes of lifting a kettleball, three minutes of lunging, three minutes of running around the back parking lot, etc. Each week it changes and we focus on different parts of the body. The first time I tried Cardio Sculpt, it was very ab/arm intensive and I would whimper in pain every time I laughed or picked something up. The second time I did Cardio Sculpt, I did lunges across the room while carrying a 12-lb weight in my arms. My legs were still throbbing when I went to Zumba two days later, making it extremely difficult for me to drop it like it's hot (and I absolutely hate not doing my best in Zumba). But I actually really love Cardio Sculpt. I love the quick pace, the change of exercises, and most importantly, the community of people that attend the class.

 I really want to emphasize here the significance of my gym community. Many people, much like I used to, often think of the gym as a kind of fish bowl in which you're stared at or judged. I cannot emphasize enough that this truly is not the case, or at least it hasn't for me, and I've got plenty to be insecure about. When I was determined to be an actual member of the gym (rather than a donor), I didn't want to be just another face. As any of my instructors or classmates will tell you, I make myself known in the classes; not because I'm super vain but because I'm relational by nature. When I'm in class and I'm sweaty, exhausted, or frustrated, I vocalize it and hope to God that someone near me is feeling the same way. Luckily, they usually are (especially in Chrissy's classes), and we all bond over our temporary misery. Over the past eight months of classes, I've formed a friendship with a lot of the people who are regular attenders. We vent, we laugh, we talk about our bad eating days, but mainly we're a kind of support system. Case in point: on my second day of Cardio Sculpt I had to wheelbarrow myself across the room and back. Instead of someone holding my legs up (as is the 3rd grade, Field Day version of the wheelbarrow relay), each of my feet were on a plastic plate. I had to use my own weight to propel myself forward as my feet swayed back and forth behind me. I face planted about ten times or so, but each time I did someone would call out to me from their station and say, "Come on, Ang" or "You got this, Angie" or "You're almost there, you can do it". I kept face planting but I also kept getting back up, albeit temporarily. I can't even begin to tell you what that experience meant to me. Honestly, those three minutes of hellish wheelbarrowing pretty much sum up this past year for me. It's been difficult, painful, and I've definitely had my setbacks; but I've also gained this group of people who continue to root me on, time and time again.

My gym community is a huge part of why I decided to do HIIT today. Not that this decision didn't come without anxiety. Last night, for instance, I woke up at 3 in the morning after having a nightmare about being out of breath after doing an hour of burpees. *By the way, when I reference burpees, I'm not talking about packets of seeds for gardening. I'm talking about jumping up and then transitioning quickly to a push up before jumping back up again, and then doing this about a dozen times (or, you know, like 4ish in my case). When I first heard of burpees, I kept thinking of happy little flowers or obese watermelons. Let me assure you that in the HIITy language, there's nothing happy, little, or floral about a burpee... Anyway, I digress. I had a nightmare about doing HIIT. It's not because of my instructor, Chrissy, though. After 8 months of taking her classes, there's a comforting familiarity about Chrissy's yelling, crackly singing, and light speed movements. In every one of her classes you'll find people shaking their heads at her crazy energy, but you'll also find the same twenty people coming back, class after class. My primary concern with taking HIIT was because of its description on the Jersey Fitness website:

"High Intensity Interval Training- Is hands down one of the best ways to burn fat without causing your body to break down your own muscle tissue!" (Intermediate/Advanced)

Translation: "High Intensity Interval Training- It's like Cardio Sculpt, but on crack (Fatties Beware)"

I would see these ridiculously fit people come out of HIIT class drenched in sweat and looking as though they just got knocked over the head with dumbbells. I would joke with my friend Jessie about a single square inch of her shirt that wasn't drenched in sweat, saying, "Light class? Chrissy wasn't feeling well?" But all that said, the skinny girl lurking somewhere inside of me was curious about the class. So I told Jessie I'd give it a go. And then spent a whole week repenting this decision. Whenever I'd ask anyone about HIIT they'd all tell me the same exact thing "Just do what you can". Do what I can? Well, this much is true: I can bolt for the exit. Despite my anxiety, Tuesday came and I made sure to hydrate and eat well throughout the day. About an hour before the class I even drank my very first Red Bull. I know that I will probably never be as fast as Chrissy, but for my very first HIIT class I felt like I needed some form of chemical substance swimming around my brain instructing my body, "Go!" "Go!" "Keep breathing!" "Keep jumping!"

HIIT was like Cardio Sculpt in that it was quick spurts of activity. Hopping on and off the platform, burpees, push ups, jumping jacks, squats, lunges, fast lunges, etc. If you were to take a five minute breather, you'd miss about 60 different sets of exercises. Chrissy would call out various numbers of each exercise but I'm going to be perfectly frank: I maybe did 1/4 of whatever number she yelled out. I know that I should have kept pushing myself to do more and to go harder and faster, but my lungs and knees made more compelling arguments. I did what I could but I know (and Chrissy probably knows) that I am capable of more. That's not the point of the first class, though. The first class is a point of reference for the future, fitter you so that some day you'll look back and think, "My God, remember my first HIIT class? I was a hot mess.." And I was a hot mess. I was sloppy, I gave up too easily, and I didn't push myself enough. I was not happy with my performance, but the point is that I tried, I stayed for the whole hour, and I didn't give in to the fear. That's a heck of a lot more than I can say for the sad sack from last September 11th.

When it was all over, Chrissy said "Good job, Ang" and everyone exhaustedly clapped for me and my first HIIT class. To be honest I don't think I did anything applause-worthy. But again, that's not the point. These people that make up my gym community know where I was a year ago, too. And I love them for it. It's funny because this week I'm going to Arizona and I had the following conversation with my Dad:

Me: Dad, where we're staying, is there a-?
Dad: Gym? Yes. They might even have a Zumba class, too
Me (scoffs): No, it wouldn't be the same
Dad: You know, there are other gym classes. Some may even have instructors even crazier than Chrissy.
Me: I doubt that. Plus, it wouldn't be the same. My people wouldn't be there.
Dad: And they're family?
Me: Yes, actually. They are a family to me.

Casualties of HIIT class

So I dedicate this post to my (gym) family. When I am struggling, and frustrated, and pissed off with myself, you take the time to encourage me, over and over again. Which makes every class feel like this: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ds7ePMtz9m8&feature=fvwrel





And to any potential, yet hesitant, HIIT attendees I will say that while it's definitely the most challenging class I've taken at the gym, it is not impossible. You push through it, accepting that you won't be the fastest or the most agile, and take comfort in knowing that you're definitely burning something (if not calories, then definitely your hamstrings). And if this fatty can do it, so can you. And when you do, I'll clap for you and feel compelled to reward you with food (old habits die hard).

You are what you eat. In my case that's a whole lot of awesomeness.

Big Girl Disclaimer #347: When you set out to lose weight, changing how you eat is much more difficult than exercising regularly.

I was inspired to write this post because on Saturday morning I stepped onto the scale to find that I gained three pounds in the three weeks since I last weighed myself. And even though I mentioned before that you shouldn't let the numbers on the scale rule your existence, this particular number pissed me off royally. When you work your butt off six days a week, you want the numbers to go down, or, if it's PMS week, to stay the same. When your efforts don't show up on the scale, you have a Hulk moment. Or a Hulk hour (day).

For one thing, my body was still hurting from Cardio Sculpt class on Wednesday. I'll most likely write a whole post devoted to the intricacies of Cardio Sculpt, but suffice it to say for now that the class is a lot like how it sounds. The whole hour consists of 3-minute intervals of different ab/upper body/lower body/butt intensive workouts with some spurts of cardio mixed in as well. I love the structure of this class because you're constantly moving and focusing on different parts of your body with each consecutive station. When I first took the class, I left it feeling like I had accomplished a lot within a short amount of time. Twelve hours later, the delayed muscle response kicked in to remind me that I don't normally do a lot of strength training, and I could barely climb up steps or squat to pee without flinching in pain. This week's Cardio Sculpt focused mostly on abs and upper body strength. For the next three days I would wince every time I laughed, coughed, sneezed, or picked anything up. Mind you, I'm really not saying any of this to sound impressive like I'm some super athlete; I could barely finish half the stations without falling on my face or cracking up (I think the instructors are starting to catch on that I often resort to nervous cackles when I'm completely out of my element. Or they think I'm nuts). Anyway, I woke up on Saturday morning still feeling my exertions from Wednesday. I decided to hop onto the scale because 1.) I was overdue for a weigh-in and, 2.) my sore abs tricked me into a false sense of security. My logic has always been "The sorer I am, the lower the number will be on the scale". I looked down at the new, bloated number and with the man-sized portion of humble pie I just got served, I decided it was time for me to rethink my eating habits.

...After I would throw an outlandish, calorie-dense dinner party for my girlfriends later that night. Somewhere around the second or third stuffed fig, or sixth butternut squash ravioli dripping in butter sage sauce, I thought that I may have discovered the scale problem. A problem that I decided to not think about until after we finished our individual martini glasses full of tiramisu. Except that I didn't think about it that night or even on Sunday when I plowed through the cheese enchiladas at Jose's Border Cafe. Like most of my naive, fat brethren out there, I guess I had this crazy idea that if I work out regularly, I won't have to think about what I'm eating. It'll all just sort itself out in the end (Lies!). 

This may have been true when I first started working out. When you go from being completely sedentary to exercising three or four times a week, you're bound to shed some pounds. Also, to be frank, I didn't really eat all that badly to begin with. My problem has always been quantity, not quality. Whenever I read about other people's weight loss journeys and how they would talk about eating whole meals in the middle of the night or consuming 6,000 calories in chicken sandwiches and milkshakes, I would shake my head in disbelief. I just never really clumped myself in with the average obese American; or at least not on a food level. For one thing, I'm a vegetarian. I haven't eaten meat in almost five years and a few months ago I gave up dairy and refined sugar, too. (If you've ever had a conversation with my sister Kimberly about the subject of dairy or refined sugar, you would know that it's much easier to give up dairy and sugar than it is to have a conversation with my sister Kimberly about dairy and sugar.) Also, I happen to be a total food snob, too. If you opened my fridge and freezer, you'd find gallon bags of frozen produce, edamame, tofu, tempeh, Ezekiel bread products, and veggie burgers. Back when I did eat dairy, I even made my own yogurt. My pantry is loaded with pounds and pounds of dried beans, barley, farro, brown rice, homemade vanilla extract, fair trade dark chocolate, and several cans of diced tomatoes. You will be very hard pressed to find any processed foods in my cupboards. It's not because I'm too uppity to eat a donut or boxed mac n' cheese (I'm not), I just happen to prefer real food and lots of it.

Before you see the next two pictures, you should know that I do eat healthy food...like this piece of bok choy from A.T. Buzby Farms!

When I started exercising last year, I took more time to go grocery shopping and plan menus. Nowadays as I'm working full time, volunteering with church activities, and working out about six times a week, the eating habits are taking a hit (but not a HIIT). It's not that I work out and come home to reward myself with huge meals and desserts. It's more like there's an ongoing battle of Me vs. Time, and I'm constantly losing (which is why I give all the fit mothers out there some major kudos. I have no idea how you juggle staying trim and being a parent all at once). As my parents/sisters will tell you, I have a serious problem when it comes to time management. I've always believed that people will find time to do the things that they want, but struggle to make time to do the things that they need, and I am certainly no exception. What's funny is that I will get up at 4:15 in order to get dressed, drive over to the gym, and attend 5AM Spin class, but then I will give almost no consideration whatsoever towards making meals for myself that day. Weekend dinner parties like the one I just cooked for are actually few and far between for me, but if I had my way (and the time) I'd cook/eat like that every day of the week. As it is, I usually stick to veggie burgers, salads, or, as is the case most often, I'll outsource.

Which leads me to Bad Food Habit #2 (With Lack of Time Management being #1): I habitually eat out. For as much as I love to cook for other people, I absolutely hate to cook for just myself. Don't get me wrong, this is not some kind of reflection upon the state of my singleness. I love everything about being single except for the meal plans. I really did make valiant efforts to make my own lunches and snacks in the beginning, but then I discovered that my office was only a few minutes away from an Indian buffet, Moe's, and then Whole Foods. These were much more provocative alternatives to peanut butter and banana on Ezekiel bread. What I found, though, is that by frequenting Moe's two or three times a week for a salad (aptly named "The Personal Trainer") I've now acquired "regular" customer status amongst all the Moe's employees. In fact, I'm so much of a regular that one of the cashiers actually gave me a wallet-sized photo of her 2 month-old son (*In my defense, I'm a total Chatty Cathy everywhere I go, be it the gym, stores, restaurants, church, etc. I was on a first name basis with all the vendors at the PSU Farmer's Market). Despite eating healthy foods at said restaurant chains, I concede that I'm probably consuming a gazillion more hidden calories than anything I'd ever make at home. I'm also spending money I don't have that should go towards replacing the much beloved, greatly rusted, 18 year-old Buick Lesabre that I've named Lazarus on account o' the number of times it has died and been revived. This habit is way overdue to be broken.  

Bad Food Habit #3: Food is my freakin' love language. I don't want to revert to the age old "Blame the parents" theory, but let's just say that I come by this love language very honestly. My mother is Italian and a meal is never just a meal at our house; every dish is qualified with an emotion. I think the fact that all three of her daughters became vegetarians is perhaps one of the greatest disappointments of my mother's life. My father, not an Italian, encouraged us to try anything and everything, whether it's a cannoli from Philadelphia or a piece of marinated cow tongue in Japan. So I did and I loved every bite. I recently read this People magazine article about Adam Levine in which he defends his promiscuity by saying something to the effect of, "I just really love women. All women." And while I think that statement is pretty hilarious coming from a guy who only dates supermodels, it actually hit me that I feel the exact same way about food: I just really love food. All food. I'm not going to say that I don't use food as a coping mechanism for whatever emotion I'm going through (guilt, sadness, anger, happiness) but I will say that it's mostly just love. I especially love eating great gobs of unhealthy food with friends and feeling as though we're all flipping off health consciousness together as a community. The problem, however, is that we're not all in this together. My friends don't have my health problems or a grandfather whose nickname was Fats.

Sfogliatella from Isgro's bakery in Philly

So here I am, sitting at my computer, trying to figure out an answer to my problem. The only thing is that there are millions of answers to this one. Low carb diets, small portions, gluten free, calorie counting, journaling, no meat, no dairy, no sugar, Bob Harper's Skinny Rules, etc, etc. The best aspect of my pre-quarter life crisis (still hate that title) life was the fact that I got to stop thinking about what I was eating. I stopped looking at food in terms of ounces, carbs, and calories and there is a beautiful kind of freedom in that kind of non-thinking. But as I have said over and over in this blog, I cannot go backward, only forward. And I certainly cannot spend the next quarter of my life undoing all of my hard-earned efforts in exercise by eating thoughtlessly.

I don't yet have my answer, Fat Brothers and Fat Sisters. All I know is this (a year later): If you want to lose weight, you have to exercise regularly and eat well. There is no either/or. Not long-term, anyway. I will most likely start food logging again (www.loseit.com), I will probably start eating smaller amounts of food, and during a specific week in the month I will definitely bite your head off if you dare to ask me if french fries are part of my weight loss regimen. Yes. they. freaking. are.

Here I am classin' it up at McDonalds before attending my friend's wedding reception 3 years ago