(It's Tuesday night Yoga with Jim and I'm in the Triangle pose)
Jim: As we Triangle, we're strengthenin' our backs. You do this oft' 'nough, yer gon' have a nice strong back to take witchu' to the beach this summer. You'll be runnin' in the sand like the Captain over there, witch'ur nice stroooooong back in a bathin' suit. (pauses) What a stretch.
Let me stop right there. If you have absolutely no idea what I'm talking about when I reference Jim or the Captain, please go back and re-read the post I wrote entitled "Yoga: A History". I would not be doing either of these men any justice if I were to just write some blurb of a description before transitioning to the rest of this post. Go grab a cup of coffee or a glass of wine, take about ten-ish minutes to read that first yoga post, and then pow-wow back to this second installment.
Minor Confession (an appropriate course of action during the season of Lent): I haven't been getting up in the morning to do yoga. I was barely one week (day) into Lent before I totally compromised my decision to discipline my body and spirit through the daily practice of yoga (sidenote: my lunges still suck). In my pathetic defense, let me explain: Last week, I did ten gym classes. You know who else did ten gym classes in six days? Chrissy (our levels of intensity differ somewhat, though...). This is in addition to daily strength training and some miscellaneous pre-class cardio sessions (I usually get to the gym about an hour before my classes actually start, so I fill the time with some kind of "warm up"). You might be thinking I'm overdoing it. You might be wondering if I'm doubling, or tripling, up on classes as a way of jarring my body into dropping these last 50 lbs quickly. The God's honest truth is that I really just enjoy the classes. I want to get to my goal weight and that is still really important to me, but frankly, when I miss one of my classes due to a scheduling conflict or, recently, because of knee issues, I actually miss it. Last Tuesday, when I opted to take Spin and Yoga instead of HIIT, I envied my friends who left HIIT class all red-faced and exhausted.
Just an FYI, when you typically spend your Tuesday nights participating in a "High Intensity Interval Training" class, making the switch to yoga is both surreal and difficult. You see, in HIIT class Chrissy has us doing something different every single minute and at a very fast pace (hence the name of the class). This leaves you with no time to take deep breaths, look back at the clock (unless you're a seasoned pro who can hold out until Chrissy's distracted by her ipod shuffle, thereby avoiding getting caught and being sentenced to extra burpees or squats), or to even think, "Why do I keep doing this to myself every week!?" Yoga with Jim is essentially the complete antithesis of HIIT with Chrissy.
Because the gym is still buzzing with New Year's resolution-makers, Tuesday's yoga class was packed. Last time I went, I was with my friend Tanya and we were basically surrounded by a handful of limber, middle-aged men. There were a few willowy females as well, but the attendance was still pretty light. This time I felt like I was bobbing around in a sea of flexible limbs and yoga mats. Fortunately the structure of the class itself didn't change much in its essentials. Jim was still looking quite snug in his spandex bike shorts. He still sounded like he was saying "breasts" whenever he said "breaths" (which was quite often. And I still giggled like a second grader every time he did). Most importantly, Jim still qualified each and every yoga position with a simile, "Now we're in a cat's pose. And if you do this here stretch right, you should feel as good as a cat stretchin' out in a sunny win-da. What a stretch." After each series of stretches, Jim always says "What a stretch". This phrase in and of itself wouldn't be noteworthy if Jim actually said it with enthusiasm like, "Feel that burn!" or "There ya go!" Instead, Jim repeats "What a stretch" in a monotone voice, as if he is reading off of a cue card with a list of "Things Yoga Instructors Should Say to Break the Awkward Pauses Between Poses". Whenever he says "What a stretch", I am reminded of the great differences between Jim and Chrissy. If Chrissy was somehow forced into taking over a yoga class for Jim, she would probably just make it a "slower" paced HIIT class. She definitely wouldn't be able to handle the long periods of silence and calm, so she would attempt to break this by spontaneously dancing around the room or she'd remain up front and have a one-sided conversation about how serious everyone looks during their stretches. And at some point she would probably burst out with a "HOW WE DOIN'? ALRIGHT?! ...alright...(mumbling) everyone looks so grumpy today...it's only Tuesday..."
And the thing is, after having, like, at least six classes a week with Chrissy for nearly a year, I've noticed that I'm not quite as zen as I once was during Jim's yoga class (which, frankly, wasn't all that much to begin with). In fact, I'm downright impatient. Now, I admit that I'm a fidgety girl by nature; I'm pretty sure God is going to hold me accountable for a lot of Sunday mornings when I've written thank you notes or compiled grocery lists instead of actually listening to sermons. But when it comes to the gym classes, I am actually getting to a point where I expect a certain level of crazy, spontaneous energy and noise. I wasn't even 10 minutes into Jim's class before I started feeling restless. I wanted to move, I wanted to listen to angry music, and I admit it, I wanted Jim to yell "HOW WE DOIN?!" And because God has a wonderful sense of humor, it was right about this time that Chrissy actually crept into the class to retrieve her bag. And by creep, I mean she attempted to "blend in" by downward dogging her way from the classroom door to her messenger bag. So there I was on my mat, hips opened at a very uncomfortable angle, trying hard not to pull anything all while shaking in laughter at her sincere efforts to be incognito. Meanwhile, Jim was both fully lotus and fully unaware of anything happening beyond his mat. As you can imagine, I really couldn't regain my focus after that and I ended up leaving class a bit early and a bit discouraged with change of gym classes.
I didn't have any intention of returning to yoga on Thursday. Then again, I had no intention of doing 5AM Spin or Step that day either, and yet I did both (I may have a problem...). Fortunately, Tanya was there with me for this particular yoga class and I had some much-needed accountability. I'm not sure if I was worn out by the two previous classes or just in a much more mature place (my money's on exhaustion), but I was definitely calmer this second time 'round with yoga. Because I had already pedaled and stepped out all the energy from my body, I was pretty content to follow Jim's lead and move slowly while focusing on my breasts....er, breaths (although I think I went a little overboard by dozing off during the corpse pose).
At some point during his yoga classes, Jim has us stand in mountain pose and think about our intention for the class. The intention could be a word, a feeling, a wish, etc. The point is, we're meant to go through the class with a purpose. I would like to tell you that I chose to focus on words like love, peace, balance, or even God. But I have the same intention for Jim's yoga class that I have for every single one of my gym classes, and it is this simple phrase: Dear God, please let me see this through to the end. Mind you, this intention comes out a bit more frantically before Chrissy's classes, but it's the same nonetheless. It also happens to be the same intention I have for this weight-loss process as a whole: Please, God, let me see this through to the end. You see, to be honest, I kind of half-expected this Lenten yoga resolution of mine to bust. I know that's a terribly defeatist attitude to have, but some old habits die hard. And perhaps if I wasn't already entering my second year of working towards my Big Goal, I might wonder if this Lenten snag wasn't some kind of ominous sign. But here's the thing, my dear New Year's/Lent resolution-makers: I continue to progress toward that Big Goal because my intention is to see it through to the end. I get up every single day knowing that I have to accept the hard and unpleasant truth that this end will only come with time and discipline. A lot of time and discipline.
This past Sunday I went to Catholic church for the first time ever (I only ever went for Ash Wednesday services) and Father Rene (with the fantastic Spanish accent) said, quite poignantly, "I wahnder how many of j'ou have kept j'our Lenten promeeses, ah? Eef j'ou deedn't keep them DON' GEEV UP an' stop altogether! After all, Easter ees steel coming, right? Eef j'ou stopped, start eet back up again! But don'. jus'. geev. up. J'ou steel have time!" When I heard him say that, my heart started pounding in response to truth of that statement. And so I say unto you, my fellow Big Girl/Big Guy: DON' GEEV UP! (I don't have quite the same charisma as Father Rene) You still have time. We still have time. Don't wait until you lose _____lbs to join the gym or to take up (insert exercise activity). All of my blog posts about trying Zumba, Spin, Kickboxing, Running, HIIT, Piloxing, Yoga, Cardio Sculpt, and Step for the first time happened while I weighed over 200 lbs. Yes, I was (am) insecure about being the heaviest, slowest, and least graceful person in the room. But I walked (walk) into that classroom asking (begging) God to to give me the strength to see that workout to the end. God did not respond by giving me super-human strength. He responded by giving me amazing instructors and comrades who took me into this gym community with sensitivity and encouragement on a daily basis. But that's not to say that I don't still give in to my fears, insecurities, and the weight of my situation (no pun inte-...okay, yes, it was intended). I still hit my (symbolic) walls and this Lenten resolution might not be executed perfectly. But despite all of that crap, I, with God's help, will see this through to the end.
So don' geev up! There's steel time.
Tuesday, February 26, 2013
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Ash and You Shall Receive
It's the most wonderful tiiiiiime of the year....
OK, well I get that Ash Wednesday is definitely not as hyped up a holiday as Christmas is, but I actually look forward to this day more than Christmas if you can believe that (probably not). Where the Christmas story is on a sugar high induced by reindeer, glitter, and twinkle lights, Ash Wednesday is very simple, totally straight-forward and with absolutely no bells and whistles whatsoever. In fact, in my opinion Ash Wednesday is basically the holiday equivalent of a smack in the face...or...smudge on the forehead. It is the day that kicks off the season of Lent, a time which is often translated as being: The 40 day New Year's Resolution in which most people "give up" some kind of carbohydrate but mostly just end up giving up on giving something up. Last year I didn't buy food or eat at restaurants for the entire season of Lent (I even created a blog called "The Lent(il) Project" to chronicle that experience, which you can feel free to read). I ate only from my fridge, freezer, and pantry for 40 days. I didn't actually get around to finishing that blog, but I did learn how to make my own yogurt and get incredibly inventive with beans.
This year's Ash Wednesday started out very differently from the previous year. For one thing, I was up at 4AM struggling to throw on gym clothes (which is quite the challenge when you're working off of six hours of sleep) so that I could attend 5AM Spin. For another, I may or may not have engaged in a heated conversation with the lady at the front desk before said 5AM Spin class. I won't hash out the details but suffice it to say that never in my entire life did I ever think that some day I would vehemently dialogue with another person over a sign-in sheet for a 5AM Spin Class... Anyway, I went to class with quite a bit more un-Christ-like aggression to burn than is normal for me. Once Spin ended, I had to book it back home in order to clean up before mass started.
In the Lent(il) Project, I describe, in great detail, my history with Ash Wednesday services. I started going to them because I needed chapel credit for college but ended up really enjoying the liturgy (especially in the reverend's Irish accent which, let's face it, could make a reading from my car's owner's manual sound sexy). When I moved back to NJ after school, I actually attended two masses on Ash Wednesday: one from the Catholic church and one from the Episcopalian church near Jersey Fitness. I wish that I could tell you I did this out of some deeper yearning for greater spiritual truth. But the fact is, I went to the Episcopalian service because when I was calling around for Ash Wednesday service times, the church secretary said, "The homily is at 9:30 and there will be a coffee and hot cross bun reception once the service is over". Needless to say, she had me at "hot cross bun reception". Once the Catholic service ended, I booked it across town to St. Peter's quicker than you can say a Hail Mary. I have no doubt that while I wiped off my Catholic ashes, a little piece of my dignity went with them. This year, my eyes are definitely on the prize of getting to my goal weight, but there is a non-negotiable Hot Cross Bun/Good Friday Cannoli Clause built into my weight-loss contract. This clause allows for the consumption of baked goods for religious purposes (I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere). Had cannoli been around in the time of King David, I have no doubt there would be a whole slew of psalms devoted to thanking God for them.
This year's Ash Wednesday service was everything I'd hoped it would be. Thankfully I was not bawled out by one of the parishioners (who looks exactly like my Aunt Lori) for accidentally not eating the Communion wafer in front of the Crucifix (a mistake you do not repeat twice in the Catholic Church). I also managed to avoid getting the squeaky knee rest (unlike my across-the-pew neighbor. Rookie mistake, succccckkkkaaa!). Also, the priest had a fantastically thick Spanish accent in addition to a quirky sense of humor. I found it quite charming to be asked, "How many of j'ou gonna geev up the con-dees and thee shoo-gar for Lent, ah? Do j'ou theenk God wants the con-dees...or...(long dramatic pause) j'our heaaaart?" I'm serious, accents just make the mass for me. The priest asked us to really think about what we intended to give up for Lent. It made me pause to consider something my friend Heidi said about not necessarily losing something for Lent (because at this point I've already lost two happy knee caps, weight, a social life, and 90% of my clothing to Jersey Fitness alone) but perhaps adding something; for example, adding a special time to pray, have devotions, quiet time, etc. I thought this was a very thoughtful and brilliant idea, actually.
For whatever reason, I really feel like adding yoga to my morning routine for the forty days of Lent. I should probably point out that I am not a morning person. That I go to 5AM Spin at all says more about Chrissy's teaching abilities than my self-discipline. I love to sleep more than I love eating, dancing in Zumba, watching Korean dramas, riding on hayrides, and shopping at farmer's markets...combined. Also, I'm not really a yoga person, either. If you re-read my post entitled "Yoga: A History" you will learn that I am not terribly coordinated and will more than likely tip over. A lot. It is because of my propensity to fall that makes me give Chrissy the stink eye whenever she has us "warm up" in kickboxing by balancing our bodies over one foot. In short, I really have zero desire whatsoever to get up early in the morning and do yoga. And yet, it is because this practice is outside of my comfort zone that I am drawn to pursue it. My life is fairly busy and I don't often get the opportunity to concentrate on the understated value of just breathing. For me, this is not about losing weight, it's not about pushing the limits of my body, it's about acquiring balance both spiritually and physically (I better rock at lunges by Easter Sunday). Now, so as to not totally wipe myself out, on the Tuesdays and Thursdays that I might attend 5AM Spin, I will opt to do yoga at night with the super amazing, indescribable, spandex-clad, foot tatted, Jim. I cannot wait to hear him say hip op'ner for the first time...it will be magical, I know it.
Happy Ash Wednesday, everyone!
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| last year's cross |
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| The contents of my pantry from last year's Lent(il) Project, which includes 10 lbs of beans |
This year's Ash Wednesday started out very differently from the previous year. For one thing, I was up at 4AM struggling to throw on gym clothes (which is quite the challenge when you're working off of six hours of sleep) so that I could attend 5AM Spin. For another, I may or may not have engaged in a heated conversation with the lady at the front desk before said 5AM Spin class. I won't hash out the details but suffice it to say that never in my entire life did I ever think that some day I would vehemently dialogue with another person over a sign-in sheet for a 5AM Spin Class... Anyway, I went to class with quite a bit more un-Christ-like aggression to burn than is normal for me. Once Spin ended, I had to book it back home in order to clean up before mass started.
In the Lent(il) Project, I describe, in great detail, my history with Ash Wednesday services. I started going to them because I needed chapel credit for college but ended up really enjoying the liturgy (especially in the reverend's Irish accent which, let's face it, could make a reading from my car's owner's manual sound sexy). When I moved back to NJ after school, I actually attended two masses on Ash Wednesday: one from the Catholic church and one from the Episcopalian church near Jersey Fitness. I wish that I could tell you I did this out of some deeper yearning for greater spiritual truth. But the fact is, I went to the Episcopalian service because when I was calling around for Ash Wednesday service times, the church secretary said, "The homily is at 9:30 and there will be a coffee and hot cross bun reception once the service is over". Needless to say, she had me at "hot cross bun reception". Once the Catholic service ended, I booked it across town to St. Peter's quicker than you can say a Hail Mary. I have no doubt that while I wiped off my Catholic ashes, a little piece of my dignity went with them. This year, my eyes are definitely on the prize of getting to my goal weight, but there is a non-negotiable Hot Cross Bun/Good Friday Cannoli Clause built into my weight-loss contract. This clause allows for the consumption of baked goods for religious purposes (I'm sure it's in the Bible somewhere). Had cannoli been around in the time of King David, I have no doubt there would be a whole slew of psalms devoted to thanking God for them.
 |
| a very religious experience... |
For whatever reason, I really feel like adding yoga to my morning routine for the forty days of Lent. I should probably point out that I am not a morning person. That I go to 5AM Spin at all says more about Chrissy's teaching abilities than my self-discipline. I love to sleep more than I love eating, dancing in Zumba, watching Korean dramas, riding on hayrides, and shopping at farmer's markets...combined. Also, I'm not really a yoga person, either. If you re-read my post entitled "Yoga: A History" you will learn that I am not terribly coordinated and will more than likely tip over. A lot. It is because of my propensity to fall that makes me give Chrissy the stink eye whenever she has us "warm up" in kickboxing by balancing our bodies over one foot. In short, I really have zero desire whatsoever to get up early in the morning and do yoga. And yet, it is because this practice is outside of my comfort zone that I am drawn to pursue it. My life is fairly busy and I don't often get the opportunity to concentrate on the understated value of just breathing. For me, this is not about losing weight, it's not about pushing the limits of my body, it's about acquiring balance both spiritually and physically (I better rock at lunges by Easter Sunday). Now, so as to not totally wipe myself out, on the Tuesdays and Thursdays that I might attend 5AM Spin, I will opt to do yoga at night with the super amazing, indescribable, spandex-clad, foot tatted, Jim. I cannot wait to hear him say hip op'ner for the first time...it will be magical, I know it.
Happy Ash Wednesday, everyone!
Monday, February 11, 2013
Dump & Run
In the past, whenever I've complained about struggling with studying/learning something new/employment/cooking a difficult meal, my dad would often say (to my annoyance): No one wants to hear about the labor pains, they just want to see the baby.
Yesterday was the Pump & Run challenge and here's the "baby" (because if this is what you want to see, you can ignore the rest of my detailed account of the labor):
-I ran 3.4 miles in 38ish minutes
-I did 10 reps of 80lbs (technically, I was supposed to lift 120 lbs but I'll have to hold out til 2014 for that one)
I competed and completed the Pump & Run challenge: It's a girl!
And now for the labor:
Because I've been lifting/pumping about four times a week (give or take) in addition to six days of cardio-heavy classes, I've made some necessary tweaks to my eating habits. Mainly, I've been almost completely low carb for a few weeks now. When you're trying to convert your body's wobbly bits into a lean, green, running machine, you need a fair amount of protein and vegetables. I didn't forsake the bread/potatoes because I wanted to jump start my weight loss; I just happen to feel physically better without them. I've also been drinking at least a gallon of water a day in an effort to boost my metabolism and flush out my system. So far, these tweaks have been working in my favor (I lost 8 lbs since the start of the competition).
On the evening before Pump & Run, I decided that in addition to eating well and drinking lots of water, I'd take three heaping tablespoons of psyllium powder, dissolved in water, to "clean the slate" before my weigh-in the following morning. If you aren't familiar with psyllium powder, it's basically these little ground up husks that are 100% pure fiber. You put them in at least 10 oz of water or juice, stir them up, and drink. The worst part of drinking psyllium powder is its texture. It's like drinking Cream of Wheat flavored saliva. And in my foolish, well-intentioned heart, I really thought I'd wake up the next morning feeling clean as a whistle (especially after getting up twice in the middle of the night to pee). The next morning, I hopped on my scale (because I hate the element of surprise) and to my shock and annoyance, I gained 2 lbs within 24 hours. I was flabbergasted by this change but assumed that perhaps I could still...uh..."drop" some weight by the time I had to get on the gym scale.
I walked into the gym and immediately saw a ring of blue Pump & Run t-shirts surrounding the entrance of the weight room. I knew from the beginning that we'd all obviously pump and then go for our run for the competition. It's one thing to know it, it's quite another thing to see everyone watching, cheering, and clapping while someone is lying on a bench and lifting weights while Chrissy counts (I love Chrissy dearly, but when she hovers around a bench press or a scale that I'm using, she intimidates the crap out of me. Although not literally enough on that particular morning...). To make matters worse, the guys in the weight room were stopping to watch this portion of the competition. Right then and there, as I walked by my crowd of buddies and fellow Pump & Run-ers, I felt my resolve begin to crumble. I booked it to the nearest bathroom and attempted to squeeze out any remaining drop of weight that might still be lounging around in my lower intestines. Unfortunately, I couldn't tell if the brick in my belly was anxiety or a crapload (no pun intended) of fiber. One frightening and frustrating weigh-in with Chrissy later, it was definitely the fiber; I gained 4 lbs in 24 hours (the gym scale said I was 2 lbs heavier than the reading I had on my scale at home. See? Surprises suck!). Even though I lost 8 lbs in 8 weeks (which included the food-heavy holiday weeks of Christmas, New Year's, and my birthday), all I could feel was the remorse of those four extra pounds.
I know I've warned against the power of the numbers on the scale. Chrissy has warned against the numbers on the scale. Everyone warns against the numbers on the scale. And yet, there I was, sobbing in the women's locker room sauna over numbers on the scale. I wasn't grateful for the 8 lb loss, I wasn't proud of the fact that I could bench 80 lbs (even though I started out with the 45 lb bar eight weeks ago). All I felt was miserable over numbers and I let them mean way more than "idiot who drank too much fiber". I'm not sure how crappy moments work for you, but for me it's one big domino effect. I got upset by numbers on the scale, which then made me upset that I couldn't bench 120 lbs, which then made me upset that I didn't personally weigh 120 lbs, which then made me want to shrivel up into an Ang-sized raisin in the women's locker room sauna (By the way, I know that it's totally random to have a meltdown (literally) in a sauna, but it is like my favorite little nook in Jersey Fitness. I do all my best thinking/meditating/meltdown-ing in there). But somewhere in whatever portion of my brain that remained logical, I told myself to get out of the sauna and dry my puffy eyes. And that's when I came face-to-face with my friend/instructor Beth (the one who gave me excellent ski advice in the previous post).
I explained to Beth about the scale, how I didn't want to be fat anymore, and that I didn't want to be cheered on for doing well "for where I am". I actually want to be a gym beast, I want to bench 80 lbs because that is 70% of my body weight and not just what I can handle "for where I am". I want what I cannot have yet "for where I am" and it pisses me off on an almost daily basis. Fortunately, I am just angry enough to be motivated to attend classes and lift weights, but not so angry that I hurl kettlebells into the classroom mirrors. Beth understood why I was upset but wisely pointed out that at the end of the day, all those people in the blue shirts were my friends, they all knew how far I'd come this past year (and not just in the past two months of Pump & Run), and that we are all in this competition to encourage and support each other. And with that said, we walked out of the locker room together.
I benched 10 reps of 80lbs, got up, and threw on my running gear. Oddly enough, up until that morning, I was actually dreading the running portion the most. Even though I do a lot of cardio throughout the week, I haven't really been running faithfully and wasn't quite sure if my body could just jump right into a 5K. Fortunately, I have a tried-and-true method for running: I maintain the same pace from start to finish. For as pissed off as I was about only benching the 80lbs, I could not have cared less about my running time or speed. And you know, the crazy thing is that for all my crying and whining, the pumping and running segments went by pretty quickly.
When we all finished up, we milled about on the gym classroom floor, and Chrissy gave us our certificates of participation and various awards. I was still pretty annoyed with myself over my previous attitude and behavior, but when Chrissy handed me my participant card with all my numbers (starting weight, ending weight, reps, running time, body fat percentage, fullness), all I kept thinking about was next year's Pump & Run. I wonder what 2014 Pump & Run-Angela will think about this first competition. I wonder what she'll look like. I pinned my certificate and my participant card onto the mantel of my window as a tangible reminder of what I'm working towards.
That night, just as I was about to go to bed, I called my sister Kim and told her about Pump & Run and the fiber incident. She cracked up at my unintentional sabotage and said, "Sounds like Angie wanted a little Dump & Run!" I talked about my meltdown and how I hated feeling like I was doing well "for where I am" which is just a nice way of saying "for still being overweight". She said, "But the thing is, Angie, is that you care now. Seriously think about who you were a year ago, what would that girl say about you benching 80 lbs and running a 5k?" And she's absolutely right. I do care now. I care about being healthy so much that even though I was upset over the numbers, I still completed the competition. In fact, I knew that I would end up pumping and running even while I was sobbing in the sauna. I knew I would do it partly because I was certain that my friends in the blue shirts, and particularly Beth and Chrissy, wouldn't let me give up on myself; but mainly I knew I'd see it through because deep down I cared more about finishing than feeling sorry for myself.
I really really wish that this post about the Pump & Run challenge didn't come with about ten bags of drama, but it did (and not for the sake of this blog, I assure you). Weight loss is not a simple, clean-cut process that's all sunshine and daffodils. It can be as brutally honest and gut-wrenching as a three-sided dressing room mirror. In fact, this process basically is one big mirror, one that forces you to take everything in, the good and the bad, and challenges you as if to say "Your move". And the longer you ignore what's staring right in front of you, the harder it gets for when you actually do rise to the occasion.
I am beyond grateful for the Pump & Run challenge, for everyone in the blue shirts, and even for the warm hug of the sauna room. For as much as I hate that I had a pre-schooler meltdown, I am that happy that I continue to care.
Yesterday was the Pump & Run challenge and here's the "baby" (because if this is what you want to see, you can ignore the rest of my detailed account of the labor):
-I ran 3.4 miles in 38ish minutes
-I did 10 reps of 80lbs (technically, I was supposed to lift 120 lbs but I'll have to hold out til 2014 for that one)
I competed and completed the Pump & Run challenge: It's a girl!
And now for the labor:
Because I've been lifting/pumping about four times a week (give or take) in addition to six days of cardio-heavy classes, I've made some necessary tweaks to my eating habits. Mainly, I've been almost completely low carb for a few weeks now. When you're trying to convert your body's wobbly bits into a lean, green, running machine, you need a fair amount of protein and vegetables. I didn't forsake the bread/potatoes because I wanted to jump start my weight loss; I just happen to feel physically better without them. I've also been drinking at least a gallon of water a day in an effort to boost my metabolism and flush out my system. So far, these tweaks have been working in my favor (I lost 8 lbs since the start of the competition).
On the evening before Pump & Run, I decided that in addition to eating well and drinking lots of water, I'd take three heaping tablespoons of psyllium powder, dissolved in water, to "clean the slate" before my weigh-in the following morning. If you aren't familiar with psyllium powder, it's basically these little ground up husks that are 100% pure fiber. You put them in at least 10 oz of water or juice, stir them up, and drink. The worst part of drinking psyllium powder is its texture. It's like drinking Cream of Wheat flavored saliva. And in my foolish, well-intentioned heart, I really thought I'd wake up the next morning feeling clean as a whistle (especially after getting up twice in the middle of the night to pee). The next morning, I hopped on my scale (because I hate the element of surprise) and to my shock and annoyance, I gained 2 lbs within 24 hours. I was flabbergasted by this change but assumed that perhaps I could still...uh..."drop" some weight by the time I had to get on the gym scale.
I walked into the gym and immediately saw a ring of blue Pump & Run t-shirts surrounding the entrance of the weight room. I knew from the beginning that we'd all obviously pump and then go for our run for the competition. It's one thing to know it, it's quite another thing to see everyone watching, cheering, and clapping while someone is lying on a bench and lifting weights while Chrissy counts (I love Chrissy dearly, but when she hovers around a bench press or a scale that I'm using, she intimidates the crap out of me. Although not literally enough on that particular morning...). To make matters worse, the guys in the weight room were stopping to watch this portion of the competition. Right then and there, as I walked by my crowd of buddies and fellow Pump & Run-ers, I felt my resolve begin to crumble. I booked it to the nearest bathroom and attempted to squeeze out any remaining drop of weight that might still be lounging around in my lower intestines. Unfortunately, I couldn't tell if the brick in my belly was anxiety or a crapload (no pun intended) of fiber. One frightening and frustrating weigh-in with Chrissy later, it was definitely the fiber; I gained 4 lbs in 24 hours (the gym scale said I was 2 lbs heavier than the reading I had on my scale at home. See? Surprises suck!). Even though I lost 8 lbs in 8 weeks (which included the food-heavy holiday weeks of Christmas, New Year's, and my birthday), all I could feel was the remorse of those four extra pounds.
I know I've warned against the power of the numbers on the scale. Chrissy has warned against the numbers on the scale. Everyone warns against the numbers on the scale. And yet, there I was, sobbing in the women's locker room sauna over numbers on the scale. I wasn't grateful for the 8 lb loss, I wasn't proud of the fact that I could bench 80 lbs (even though I started out with the 45 lb bar eight weeks ago). All I felt was miserable over numbers and I let them mean way more than "idiot who drank too much fiber". I'm not sure how crappy moments work for you, but for me it's one big domino effect. I got upset by numbers on the scale, which then made me upset that I couldn't bench 120 lbs, which then made me upset that I didn't personally weigh 120 lbs, which then made me want to shrivel up into an Ang-sized raisin in the women's locker room sauna (By the way, I know that it's totally random to have a meltdown (literally) in a sauna, but it is like my favorite little nook in Jersey Fitness. I do all my best thinking/meditating/meltdown-ing in there). But somewhere in whatever portion of my brain that remained logical, I told myself to get out of the sauna and dry my puffy eyes. And that's when I came face-to-face with my friend/instructor Beth (the one who gave me excellent ski advice in the previous post).
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| I didn't think anyone got a shot of me pumping! Thanks, Johnna! |
I benched 10 reps of 80lbs, got up, and threw on my running gear. Oddly enough, up until that morning, I was actually dreading the running portion the most. Even though I do a lot of cardio throughout the week, I haven't really been running faithfully and wasn't quite sure if my body could just jump right into a 5K. Fortunately, I have a tried-and-true method for running: I maintain the same pace from start to finish. For as pissed off as I was about only benching the 80lbs, I could not have cared less about my running time or speed. And you know, the crazy thing is that for all my crying and whining, the pumping and running segments went by pretty quickly.
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| Johnna & Chrissy: Johnna got us the awesome shirt/pics and Chrissy was the ringleader of this here Pump & Run shindig |
When we all finished up, we milled about on the gym classroom floor, and Chrissy gave us our certificates of participation and various awards. I was still pretty annoyed with myself over my previous attitude and behavior, but when Chrissy handed me my participant card with all my numbers (starting weight, ending weight, reps, running time, body fat percentage, fullness), all I kept thinking about was next year's Pump & Run. I wonder what 2014 Pump & Run-Angela will think about this first competition. I wonder what she'll look like. I pinned my certificate and my participant card onto the mantel of my window as a tangible reminder of what I'm working towards.
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| This is what Chrissy wrote on my participation card after I told her about my fiber fiasco. She's too much. |
That night, just as I was about to go to bed, I called my sister Kim and told her about Pump & Run and the fiber incident. She cracked up at my unintentional sabotage and said, "Sounds like Angie wanted a little Dump & Run!" I talked about my meltdown and how I hated feeling like I was doing well "for where I am" which is just a nice way of saying "for still being overweight". She said, "But the thing is, Angie, is that you care now. Seriously think about who you were a year ago, what would that girl say about you benching 80 lbs and running a 5k?" And she's absolutely right. I do care now. I care about being healthy so much that even though I was upset over the numbers, I still completed the competition. In fact, I knew that I would end up pumping and running even while I was sobbing in the sauna. I knew I would do it partly because I was certain that my friends in the blue shirts, and particularly Beth and Chrissy, wouldn't let me give up on myself; but mainly I knew I'd see it through because deep down I cared more about finishing than feeling sorry for myself.
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| I got "Most Improved". I thought my prize was a candle, but it was actually a daisy growing kit. I realized this after 5 minutes of sniffing.. |
I really really wish that this post about the Pump & Run challenge didn't come with about ten bags of drama, but it did (and not for the sake of this blog, I assure you). Weight loss is not a simple, clean-cut process that's all sunshine and daffodils. It can be as brutally honest and gut-wrenching as a three-sided dressing room mirror. In fact, this process basically is one big mirror, one that forces you to take everything in, the good and the bad, and challenges you as if to say "Your move". And the longer you ignore what's staring right in front of you, the harder it gets for when you actually do rise to the occasion.
I am beyond grateful for the Pump & Run challenge, for everyone in the blue shirts, and even for the warm hug of the sauna room. For as much as I hate that I had a pre-schooler meltdown, I am that happy that I continue to care.
Friday, February 8, 2013
Ice Ice Baby
(At lunch with my friend Scott a couple months ago)
Me: You know, I've never been skiing
Scott: Really? Oh, we're going...
(Last week at lunch)
Me: Hey, remember when you said we should go skiing...think we'll actually get around to doing that?
Scott: Yes, I do. How's next Wednesday work for you? Can you take off work?
So on Wednesday I went skiing for the very first time with the aforementioned Scott (and can I just say, I don't remember him ever calling my bluff quite so quickly before). I know that I've mentioned Scott before in older posts. He's the one who suggested we should run a 5K together (I completed the Couch to 5K program and have since run a handful of races....though none with Scott, oddly enough) and he's also my right-side dancing buddy in Zumba class. But Scott and I actually go way, way back, back in the day when the gym just happened to be that building near the donut shop. In fact, about 20 years ago, our parents (his mom works with both of my parents in the same office) thought it would be a good idea to breed our respective family dogs. And that's the context in which I first met Scott. Technically I don't actually remember him at all during this awkward arrangement. What I do remember is asking my father why Lady kept trying to hide from the other doggie (The dog matchmaking never did pan out. Lady, as it turned out, didn't exactly live up to her moniker and ended up getting impregnated by another cocker spaniel, a runaway named "Bandit". And no, I'm not making any of this up). Fastforward about 8 or 9 years and I (quite pragmatically) asked my parents if I could get driving school lessons for my 16th birthday. As it turned out, I had to share my lesson with another kid: Scott. By this time, I had already repressed the dog mating incident, but I did remember that our parents worked together, so I was grateful to share the lessons with a familiar face. I'm not sure exactly when we fell into our friendship over the course of learning how to parallel park, use turning signals, and make K-turns, but I do know that it was pretty much instantaneous. Back in those easy-breezy days when gas was well under $2 a gallon, Scott and his new license would drive me around Salem County pretty much every single day. And that's how we started out.
One of the best things about our friendship now, in our twenties, is that we're both much more confident and secure individuals than we ever were as teenagers. And I'm not sure if this is an aging thing or an "I'm tired of being the fat kid" thing, but our health is much higher on the ol' list of priorities now, as well. Scott has already trimmed down to his goal weight (I've got another good year ahead of me) so his approach to things like running, skiing, or zumba, for example, is eager and adventurous. When he first proposed that we run a 5K together, he just looked at me as though what he just said was fact and not a suggestion. I, at 200+ lbs, was a bit more skeptical. See, if you were to propose the subject of "running" to most Big Girls, 9 times out of 10 they will ask you, "In this running scenario you speak of...am I being chased by a serial killer or just a mugger?" But what I've noticed about people like Scott or my fitness instructors, is that they never at any point assume that I am physically incapable of these feats. They don't look at me and think "can't" (Chrissy probably just thinks "Faster!"). When they do this, it's like some crazy Jedi mind trick that convinces me that yes, yes I can run 3 miles on a treadmill or going flying down a mountain! So let me just say this and then I'll go back to my skiing story: One of the biggest reasons I push myself forward in all of this is because I have these people to look me in the eye and say, "You're going skiing" or "There's no stopping, cheaters!" or my favorite (and please forgive the cursing this one time) "Get your ass on that floor and give me a burpee!". Back in the day when I'd sit at the table with my plate piled two stories high with food, I'd laugh about "starting over tomorrow" because I knew that tomorrow would never happen. I had soothing words of sympathy from my skinny friends, empathy from my bigger friends, and nothing ever changed. Life was simpler, I was never sore....and in my heart, I was miserable. I like to think that saying yes now to new challenges, like skiing, is my way of taking one big step away from that hopeless lump I once was.
That said, I had no idea what to expect or even what to wear for this ski excursion. Scott told me I'd need "a coat, gloves, snow pants, and warm socks". So I went to Dick's Sporting Goods and spent over an hour trying on snow pants. 'Dick's' has now been added to that long list of stores that has its own definition of "size 14" that differs from the rest of world's clothiers. Without getting too graphic, let's just say that the pair of overall snowpants went on and a baby kangaroo of belly fat hopped out over the zipper. Thanks for the boost to my ego, Dick. When I arrived at Scott's house on Wednesday morning, he let me borrow some head coverings and a pair of goggles (see picture below). We both hopped in the car and headed out to Spring Mountain.
When we arrived at the Spring Mountain ski lodge, and I could actually see the slopes and lifts, everything became very real all of a sudden. Me and my "Men's Large" snow pants were actually going to propel down the side of a hill. We went inside the lodge to get the lift tickets and I immediately spotted two tall, cute Asian guys ahead of us in line. I turned to Scott and whispered, "Well babe, so far so good". Once we got the tickets and I signed a piece of paper that probably said something like, "If the Fat Girl breaks her legs while flying down the slope without health insurance, then......succcckkkkkkkkka! Please sign here" we headed out to the locker room to get the boots. I think Scott was most excited about seeing (videotaping) me walking in the ski boots more than anything else. If you've never worn ski boots before, dear Reader, a word of caution: They're very tight (I have bruises along my calves) and they basically force your legs to bend into a mildly uncomfortable, pseudo-squat. Also, they make you clomp around like a drunk T-Rex (much to the delight of your iPhone-happy friend in his cozy, astronaut-worthy, snowboarding boots). I will say this much for my weight loss, though: it has made me much less painfully insecure than I used to be. I would have probably burst into tears with the snow pant situation alone, but then to have Scott wrastle my boots and skis onto my feet the way he did, it probably would have sent me over the edge of a body issue meltdown. I managed to survive both incidents without a single panic attack.
When we finally got to the slope, I paused and told Scott, "Look, babe. You want to be a parent some day, right? Think of today's ski trip like a practice round of sorts for parenting. I am no different than a 4 year-old kid learning how to ski for the first time and you are the parent-figure here. If by some chance I flip out and throw a tantrum, and you can't handle the situation patiently, well...then you might want to rethink procreation..." Scott just laughed and said, "OK, you can be my child...so long as you never disappoint me". The slope we started out on had just a smidge of an incline to it. It was the perfect kind of hill to practice going straight, slowing down, and stopping when you're a first-timer (at least, that's what I thought at first). At one point I asked Scott, "What do I do if I fall down? How do I get back up?" Unfortunately, Scott has never skied before, but has only ever snowboarded (apparently there's a difference in how they fall). So he suggested I fall over and go from there. So I did...and I didn't get back up for a good ten minutes. I was supposed to have asked my friends Rachael and Heidi about this before I went skiing, but I never got around to it. I vaguely recalled my friend/instructor extraordinaire Beth giving me excellent ski advice and then adding, "Oh, and when you fall you ________" Something about using the poles and upper body strength. Unfortunately for me and the poles, I had no upper body strength that morning. I gave all my upper body strength to HIIT class the night before, where we did mostly push-ups, burpees, and squats with dumbbells.
Every time I scrambled around, clutching for the ski poles to lift me up, I would look up and see the sun shining behind Scott and his perfect blue eyes and winning grin as he looked down at my pathetic efforts. After about five minutes of flopping around like a dead fish, I swatted at him with the ski pole, "You know, you're not making this any easier by just standing over me looking like the angel Gabriel!" He just smiled, "You have to figure it out somehow. I can't just help you up every time you fall. Use your upper body strength!" I swatted again, "I have no upper body strength! Chrissy took all of it!" But he was right; I had to figure out how to fall and get back up on my own without assuming he would be zooming around to help me up each time. So I told Scott to hit the slope without me and that by the time he came back, I'd either a.) still be lying on my back like an overturned turtle or b.) be practicing my snow plough moves. I don't think I've ever perspired so much in my entire life as I did while trying to upright my body. Every time a skier flew by I kept thinking, "Oh for the love of God, please, just fall already so I can get myself out of this crap situation!" Thankfully, a family of Orthodox Jews skidded by and two of the kids flopped over. I watched as both kids just unhooked one of their boots, propped themselves up with their newly freed foot, and snapped their ski back on before gliding away. And this was exactly how I got back up from falling for the rest of the trip. My friend Rachael would later ask me, "But why didn't you just use your upper body to push off the poles when you fell over?" There was nothing around me that I could use to swat at her.
Scott allowed me only a couple baby slope practice runs before pushing me towards the Lift. I protested, "That hill is not a bunny! It's a freaking full-grown hare, Scott!" He reassured me that I would be just fine (classic parent line). The Lift ride kind of reminded me of my first time on the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror in Disney World. You're on the ride, gradually ascending, and giggling happily with the person next to you. Then all of a sudden you're at the top, you get a quick view of everything below, and VOOOOOOOM! DROP! My first time getting off of the Lift was probably not unlike everyone else's first time. My ski tips were pointed up, the chair lowered, and I stood up for a whole five seconds before promptly faceplanting into the snow. And because I had this overwhelming fear of being at the bottom of some crazy ski lift pile-up, I immediately started sprawling awkwardly towards Scott and the fenced off area like some blood-crazed zombie. The snowboarders behind us told me I needed to use my poles and push off with my upper body once I got off the Lift. Seriously, has no one ever been to HIIT class!?
But it wasn't getting off the Lift that proved to be my greatest challenge. Once I managed to get to my feet (using my handy dandy Orthodox trick) I noticed that there was a large curve that led from the Lift exit and down into the slope (curves=speed, unless we're referring to Big Girls). Idiot that I was, I felt fairly confident that my moves on the baby slope would translate easily onto the bunny slope. I pushed off on my poles down the curve (big mistake), with my skis close and straight (even bigger mistake), and realized about five seconds in, that I was now re-enacting the saucer sled scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I literally had to make myself fall over so as to not run into a snow machine. I have no idea what Scott was doing up until this point. I'm thinking he just kind of snowboarded behind me and slowed down whenever I slammed into the snow. By my second fall, one of the ski patrolers swished up and told me I needed to work on my "pizza slice" or for you non-skiers, the wedge shape that you form with your skis to slow down. I'm sure the patroler meant well, but mainly he came off pretty patronizing (probably because I didn't hand him $80 for his 10-minute ski lesson). As I made my way down the slope (slowly), he trailed behind me shouting "You're making a pizza slice! PIZZA SLICE! PIZZA SLICE!" Now I know I've lost a lot of weight in the past year, but I'm still a Big Italian Girl at heart. If you insist upon shouting "PIZZA!" at me, you better have a steaming flat box in your freaking hands; otherwise shut your pie hole, you carb tease.
That first ski run wasn't so great and I insisted upon working on the basics (like how to be slow) at the baby slope while Scott tried the bigger trails on his own. What bugged me was that every time I successfully slid down or stopped, I kept hearing "Good job!" This made me turn around excitedly, half-expecting to see one of my instructors nodding approvingly at my efforts. Instead I kept catching glimpses of 5 year-olds gliding along effortlessly down the slope, without poles, and being praised by their doting parents.
Scott was pretty insistent that I give the slope another try. So back onto the Lift we went. When the Lift ride was about to end this second time 'round, I shot a knowing look at the Lift operator that said, "You really want the little pre-school skiers to see some fat zombie girl lying on the ground again?" and he slowed it down enough for me to hop off and remain upright. I faced the treacherous curve and, so that I wouldn't have to deal with listening to Pizza Slice guy ever again, spread my skis apart and wedged them as much as possible before I took the run. This time I also hunkered down, putting as much weight on my thighs as was humanly possible. And it worked. I slid down at a quick, but not deadly, pace and at one point I shouted back to Scott, "HOLY HANNAH! IT'S ALL JUST NON-STOP SQUATTING! IT'S JUST LIKE CHRISSY'S CLASS!" When I got to the bottom, Scott was just as amazed and surprised by fall-less run as I was. The next couple of runs we took weren't bad either, once I stopped panicking about running into small children. There were quite a few times when I'd zip around a family or a random skier and would shout "EXCUSE ME, I NEED A WIDE BERTH!" in warning (much to Scott's amusement). But overall, I think that I was every bit a successful child learner as Scott was a patient parent figure; nevertheless, I was exhausted by the time I got home.
People always say that the worst part about skiing is waking up the next day. As I may have mentioned before, my body usually takes a while to let me know how and where I've hurt it. On Thursday morning, I woke up feeling alright and went to 5AM Spin class. I know you're probably thinking I'm insane for putting the lower half of my body through the trauma of 5AM Spin so soon after skiing but...well....I'm a class junkie (you should know this by now). About halfway into the class, right when we had to lower our bodies over the seats and slowly move back and forth over the handlebars, I felt sharp jabs of pain in my sides. Apparently my muscles couldn't repress their memories of yesterday's excursions. I suddenly had this flashback to Fall #2 when I slammed the left side of my body into the side of the slope. These flashes happened a few more times as the class progressed, usually around the same time Chrissy yelled out, "TURN IT UP!" It wasn't until Step class at 5:30 (told you I was a junkie) that I started to feel the bruises along my hips and rear end while we were doing squats. I know that I should have probably rested up yesterday but not failing at skiing made me feel a little powerful, truth be told. I'm like this unrecognizable version of myself who skis and then gets up to do Spin (although I did more slumping than spinning) and then does a Step class later that night. I feel like this is something my gym beast buddies would do.
Now that I've had about 48 hours to mill over my thoughts about my recent ski adventure, here's what I've decided: Skiing is not unlike the process of losing weight. I had to learn the basics and start out low and slow in order to familiarize myself with the process itself. And in the beginning, especially, I had to learn how to fall and get back up on my own without being enabled by another person (and my means of getting back up aren't always perfect). At some point, I had to actually tackle the slope itself and not automatically assume that I would fall every time I got off the Lift or turned the bend. Once it was all over, I had to actually accept that I was capable of succeeding all along. And now I am ever so grateful that I had someone with me who never once doubted my success, but pushed and encouraged me toward it every step of the way.
Me: You know, I've never been skiing
Scott: Really? Oh, we're going...
(Last week at lunch)
Me: Hey, remember when you said we should go skiing...think we'll actually get around to doing that?
Scott: Yes, I do. How's next Wednesday work for you? Can you take off work?
So on Wednesday I went skiing for the very first time with the aforementioned Scott (and can I just say, I don't remember him ever calling my bluff quite so quickly before). I know that I've mentioned Scott before in older posts. He's the one who suggested we should run a 5K together (I completed the Couch to 5K program and have since run a handful of races....though none with Scott, oddly enough) and he's also my right-side dancing buddy in Zumba class. But Scott and I actually go way, way back, back in the day when the gym just happened to be that building near the donut shop. In fact, about 20 years ago, our parents (his mom works with both of my parents in the same office) thought it would be a good idea to breed our respective family dogs. And that's the context in which I first met Scott. Technically I don't actually remember him at all during this awkward arrangement. What I do remember is asking my father why Lady kept trying to hide from the other doggie (The dog matchmaking never did pan out. Lady, as it turned out, didn't exactly live up to her moniker and ended up getting impregnated by another cocker spaniel, a runaway named "Bandit". And no, I'm not making any of this up). Fastforward about 8 or 9 years and I (quite pragmatically) asked my parents if I could get driving school lessons for my 16th birthday. As it turned out, I had to share my lesson with another kid: Scott. By this time, I had already repressed the dog mating incident, but I did remember that our parents worked together, so I was grateful to share the lessons with a familiar face. I'm not sure exactly when we fell into our friendship over the course of learning how to parallel park, use turning signals, and make K-turns, but I do know that it was pretty much instantaneous. Back in those easy-breezy days when gas was well under $2 a gallon, Scott and his new license would drive me around Salem County pretty much every single day. And that's how we started out.
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| circa 2002 |
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| 2012 |
One of the best things about our friendship now, in our twenties, is that we're both much more confident and secure individuals than we ever were as teenagers. And I'm not sure if this is an aging thing or an "I'm tired of being the fat kid" thing, but our health is much higher on the ol' list of priorities now, as well. Scott has already trimmed down to his goal weight (I've got another good year ahead of me) so his approach to things like running, skiing, or zumba, for example, is eager and adventurous. When he first proposed that we run a 5K together, he just looked at me as though what he just said was fact and not a suggestion. I, at 200+ lbs, was a bit more skeptical. See, if you were to propose the subject of "running" to most Big Girls, 9 times out of 10 they will ask you, "In this running scenario you speak of...am I being chased by a serial killer or just a mugger?" But what I've noticed about people like Scott or my fitness instructors, is that they never at any point assume that I am physically incapable of these feats. They don't look at me and think "can't" (Chrissy probably just thinks "Faster!"). When they do this, it's like some crazy Jedi mind trick that convinces me that yes, yes I can run 3 miles on a treadmill or going flying down a mountain! So let me just say this and then I'll go back to my skiing story: One of the biggest reasons I push myself forward in all of this is because I have these people to look me in the eye and say, "You're going skiing" or "There's no stopping, cheaters!" or my favorite (and please forgive the cursing this one time) "Get your ass on that floor and give me a burpee!". Back in the day when I'd sit at the table with my plate piled two stories high with food, I'd laugh about "starting over tomorrow" because I knew that tomorrow would never happen. I had soothing words of sympathy from my skinny friends, empathy from my bigger friends, and nothing ever changed. Life was simpler, I was never sore....and in my heart, I was miserable. I like to think that saying yes now to new challenges, like skiing, is my way of taking one big step away from that hopeless lump I once was.
That said, I had no idea what to expect or even what to wear for this ski excursion. Scott told me I'd need "a coat, gloves, snow pants, and warm socks". So I went to Dick's Sporting Goods and spent over an hour trying on snow pants. 'Dick's' has now been added to that long list of stores that has its own definition of "size 14" that differs from the rest of world's clothiers. Without getting too graphic, let's just say that the pair of overall snowpants went on and a baby kangaroo of belly fat hopped out over the zipper. Thanks for the boost to my ego, Dick. When I arrived at Scott's house on Wednesday morning, he let me borrow some head coverings and a pair of goggles (see picture below). We both hopped in the car and headed out to Spring Mountain.
When we arrived at the Spring Mountain ski lodge, and I could actually see the slopes and lifts, everything became very real all of a sudden. Me and my "Men's Large" snow pants were actually going to propel down the side of a hill. We went inside the lodge to get the lift tickets and I immediately spotted two tall, cute Asian guys ahead of us in line. I turned to Scott and whispered, "Well babe, so far so good". Once we got the tickets and I signed a piece of paper that probably said something like, "If the Fat Girl breaks her legs while flying down the slope without health insurance, then......succcckkkkkkkkka! Please sign here" we headed out to the locker room to get the boots. I think Scott was most excited about seeing (videotaping) me walking in the ski boots more than anything else. If you've never worn ski boots before, dear Reader, a word of caution: They're very tight (I have bruises along my calves) and they basically force your legs to bend into a mildly uncomfortable, pseudo-squat. Also, they make you clomp around like a drunk T-Rex (much to the delight of your iPhone-happy friend in his cozy, astronaut-worthy, snowboarding boots). I will say this much for my weight loss, though: it has made me much less painfully insecure than I used to be. I would have probably burst into tears with the snow pant situation alone, but then to have Scott wrastle my boots and skis onto my feet the way he did, it probably would have sent me over the edge of a body issue meltdown. I managed to survive both incidents without a single panic attack.
When we finally got to the slope, I paused and told Scott, "Look, babe. You want to be a parent some day, right? Think of today's ski trip like a practice round of sorts for parenting. I am no different than a 4 year-old kid learning how to ski for the first time and you are the parent-figure here. If by some chance I flip out and throw a tantrum, and you can't handle the situation patiently, well...then you might want to rethink procreation..." Scott just laughed and said, "OK, you can be my child...so long as you never disappoint me". The slope we started out on had just a smidge of an incline to it. It was the perfect kind of hill to practice going straight, slowing down, and stopping when you're a first-timer (at least, that's what I thought at first). At one point I asked Scott, "What do I do if I fall down? How do I get back up?" Unfortunately, Scott has never skied before, but has only ever snowboarded (apparently there's a difference in how they fall). So he suggested I fall over and go from there. So I did...and I didn't get back up for a good ten minutes. I was supposed to have asked my friends Rachael and Heidi about this before I went skiing, but I never got around to it. I vaguely recalled my friend/instructor extraordinaire Beth giving me excellent ski advice and then adding, "Oh, and when you fall you ________" Something about using the poles and upper body strength. Unfortunately for me and the poles, I had no upper body strength that morning. I gave all my upper body strength to HIIT class the night before, where we did mostly push-ups, burpees, and squats with dumbbells.
Every time I scrambled around, clutching for the ski poles to lift me up, I would look up and see the sun shining behind Scott and his perfect blue eyes and winning grin as he looked down at my pathetic efforts. After about five minutes of flopping around like a dead fish, I swatted at him with the ski pole, "You know, you're not making this any easier by just standing over me looking like the angel Gabriel!" He just smiled, "You have to figure it out somehow. I can't just help you up every time you fall. Use your upper body strength!" I swatted again, "I have no upper body strength! Chrissy took all of it!" But he was right; I had to figure out how to fall and get back up on my own without assuming he would be zooming around to help me up each time. So I told Scott to hit the slope without me and that by the time he came back, I'd either a.) still be lying on my back like an overturned turtle or b.) be practicing my snow plough moves. I don't think I've ever perspired so much in my entire life as I did while trying to upright my body. Every time a skier flew by I kept thinking, "Oh for the love of God, please, just fall already so I can get myself out of this crap situation!" Thankfully, a family of Orthodox Jews skidded by and two of the kids flopped over. I watched as both kids just unhooked one of their boots, propped themselves up with their newly freed foot, and snapped their ski back on before gliding away. And this was exactly how I got back up from falling for the rest of the trip. My friend Rachael would later ask me, "But why didn't you just use your upper body to push off the poles when you fell over?" There was nothing around me that I could use to swat at her.
Scott allowed me only a couple baby slope practice runs before pushing me towards the Lift. I protested, "That hill is not a bunny! It's a freaking full-grown hare, Scott!" He reassured me that I would be just fine (classic parent line). The Lift ride kind of reminded me of my first time on the Twilight Zone Tower of Terror in Disney World. You're on the ride, gradually ascending, and giggling happily with the person next to you. Then all of a sudden you're at the top, you get a quick view of everything below, and VOOOOOOOM! DROP! My first time getting off of the Lift was probably not unlike everyone else's first time. My ski tips were pointed up, the chair lowered, and I stood up for a whole five seconds before promptly faceplanting into the snow. And because I had this overwhelming fear of being at the bottom of some crazy ski lift pile-up, I immediately started sprawling awkwardly towards Scott and the fenced off area like some blood-crazed zombie. The snowboarders behind us told me I needed to use my poles and push off with my upper body once I got off the Lift. Seriously, has no one ever been to HIIT class!?
But it wasn't getting off the Lift that proved to be my greatest challenge. Once I managed to get to my feet (using my handy dandy Orthodox trick) I noticed that there was a large curve that led from the Lift exit and down into the slope (curves=speed, unless we're referring to Big Girls). Idiot that I was, I felt fairly confident that my moves on the baby slope would translate easily onto the bunny slope. I pushed off on my poles down the curve (big mistake), with my skis close and straight (even bigger mistake), and realized about five seconds in, that I was now re-enacting the saucer sled scene from National Lampoon's Christmas Vacation. I literally had to make myself fall over so as to not run into a snow machine. I have no idea what Scott was doing up until this point. I'm thinking he just kind of snowboarded behind me and slowed down whenever I slammed into the snow. By my second fall, one of the ski patrolers swished up and told me I needed to work on my "pizza slice" or for you non-skiers, the wedge shape that you form with your skis to slow down. I'm sure the patroler meant well, but mainly he came off pretty patronizing (probably because I didn't hand him $80 for his 10-minute ski lesson). As I made my way down the slope (slowly), he trailed behind me shouting "You're making a pizza slice! PIZZA SLICE! PIZZA SLICE!" Now I know I've lost a lot of weight in the past year, but I'm still a Big Italian Girl at heart. If you insist upon shouting "PIZZA!" at me, you better have a steaming flat box in your freaking hands; otherwise shut your pie hole, you carb tease.
That first ski run wasn't so great and I insisted upon working on the basics (like how to be slow) at the baby slope while Scott tried the bigger trails on his own. What bugged me was that every time I successfully slid down or stopped, I kept hearing "Good job!" This made me turn around excitedly, half-expecting to see one of my instructors nodding approvingly at my efforts. Instead I kept catching glimpses of 5 year-olds gliding along effortlessly down the slope, without poles, and being praised by their doting parents.
Scott was pretty insistent that I give the slope another try. So back onto the Lift we went. When the Lift ride was about to end this second time 'round, I shot a knowing look at the Lift operator that said, "You really want the little pre-school skiers to see some fat zombie girl lying on the ground again?" and he slowed it down enough for me to hop off and remain upright. I faced the treacherous curve and, so that I wouldn't have to deal with listening to Pizza Slice guy ever again, spread my skis apart and wedged them as much as possible before I took the run. This time I also hunkered down, putting as much weight on my thighs as was humanly possible. And it worked. I slid down at a quick, but not deadly, pace and at one point I shouted back to Scott, "HOLY HANNAH! IT'S ALL JUST NON-STOP SQUATTING! IT'S JUST LIKE CHRISSY'S CLASS!" When I got to the bottom, Scott was just as amazed and surprised by fall-less run as I was. The next couple of runs we took weren't bad either, once I stopped panicking about running into small children. There were quite a few times when I'd zip around a family or a random skier and would shout "EXCUSE ME, I NEED A WIDE BERTH!" in warning (much to Scott's amusement). But overall, I think that I was every bit a successful child learner as Scott was a patient parent figure; nevertheless, I was exhausted by the time I got home.
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| he's *SUCH* a sweetheart... |
People always say that the worst part about skiing is waking up the next day. As I may have mentioned before, my body usually takes a while to let me know how and where I've hurt it. On Thursday morning, I woke up feeling alright and went to 5AM Spin class. I know you're probably thinking I'm insane for putting the lower half of my body through the trauma of 5AM Spin so soon after skiing but...well....I'm a class junkie (you should know this by now). About halfway into the class, right when we had to lower our bodies over the seats and slowly move back and forth over the handlebars, I felt sharp jabs of pain in my sides. Apparently my muscles couldn't repress their memories of yesterday's excursions. I suddenly had this flashback to Fall #2 when I slammed the left side of my body into the side of the slope. These flashes happened a few more times as the class progressed, usually around the same time Chrissy yelled out, "TURN IT UP!" It wasn't until Step class at 5:30 (told you I was a junkie) that I started to feel the bruises along my hips and rear end while we were doing squats. I know that I should have probably rested up yesterday but not failing at skiing made me feel a little powerful, truth be told. I'm like this unrecognizable version of myself who skis and then gets up to do Spin (although I did more slumping than spinning) and then does a Step class later that night. I feel like this is something my gym beast buddies would do.
Now that I've had about 48 hours to mill over my thoughts about my recent ski adventure, here's what I've decided: Skiing is not unlike the process of losing weight. I had to learn the basics and start out low and slow in order to familiarize myself with the process itself. And in the beginning, especially, I had to learn how to fall and get back up on my own without being enabled by another person (and my means of getting back up aren't always perfect). At some point, I had to actually tackle the slope itself and not automatically assume that I would fall every time I got off the Lift or turned the bend. Once it was all over, I had to actually accept that I was capable of succeeding all along. And now I am ever so grateful that I had someone with me who never once doubted my success, but pushed and encouraged me toward it every step of the way.
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