Feeling: Accomplished

Today I farted and the world did not end. 

I farted on the leg press machine and, you know what?
No body cared.
No one.

One woman looked in my direction, instinctively, and just shrugged her shoulders as if to say ‘Yeah, it happens’.
No biggie.

It was oddly liberating!

Will I make a point to do it again?  No, of course not.  That’s gross.
But I ain’t gonna stress about it, either.

[Yes, this post was entirely about farts.  Don’t pretend to be so surprised]

Where to from here?

Tonight, I’ve crawled out from under my duvet to bare my heart, soul, and cellulite (metaphorically speaking).

I need help. 

I have an email from WordPress in my inbox telling me that my domain name is coming up for renewal and, do I want to renew it?
I don’t know.
Do I?
I have until mid-Jan to decide.

I haven’t posted on here in a long time.  In over two months, which is ridiculous.
Sure, I’ve thought about it.  But never actually wrote anything.  Because it’s felt like I haven’t actually done anything.

This reminder has prompted me to at least put those thoughts into writing.  Even if I don’t continue with the blog.  I’ve always found some benefit in committing my thoughts to writing – regardless of whether I even read them again.

Today, 16 December 2014 – only 9 days out from Christmas – I am the biggest I’ve been in over two years.  And I hate it.  

This morning, I stepped on the scales at 77kg.
My heaviest weight (on record) was 82kg, though… I did just stop checking the scales at that point.

The last time I was this weight I was genuinely unhappy with my lot.  I was living with a guy who was suffocating and manipulative – a truly unhealthy relationship that I did not see for what it was until the end, and even then, not for a long time after.

Now, I’m seeing an awesome guy who – while frustrating at times (because, who isn’t?) – is encouraging and supportive.   The kind of guy you wanna take home because you know he’ll get Mum and Dad’s seal of approval.

It couldn’t be more different now, but sometimes there’s a quiet, nagging voice in the back of my head that asks if this is the same thing all over again.

The rational me tell the nagging voice to sod off, but the thing about the sub-conscious is that it lingers.  So I eat.  Lots.

The real problem is my relationship with food – and the gym.

I’ve always joked that it would be too easy for me to become an alcoholic.  A terrible ‘joke’ because it’s a disease that shouldn’t be laughed at.  But it was more a recognition that I have this addictive streak that quickly overwhelms me.

The reality is, I’m addicted to sugar.  My body is existing on cr*p food because that is what I shovel into it day in and day out.  It’s fuel, but it isn’t food.  It’s definitely not the right fuel for the job.

Tonight I chowed through an entire packet of mallowpuffs.  You know, the packets that should take a family a couple of days to get through – I ate one in an hour.  Because I finished work and that’s all my body wanted to do.  I found myself on auto-pilot to the supermarket biscuit aisle when I should have been walking to the gym.  I had all my gear there with me – I’d packed it all especially.  But I just toted it into the supermarket with me, and straight back home so I could get my sugar fix.

This happens all the time.

And, I know I can cut out the sugar – I’ve done it before! But right now, in this moment, the concept is incomprehensible.  It doesn’t feel like that was me.  I feel so removed from that.  The positivity in the other posts on this blog – I don’t remember those feelings.  I know I wrote them.  But I don’t remember the feelings that would serve as some nice, positive reinforcement right about now.

My abs hurt all the time.  Not from the gym, but from the constant bloating.

Logically, I know it’s my diet (and lack of exercise!) but there’s a mental brick wall between the ‘knowing’ and the ‘doing’.  I suspect this is how smokers feel when they’re bombarded with anti-smoking advertising… you know its wrong, but you just can’t stop.

It’s been a loooooong time since I’ve gone to the gym in any consistent pattern.  It used to be that I’d get there at least a couple of times, because I had personal training once a week and just going once was ‘stupid’.

My trainer dumped me.  
Via SMS.
The day we were meant to be having our session.
After rescheduling on me 3 times in as many days the week before.

I suspect I have a bit of a sub-conscious “eff-ewe” reaction going on there, which doesn’t help.

So where does that leave me now?
Honestly, I don’t know.
What can I do?
I know what I should do.
I know that I have done it before.
But, how do I get the motivation back?  How do I find my mojo?
Because, at the moment, I just think about my legs in my gym pants and I want to go cry in bed with a block of chocolate and bottle of ginger beer.

Walking Lunges Will Be The Death of Me

There’s nothing glamorous about a walking lunge.  Sure, if you’ve got it happening in all the right places, you’ll certainly be showing them places off.  But it’s not like pole dancing.  You look like a drunk fool struggling to carry your groceries.

Well, at least I do.  Wobbling side to side the whole time.

So you can image my audible groan as my trainer told me my new plan starts on the treadmill.  With walking lunges.

Walking lunges on the treadmill?!

They’re like this:

But my plan has some variations:

  • I don’t look like that.
  • I have the speed up.  3km/hr.
  • I have the incline down.
  • I don’t look like that.
  • I am under strict instructions to hold the treadmill at all times (though, I think that has more to do with my coordination… see above)
  • I alternate 50 lunges with 1 min running (hence the treadmill)
  • I don’t look like that

Once you get past the looking-like-an-idiot part, they’re actually not that bad.  You get your lunges in without having to worry about getting in peoples way.

Have you ever tried it?
Have you ever tried something similar?

Thoughts?  Feelings?  Burning desires?

Shock and Horror

This weekend I brought a pair of size 15 jeans.  Rigid denim, yes.  But size 15.   That’s a far cry from my last purchase at size 12 (US10).

I knew I was off track, but this was a shock.  A wake up call.

Holy sh*t.

One of the Best Decisions I Ever Made

Signing up for regular personal training sessions was one of the best decisions I have ever made.  It’s right up there with deciding to take my health into my own hands.  Of course, one wouldn’t have happened without the other.

We are our decisions.  The good ones, and the bad.

da-mo-415

Together, they all add up – hopefully, with the good ones outnumbering the bad.

But when you make a really good one – and follow through with it – you get a bucketload of sweet life bonus points that torpedoes you toward your ultimate goal.

To be healthy.
To be fit.

To take charge of my own life, and make it what I want, rather than let things just happen to me.

Personal training has been so empowering.
The weight and measurement changes are a happy bonus.

I’m using free weights on my own now – something that terrified me to do with the trainer when I started.  I’m learning to read my body, understand correct form, and have the confidence in myself to know when I can (and can’t) do something.

I have core strength.  Long have I ignored my core.
Ab work?  What’s the point when I have a hefty 10kg to budge?  
A strong core helps everything work better.  Those free weights… can’t handle those babies without decent core work, too.

And I’m a giant sweaty sweat monster at the end of every session now.  Every session.
Previously, nada.  Nothing.  Vilch.

Sweaty, and wobbly legged, I leave every session feeling like I’ve done a job well done.
Like I’m another step closer to my ultimate goal.
Like I’m on top of the world.

These training sessions give me confidence, endorphins, and a reason to be proud of myself.
Worth every penny.

I’d even go as far as to say priceless.