The Starting Line

Always a maid

2005-05-09T00:30:00.000-07:00

I knew this would happen. I knew it.

So why am I powerless to stop it?

I was in a wedding yesterday, and I am thoroughly convinced that bridesmaids need to seriously think about their self-esteem before accepting any invitation to don the ugly dress of non-wedded doom. It's a great deal of pushing, prodding and maneuvering your breasts, being taped and appraised and oversized, being compared to the stick figure to your left, being upset that your walking-down-the-aisle partner looks as though he'd rather be making the trek with an arthritic giraffe, and then on the big night, feeling exposed and in much need of a shawl, in pain from the torture bra, and sitting alone at the bridal party table because the first slow song of the night has started, and you are the only person in the 14-person party not to have a date. Just when you thought you couldn't be more upset, and you are sure that the tears you're trying so hard to fight - the ones you knew would arrive at this moment and you thought you had prepared yourself against - are going to break through your barriers and trickle into your ample cleavage, your sister's boyfriend - in all well-intentioned spirits - comes over and makes things worse by asking you to dance - asking you, the lonely spinster whose sister had to dispatch her boyfriend to so someone would assume the loathsome task of steering you around when no one else seems to want to.

Really. Bridesmaids really need to think.

And so, today, on this calm day-after when my feet still hurt and my back is still smarting from the ministrations of my corset-like device, I feel lower about my body than I ever have in recent times, possibly in my life.

I've been running for six months, pretty steadily, with about a six-week period that I was on-and-off. I don't eat more - in fact I probably eat less. But I am the same weight. I look the same. And looking the same means looking at pictures of me in that blush piece of satin horror from yesterday, and crying. At my bare arms and shoulders that were not ready to be bared, and crying. At my smile, which was so affected and fake, because I felt so ugly, and crying.

I really hope the cure for this is to get on the treadmill tomorrow and pick up the routine, but I just don't know if I can. I don't know if this is my life, if I should just stop trying and accept that I'm always going to look like this. What else do I need to do? How much harder must I work? I don't have the time for much more - I barely have the time for this. And I have an event in two months that will be the biggest thing I've ever done...and yet I know, for all my efforts, I will still look the same.

And it shouldn't matter. I'm pretty in the face, I have a great career ahead and behind, and am young and successful and accomplished and smart. I should be so proud, and I should be comforted by being the one of my cousins from yesterday who can say that they've done things at my age, and yet I am the only one of them who can say that she didn't need to worry about how much to add to her gift for her boyfriend's presence.

And yet it matters. It matters over everything. It matters in the looks they give me and the third-wheel way I amble around the dance floor. It matters that when the slow tunes started last night I took to leaving my table so that some other well meaning cousin wouldn't again display pity three minutes into the song, when they've realized I'm sitting completely by myself at the table, looking as if I was very interested in the wallpaper.

I hate it. I hate that it matters, i hate it so much. I didn't start running to lose weight - I started because my exercise program was getting boring and this was fun and made me sweat. It was to get healthy, and do it in a way I liked. But now I am doing so well on it that I expected results, and without them, and realizing how much my appearance will always matter to me, I'm just wondering what else I have to do. What else is left. How I can be at this level of aerobic activity and still be capable of these thoughts, these feelings, these tears. I just don't know.

I just don't know.

Back on (the) track

2005-04-30T19:20:00.000-07:00

There have been many reasons I've been away from this blog, but I'm coming back. I promise!

I'm getting places with the running, and in fact I would have hit a new level today if it weren't that I had a family emergency instead.

And the plain fact is I went off track because I succumbed to one of my greatest weaknesses: My mother.

More soon. I can't do this without support, and since I'm waging this privately, this blog is support. So don't give up on me and I won't give up on you, dear readers.

More soon.

Fit Weekend

2005-03-14T08:30:00.000-08:00

I've been eating more. So much. Too much. It always feels like too much and then I calculate it and it's NOT. So today I have a sandwich, some fruit, a little piece of cheese and a pack of popcorn with me, for lunch. And I packed a sandwich into my gym bag, for eating right after I work out. I was talking with someone at the gym who made a dive for her locker after her workout, unearthing a turkey sandwich… and my stomach growled.

This new Eat A Lot thing, even though I'm only a few days in, has really changed my perceptions of food. I'm more casual about it. I had a family event yesterday and didn't eat everything on my plate, which I've done perhaps four times in my life. But I knew I could have it whenever I want, was feeling sort of full and casual, and didn't finish it. If I know I can have it, I won't want it. If I deprive myself, I will. This is classic, classic eating psychology, but only now is it affecting me. After 25 years of life, common sense has shown up. I feel like I should throw it a party.

Food is becoming something I just need to do, and nothing I'm dying for, nothing I miss very much. I want something? I have it. And the funny thing is that I want less of what's bad for me, because I know how it makes me feel. Like, today, I am feeling sort of bloated, because even though I had this casual thing going on with food yesterday, I still did eat a lot - I didn't count but I KNOW it was more than I even should according to that trainer thing - and the wonderful thing is that I don't feel guilty. I'm going to work out later, that's all the explanation I need for that.

Saturday, I worked out hard in the morning, and then went dancing at night. I sweat like a freaker. I sweat a lot now, at everything. That trainer said that my body would learn how to sweat, and I think it's finished its introductory course. I love it. It doesn't feel gross anymore, it feels clean and cleansing and right. So after we danced for four hours at an 80s clulb, I listened to my growling stomach and went to a deli and got myself a wheat bagel with lowfat cream cheese. Heaven, after six months sans carbs. Absolute heaven. I drove my friend home and cracked her up with my raptures over my bagel. I had no idea a bagel could be so satisfying.

And that's what's great now…food is satisfying. It's more casual and I don't care about grabbing it as much, but eating it tastes wonderful and makes me happy, whereas when you're in that mode where you are only eating ot lose weight, you just eat what you Can and May. That way, you lose everything good about it, and are only using it as something that's going to make you a certain way… now I feel like I'm using food for exactly what it's needed for: Fuel. I need so much of it. I had no idea.

And the headaches have ceased. I had a couple of twinges at the gym last time, but for the most part they are gone. I am eating more - lost a pound - and my workouts are getting better. Something has gone right.

Body Math

2005-03-10T19:46:00.000-08:00

My FitDay journal says I have only eaten 888 calories today. I cannot believe this. I mean, I really can't. I'm sitting here and my stomach is puffed out to god knows where and I cannot even think about having more food.

And...this is a big problem, as I discovered tonight. I'm not eating ENOUGH. Who would have thought?

I was at the gym, and I hadn't eaten since lunch, which is pretty normal. I was doing my regular routine as prescribed to me by a trainer a while ago - it's a great routine, and I was also taught how to modify it as I get stronger / on days I feel weaker, etc. I feel in full control of my workout. But in the past three or four workouts, every time I go a lift, or a press, or something, my head starts to pound. Really, horrible pounding. I have to sit on the floor and press my hands to my head and let it pass before I can go on. Eventually it dies down, by the time I get to strength conditioning and less pressing, it's not such a big deal. But it's flooring me, because this has never happened before.

So I did what I used to hate: I did the trainer suck.

I ambushed a trainer, who was working with a middle-aged gentleman. Apologizing profusely before I even began, I turned to this nice, tall trainer and said, "I need help. I don't know what's going on. For some bizarre reason I'm getting these headaches." I explained nothing's really changed about my routine, caffeine level, etc.

Him: "What are you eating?"

"Really healthily - turkey, wheat bread, veggies and fruit, lots of water - I mean, nothing bad. In the past few days I've probably been in the 12-1400 category."

He shook his head kindly. "You're not eating enough."

I twitched my head to the side and narrowed my eyebrows. "Not enough? How is this possible? I'm so full, I can't eat anymore!"

"I know it's weird, but trust me. Let me finish up here and I'll find you later."

I nodded and went back to my workout, head now spinning in addition to pounding. Not eating enough is something my mother always does, not me. I can eat. I'm ITALIAN. I can EAT. No way. I'm supposed to eat more? NOOOOOO. No way.

So I continued with my workout, and by the time I got to the treadmill my headache had lessened considerably. I felt pretty good, and started Cool Running's Couch-to-5K program, so I was running a minute, walking a minute and a half, alternately. I was halfway through when trainer guy - named "Red" - returned with a sheet of paper in his hand. He put it on my treadmill.

It was titled "Healthy Eating" and had all sorts of numbers on it.

"See that? You have to take your body weight and times it by 11. Then you times it by this number depending on how much you work out, and add your first and second results."

I did the math in my head. I weigh 180. It ended up being something like 2700 calories a day. MORE than double what I'm eating now. My jaw dropped.

"You're joking me."

"No, I'm not," he said, laughing. "That's what you need to do to maintain. Go a little lower to lose, but don't worry about that too much, just stay right here," he said, patting the treadmill.

"I can't eat that much! I can't do it!"

"Eat every three hours. Just bring things with you to work, an apple or banana or whatever, and munch it there."

"I'll explode!"

"No, you'll probably start losing weight."

Now, I've only eaten 888 calories today. It's almost 11 'o' clock and I can't even THINK about eating anything else. This pigout will have to start tomorrow.

We ended up talking a long time about workouts and running and how much we love sweat. He has a girlfriend, which made me say "damn," because the idea of being someone who got picked up in the gym is alluring, not because I'm actually physically attracted to him.

So, after my workout / cooldown, we were still standing there talking, and he was explaining how shorter people - like me - have a harder time shedding fat because of their makeup (I don't know the logistics but it made sense at the time). And he mentioned his weight, so I asked him to guess mine.

He gave the lookover, not in a dirty way, in a trainer way. "Um...130?"

My eyebrows disappeared into my hairline. I think he thought he guessed too high then, like I was insulted, because he said, "120?"

"180," I said simply.

Now his eyebrows shot up. "So you're a solid little thing, then!" he said.

I cannot explain what a relief this was. I've been told I don't look my weight, but for a trainer to tell me I look FIFTY POUNDS less than I am was a HUGE compliment.

"Just another reason for you to throw away that stupid piece of junk scale," he said.

I nodded. He has a pretty damn good point!

The Big Cheese

2005-03-10T07:41:00.000-08:00

I did NOT go to the gym yesterday and now I feel like a lard butt.

I shouldn't, because this is the normal amount of time between workouts - I go, rest two days, go, rest one day, go, rest one day. So that’s, Monday, Wednesday and Saturday, in this case Monday, Thursday and Saturday…it's interchangeable, so I'm not off-schedule…but I'm annoyed that I didn't get there yesterday.

And then I'm not. Because mom needed me, and if there's one thing I'll put off working out for it's mia mamma.

For the six months prior to this, I have been doing low-carb eating. It worked in the beginning, and then leveled off big-time, and I liked being able to eat cheese any time I wanted. I love cheese. Cheese and me? Old buds.

But then I started working out a lot and I didn't notice any difference in my weight. Following a weight program and also working out really SHOULD have some effect, right? And I figured, I might as well not notice a difference in my weight and also have carbs. And oh, I've missed them. The first bite of a whole-wheat sandwich was like a filet mignon.

And now I need to do a whole new grocery shopping. My refrigerator consists of cheese, nuts, veggies (still OK) and some chicken. I have no bread, for instance. I've been stealing handfuls of my roommate's cereal in the morning before I go to work. And it's so tempting to go in there and grab a little Bonybel cheese, those wax-wrapped cheeses everyone ate in the fourth grade that I got as snacking food.

Also, there's bloat again. My stomach has bloated out this morning from the new carbs. My body just needs to readjust. I'm kicking the hell out of it and now I do this to it too. More water, more water.

Fee-eeeeelings...

2005-03-09T11:17:00.000-08:00

Today might be the first day I'm not in the mood to go to the gym.

And as luck has it, I might not be able to get there. I have to drive my mother to the doctor's, and she has to be there at 8, and it really might not be worth risking making her late. So, it might have to wait until tomorrow anyway…and now I find myself going, "Great!" and "Crap!" simultaneously.

This tug of war makes me laugh. I want the workout feeling of after the workout, when I'm refreshed and stinky and accomplished, but I don’t want the grueling and pounding and lifting. I do want the sweating. I love sweat. Sweat is the best natural pickerupper I've ever encountered. I love wiping it off my face and the back of my neck, and I love getting telltale darkened pits. They're my war wounds, my battle scars, and they go away in the shower! I've just never worked out hard enough that I get them before, so when I do get them - and I only get them when I run, even very brisk walking doesn't do it for me - it's like a victory.

I love the folk over at the Cool Running discussion boards. I posted my nipples question and they answered sympathetically and without offense. Having just been to a workplace harassment seminar, where I learned that even typing the word nipples could cause disciplinary action, this was refreshing.

Will I run today? Will I be a lazyass? Will I feel guilty because I didn't run because I had an obligation to take care of? I don't know.

I read a blog yesterday that said that working out is now something this person just does, instead of what they have to do. I want to get to that point. I'm at the precipice of it, right now. I'm standing there waiting for the boat across the chasm, because I really want to get there but at the moment…it still is something I must do. I like it more than ever before, but it's a necessity to pack that bag in the morning and remember my sneakers, to make sure I have shampoo and a new pair of underwear and a hairband and that my iPod is charged. It's really difficult. But I'm doing it. I guess when I get to the point where I don't have to think about it, I'll reward myself. Maybe by that time, though, it won't need a reward. Wouldn't that be nice.

Scratchy scratchy

2005-03-08T12:59:00.000-08:00

Should my nipples be itching?

No, really, this is not an attempt to start this blog off with some sort of semi-pornographic bang. Trust me, if you saw them you would not think them so. Anyway they itch, and they never itch. I read that men who run in cotton shirts end up with chafed and bleeding nipples; different with me though, because I wear industrial-size, steel, never-gonna-get-a-wafer-through-that-thing sports bras. I think they're cotton, but there is something much different about having your breasts pushed against you as if you were wearing a portable Mammogram, and wearing a light cotton shirt that moves a lot while you do.

They don't itch while I run. I've been spared the indignity of clawing at my bra at the gym, while my boobs bounce wildly in my aim to convince myself I can run for more than 4 minutes at a time. No, they itch today, while I sit at work, in a normal bra and normal outfit, and feeling pretty badass because I ran yesterday and ate a simple turkey sandwich for lunch and am still chugging down water. I am a bad ass, a working-out, slinky, sexy mo fo, in that part of my head that says I may be one. The other part goes, "SCRATCH YOUR NIPPLES!"

So I'm sitting here trying to make it subtle. I leaned down and scraped them slightly against the ledge for my keyboard. I act as if my hand was just on the way up to my face, or I did it subconsciously and am oh-so-surprised to find myself with my hand on my chest. I check around me like I'm doing something obscene here, and if anyone saw what I was really doing they would think I was oversexed. I'm really just overcottoned, overitched. This could be the make-it-or-break-it thing for me and running. Scratching my nipples at work. Now something is just WRONG about it.

Almost as wrong as blogging about it.

First Post, third run

2005-03-07T22:37:00.000-08:00

Now this, this is anonymity.

I am excited about this anonymity. I've had many blogs but this is the first one that no one knows about but me. It feels good. Freeing. Like I don't have to ask anyone before telling their sordid stories online. And guess what. I don't. Because I'll change their names and some unimportant details and they'll never know.

This is nice.

So here's where I'll talk about my new, painful, stupid idea that I would become a runner. I am not a runner. No way. I don't have the build for it, I don't have the anything for it. I am overweight (about 40-50 pounds, wow, in print that looks a lot more than in my head, like it's not just some weight I packed on in college but an actual problem), and hoping to shed some of this lard before a reunion...actually, several reunions, and in one of them I have an absolute duty to look better than this one person who hurt me very badly.

I've been back into the gym of late, pretty hard core, because it has somehow stopped being a pit of torment and despair and has turned into the one place I can go to avoid my work, friends, parents, roommate and all other time-and-life-sucks. And one day, stupidly, I was feeling the music, rocking out to my own private groove on my iPod, and my legs decided to get a mind of their own and start lifting faster. I was running. For a whole 2 minutes.

I sweat like a mo fo. The sweat dripped off in torrents, in streams and rivulets, soaking me, even more when I stopped running than when I was going full steam. I loved it. I felt bathed and refreshed even though I smelled like something a skunk would turn away. And I knew I was hooked. A week later I can run a total 7 minutes, but only 4 at most at one time, early in my workout. Then 2, then 1. Next time I go for eight whole minutes.

And I decided I need a community. Becuase that's what we idiotic mortals do. We seek out communities to share our woe and grief and pain, because if misery loves company then she really loves company where she doesn't have to show her face: the Internet! Perfect.

And that's it. Hello. I'm exhausted and stink like my laundry basket. So I guess the first good entry will just have to wait.