Elliptical Ride to Hell...

So I met with my trainer last Thursday. Doomsday. It was not pretty. On their handy-dandy scale, I weighed 169lbs and my BMI is way super high. Bottom line--I'M FAT. And now I really see it. I knew I was chubby and that I weighed more than I wanted to and that I couldn't suck in my tummy anymore. But now, when I look in the mirro or walk by my reflection in a window--I can really see it. I am fat.

Le sigh...

Before doing any weights, my trainer has me jump-starting my poor pathetic fat booty on the elliptical machine. For 40 minutes, at level 7 and 120-130 rpm. If you've not done that--let me tell you, it sucks. Not for the first 10 minutes, mind you. for the first 10 minutes you're like, "This is it? Pffffttt...I can totally do this! Maybe I'm not in such bad shape after all! Yay!" Then, somewhere around minute 11, you begin to feel like someone has attached sandbags to your legs--oh, and those sandbags are on fire.

There is a plus to bringing Ethan with me to the gym. I am supposed to spend 40 minutes on the elliptical trainer, pedaling my way to a heart attack (but a lovely permanent flush in my cheeks), but Ethan generally only lasts 30 minutes or so in the playroom before he has a grade-A meltdown that requires the babysitter to hunt me down and save me from my misery. This is my sneaky way of getting out of those last 10 minutes. Yes, yes--I know, I'm only cheating myself. Yadda yadda yadda....I like to think of it as saving some energy for the next time.

And next time is tomorrow at 7:30am...aren't I usually sleeping at 7:30? Yeah. Oh well, I"m usually fat, too. Guess the times are a-changing...

Personal trainer, take two...

So last week while I was in Whole Foods getting whole milk, bananas and frozen blueberries to use for smoothies in an attempt fatten up my baby (ah, yes, the cruel irony of fat mama, skinny baby), Ethan's former swimming instructor approached us. She was in the little cafe attached to the store and saw us, and wanted to say "hi". Very sweet. She made me want to take swim classes and I HATE swimming classes (bad memories of Nurse Ratchet style swim instructors from my own youth).

Low and behold, I notice she is wearing Gold's Gym gear. And then she tells me that she's on her lunch break and that she's a personal trainer at one of the Gold's near my house. Gold's gym is the Starbucks of the fitness world. There is practically one on every corner in this town. I can think of four off the top of my head that are within 5 miles of me. That's a lot of muscle-bound meatheads in a tiny space, people. No, wait--there are five. I forgot about one. Yikes.

Anyhoo, I made a passing comment about trying to get back into a routine, but being nervous about the childcare at my current Gold's and she got all excited to tell me how fabulous the childcare is at the Gold's she works for. I figure this is a woman who teaches 6 month olds how to play in water, she's probably got a good idea about basic child care. She said that there are always at least 2-3 sitters on site (as opposed to the one sitter with 12 kids I encountered last Friday at the other gym) which pretty much sold me right there. It's not like Ethan is a monkey climbing the walls or playing with knives. He just needs someone to keep an eye on him and that's hard to do when there are 11 other kids in the mix and only one set of eyes.

Long story short, Jenny is my new personal trainer. I cancelled the appointment I had for today (which I would be at this very moment. What a bummer that I won't know exactly how fat I am until this coming Thursday. Damn). Hopefully she will whip me into shape and I won't have to be pre-occupied with thoughts of my child being trampled by fifteen muscle-bound, sweatband-wearing toddlers while I work out.

If...

If weight watchers mini chocolate cakes are only 1 point a piece and I am allowed 32 points a day, can I just eat 4 boxes of mini chocolate cakes?

Biggest Loser..

I think this show needs to be on ALL. YEAR. LONG. I am always so inspired by it (and constantly grateful that the people on the show weigh so much more than me). I think if it were on, say, every night at dinner time, I would be able to maintain some motivation. What is the hot trainer's name? Bob? I want to be on his team. I can totally see myself vomiting after running an 8 minute mile and doing 100 crunches just to impress him (with the physical activity, not the puking).

The only thing that horrifies me about that show is when I see the women start to get close to my size at the weigh-ins. Secretly, I want to be at a weight that is untouchable to them. When they get to 170 or so, I start wishing them ill, like maybe they'll fall off the wagon and sneak a pint of Ben & Jerry's when no one is looking. It's not nice. Go ahead and judge me, internet.

And then, they come back and do the final weigh in and the girl who wins always weighs less than me. And I realize, if I had just stuck to eating less and working out more, in the amount of time she went from 240lbs to 130lbs, I could be like, Nicole Ritchie. Sigh.

But it's Biggest Loser off-season, so I have to find my motivation elsewhere. I am toying with the idea of putting a picture of Jessica Biehl on my fridge, but that seems a bit eating-disorder-ish and hello, she's like 22 years old. I think my days of aspiring to a stripper's body are probably pretty much over. But hrm....Halle Berry's older than me, isn't she? So is Demi Moore....Again, sigh....

Today was all right. Husband is out of town for business, so dinner consisted of a bowl of cereal. Of course, we were out of skim milk, so I had to steal some of Ethan's whole milk. Good god, that was a tasty bowl of cereal. You never realize how skim is basically white water until you are treated to whole milk. It was like having cereal ice cream....yummmmm.

All that Glitters...

So I have a membership at Gold's gym. Surprising, you might think, considering I do not wear shiney spandex leotards a la Charlie's Angels when I work out. Nor do I wear a big terry cloth headband with matching wrist bands and step on the treadmill with a full face of makeup meticulously applied. And clearly I'm not a protein-shake drinking muscle-bound body builder. So I don't really fit the Gold's Gym stereotype, but they offered teachers in my district a killer membership deal a few years ago, so every afternoon around 4pm, you can find a gaggle of academic nerdy types sweating along side the veiny, muscley gym rats and permy-coifed, primary colored lycra set.

I started going again this past week, before I recommitted to humiliating myself daily in this blog. On Friday, in a rush of motivation and on my "runner's high" (yeah, I'll give you a minute to stop laughing, because I am giggling, too at the ridiculousness of it! it is so not possible to get a runner's high after 20 minutes of trotting on the treadmill) I put my name down for personal training sessions. I then scooped Ethan up from the "casual child care center" next to the front desk and went about my day, completely forgetting that my name was sitting on that list, just waiting for perky Liz to see it and call me with her triple dog dare to get in shape. Damn Liz.

She called on Saturday AM. I can already tell she's totally type A and that I'm going to want to kill her. Be prepared for entry upon entry about how much I want this woman to burn in hell for telling me what my body mass index is (code for "how damn fat I am") and for making me use the elliptical trainer on like level 10.

Anyway, I have my first session with her next Saturday at 1pm. So I celebrated today by having pancakes for breakfast. I know. Shut up.

Seriously, people. This is bad...

So it's 4 months later. I haven't posted at all; had you noticed? I also haven't lost ONE. DAMN. POUND. I swear. My body is stuck. Stuck. stuck. stuck. stuck.

People keep telling me, "you look great! Are you losing weight? Have you lost weight?" Um. No. You're just being nice and we both know it because I look as fat as I did the last time you saw me. Just as fat. No thinner. Still the same weight.

So here it is people: renewed accountability. I will post, even if it just a boring list of the crap I ate, every. single. day. ALL OF THEM. And I will tell you if I worked out, for how long, what I did and how much I hated every single minute of it. And you have a job, too, if you are bored and desperate enough to read this silliness---if I don't post or if I don't work out or if I admit to eating crap---KICK ME IN THE ASS FOR IT! I need the internet to tell me I'm a fat blob (in a "I'm doing this for your own good" sort or way, not a "haha! I hate you, you big fatty!" way, please!) to motivate me to lean it up.

Hopefully this will become more than just a collection of boring food and exercise lists. I have battled with weight for my entire life, so I probably have tons of witty and insightful ideas to share. Maybe.

So what are my big trouble spots, you "might" ask? I still like to say that at least 10 of my 166 lbs are in my boobs and while they are still a food source, there's not much I can do about that. So I would say my boobs are a "trouble" area, but that's not really fair, right? (this is called "rationalizing" & it is my forte).

I also am cursed with ginormous upper arms. Lovely if I were part of a crew team or an Olympic swimmer. Unfortunately, I am an almost middle-aged housewife with arm-flab. Being almost middle-aged has nothing to do with it, actually. When I was in college and fat (as opposed to when I was in college and skinny, which was earlier), I was in two weddings where the bride wanted the bridesmaid dresses custom made. Both seamstresses measured my upper arms as TWO full dress sizes bigger than the rest of my body. That's purty! Blech.

And whose thighs are these?? Seriously. I have NO idea where they came from or who they came from, all I know is someone is walking around with MY thighs in what can only be the most unfair trading of thighs ever in the history of the world.

And then of course, there is the curse of the post-pregnancy belly. I've always had a bit of a buddha-belly and I've made peace with that because you know? We can't have it all. I figured my strong, fit legs and reasonably rockin' ass were a fair trade for a bit of pudge in my belly. Well, now the strong, fit legs and rockin' ass are sporting an extra layer of insulation, as is the belly. Sigh.

So there you have it--boobs, arms, belly. I'm still okay with the legs and the butt, mostly because if I admit that those are trouble spots as well, I've basically admitted my entire body is crap right now, and I'm just not prepared to do that! :-)

I did go to the gym twice this week. Felt fabulous, but I admit I spent more energy worrying about Ethan in the "casual child care" center than I spent running and doing the weight machines. This might be more rationalizing....