The Scale

I made it to the gym this week. Twice. And it sucked. Twice. But I did feel better after I went than before.

I was shocked.

I did pretty well with the eating. Or, more accurately, not over-eating. (Unless you count the three cupcakes I ate last night. But they were very small. And I earned them, damn-it. And it was my first indulgence.)

On weigh-in day (Tuesday), I weighed the same as I did a week ago. I was very discouraged. That is not what made me eat the three cupcakes. Nothing MADE me eat the three cupcakes. I wanted them. They were small. I ate them. They were good.

Today I weighed myself again. Broke the rules (as per usual). Either I lost three pounds in the last two days or there is something wrong with the scale at the gym. Either way, I'll take it. Although I wonder if tomorrow I will weigh 2 or 3 or even 5 pounds more. Or less, I suppose. It seems that the scale is having a bit of fun with me.

Ha ha. Very funny.

What's Even Better Than a Cupcake?

Three cupcakes.

Couch to 5K

Now, in addition to my commitment to going to the gym twice a week, I have agreed to join a friend from work in the "Couch to 5K" (C25K) running plan.

For a commitment-phobe, that's a lot of commitments.

Because I refuse to follow the rules, as per usual, I actually jumped in at week 3 of the 9-week plan in order to catch up with my friend who started a couple of weeks ago. And instead of following the suggested workout, I hiked with my dogs* every evening this week and threw in a few minutes of running here and there.

It's not that I think I know better than the experts who came up with the popular plan. It's just that I'm not good at following the rules, and I'm especially not good at working out. So the rules have to be bendy.

That said, I must pat myself lightly on the back for logging somewhere around 15 miles this week (I'm also not good at counting). Today, in particular, was a good running day. I followed the suggested workout almost to the letter. The only thing that threw a wrench in the works was that I occasionally had to stop to cross a tricky stream or to prevent a dog fight or to let a parade of horses go past while standing on a rock in the middle of a particularly tricky stream holding Delilah in my arms while yelling at Baxter to stay out from under the horses' hooves. Otherwise, I stuck to it. In fact, I think I may have done one too many reps of the workout. (I seriously need to work on that counting issue.) So at least there's that.

Meanwhile, the diet is improving. I'm still overindulging in chocolate now and then. But I've cut back from one giant candy bar per night to five (or ten) chocolate kisses. It's a start.

Baby steps.

The dogs are happy and exhausted. I'm just pooped.

*No, I did not get another dog. Delilah belongs to my friend Colleen. I borrowed her (the dog, not Colleen) for the week.

Why I Hate the Gym

It almost seemed too obvious to even write this entry. But here goes:

Why I Hate the Gym:

1. Too many mirrors.

2. Too many people admiring themselves in the mirrors.

3. The tedium of the machines.

4. The humiliation of the classes.

5. The fact that I'm now the woman I used to see at the gym and think to myself, "Wow. I would never let myself go like that."

I'm sure there are more reasons, but that's been enough to keep me from going since that very first day when I got my fitness consultation. But I'll be back twice a week starting this Tuesday. I'm not looking forward to it, but it is necessary.

So much for doing it my way! Two weeks in and already I'm caving to the power of the gym.

Bodyworks

I have been working out since I was 13. I went to a class called "Bodyworks" with my mother. It was held at the Moose Club. We did a lot of leg lifts and sit ups. We wore leotards and tights with leg warmers.

Working out was always imperative for me. In high school I was so paranoid about being fat that I would go home and put on the soundtrack to Footloose or Flashdance and just dance around until I was an exhausted, sweaty mess. Since then, I have graduated to step-aerobics, biking, running, swimming, boxing, kickboxing, Tae Bo, dance classes, yoga, and hula hooping. I've worshiped at the altars of Jane Fonda, Billy Blanks, Kathy Smith, Gilad, Gaiam, Crunch, and Steve Ross. I have worked out so hard that I couldn't sleep (and subsequently couldn't wake up the next day). I have worked out so hard that I puked. And I've even run a marathon. With a broken foot.

I could always get myself to do it. Even now when I am at my most unmotivated (congratulations, Joanna!), I can still get myself to take the dog on long vigorous hikes several times a week.

Exercise is harder than it has ever been. And it is getting harder by the day. The more out of shape I get, the harder it is to get back into shape. I've been blaming it on age, but something struck me the other day. Something so glaringly obvious that it actually made me laugh. It's not just harder because I'm older. It's harder because I'm fatter!

I'd like to tell you a holiday story now. This is the story of New Years Eve, 2010.

On the eve of the new year, I decided to turn over a new leaf. Enough was enough. I was going for a run. I took my dog to a trail, and we ran. Slowly. For three miles.

After the run, I had a million errands to do. Instead of taking a break and getting lunch and taking the time to rehydrate, I just went on my errands. Eventually I found myself in Barnes & Noble feeling light headed and dehydrated. But I pushed on because what I was doing was important.

What was I doing?

I was buying books about disordered eating and living well. I spent almost $100 on books, grabbed a bag of candy and a sports drink at the drug store so I wouldn't pass out, and headed home. Thirty minutes later I was puking up good'n'plenty and Gatorade. I spent the next three days in bed with a horrible stomach flu, which led directly to a terrible upper respiratory infection and then to a sinus infection.

The irony is not lost on me. I set out to get healthy, and I wound up sick.

But here is the thing. I've made this same series of bad decisions in the past. I've worked out too hard after months of not working out at all. I've skipped meals after workouts. And I've gotten away with it.

So yes, it's harder now that I'm older. But age aside, it's harder than it's ever been because I'm fatter than I've ever been. I felt every step I took on that run. I felt it in my joints. I felt it in my muscles. And I felt it in my fat.

Today I was reminded of one more fun fact. My metabolism has slowed down. My metabolism, which was never going to win any races to begin with, is now operating at a snail's pace. So I've got that going for me.

Today was also weigh-in day. (I'm still in the habit even though I quit weightwatchers weeks ago.) I've gained 3.3 pounds since last week. Apparently all that socializing did me in after all. (Either that, or it was the pound of M&Ms I ate in the car. Who can say for sure?)

So it looks like my 30-by-40 plan needs some amping up. Exercise may be required after all. Apparently I don't burn enough calories crocheting hats and watching television to cancel out my Lindt chocolate "Touch of Sea Salt" habit.

So what's the plan? I guess it's time to buy some really baggy clothes and hit the gym. In which case, you can expect my next few entries to include a large serving of anger with a side of bitterness.

Next up: Why I Hate the Gym

Week Two

Hello, and welcome to week two!

My first week of not dieting or exercising went really well. I didn't cheat at all.

But for some reason, I also didn't overeat nearly as much as usual. And in fact, I exercised almost every day, though not in any kind of militaristic or masochistic fashion. Just walking the dog for the most part.

Strangely enough, the week I decided to start this -- whatever it is -- my non-diet, I guess -- was one of the most social weeks I've had in ages. A bad day at work necessitated a happy hour with the girls on Wednesday. Thursday, one of my best friends was in town for the day, so we met for dinner and drinks. And then I spent the weekend in New York where I could hardly keep up with myself: lunch in Chelsea, then tea in midtown, then a 40th birthday party for a high school friend in Times Square, followed the next day by brunch on the Upper West Side. This was no small feat for JoJo. (If you know me, you know that I'm typically in bed by 9:00, and drinks after work once a month is pushing it for me.)

So you'd think that might have thrown a wrench into the works. All that wine, all those excuses to indulge. And I did indulge (pumpkin french toast with pear and cranberry compote, anyone?). But - I found myself easing off after one helping. I found myself noticing that I was full. I found myself quitting while I was ahead. Not out of self-control or will-power. Not really by any kind of planning or decision making. It just was what it was. I was full, so I stopped eating. Not every day. Not at every meal. But sometimes.

This, my friends, is progress. (Sad, but true.)

The next big step I'm contemplating is scaring the bejeezus out of me. I'm thinking of posting the actual number. My weight. I mean, if I'm gonna go public, I might as well go all the way. And that way you can all root me on.

But I'm not quite that brave yet. Maybe tomorrow.

Day Two

Day two of 30 by 40 was incredible. I spent the morning eating baby carrots. By lunchtime I had lost five pounds.

30 by 40

Today is the day.

I've said it again and again.

Today is the day I change my life.

Today is the day I start living my life.

Today is the day I stop waiting for my real life to begin.

Of course, most of the time what I really mean is...

Today is the day I start the diet.

Today is the day I go for a run.

Today is the day I finally make it to the gym.

But today I'm raising the stakes.

Today I'm making it public.

On October 6, 2011, I will turn 40. As it happens, that is 29 weeks away. And as it happens, I'm about 30 pounds overweight. I'm not great at math, but here is what I figure:

At my skinniest, as an adult -- a healthy adult -- I weighed 27.5 pounds less than I weigh now. That is to say, in the last ten years or so, I have gained 27.5 pounds. Round that up to 30, and you've got what sounds like a reasonable weight loss goal for a 39-year-old who has spent the last 10 years slowly and steadily gaining weight.

So today is the day. 30 by 40. Thirty pounds by my 40th birthday.

I'm not doing weightwatchers again. I'm not joining any clubs or using any products. I'm not wearing shape-up shoes, and I'm not spending every day at the gym. I'm doing it healthy, and I'm doing it my way.

I'm not sure what my way is yet. But I'll be chronicling it here as I figure it out. Every day. Every pound.

How brave am I?