Fun and Pains

I never shoulda told Gabe I could do push ups from my toes.

When you can do push ups from your toes, you are eligible for lots of other fun exercises. 

Like "walk-outs".  Walk-outs start from a standing position.  Then you bend down, touch the floor, walk your hands out to a push-up position, do a goddam push up, then walk your hands back to your toes, then stand up.  I get to do 4 sets of 10.  Or 15, depending on what else Gabe has for me.

You also get to do planks.  A plank is a push up position held in place for a period of time.  Gabe says it's only 60 seconds but I think he meant 60 MINUTES.  Because that's how it feels.  Sometimes, just for fun, Gabe puts a 25lb weight on my back as I plank.  I am not lying. 

Today we did a fun one.

Around the World!

Doesn't that sound cute?  Doesn't it evoke images of happy children in national costume holding hands and dancing in a circle?  Doesn't it make you think of exotic places with women in colorful fabrics handing you glasses of the local refreshment?  It makes one think of fun drinking games and nights of hilarity.  Around the World.  How delightful.

I think a more appropriate name would be "Circle of Agony". 

To do an Around the World, you begin in a plank position.  Then you do a push up.  Then you walk your hands a few degrees to the left - or right, depending on which hemisphere Gabe is working on -- and do another push up.  The you move your hands a few more degrees, push up, walk hands, push up and so it goes until you have turned a full 360 degrees. 

You may have heard the expression "Horses sweat, Men perspire and Ladies glisten."  My glistening left a perfectly round mark in the carpet that won't dry for a few more days. 

I bet next week Gabe makes me do a variation he'll call "Mary-Go-Round".  An "Around the World" with Victor standing on my ass.

I just hope he takes his shoes off first.
 

Just When I think I'm a Badass. . . .

For about four months I have been coming to work every week regaling my colleagues about my hard workouts and how much Vic made me do this week.

I was starting to feel pretty proud of myself.

Which I shouldn't do. 

Inspired by my tales of glory, my friend Kathy decided to start preparing for a 5 K.  She has been doing the Couch to 5K plan.  Good for you! I said patronizingly as I whined about my own - really really hard - workout.

Saturday, Kathy & I participated in the American Heart Association Heart Walk.

It was PACKED! 

And Vic was there!  And Ricky!  And Gabe!  I was so excited.  I showed off my beautiful boys to my friend Kathy.  She rolled her eyes at me.  What else could she do?

The walk started.  SLOWLY.

The problem was, there were a lot of people there.  Like, a million.  And we were all trying to go around the "track" which wasn't a track at all, but the perimeter of Whataburger Field.  (Which is a gorgeous facility!  Come to Corpus Christi & Check it out -- it's awesome!).

So it was sort of a heart stroll.

Which is fine.  Many of the walkers were heart patients -- the whole point is activity, not speed.

But Kathy and I were there for a workout.

And the stroll wasn't working us.

So, as I happily chatted about Vic & Ricky & Gabe and how much they love me, Kathy started to walk fast.  Then she started to run.  Then she started to run fast.

I sort of kept up with her the first mile.

By the second mile,  she was no where to be found. 

And, believe it or not, I still wasn't getting much of a workout.

The event had Workout Stations where you could participate in other fitness activity.  Like Zumba!  And Step Classes!  And Vic had a station!   Yeay!  I can work out with Vic! And Ricky! And Gabe!

He did. 

And then I took a step class.

I got my workout.

A really really owie workout.

I shoulda stayed with Kathy.

OK, but HOW?

I recently watched this video from Ellen.




She's right. Bullying is bad. Suicide is worse.

How do we stop it?

Maybe the first thing I do is tell my kids: "Listen, between you, me & God, we can solve anything. Come to me & Dad if you have a problem. There is NOTHING you can do to make me stop loving you."

Maybe the second thing I do is tell them: "Listen, if I hear that you are being a bully, I am going to knock you into next week."

Isn't that the real problem? We don't think our kid can be the bully. I am working hard to raise good men, but I know that my boys are fully capable of being the bully. If you see them acting like little assholes, tell me.

Maybe the kid from Rutgers didn't know that his parents would have gotten over the video. Maybe that wasn't the problem. He's gone, so we'll never know.

As I've posted before, I was bullied as a kid. Mercilessly.

When I was a kid, I was the only fat one in class. Some years there was one more, but never more than the two of us. I remember one girl named Patty. I've always felt grateful that my name is not Patricia, because Fatty Patty is a horrible nickname.

Fortunately, I have supportive parents who helped me through the bullying. My parents never let us bully each other, either. We beat the crap out of each other (actually, I beat the crap out of my little brothers & sister until they got big enough to hit me back) but unkindness was not tolerated.

Sometimes, however, I was the bully. Not just to my brothers & sister. Occasionally there was some poor schmuck who was below me on the geek food chain. Instead of being compassionate and friendly, since I knew how they felt, I was stupid enough to be mean.

I will never forget in 7th grade how mean I was to a boy in our class named Jim. Jim was chubby, quiet, and really smart in kind of a wierd way. I was as mean to him as I possibly could be. I called him names, I teased him, I talked about him behind his back, I think I even put glue on his jacket. Mean.

He wasn't in any of my classes in 8th grade, and I didn't see much of him during high school.

The summer after my senior year, he came into the McDonald's where I worked as cashier.

O.M.G.

He was tall. Strong. Broad shouldered. Clear skinned. Piercing blue eyes. Shiny black hair. Chiseled abs. He got CUTE!

He didn't give me the time of day.

Served me right.

I still don't know how to stop bullying. Do you?

Gift of Fat: Empathy

I feel bad when people are hurting. 

I think I have empathy because I know what it's like to be teased.  To be judged. 

One of my friends killed himself last weekend.

I can't imagine what he felt, how he struggled, what was going through his mind.  I have no idea.

I have no idea what his family feels right now.  All I know is that it's pretty bad.

I know that whatever he was feeling that night, he was struggling to get away from it. His bible was with him, passages were highlighted that give some clue of what he was asking God.


In the end, the depression -- or whatever it was -- won.

Is it empathy to be annoyed with people for saying things like:

"All he had to do was reach out and we could have helped him"
"Why did he do it?"
"Nothing could be that bad."
"He was a Christian, how could he?"

I know we all grieve differently.  I know we are all sad -- and mad -- that this happened to our friend. 

I just can't help feeling that people are judging him.  And it makes me angry.  Is that empathy? 

KK, I hope you are OK now.

This one really isn't funny. . .

I like to be funny, because I love all the positive reinforcement I get from you wonderful people! I took a personality test once that said I was "recognition motivated". I was working in a sales office at the time. The sales managers wanted everyone to be "money motivated", so my motivation was looked at as somehow lacking.

Ummm. . .boss? I think the point was that you meet people where they are. So by RECOGNIZING my results publicly, you will incent me to produce more, capice?

Regardless of the results of my personality. I do like recognition. (And blog comments, so feel free to add your 2 cents!)

Today I am going to tell you about someone I saw in an elevator recently.

This is the honest to Jesus truth.

I saw this girl in the elevator who I swear was the personification of every insecurity I have ever had.

She was about my size. She was about my age. Her coloring was similar to mine. She had long, fine, light brown hair that was clean, but not styled. (It would have looked healthier if she had cut about six inches off of it -- because fine hair looks limp and stringy if you don't care for it properly. I know this from personal experience.)

She was wearing a baggy tunic and baggy shirt and flats. She was clean, but clearly not wearing clothes she loves. She had on no makeup. No jewelry.

She was standing in the back corner of the elevator -- pushed against the wall, as if she was trying to take up less space. She was standing in that classic fat-girl-don't-want-anyone-to-notice-me pose: hands clasped in front of her, head down.

She looked so much like my secret insecure self that I wondered for a moment if I was imagining her.

Then another person stepped on the elevator and said "Hi Lisa!".

Insecure self said "hi."

That's when I knew she was real. My insecure self isn't named Lisa. Mine is named Martha.

I am not trying to pick on Lisa. For all I know, Lisa's house caught on fire last night and her 60 year old neighbor's things were all she could wear to work (because she is SO committed to her exciting career). All her makeup, hairdryer and accessories got burned up in the fire, and she hasn't had time to stop by the mall. Maybe Lisa is really a lot of fun and has dates every night, and doesn't have a cat because really? With a schedule like hers? She'd never be able to care for the damn thing. Maybe Lisa is hysterically funny and also super outgoing. Maybe Lisa regularly contributes to CNBC and is a sought after expert in her field.

Or maybe Lisa is a shy, insecure fat girl who is just trying to get by.

I really, really identify with that Lisa.

Wear your hair long to hide your body. Keep your clothes big. Don't style your hair or wear makeup, because why bother? Shoes should be comfortable, not pretty. I'll buy cute things when I'm thin. Until then, I'm going to hide in plain sight and hope no one notices me.

I wanted to take Lisa home with me. I wanted to tell her she's pretty and worthy and decent. I wanted to take her to see my friend Kasey so she could get her hair done. Take her shopping at Catos for fun & trendy clothes. I wanted to run her by the Clinique counter at Macy's, then off to Nine West to get some shoes. I wanted to go to Charming Charlies and get some cute accessories. I wanted to make her stop feeling bad about herself, dammit! Make people notice you!

Because then, I wouldn't have to look at my own insecurity.

It's not funny, is it?

V is for Victory

I admit it. After 5 weeks of going hard at boot camp, I expected certain results:

1. I thought I would have lost at least 25lbs by now. (apparently you have to diet AND exercise. Dammit!)

2. I thought I would build my endurance to a point where I am not beet red every time I work out. (My friend Mary was wearing a top at boot camp that was the EXACT SAME SHADE as my face. Only it was cute on her.)

3. I thought I would get used to the popé. (If you're in South Texas, you TOTALLY know what I'm talking about.)

4. I thought it would get easier. (it would, except Victor keeps making it HARDER)

5. I thought I would be cured of my ice cream addiction. (This was a total reach -- even Victor isn’t that good)

6. I thought my hips would shrink & my boobs would stay the same. . .instead of the other way around.


So I didn’t get exactly what I bargained for.

There are some benefits I didn’t bargain for:

1. I have met some awesome & fun fellow sufferers --I mean boot-campers.

2. I have met some awesome & fun clients of Victor -- these folks are TOTAL rock stars! (shout out to Maria!)

3. I ran after the 2 year old. . .and caught him!

4. Two girlfriends who I haven’t seen in a while told me I look great.

5. My husband likes to . . .wait -- that’s none of your business. But it’s AWESOME.

6. As I was doing my brutal step-back squats Ricky (AKA Leonardo DiCaprio) casually noticed that I am no longer holding onto the wall to support myself.

7. I can actually tuck a blouse into the size 22s. And the size 24s are getting roomy.


It’s still hurty. It’s still owie. I still stink when I am done. I am going to continue to beech and moan. A lot.

But I am on my way to VICTORY!

This? This is why people hate excercising.

I finished my 4th bootcamp yesterday.

Good results so far, not a lot of weight lost, but lost inches. (Yes, mostly from my boobs). My big win is I lost 3% body fat! Yeay!

But I am so sore I can barely reach the keyboard to whine about how hard it is.

When does it stop being so hurty?

Does it ever?

Hey fit people -- do you ENJOY this constant flu-like muscle ache brought about by strenuous exercise?

Personally, I prefer the self loathing nausea that comes with finishing off most of a cheesecake.

But I have 60 more days to go. I am not a quitter. Just a whiner.

Ow.

P.S. Victor? I'll be in on Tuesday. whimper