Some of you may remember the post waaaaay earlier this year where I admitted to you something that really was no surprise, considering I have mentioned how gross and lazy I have been on a regular basis. Yeah, I’m talking about the one where I basically said, “I smell like forty ripe asses rotting in the sun. Oh, and I have fat rolls that have fat rolls and their fat rolls are bigger than their fat rolls’ fat rolls.” I’m not sure if that even makes any sense, but I wrote it out anyway, because I like the way it sounds. You do too, you just don’t know it.
The point is that I had gained quite a bit of weight (enough to aggravate my joints and make my fat pants tight on me) and I wasn’t caring enough about myself to bathe regularly. Unless you’d say once every week or two is regularly. I guess it is, since I regularly waited that long to scrape the accumulated layers of sediment off of my body. (I swear I found a tiny, fossilized animal in one of the layers once. It was from the Cretaceous Time Period. I’d be rich if I hadn’t dropped it down the drain.)
By May, I was carrying a good amount of weight…
By the end of May, I was sick of myself. I made a lot of changes (that really needed to be made) and turned my life onto a healthier track again. Instead of drinking the local liquor store and grocery beer aisles dry practically every other day, I stopped drinking entirely for a whole month.
I hated every fucking one of you bitches that talked about drinking on Twitter during that time. I wanted to stab you in the face.
Hahaha, just kidding!
It wasn’t as hard as I thought it would be, in all honesty. And during that month, I dropped junk food and excessive carbs, as well as late night eating. You know what else? I started moving. And I had some support: people who motivated me by talking to me about what they were doing, listening to what I was doing, and just being there. They lifted me up when I was dragging, and they celebrated my successes with me when I was floating. That kind of support from friends is instrumental for me. Thank you so much Leslie, Haley, & Karen. I got my ass in gear and I started doing The Shred – downloaded it right to my computer and did it almost every day. I added in some Yoga, too.
And the real killer for me? I went to bed at a decent hour more often than not. It was like a sign of the Apocalypse. Or flying pigs. Or that monkeys streaming out of your butt thing.
But mostly, it was a whole heap of positive change in my life that both cleared my head and dropped pounds of fat off of my body.
I lost 15 lbs in just a couple of months.
Then I started traveling. Oy! Chicago first, then NC, and before I knew it I was drinking and eating excessively again, and not exercising. And sleeping? Hah, what was that? I was up into the wee hours again. For some reason, I love the wee hours.
I was still making half-assed efforts to exercise once I got back home, but it wasn’t adding up because I was being really inconsistent, and the other bad habits were still hanging on, blossoming even.
By mid-September, I was saying, “hello again!” to the last 8lbs I had dropped. (And by “hello again” I mean, “awwww, shit, you again? Damn.”)
But I was in a funk. The sloth in me was in charge.
By mid-October I had reached a point again where I realized this crappy way of whipping myself back and forth has got to stop.
I called on the cavalry again: I’ve got Haley, Leslie, and now Mishi motivating me in a Skype chat regularly (thank you, ladies! I love you.). And I’m trying this novel concept: moderation!
I cut way back on drinking, but I still have one drink most nights. Junk food is out again, and healthy food is in. But “cheats?” Oh yeah, they’re around about once a week.
I’m *trying* to go to bed at a decent hour (most nights, and sometimes I’m actually successful) and I’m moving again. I’ve been doing different things to keep it fresh – Shred, Yoga, Dance, Walking. I’ve lost that ugly 8 I gained back, and then some. I’m feeling better again… lighter, smoother, and quicker.
Just this week, I started pushing myself to jog and run.
And then a little birdie named Leslie got on my proverbial shoulder and whispered in my Skype Chat ear: “Fiiiiive Kaaaaaay?”
And I said, “What, me? Surely not.”
But later in the day I said, “Why not? I can do that. I am *going* to do that.”
And that’s where I am right now. In total, I’m down 21lbs (and counting!) from my May 09 top weight, and I’ve built some muscle. It’s time to tone, train, and build endurance. I have a plan, some tools, and at least one friend to do this with. I’m about to bust crazy and go for something I’ve never attempted before.
And I’m not talking about going one whole day without saying, “fuckbuckles!” (What, you don’t say that every day?)
It’s time to train for a 5K, my friends.
I plan on leaving a little piece of my funk behind me with every step.
Thanks for making every day harder. You’re a dick.
I do not like you. You do not actually make me more powerful, you just make me want to break people in half all day long. You do not help me deal with my emotions more effectively, you just make me cry at things that should not be cried at (the fight scene in Ice Age? Really? No. Really?) You do not make my son’s toddler habits easier to deal with, you make me want to run screaming from his presence. You are like a disorder all unto yourself. I am tired of you, officially.
Yes, it’s true. Your “farts are stinky like poopoo,” indeed. The amount of joy you bring into my life with simply silly things like that cannot be measured. Oh, but please don’t kick me in the eye again. That was the opposite of joy.
I see you lurking there. I know, I know. I’m almost officially a whole year older. It’s really not even exciting anymore. It just validates the white hairs and the callouses. If you were really as awesome as you claim to be, you’d give me my old bewbies back. Now THAT’S a happy birthday.
I know you miss being at home. To make sure you feel welcome upon your return weeks from now, I am saving you all sorts of chores to complete! Nothing says loving like that, right?
Dear Debt Collectors,
Thank you for the recent letter demanding the thousands due in medical bills, immediately. The way the entire sheet of paper was pink truly made me feel the threat inherent in your message.
Dear Property Management,
I’m guessing the magic number for phone calls before you come and fix the light in the kitchen is something higher than 3. Even if you have promised “someone will be out tomorrow,” they won’t. You don’t really mean it. It was a joke – you were just kidding! I get it now. I hope you get explosive, burning diarrhea on your birthday.
Dear Jillian Michaels:
When I do the “butt kicks,” instead of holding my hands in fists in front of me, I hold out both my middle fingers. It totally helps me make it through. I’m not flipping you off, though. You are the toughest bitch I’ve ever not known but loved. In a completely platonic, non-I think of you naked when I’m in the shower kind of way. (Really.)
Dear Mexican (our dog),
Please just stop being gross. Seriously.
PS: I know. Watch your back.
I know that you are tired. I know that you hurt. I know that it’s not your fault. I know that you feel bad because I always hate you. I am sorry. I’m still pushing and I’m trying really hard to get you healthy again. Please hang in there and work with me on this, damnit.
Did you hear what I said to Body? You are leaving me, and it’s making me frantic. I know you are just really tired of the antibodies in my bloodstream and the Hashimoto’s that is the result. I feel embarrassed that you are so important to me, in a way, but it’s true. You are important to me and I have cried several times already now, noticing how you are taking leave of me steadily. I do not like to see my scalp. Please reconsider. Please stay.
Dear Health Care Industry,
Please just fix it. Please stop telling me there is nothing you can do to help me. I am broken and you are supposed to be able to fix me.
You are supposed to.
So when I come in this next time, please do not turn me away again, telling me to keep waiting. I am done waiting. Ok?
Dear Reality Television,
You are still really, really stupid. Stop tricking people who I know are otherwise really smart.
I hate the temptation of your endless bags of delicious candy. I love your ghouls and goblins, witches, werewolves, vampires, and ghosts. I delight in feeling your spirit as I watch horrible movies about undead monsters. As you approach, I tilt my head back in the dark and utter a high pitched cackle. When you are gone, please make any leftover candy disappear. My ass does not want to be dressed up as an elephant for the rest of the year.
Dear People Who Drive,
YOUR BRAIN. USE IT.
Dear You Guys,
Thanks for still coming here.
When sloth and apathy has set in for months, it’s hard to get your ass moving again. And even once you’ve passed the hurdle of actually making yourself START moving with effort once more, you face that initial battle of trying to stop screaming out in pain and agony at every little leg lift find your strength again.
Exercise takes strength. And strength is built via exercise. Chicken. Egg. Circle, circle, circle.
So when you’re trying to get back on track with a healthy lifestyle, you have to force yourself through that beginning time, when the shit is HARD. And you have to keep going until you can hack it.
And sometimes it’s hard, in the middle of a workout, to feel confident that you can do that. Especially when all you want to do is power jumps on the instructor’s face. What? I am NOT full of anger and bitterness, and if you even hint that I am, I will eat your face. (I’m sure it’s full of lean protein.)
What I really love is when a workout instructor is saying some shit to me like, “You should be feeling some heat in your thighs now… almost a little burn!” right around the time when I’m looking down in bewilderment because my left thigh literally just exploded and peppered the wall next to me with clots of flesh and my right thigh currently has a 4 foot flame shooting from it. And my ass just sent me a memo that said, “Really? You’re serious? Just checking. Because… really???”
Yeah. Almost a little burn.
Look, lady… did you forget what it was like when you were fat? Before you became this little waif of a thing that is now cheerfully telling me to, “see if you can push it just a little bit deeper each time!”
Oh, I am, cutie-pie, I am. I’m pushing the imaginary knife blade just a little bit deeper into your upper torso (can you feel the BURN!?) every time I stab you with it inside my head.
Maybe she was never fat. Maybe she has always been so skinny that her nipples existed on her chest completely independent of the titty base they are generally known to reside on in females. (And no, I have nothing against boobies of any size, but just let me rant here, ok?)
I’m sorry, I just can’t not see them. In that tight-ass yoga top they are like little rocket missiles under a tight stretched tarp and I’m hearing the countdown in my head at full volume. They are moments from firing and I don’t want to get hit, okay? Someone needs to deactivate the launch sequence. Who readies missiles that are still in storage anyway?
Where the hell is Jack Bauer when you really need him?
Clearly, she is excited about the burn.
I’m excited about making it through this without dying. Which I’m not entirely sure yet is going to be happening, but I like to delude myself like that.
Wait. What did she just say to me? “Really challenge yourself.” Were you not here just now when I said I was going to try to make it through this alive, woman? Clearly you do not understand that is a challenge in and of itself.
Shit, it is a challenge for me not to come over and take a bite out of your ass cheek. I haven’t had a burger in weeks.
And if she says, “for an extra challenge…” one more time, I think I might just choke on all the cuss words that want to fly out of my mouth because YEAH. Really, trust me, I don’t need anything extra at this point.
Unless it’s pickles. On the ass burger I’m about to take from you.
And still, I’m doing this. And I want to do this (hahaha) and I am going to do it again. Because I know that over time it will get easier and I will hate her less and less.
Wait, she just said, “I don’t know about you but I’m really starting to feel my legs!”
*insert mental image of me SHITTING MYSELF I’M LAUGHING SO HARD*
If I could FEEL them anymore, I’d actually be able to “control it” like you keep telling me to do and then I wouldn’t be shaking, and tripping over my own two feet every five seconds, woman. But thanks for letting me know that YOU can feel YOUR legs. I am so proud of you. You are doing great! Soon you’ll be even MORE sexy and attractive than you already are! And then there can be an even greater, more stark contrast between the two of us.
Really, the hilt of the knife couldn’t go any deeper. I need to invest in an imaginary pitch fork or something. Axe? Hm.
And if you’re disturbed by this? Me having immature, malicious thoughts towards my workout instructors is really nothing new. See here. While this makes things no less disturbing, at least you can see that I am consistently whacked out.
Oh, but now she’s saying something that makes me love her. A lot. (And it wasn’t, “Would you like ab fries with that ass burger?”)
Okay, Miss Itty Bitty Everything. I think I can forgive you.
But right now I need to go see what I can do about my right eyebrow. That four foot flame really took me by surprise.