"That's how the big boys do it," he said, after he adjusted my form on my hanging knee raises. He saw me start to smile and then added, "Yes, you're one of the big boys now."
My trainer friend, Josh, likes to enhance my workouts by giving me tips on technique, etc. while he's waiting for his next client to come in. I don't take critiques so well from others, but there's something about this particular guy that's very disarming. Maybe it's because he's been a supporter of mine ever since I stepped foot in that gym over a year (and 60 lbs.) ago. Or maybe it's because he always seems to know what I need to hear or do.
Today was an unstructured day for me, and being the type of person I am, I felt dissatisfied by that. I had haphazardly put together a string of core/abs exercises and planned on running (begrudgingly) for a few miles on the treadmill. I don't know anyone who really likes doing ab work, and I really don't like running, but I have to train for my upcoming 5K. So, I was happy to have Josh intervene and give me a challenge and some encouragement before I began the grueling treadmill regime.
Like the Little Mrs. Bad that I know I am, I told myself, "Yes, you're one of the big boys now," and I ran with it... literally.
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
Monday, August 27, 2012
Training the Type-A
I'm a Type-A personality to the hilt: everything seems urgent, I keep a faster pace than many people, I am highly competitive with myself and others, and the price of my over achievement is stress. Luckily, I'm learning to deal with my daily stressors through regular exercise. Sadly, however, I have noticed that my personality has extended to my gym/exercise life, and it often makes me stressed about my workout schedule. I guess if it's not one thing, it's another, because I am who I am wherever I am.
So, being the typical Type-A, I think I understand what my Type-A client wants from a trainer:
1.) Punctuality - if he/she made the effort to be on time, then they fully expect me to be ready and waiting for them. My own trainer is a fantastic example of this. I am always satisfied to show up and get started right away, or I know that if I'm a tad early there's time for chit-chat.
2.) Keeping a quick pace - as soon as my client is done with an exercise, I instruct him/her to take a quick rest (I tailor rest timeframes to their needs), during which I explain what's next. Also, if he/she says, "What's next?", I have an answer right away. I don't keep them guessing.
3.) Assessing for the future - Before we begin, I ask how he/she felt last time, whether they were sore or not, and then as we wrap up I ask if this session seemed to meet expectations. I often have a notebook of exercises already written out, so that it's in writing for them to check their progress and also see where they're heading (are they going up or staying at the same weight, reps or sets).
I think I'm pretty good at the above practices, and I know my own trainer is good at this. That's how I've been able to stay on track for so long. Now, I just have to figure out how to be a little bit more laid back with my Type-B or Type-C clients. More on that as I learn...
So, being the typical Type-A, I think I understand what my Type-A client wants from a trainer:
1.) Punctuality - if he/she made the effort to be on time, then they fully expect me to be ready and waiting for them. My own trainer is a fantastic example of this. I am always satisfied to show up and get started right away, or I know that if I'm a tad early there's time for chit-chat.
2.) Keeping a quick pace - as soon as my client is done with an exercise, I instruct him/her to take a quick rest (I tailor rest timeframes to their needs), during which I explain what's next. Also, if he/she says, "What's next?", I have an answer right away. I don't keep them guessing.
3.) Assessing for the future - Before we begin, I ask how he/she felt last time, whether they were sore or not, and then as we wrap up I ask if this session seemed to meet expectations. I often have a notebook of exercises already written out, so that it's in writing for them to check their progress and also see where they're heading (are they going up or staying at the same weight, reps or sets).
I think I'm pretty good at the above practices, and I know my own trainer is good at this. That's how I've been able to stay on track for so long. Now, I just have to figure out how to be a little bit more laid back with my Type-B or Type-C clients. More on that as I learn...
Thank you, Sir. May I have another?
I often forget how "old" I am. I'm not really old, only 35, but some days my body feels its age and my brain seems shocked by how I feel. I think to myself, "Why am I so sore?" Then, I remember that over the course of the day I did 2 hours of strenuous exercise at the gym, held my 18 month old baby for an aggregate of several hours, walked the girls to the Mall and back (about 2.5 miles pushing the 25 pound double stroller and 55 pounds of children), scrubbed the floors and shampooed the carpets. That's not to mention running around picking up after the kids and straightening up all day long... and that's pretty much a typical day's worth of activity.
This weekend, I felt like my body had been pulverized. Yet, in the quiet hours when everyone was napping, I wanted to hop on the elliptical machine. Did I? No. I gave myself a break.
It's Monday morning, and I'm about ready to head to the gym for an hour of boxing and intense cardio, then training a client. Then, it's work/play with the kids and work around the house. Somehow, after half a day of tiresome activity, I have to muster the energy for a training session with a friend where I'll do who knows what.
I'm wondering why I'm doing all of this. I've lost almost all of the pounds I can lose, I'm pretty well toned, and it's really only down hill from here if I let myself go as I age. I guess it's because I like the feeling when I'm challenging myself, and I also have a bigger-picture goal to help others get to a better place physically. If I want to have a successful business of training others in the future, I have to be an example of courage, diligence and freedom to accept when I'm not "feelin' it"... or at least that's the thought I'm using to get through the day today.
This weekend, I felt like my body had been pulverized. Yet, in the quiet hours when everyone was napping, I wanted to hop on the elliptical machine. Did I? No. I gave myself a break.
It's Monday morning, and I'm about ready to head to the gym for an hour of boxing and intense cardio, then training a client. Then, it's work/play with the kids and work around the house. Somehow, after half a day of tiresome activity, I have to muster the energy for a training session with a friend where I'll do who knows what.
I'm wondering why I'm doing all of this. I've lost almost all of the pounds I can lose, I'm pretty well toned, and it's really only down hill from here if I let myself go as I age. I guess it's because I like the feeling when I'm challenging myself, and I also have a bigger-picture goal to help others get to a better place physically. If I want to have a successful business of training others in the future, I have to be an example of courage, diligence and freedom to accept when I'm not "feelin' it"... or at least that's the thought I'm using to get through the day today.
Friday, August 24, 2012
I'll take it
It didn't invoke chills or make me blush (that would be weird, considering I'm a heterosexual), but I got some pretty nice compliments from a hot, badass chick in the locker room today.
I see this chick around the gym all the time, but I've been too intimidated to meet her. I've heard she "competes", and I know she is very serious and regimented in her workouts. Normally, I can walk up to anyone and introduce myself while I'm there, but the ultra-buff people don't give me warm-fuzzies. I just feel too "normal" next to them. I'm sure they're nice people with normal lives, like me, but they're tan, cut, have strange voices (maybe it's the steroids?), and have fierce looks on their faces. I may be doing the same exercises as them, and sometimes even lifting the same amount of weight for the same amount of reps and sets. But rather than having blank eyes like they do, I'm usually smiling/bright-eyed or saying "hi" to someone. I want to be fierce without being intimidating. But this particular girl does not look approachable, so I don't ever bother, even when I need to use a machine after she's done without making her re-rack her weights. I simply stay out of her way and try not to look at her.
Nevertheless, we had an awkward incident in the locker room, where some of our stuff on the bench got mixed up as we were trying to pack up after our showers. She strangely interacted with me about her water bottle or something. I don't really remember. Then, she said (and this I remember), "You know, you have a really cute figure. I've seen you work really hard the past year, and your results are amazing."
I blushed and said, stuttering a little bit, "Thanks. I really do work hard. It's obvious you do, too," I said as I motioned to her body. Then, I gulped, hoping that this interaction would not carry on much further because it was already weird enough.
She came back with, "You should model."
I almost replied, "Did you lose your contacts in the shower?" But I held my tongue. I just told her that I'm thinking about it.
Truth is, I'd love to enter a fitness bikini contest in a couple of years. I approached my husband about it, and being the conservative that he is, he said, "I'm disappointed you even asked. Your heart should have already told you it was not okay." I tried to explain that there were some competitions where the bikinis are very regulated and not too skimpy, and that I would have a layer of spray tan all over my skin to act as a mask over my true self, but he fell asleep during the discussion (passive-aggressive much?).
Anyway, that's off the table for now. Maybe there will be some time when I can show off just a little bit to a broader audience, reviving the performer in me that has gone dormant. Or maybe not. Either way, I still have the goal to be as fit as I can be and look like those bikini contestants in some ways (not body-building, but lean, smooth muscle all over while maintaining some curves).
All-in-all, I enjoyed being complimented and encouraged by that girl. I think I'll smile at her when I see her at the gym next week.
I see this chick around the gym all the time, but I've been too intimidated to meet her. I've heard she "competes", and I know she is very serious and regimented in her workouts. Normally, I can walk up to anyone and introduce myself while I'm there, but the ultra-buff people don't give me warm-fuzzies. I just feel too "normal" next to them. I'm sure they're nice people with normal lives, like me, but they're tan, cut, have strange voices (maybe it's the steroids?), and have fierce looks on their faces. I may be doing the same exercises as them, and sometimes even lifting the same amount of weight for the same amount of reps and sets. But rather than having blank eyes like they do, I'm usually smiling/bright-eyed or saying "hi" to someone. I want to be fierce without being intimidating. But this particular girl does not look approachable, so I don't ever bother, even when I need to use a machine after she's done without making her re-rack her weights. I simply stay out of her way and try not to look at her.
Nevertheless, we had an awkward incident in the locker room, where some of our stuff on the bench got mixed up as we were trying to pack up after our showers. She strangely interacted with me about her water bottle or something. I don't really remember. Then, she said (and this I remember), "You know, you have a really cute figure. I've seen you work really hard the past year, and your results are amazing."
I blushed and said, stuttering a little bit, "Thanks. I really do work hard. It's obvious you do, too," I said as I motioned to her body. Then, I gulped, hoping that this interaction would not carry on much further because it was already weird enough.
She came back with, "You should model."
I almost replied, "Did you lose your contacts in the shower?" But I held my tongue. I just told her that I'm thinking about it.
Truth is, I'd love to enter a fitness bikini contest in a couple of years. I approached my husband about it, and being the conservative that he is, he said, "I'm disappointed you even asked. Your heart should have already told you it was not okay." I tried to explain that there were some competitions where the bikinis are very regulated and not too skimpy, and that I would have a layer of spray tan all over my skin to act as a mask over my true self, but he fell asleep during the discussion (passive-aggressive much?).
Anyway, that's off the table for now. Maybe there will be some time when I can show off just a little bit to a broader audience, reviving the performer in me that has gone dormant. Or maybe not. Either way, I still have the goal to be as fit as I can be and look like those bikini contestants in some ways (not body-building, but lean, smooth muscle all over while maintaining some curves).
All-in-all, I enjoyed being complimented and encouraged by that girl. I think I'll smile at her when I see her at the gym next week.
Wednesday, August 22, 2012
28 and counting
Being very excited to finally get a date with my husband, I put on some short shorts and a kinda skimpy top and wedge heels, and I looked like a cute little momma. He even said I looked great, with that lovely twinkly smile that I rarely see these days because he's overworked. We walked to the Downtown area of our hometown for a late dinner, and I had a skip in my step the whole way.
The most glaring adornments I wore tonight, however, were the 28 bruises that are scattered all over my skin. If bruises were ever considered sexy, I'd have been the hottest girl in town tonight. Luckily, the restaurant was dim, and so were the streets, so no one had to see the mutilation. I really only noticed how many I had when I was changing to go to bed.
I honestly don't know how I could have gotten some of those bruises, a few of which are in very strange places. Some of them are from practicing elbows and kicks with my trainer just this afternoon. But some of them had to have been from my little ones, who pinch and squeeze parts of my legs that rarely get much action.
Nevertheless, I own my bruises because they mean I'm giving it my all, whether because I elbowed hard during training or because I require little to no personal space apart from my children. So, 28 and counting sounds like a good place to start the day tomorrow. I wonder how many more I'll wear to bed tomorrow night.
The most glaring adornments I wore tonight, however, were the 28 bruises that are scattered all over my skin. If bruises were ever considered sexy, I'd have been the hottest girl in town tonight. Luckily, the restaurant was dim, and so were the streets, so no one had to see the mutilation. I really only noticed how many I had when I was changing to go to bed.
I honestly don't know how I could have gotten some of those bruises, a few of which are in very strange places. Some of them are from practicing elbows and kicks with my trainer just this afternoon. But some of them had to have been from my little ones, who pinch and squeeze parts of my legs that rarely get much action.
Nevertheless, I own my bruises because they mean I'm giving it my all, whether because I elbowed hard during training or because I require little to no personal space apart from my children. So, 28 and counting sounds like a good place to start the day tomorrow. I wonder how many more I'll wear to bed tomorrow night.
"Look Good, Feel Good, Do Good"
My paternal grandmother, who was a Journalism major at USC in the early 1940's, used to think it was so funny to use poor grammar around me. I grew up in Texas during the early years, and I had no idea that what she was saying was incorrect. Everyone there had poor grammar, so I couldn't tell the difference. That bothered her.
When my twin brother and I were 11, however, my parents decided to move us "home" to Southern California. Slowly, I acclimated, and now I can't possibly think of myself as anything other than a "Valley Girl". I act like one, I talk like one, and I see the world differently than I would have if I'd been raised until adulthood in Arlington, Texas. And I love the So. Cal girl that I am.
Back to the grammar: Feeling lousy right before I was off to a National cheerleading competition in Anaheim, my grandma encouraged me to put on a shade lighter lipstick. She told me something that I repeat often, "Look good, feel good, do good." It made me laugh because I knew it was one of those instances when she was trying to cheer me up by being grammatically incorrect, but the message was actually pretty profound to me at the time.
Taking that to heart almost every day of my life since then, I wear makeup pretty much every minute, unless just out of the shower or in bed for the night. I don't always wear lipstick, but I definitely do if I need a little extra to help me "feel good, do good".
Today is one of those days. I was a bit lazy this morning, exercise-wise, but I made myself busy with the kids and around the house. By 1:30 in the afternoon, I was so tired and unmotivated to get ready for my training session that I needed a re-application of my makeup. Now, all made up, I'm ready to go sweat it almost completely off (except the mascara, which is waterproof).
I don't feel weird about this in the least. Most of the female Olympic athletes wore makeup during the games two weeks ago (and often other adornments, like earrings, necklaces, hair accessories, etc.), and that wasn't only for the cameras, I'm pretty sure. They are badass ladies who want to look good while sweating profusely, fighting for their personal bests and medals, and while accepting the accolades they deserve. Why shouldn't I do the same?
When my twin brother and I were 11, however, my parents decided to move us "home" to Southern California. Slowly, I acclimated, and now I can't possibly think of myself as anything other than a "Valley Girl". I act like one, I talk like one, and I see the world differently than I would have if I'd been raised until adulthood in Arlington, Texas. And I love the So. Cal girl that I am.
Back to the grammar: Feeling lousy right before I was off to a National cheerleading competition in Anaheim, my grandma encouraged me to put on a shade lighter lipstick. She told me something that I repeat often, "Look good, feel good, do good." It made me laugh because I knew it was one of those instances when she was trying to cheer me up by being grammatically incorrect, but the message was actually pretty profound to me at the time.
Taking that to heart almost every day of my life since then, I wear makeup pretty much every minute, unless just out of the shower or in bed for the night. I don't always wear lipstick, but I definitely do if I need a little extra to help me "feel good, do good".
Today is one of those days. I was a bit lazy this morning, exercise-wise, but I made myself busy with the kids and around the house. By 1:30 in the afternoon, I was so tired and unmotivated to get ready for my training session that I needed a re-application of my makeup. Now, all made up, I'm ready to go sweat it almost completely off (except the mascara, which is waterproof).
I don't feel weird about this in the least. Most of the female Olympic athletes wore makeup during the games two weeks ago (and often other adornments, like earrings, necklaces, hair accessories, etc.), and that wasn't only for the cameras, I'm pretty sure. They are badass ladies who want to look good while sweating profusely, fighting for their personal bests and medals, and while accepting the accolades they deserve. Why shouldn't I do the same?
Tuesday, August 21, 2012
Do what now?
"You gotta loosen up," said my trainer, as I ran a sprint drill.
"I know, but..." my voice trailed off because I had nothing good to say in response. I might have said something about pipettes.
I wouldn't characterize much of anything I've ever done as "loose".
During my younger years, I had been a high-ranking cheerleader and high-jumper, which require precise movements. I was in music, drama and dance. I had laser focus, and I did fairly well. I was also an excellent student in high school and made it into UCLA. I graduated with a degree in Molecular, Cell and Developmental Biology while working, volunteering and being active in a sorority. After college, I helped support my husband and myself while he embarked on his medical school journey, some of it was through laboratory work prior to my entering graduate school (which included a lot of precise pipetting). Finally, and most importantly, I was almost always a faithful Christian girl who followed the rules -- always a Christian, not always a rule-follower.
I pushed my own limits and was a competitor and a star. But rarely, if ever, did I let myself loosen, or else my very intricate house of cards would come tumbling down. I tried to loosen up a few times, following my instincts rather than my intuition and beliefs, and I fell hard. And those falls left scars. I don't know how to loosen up just enough to accomplish something that needs a little levity without giving up all my control. It's a terrible type A personality trait, but it's instinctual.
I know I'm there again: teetering on the edge of loosening up or keeping it all tight. I've chosen exercises and routines that are "safe" and "tight". Weight lifting is precise. Strength training is, to me, a lot like dancing: if I learn the movements and do them correctly, I can achieve perfect form and excellent results.
Boxing is, well, taking me out of my comfort zone, but that class is an aerobic/strength training class that is not designed to teach perfect form. Of course, the boxing and kicking are the most frustrating parts of that class for me. Yet, the bag work strokes my inner badass and compels me to reexamine myself. (If my instructor is reading this, he's probably thinking, "Is she mental? It's only a class at the local gym. Lighten up!")
And there's the rub. How do I loosen up without going into unsafe territory? But how do I get to where I want to be without loosening up?
For now, I'll run more sprint drills, try to loosen up while I run, box or kick and check myself (before I wreck myself).
"I know, but..." my voice trailed off because I had nothing good to say in response. I might have said something about pipettes.
I wouldn't characterize much of anything I've ever done as "loose".
During my younger years, I had been a high-ranking cheerleader and high-jumper, which require precise movements. I was in music, drama and dance. I had laser focus, and I did fairly well. I was also an excellent student in high school and made it into UCLA. I graduated with a degree in Molecular, Cell and Developmental Biology while working, volunteering and being active in a sorority. After college, I helped support my husband and myself while he embarked on his medical school journey, some of it was through laboratory work prior to my entering graduate school (which included a lot of precise pipetting). Finally, and most importantly, I was almost always a faithful Christian girl who followed the rules -- always a Christian, not always a rule-follower.
I pushed my own limits and was a competitor and a star. But rarely, if ever, did I let myself loosen, or else my very intricate house of cards would come tumbling down. I tried to loosen up a few times, following my instincts rather than my intuition and beliefs, and I fell hard. And those falls left scars. I don't know how to loosen up just enough to accomplish something that needs a little levity without giving up all my control. It's a terrible type A personality trait, but it's instinctual.
I know I'm there again: teetering on the edge of loosening up or keeping it all tight. I've chosen exercises and routines that are "safe" and "tight". Weight lifting is precise. Strength training is, to me, a lot like dancing: if I learn the movements and do them correctly, I can achieve perfect form and excellent results.
Boxing is, well, taking me out of my comfort zone, but that class is an aerobic/strength training class that is not designed to teach perfect form. Of course, the boxing and kicking are the most frustrating parts of that class for me. Yet, the bag work strokes my inner badass and compels me to reexamine myself. (If my instructor is reading this, he's probably thinking, "Is she mental? It's only a class at the local gym. Lighten up!")
And there's the rub. How do I loosen up without going into unsafe territory? But how do I get to where I want to be without loosening up?
For now, I'll run more sprint drills, try to loosen up while I run, box or kick and check myself (before I wreck myself).
My grandma thinks I'm hot
At least my 86 year-old grandma thinks I'm hot. I'm sure my husband does, too, but he's so tired from working 75+ hours per week that he's dizzy and blurry-eyed when he gets home. Plus, we've been married so long that he says he doesn't care what I look like -- he's in love with me more and more every day.
That's all well and good, but a girl just needs to feel "hot" every once in a while (and not only in the "heat of the moment"). Holler, Ladies!
At lunch today, my grandma, who speaks broken English and doesn't carry on much of a conversation asked me if I had lost more weight. I was with my mom, too, and I didn't want to make it sound like I was trying to lose more weight (just in case she thought I was becoming a fanatic). So, I just shrugged and said, "I guess".
Then my grandma said, "Well, I think you look sexy." My mom shot her a look that said, "This is highly inappropriate," but somehow it made me feel a little better.
I thought someone out there in cyberspace might just find that little tete a tete as hilarious as I'm finding it right now. I mean, I must be hard up for compliments at the moment if my confidence is boosted by her, of all people.
This is the plight of this sort-of-lonely, yet very loved, housewife who is proud of herself and her body (especially after having lost so much weight): keeping a lower profile, yet still wanting some satisfaction. That is when I just have to remember why I'm doing all of this -- forget everyone else and what they think/say; I'm trying to prove to myself that I can rise above the fear and the pain and imperfections, so that when another painful or difficult situation comes I know I can make it through.
That's all well and good, but a girl just needs to feel "hot" every once in a while (and not only in the "heat of the moment"). Holler, Ladies!
At lunch today, my grandma, who speaks broken English and doesn't carry on much of a conversation asked me if I had lost more weight. I was with my mom, too, and I didn't want to make it sound like I was trying to lose more weight (just in case she thought I was becoming a fanatic). So, I just shrugged and said, "I guess".
Then my grandma said, "Well, I think you look sexy." My mom shot her a look that said, "This is highly inappropriate," but somehow it made me feel a little better.
I thought someone out there in cyberspace might just find that little tete a tete as hilarious as I'm finding it right now. I mean, I must be hard up for compliments at the moment if my confidence is boosted by her, of all people.
This is the plight of this sort-of-lonely, yet very loved, housewife who is proud of herself and her body (especially after having lost so much weight): keeping a lower profile, yet still wanting some satisfaction. That is when I just have to remember why I'm doing all of this -- forget everyone else and what they think/say; I'm trying to prove to myself that I can rise above the fear and the pain and imperfections, so that when another painful or difficult situation comes I know I can make it through.
Now you see me
Okay, as of today, I wouldn't consider myself an expert, though the subtitle of my blog says it's about how I am transforming into a "badass fitness expert". But I believe that you can't become something unless you see yourself there first. In a year from now, I intend to have a base of several personal training clients, along with an early morning bootcamp group.
I would consider myself skilled, but not where I want to be. That'll come with time and additional training. For now, I'm gearing up for the future, working with a trainer, training myself, training a couple others, learning more about diet and nutrition, and trying to make this goal a reality.
I find myself eating, breathing, living and even sleeping fitness. If I put this much effort into cleaning my home, it would be immaculate. Too bad my body and home take time and dedicated effort to keep clean and tidy. I'm trying to find a healthy balance between training (myself and others) and household and family duties, and so far, both body and home are in good shape. Neither is excellent, but neither are in dire need of an overhaul. Also, my little ones are well cared for, and I try to maintain enough energy for my husband when he comes home.
One major reason for this lifestyle is that I'm alone a lot. My husband has been working an average of 75 hours per week for the past many, many months, and I'm raising the little ones on my own most of the time. He's a wonderful daddy when he's home, and his goal is to be an expert in his field so that he can land a position with more family flexibility. But for now, I have found an arena where I can express my inner badass, including competitiveness, energy, focus and strength, and child care is available and affordable.
Let's see what happens in a year from now. I hope both my husband and I achieve our goals, and we have more time and energy as a family to live life to the fullest -- together. It's going to be an interesting year as we move toward a more stable future. We are doing our best to embrace the struggle, define ourselves by our accomplishments and positive attitudes, and trust God about the rest.
I would consider myself skilled, but not where I want to be. That'll come with time and additional training. For now, I'm gearing up for the future, working with a trainer, training myself, training a couple others, learning more about diet and nutrition, and trying to make this goal a reality.
I find myself eating, breathing, living and even sleeping fitness. If I put this much effort into cleaning my home, it would be immaculate. Too bad my body and home take time and dedicated effort to keep clean and tidy. I'm trying to find a healthy balance between training (myself and others) and household and family duties, and so far, both body and home are in good shape. Neither is excellent, but neither are in dire need of an overhaul. Also, my little ones are well cared for, and I try to maintain enough energy for my husband when he comes home.
One major reason for this lifestyle is that I'm alone a lot. My husband has been working an average of 75 hours per week for the past many, many months, and I'm raising the little ones on my own most of the time. He's a wonderful daddy when he's home, and his goal is to be an expert in his field so that he can land a position with more family flexibility. But for now, I have found an arena where I can express my inner badass, including competitiveness, energy, focus and strength, and child care is available and affordable.
Let's see what happens in a year from now. I hope both my husband and I achieve our goals, and we have more time and energy as a family to live life to the fullest -- together. It's going to be an interesting year as we move toward a more stable future. We are doing our best to embrace the struggle, define ourselves by our accomplishments and positive attitudes, and trust God about the rest.
No apologies
I was on Google late one evening after the kids had been put down to bed, and I decided to look up, "What does a badass woman look like?" I came across someone's blog, and she had compiled a list of do's and don'ts for being a badass woman. One of the descriptors that stuck with me is that she doesn't apologize for being fierce. Also, she embraces the struggle when she isn't feeling "bad".
Yesterday, I had my monthly friend arrive just in time to make me want to excuse myself from my bootcamp boxing class and subsequent training session with a friend. But I went to both anyway. I felt lousy in class, huffed and puffed the whole time, hid in the corner during one of the running drills, and clutched my belly during jumping jacks and high knees. The instructor, who is now a friend, motioned to me that maybe I should get some rest.
Always striving to be better each class, I left feeling like I had failed ... then, I remembered that I just did an hour of cardio and strength exercises to the best of my ability under substandard physical condition. So, I gave myself license to not feel like I had to apologize for being "wimpy". I didn't even hang my head or fold my arms as I left class. I told myself I was just going to embrace the struggle.
Then, I did only "okay" in a training session later in the day. I went against my better judgment and asked my friend to skip a certain exercise because I just didn't feel like looking stupid while learning how to do it better. I almost succumbed to my inner pressure to fold, but I simply remained honest and told my friend that I felt insecure. We did a little bit more, and then we moved on.
Yesterday, I was off-and-on, but I exhibited badassery nonetheless. Today's a new day, and I can't wait to see what it brings: struggle, insecurity, hopefulness, joy? Either way, I'm gonna approach it head on, without apologies.
Yesterday, I had my monthly friend arrive just in time to make me want to excuse myself from my bootcamp boxing class and subsequent training session with a friend. But I went to both anyway. I felt lousy in class, huffed and puffed the whole time, hid in the corner during one of the running drills, and clutched my belly during jumping jacks and high knees. The instructor, who is now a friend, motioned to me that maybe I should get some rest.
Always striving to be better each class, I left feeling like I had failed ... then, I remembered that I just did an hour of cardio and strength exercises to the best of my ability under substandard physical condition. So, I gave myself license to not feel like I had to apologize for being "wimpy". I didn't even hang my head or fold my arms as I left class. I told myself I was just going to embrace the struggle.
Then, I did only "okay" in a training session later in the day. I went against my better judgment and asked my friend to skip a certain exercise because I just didn't feel like looking stupid while learning how to do it better. I almost succumbed to my inner pressure to fold, but I simply remained honest and told my friend that I felt insecure. We did a little bit more, and then we moved on.
Yesterday, I was off-and-on, but I exhibited badassery nonetheless. Today's a new day, and I can't wait to see what it brings: struggle, insecurity, hopefulness, joy? Either way, I'm gonna approach it head on, without apologies.
My obsession with competition
Three times in one week was all it took to get me hooked. I was sore, had lost at least 1/4 lb in sweat alone each time, had developed early signs of carpal tunnel syndrome, and I had never felt better in my life. I'm now addicted to that boxing bootcamp class.
I fiercely compete with myself in there. I watch myself: my form, my face, my breathing, my sweat patterns, my jiggly parts, my less jiggly parts. When I'm in front of the bag, I disregard the reality that I may look like a hot mess, I'm not the most fit person in there, I'm not able to do everything completely or perfectly. I just compete to be better than I was the class time before.
My goal is to be able to complete that class without stopping before the instructor tells us to. He gives plenty of breaks, but the sets of intense activities seem to go on far longer than my body wants to do them. For example, squat jumps, push ups, heavy punching and dive bombers seem to last more seconds than I can push through. But I'll get there.
I'm obsessed with the competition between me and myself in this class because it's one of the only ways I have the time and ability to express my competitive nature right now. I've always been an athlete and competitor at heart, and I've often been able to live it out. During this phase of having small children, having limited child care (and not wanting to put them in preschool for personal reasons), and being a homemaker, it's been difficult finding something to compete in. But this class has given me a small taste of that feeling again.
And it hurts so good.
I fiercely compete with myself in there. I watch myself: my form, my face, my breathing, my sweat patterns, my jiggly parts, my less jiggly parts. When I'm in front of the bag, I disregard the reality that I may look like a hot mess, I'm not the most fit person in there, I'm not able to do everything completely or perfectly. I just compete to be better than I was the class time before.
My goal is to be able to complete that class without stopping before the instructor tells us to. He gives plenty of breaks, but the sets of intense activities seem to go on far longer than my body wants to do them. For example, squat jumps, push ups, heavy punching and dive bombers seem to last more seconds than I can push through. But I'll get there.
I'm obsessed with the competition between me and myself in this class because it's one of the only ways I have the time and ability to express my competitive nature right now. I've always been an athlete and competitor at heart, and I've often been able to live it out. During this phase of having small children, having limited child care (and not wanting to put them in preschool for personal reasons), and being a homemaker, it's been difficult finding something to compete in. But this class has given me a small taste of that feeling again.
And it hurts so good.
The gloves
After avoiding any kind of organized fitness class at the gym for almost a year, not wanting to look like all the other dumbies sweating beyond those glass walls, I finally got roped into a boxing bootcamp class. My brother and sister-in-law were dedicated to it, and they said I would be able to handle it. So, I went to that class, though I didn't have gloves.
I had to go ask the instructor if I could borrow some. Luckily, that day there were a pair hanging around, and the instructor helped me strap them on and away I went. Those were the stinkiest things I've ever had on my hands, and let's not forget I was still changing full, poopy diapers and wiping bottoms on toilets full of poo-poo and pee-pee all day long. I thought I was going to puke during that class for a bunch of reasons, the smell being the main one.
When I got home, my husband was excited that I had attended the class, stuck it out until the end and desired to return a couple of days later. I was proud to tell him about the experience, but I figured I'd just linger in the class a couple more times before committing.
The next day, when my husband arrived home from work, he brought home a pair of hot pink gloves that seemed to glow. Oh my goodness! They coordinated with my "Little Miss Bad" t-shirt perfectly! It was so silly to get so excited, but it was as if he somehow knew that those hot pink, glowy, over-the-top gloves would give me the extra push to want to go back to that class.
You bet I went to class two days later. I donned my favorite t-shirt, my pink shoes, my black stretchy pants and those hot pink gloves, and I hit that bag like I meant it. And I felt badass in a way I never have before.
I had to go ask the instructor if I could borrow some. Luckily, that day there were a pair hanging around, and the instructor helped me strap them on and away I went. Those were the stinkiest things I've ever had on my hands, and let's not forget I was still changing full, poopy diapers and wiping bottoms on toilets full of poo-poo and pee-pee all day long. I thought I was going to puke during that class for a bunch of reasons, the smell being the main one.
When I got home, my husband was excited that I had attended the class, stuck it out until the end and desired to return a couple of days later. I was proud to tell him about the experience, but I figured I'd just linger in the class a couple more times before committing.
The next day, when my husband arrived home from work, he brought home a pair of hot pink gloves that seemed to glow. Oh my goodness! They coordinated with my "Little Miss Bad" t-shirt perfectly! It was so silly to get so excited, but it was as if he somehow knew that those hot pink, glowy, over-the-top gloves would give me the extra push to want to go back to that class.
You bet I went to class two days later. I donned my favorite t-shirt, my pink shoes, my black stretchy pants and those hot pink gloves, and I hit that bag like I meant it. And I felt badass in a way I never have before.
Monday, August 20, 2012
The stalemate
After about 18 pounds had been shed, I was hitting a wall. I hit a stalemate for five weeks at 146 (my goal weight at the time was 125)! I was working out pretty hard for 40 minutes 3 times per week with my trainer, and I had just stopped nursing the baby, so an extra 10 pounds should've just come off within days.
I had a dirty little secret, though. I was still overeating. Overeating had never been an issue for me. I once told a friend of mine (kind of jokingly, but still truthfully) that when I was younger I could eat a big, cold dill pickle as a snack and be full. But that wasn't the case anymore. I was in denial about my problem, and I made the excuse that I couldn't be hungry all the time if I wanted to be a good mommy to my little girls. I didn't want to be exhausted from workouts and hungry -- that just wouldn't be prudent.
I told my trainer that I was following her suggestions, but I was eating twice as much as she suggested at every meal, and I was snacking too much. Though I had chosen mostly healthy foods, my carb intake was almost 4 times as much as it should have been for dramatic weight loss.
Once I decided to get honest with myself, I started measuring my quantities and going "hungry". I didn't starve myself, but I wasn't pleasantly satiated or full. I did get a bit testy with the girls and my husband for a while there, and I did often tearfully question if it was worth it.
Then one day, I broke through. I was 145 pounds, only 20 pounds away from my goal weight. Summer was 6 months away, and by golly, I was motivated again. That's when I bought my "Little Miss Bad" t-shirt (see post, "the shirt becomes her"), and my workout life took a 180.
I had a dirty little secret, though. I was still overeating. Overeating had never been an issue for me. I once told a friend of mine (kind of jokingly, but still truthfully) that when I was younger I could eat a big, cold dill pickle as a snack and be full. But that wasn't the case anymore. I was in denial about my problem, and I made the excuse that I couldn't be hungry all the time if I wanted to be a good mommy to my little girls. I didn't want to be exhausted from workouts and hungry -- that just wouldn't be prudent.
I told my trainer that I was following her suggestions, but I was eating twice as much as she suggested at every meal, and I was snacking too much. Though I had chosen mostly healthy foods, my carb intake was almost 4 times as much as it should have been for dramatic weight loss.
Once I decided to get honest with myself, I started measuring my quantities and going "hungry". I didn't starve myself, but I wasn't pleasantly satiated or full. I did get a bit testy with the girls and my husband for a while there, and I did often tearfully question if it was worth it.
Then one day, I broke through. I was 145 pounds, only 20 pounds away from my goal weight. Summer was 6 months away, and by golly, I was motivated again. That's when I bought my "Little Miss Bad" t-shirt (see post, "the shirt becomes her"), and my workout life took a 180.
My first time
My first day with my personal trainer was very interesting, to say the least. She was this young, cute, Asian girl with a big smile and perky ... everything. Even though I didn't choose to go with the snarky little trainer dude who first approached me, this little girl made me feel just as intimidated at first.
I'm pretty sure she went easy on me the first day, and I don't remember exactly what she made me do (she still has my workout journal from way back then -- hey sweetie, if you're reading this, I want it). All I know is that I was paying her a lot of money to make me feel terrible about myself. That's not fair. I take it back. She was very reassuring and kind, and she was with me every step of the way. Yet, I still felt so insecure I could hardly keep the vomit down during my workouts for the first several weeks.
I'll never forget the first time she had me get down on a floor mat and do something face down, then turn over and do something else. The exercises didn't matter, but what did matter to me was that I felt like a beached whale. I couldn't turn over. I wasn't obese, but my stomach muscles had atrophied so badly after two fairly consecutive pregnancies that it was impossible to turn over without using every other muscle in my body to help out.
That experience wasn't even my wake up call. Weekly, I made excuses for why I couldn't change my diet: I was still nursing and needed the extra caloric intake to provide nutrients to my poor, helpless infant. I made excuses for why I couldn't work out more: I can't leave my little ones in child care so much - they need me too much right now. I made excuses for why I didn't have to get out of my maternity clothes: if I just pin them like this and like that, no one will ever know they're maternity clothes, and I don't want to spend money on clothes until I shrink more.
Interestingly, I began training a woman in her 50's several months ago, and the first time I made her do some sort of front to back thing on the floor, she made the same movement I did. Only, hers wasn't from having low muscle tone from pregnancies, it was under-use over lots of years. My experience helped me encourage her to keep going but to never forget that feeling of her "first time" on the floor. (I'm proud to say she's still training with me and becoming more and more fit each day.)
I hope I never forget that day, either. I hope I can continue to use it to help others, and I hope it compels me to never be complacent with my body. I want to keep pushing myself harder and harder to face my fears and rise above my challenges, to embrace the life of a true "badass" -- a woman who doesn't apologize for being courageous and getting the job done fiercely.
I'm pretty sure she went easy on me the first day, and I don't remember exactly what she made me do (she still has my workout journal from way back then -- hey sweetie, if you're reading this, I want it). All I know is that I was paying her a lot of money to make me feel terrible about myself. That's not fair. I take it back. She was very reassuring and kind, and she was with me every step of the way. Yet, I still felt so insecure I could hardly keep the vomit down during my workouts for the first several weeks.
I'll never forget the first time she had me get down on a floor mat and do something face down, then turn over and do something else. The exercises didn't matter, but what did matter to me was that I felt like a beached whale. I couldn't turn over. I wasn't obese, but my stomach muscles had atrophied so badly after two fairly consecutive pregnancies that it was impossible to turn over without using every other muscle in my body to help out.
That experience wasn't even my wake up call. Weekly, I made excuses for why I couldn't change my diet: I was still nursing and needed the extra caloric intake to provide nutrients to my poor, helpless infant. I made excuses for why I couldn't work out more: I can't leave my little ones in child care so much - they need me too much right now. I made excuses for why I didn't have to get out of my maternity clothes: if I just pin them like this and like that, no one will ever know they're maternity clothes, and I don't want to spend money on clothes until I shrink more.
Interestingly, I began training a woman in her 50's several months ago, and the first time I made her do some sort of front to back thing on the floor, she made the same movement I did. Only, hers wasn't from having low muscle tone from pregnancies, it was under-use over lots of years. My experience helped me encourage her to keep going but to never forget that feeling of her "first time" on the floor. (I'm proud to say she's still training with me and becoming more and more fit each day.)
I hope I never forget that day, either. I hope I can continue to use it to help others, and I hope it compels me to never be complacent with my body. I want to keep pushing myself harder and harder to face my fears and rise above my challenges, to embrace the life of a true "badass" -- a woman who doesn't apologize for being courageous and getting the job done fiercely.
The shirt becomes her
The first time I set foot in the gym near my home, I wore my maternity pants and one of my husband's t-shirts. Oh, I looked like I did NOT want to be there. I reluctantly signed up for a membership, at which time I'm sure the good-looking young man behind the counter was snickering, saying to himself, "I bet this is the last time I'll see her in here for another month."
Then, as I impatiently leaned against the wall waiting for a recumbent bike (the easiest machine on the whole main floor), some super young, super cut little dude came up to me with a weird smirk and asked if I needed any help. I said I was fine, and that I was just waiting for a bike. He pointed me to the whole line of other machines and said, "Why wait? You're here. Just do it." I smirked back, hunched down a little bit more, crossed my arms and kept waiting. He walked away looking offended that I wouldn't enlist his training expertise to whip this overweight, post-maternity body into shape.
I just knew that I could not lose the weight on my own. Not after the second baby. There was little motivation. After all, I had a perfect excuse: I had just had my baby, and everyone knows that it takes just as long to get off the weight as it does to put it on (roughly 9 months). But my baby was already 5 months old, and I was still carrying about 50 extra pounds. My secondary excuse was even more perfectly acceptable: moms in their 30's and 40's can get away with being "chubby". They've got so much on their plates that they don't have time or energy to lose the weight. Plus, who's looking anyway? I was 33, happily married, a mother of two small girls, and I hang around with my church girlfriends and other goody-goodies around town. Why would it matter if I were thin and hot ever again?
I dragged myself in to see a trainer twice a week to start. The child care was excellent at the gym, so that was a motivating factor: cheap babysitting while I did something other than change poopy diapers and/or do my other important motherly duties; and cheap babysitting while I took long, hot showers and did my hair and makeup. Shoot, my workout was only 30 minutes, but I maxed my time out there to a good 2 hours.
When I walked out of there, I felt badly about myself because I was still overweight, but I felt better because at least I had my hair and makeup done for when my husband came home -- well, in theory that was true, but if this all occurred in the morning, everything would have gone to heck by the time he saw me 7 hours later. Nonetheless, I was motivated to keep going.
After I had lost nearly 20 pounds, I had to find more motivation. I was still overweight, but I couldn't stand sharing my husband's t-shirts anymore, and the maternity pants needed to go. I went to buy a more fitted shirt for my workouts at the thrift store. I wasn't about to spend more than $1 on a lousy top, when I was only going to get it sweaty and stinky in a matter of minutes. So, as I perused the $1 rack, I found a size Sm, and I decided to just go ahead and get it, even if it was a bit snug.
I didn't know then that I had just bought the t-shirt that has changed my life. It has a hot pink "Little Miss Bad" character from Hargreaves' "Little Miss" collection, most often known for "Little Miss Sunshine". I tried it on at home, and yes, it was snug, but the first day I wore it to the gym I told myself, "I can be bad." Not naughty-bad, but "badass"-bad. Okay, I don't curse often, if at all, but "badass" is a term that I am going to proclaim as slang, not cursing. It originated in the 1960's, and it means to be excellent or tough. I claimed that for myself that day, and henceforth I am "Little Mrs. Bad".
Then, as I impatiently leaned against the wall waiting for a recumbent bike (the easiest machine on the whole main floor), some super young, super cut little dude came up to me with a weird smirk and asked if I needed any help. I said I was fine, and that I was just waiting for a bike. He pointed me to the whole line of other machines and said, "Why wait? You're here. Just do it." I smirked back, hunched down a little bit more, crossed my arms and kept waiting. He walked away looking offended that I wouldn't enlist his training expertise to whip this overweight, post-maternity body into shape.
I just knew that I could not lose the weight on my own. Not after the second baby. There was little motivation. After all, I had a perfect excuse: I had just had my baby, and everyone knows that it takes just as long to get off the weight as it does to put it on (roughly 9 months). But my baby was already 5 months old, and I was still carrying about 50 extra pounds. My secondary excuse was even more perfectly acceptable: moms in their 30's and 40's can get away with being "chubby". They've got so much on their plates that they don't have time or energy to lose the weight. Plus, who's looking anyway? I was 33, happily married, a mother of two small girls, and I hang around with my church girlfriends and other goody-goodies around town. Why would it matter if I were thin and hot ever again?
I dragged myself in to see a trainer twice a week to start. The child care was excellent at the gym, so that was a motivating factor: cheap babysitting while I did something other than change poopy diapers and/or do my other important motherly duties; and cheap babysitting while I took long, hot showers and did my hair and makeup. Shoot, my workout was only 30 minutes, but I maxed my time out there to a good 2 hours.
When I walked out of there, I felt badly about myself because I was still overweight, but I felt better because at least I had my hair and makeup done for when my husband came home -- well, in theory that was true, but if this all occurred in the morning, everything would have gone to heck by the time he saw me 7 hours later. Nonetheless, I was motivated to keep going.
After I had lost nearly 20 pounds, I had to find more motivation. I was still overweight, but I couldn't stand sharing my husband's t-shirts anymore, and the maternity pants needed to go. I went to buy a more fitted shirt for my workouts at the thrift store. I wasn't about to spend more than $1 on a lousy top, when I was only going to get it sweaty and stinky in a matter of minutes. So, as I perused the $1 rack, I found a size Sm, and I decided to just go ahead and get it, even if it was a bit snug.
I didn't know then that I had just bought the t-shirt that has changed my life. It has a hot pink "Little Miss Bad" character from Hargreaves' "Little Miss" collection, most often known for "Little Miss Sunshine". I tried it on at home, and yes, it was snug, but the first day I wore it to the gym I told myself, "I can be bad." Not naughty-bad, but "badass"-bad. Okay, I don't curse often, if at all, but "badass" is a term that I am going to proclaim as slang, not cursing. It originated in the 1960's, and it means to be excellent or tough. I claimed that for myself that day, and henceforth I am "Little Mrs. Bad".
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