The Insanity that is my life, Week 2: Days 7 -- 9

     Monday, 8/29: If there’s one thing to be said about Insanity, it’s that the program certainly changes your endorphin production for the better. Yesterday was Sunday, my day off. Surprisingly, I found myself wanting to work out. Part of me wonders if that’s because I knew I didn’t have to, and I always want to do things I arrive at on my own (remember me saying I was stubborn?).

     After several weeks (a fancy way of saying many months) of a basically sedentary lifestyle, seven days solid of daily, hardcore exercise somehow tricked my brain into thinking cardio is a good thing. I had more energy this weekend than I’ve had in a long time.

     Mind you, I still woke up this morning dreading this workout, but knowing that I would love the feeling afterwards. I was right. I’m surprised to feel like this so soon into the program, and I really, really hope it sticks around.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 7: If you get new shoes before a new exercise regime, spend some time breaking them in. K?

     Tuesday, 8/30: Pulled my quad. Bad. Stupid jumping lunges.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 8: ARGH! So frustrated.

     Wednesday, 8/31: I decided to forego plyometrics today because yesterday I pulled my right quadricep something awful. I really, really don’t want to give up on this simply because I have a penchant for ridiculous injuries. (I once pulled my groin playing volleyball. Really? Who DOES that??)

     Instead, I moved on to tomorrow’s scheduled exercise, cardio recovery. I also spent about a half an hour on the elliptical at our apartment complex’s fitness center. I figured that was low impact enough and I feel surprisingly good. Tomorrow, I’ll probably stick with cardio recovery again, then I’ll resume our regular schedule on Friday.

     I’m really finding my body craving a workout when I wake up in the morning. Chances are, my body is just in shock after having been dormant for so many weeks, but if I can get this feeling to stick around, oh, just forever, then I call this a win-win.

     I simply refuse to use this crazy quad shenanigan as an excuse to get out of anything. (Even if I DID stuff myself on bread pudding last night at Five Sister’s Blues Café… Thanks, Heather!!! :D)

   
     Honestly, that’s been my problem all these un-toned years: falling off the wagon because I’m lazy. Not anymore, my friends!

Post-It on my Mirror Day 9: Taken from a friend’s Facebook profile, "You may be surprised to find out how easy it becomes to exercise regularly, eat well, and reach a healthy weight when you stop treating your amazing body as the problem, and start using it as the solution." 

The Insanity that is my life, Week 1: Days 4 – 7

     Wednesday, 8/24: After lying on the floor last night, immobile, during mine & Husband’s marathon Mad Med sessions, I didn’t think I’d be able to do anything today. Mentally, I felt GREAT, but I physically felt like I had sandbags tied to my calves. Thankfully, 1 hour+ of grocery shopping this morning really helped work out the tight muscles.

     Shuan T must have known how we would feel because the middle of the week is your Cardio Recovery workout and it is just what the doctor ordered. No heavy cardio, no profuse sweating, no cursing the workout Gods. Just stretching, breathing, and light calisthenics like lunges and squats.

     I was still shaking like a leaf afterwards but I wasn’t headed straight for the shower, either. And, I’ve already lost 8 ounces! I think maybe I’ll weigh myself at each Fit Test every 2 weeks… those results might be a *bit* more impressive, considering feathers weigh 8 ounces. 

Post-It on my Mirror Day 4: Remember, you’re doing this for yourself. Not for anybody else.

     Thursday, 8/25: I did not work out today. The morning was spent nursing a headache that just wouldn’t go away. I thought that maybe if I napped while Ben napped, it would leave… but then Ben didn’t nap so my idea was shot. I made the decision to take a break today and then resume Friday/Saturday, rest on Sunday.

     When I’ve had workout plans in the past and come up against problems like this, I usually beat myself up so much for giving in that the entire plan just falls by the wayside. I think that giving myself some flexibility is going to be the key to keeping this up. If there is a day I simply just can’t do it, I’m not going to the throw in the whole towel: my routine will just shift one day.

Not feeling like I’m locked in a box will help see me to the end.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 5: Take care of yourself

     Friday, 8/26: Pure Cardio! And Shaun ain’t kiddin’. After a 9 minute non-stop warm up and about 7 minutes of stretching, you’re led through 16 minutes on continuous, fast-paced, heard-pounding cardio. Coming from someone who can barely jog 16 minutes straight (let alone do things like suicide jumps, power jacks, and the like), it was intense.

I’m absolutely dreading tomorrow… Plyometrics again.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 6: I will not accept laziness.

     Saturday, 8/27: I. Hate. PLYOMETRICS. Every time I see this workout scheduled on the calendar, I know it will take every ounce of willpower to begrudgingly drag my body into our designated workout space.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 7: OH THE PAIN

The Insanity that is my life: Days 1 -- 3

     Sunday, 8/21: Today was my first day of Insanity. I woke up to some frustrating news about a family member and it made me really, really angry. Then I got mad at myself for being angry. Then I wanted to cry, but I knew if I cried, then that would make me tired and I wouldn’t get out of bed. So, I decided to use it as a motivator to propel through my workout.

     The first day of Insanity is just a fitness test. You do a minute each of 8 different callisthenic exercises. “No big deal,” I thought. “It can’t be that bad, right?” Haha. I was gasping for breath after the warm up.

     My furor was enough to push me on, though. Not usually being a violent person, it surprised me how much I was able to get done using frustration as a motivator.

“How dare he?” Kick, kick, kick.
“How selfish can someone be?” Jump, jump, jump.
“Did he really think he could get away with committing a felony?” Push, push, push.

     Thirty minutes later I was done, sprawled out on the floor of our home office turned home workout room. Sweat dripped into crevices I didn’t know I had and I simultaneously cried “Yes!” and “What the hell did I get myself into?!”

This is how I looked after the Fit Test: disheveled, hammy, and inwardly dreading this experience.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 1: You can do ANYTHING for 60 days.

     Monday, 8/22: Took everything I had to lace up my sneakers. After seeing how rough the Fit Test alone was, I was definitely not looking forward to today’s Plyometric Cardio Circuit. This isn’t one of those cheesy write-ups where I say, “But you know what? It wasn’t really that bad. I loved it!” No, it is NOT.

   
     This workout SUCKS. And I could only handle half of the exercises. Thankfully, the guide (Mr. Shaun T—and he won’t let you forget it) reiterates the importance of going at your own pace… which right now is a snail guiding a tortoise through a sea of molasses. And they’re both blind. This is going to be very, very hard for me to complete.

   
     I’m quite possibly the most stubborn person on the planet, so why am I missing the diamond grade willpower that usually comes with?

Post-It on my Mirror Day 2: FOR THE LOVE OF GOD, WHY?!

     Tuesday, 8/23: WOW! I finished my workout about 2 minutes ago and I feel FANTASTIC!!!! There’s not even a hint of sarcasm there, either. I did the Cardio Power Resistance workout today and actually managed to finish ALMOST all of it. There were a few exercises where I had to slow down or just hold the squat instead of jumping with it, but that is such a vast improvement from yesterday where I seriously wanted to tie a rock around my waist and jump into the Gulf.

 
    Today’s workout has me excited for tomorrow, like I can actually finish this thing. I didn’t expect this feeling until the halfway point of the entire 2 months. Here’s hoping I’m not borderline suicidal tomorrow, though.

Post-It on my Mirror Day 3: Remember this feeling and know you’ll have it every Tuesday.

Look for my full first week recap on Saturday!

He's Probably Smiling Anyway

Prepare yourself for the ramble of the century because I’m emotional and tired. That is never a good combination.

Every person you have ever come into contact with has created you. There’s no two ways around it: your nuances, turn of phrase, entire outlook on life, can be shaped by your peers, your acquaintances, your family. How they view your existence is wholly wrapped in these things. Without other people, it is possible to lose your own identity. Essentially, you become their projections (this is why it is imperative to surround yourself with positive, uplifting people).  

Consequently, when one of those people is taken away from you, lost, or otherwise removed from your life, you lose the part of yourself that was found in that person. As the anniversary of my Grandpa’s death approaches, I’m realizing that a part of me has been gone for almost an entire year as well.

My Mom married my Dad when I was 4 years old. Right out of the gate I called him Dad, adopted his last name, and spent time doing fatherly-daughterly things like getting puppies and riding bikes. Much in the same way, his dad dove in with both feet. I never got to meet my Mom’s Dad, so Grandpa Mike was the only Grandfather I ever had. Even though I came into the picture a little later, he never wavered. He accepted me with open arms, cans of Chef-Boyardee, and way too many gifts on Christmas morning.

I’ll forever miss his off colored jokes; the way his Christmas gift selections would vacillate between wildly inappropriate and incredibly touching and useful; how he wore ladies sunglasses and we never told him; the way his apartment was littered with half finished crossword puzzle books; knowing he was always good for episodes of Law & Order or Seinfeld... or Judge Judy; shopping on Christmas Eve followed by Mexican food; the classical music in his car turned up way too loudly; his daily email with said off-colored joke, and the way he used to experiment with different fonts, text colors, and sizes because I’m pretty sure it made him feel tech savvy; sitting out on his back porch listening to NPR; the stories he used to tell me of his days at the Plain Dealer or working for the State of Ohio; the way he was gruff about agreeing to go to our sports games or piano recitals but never missed a single one; finding pumpkins to carve on Halloween; knowing not to call after 6:30pm because he was probably already asleep; cribbage; …I’m sad he only got a year with my son, and half of that time he was too sick to hold him.

Will the list of things I miss about him ever end? Probably not. So the only thing left to do is honor the life he had as a means of rebuilding what you have lost.

He left behind a drive in me to see the lighter side of life, to create an eternal goodwill amongst my friends and family, to be giving and providing, but most importantly, to earnestly love those who matter and simply forget those who don’t. And to always, always laugh.

Insanity

I’m not quite fat, but I’m not skinny either. Several years ago, if you’d have used the term “big boned,” I probably would have socked you in the nose… but now, I actually use it for myself. This is how my brain changed:

The struggle with my weight and having body issues really started in high school, when I found myself close friends with some very petite people. Jody was around 5’2’’ and a size 2 (with perfect teeth and hair, she was, and is, gorgeous). Andria, around the same height as Jody, was the “big girl” in her house wearing a size zero (while her two sisters- one older and one younger- wore double zeros). She blamed it on her genetics; A could put away an entire package of double stuff oreos and never gain an ounce. I only wish I were exaggerating. At least I had Elie on my size (side? Ha). She was my height (tall for a girl at 5’9’’), and broad shouldered, but with a flat stomach and thin, toned legs. Even she had her mother’s German metabolism, though.

The cycle only perpetuated itself when I got to college at 17. My roommate and two other close friends swapped clothes and woes if they fluctuated between sizes 4 and 6, yet my roomy would still eat rice drenched in ranch dressing, followed by plates of curly fries and cake. I had salads without dressing, sandwiches without cheese or mayo, vegetables without salt or butter and saw no change in my size 10 self. It got the point where I was so hungry and depressed, that I felt the need to eat in secrecy.

I would go to the cafeteria between classes and get big sub sandwiches to go (thick cuts of bologna with double the cheese), and eat it behind the liberal arts building. I kept bags of chips and Swedish fish hidden in my room and I would only eat them if my roommate was gone to class. Soon, I had blown the Freshman 15 out of the water and descended into the very dark realm of the Freshman 40.

I knew my friends back home would question my weight gain, so I hid from them, making up excuses about why I couldn’t come home that weekend or why I was busy during special parties or birthdays. My abusive relationship with food and my body was causing me to shut down.

After the winter break, I decided to be a recluse. Even my journal entries reflected these wishes, writing about how I couldn’t wait to get back to school just so that I could hide away and have people think I was a loner. My life consisted of going to class and thinking about food constantly- when I was allowed to eat, what I was allowed to eat, how much I was allowed to eat- it was all a game to me. I’d spend hours in the gym followed by downing handfuls of Xenadrin and taking midnight runs in the woods because my heart was racing too much for me to sleep (looking back, it’s a wonder I wasn’t abducted).

This went on until I met my future husband in the fall of 2005. He helped me to feel beautiful no matter what my size was. Around him, I naturally lost about 20 pounds. We would go for walks and talk for hours (not intending on working out, we just wanted to spend time together). My body settled into a natural rhythm of balanced eating and regular exercise. After two and a half years, we were married. On my wedding day, I was the “smallest” I had been in my adult life (and even then I was a comfortable size 12, tight 10. Remember what I said about just being big boned?)

We had our baby about a year into our marriage. Ben just turned 2 and I’m still holding on to baby weight (making me the size I was when I was so unhappy). But my husband has never called me anything but beautiful… I’ve just had a harder time believing it.

 A few months ago that started to change when I became absolutely enamored with Crystal Renn… I saw THIS picture of her in a magazine and she owned her curves.

She looked so happy, confident, secure. Like no one (not men, other women, or her family) could get her down with offhanded comments about how many calories were in that ice cream. Through more research, I found that we were the exact same height (5’9”), weight (ha, not telling), and size (around 14). I even own that bathing suit in black. Knowing she was a super successful model made me think differently about myself, that maybe I had worth, that people didn’t think I was a disgusting cow.

More importantly, I didn’t think of myself as a disgusting cow anymore. I read her autobiography, ‘Hungry’ and actually wrote some of her words on post-it notes to keep on my bathroom mirror. To give a little history: she wanted to be a model so badly that she starved herself down to 98 pounds and STILL couldn’t get work because she was told she was too big. Subsisting on a diet of lettuce, sugar free gum, and 9-hour weekend workout sessions, she broke. After letting her body settle at its natural weight, she began booking gigs left and right. She was happy, healthy, and realized that everyone is beautiful when they’re at what she calls a “set weight” (where your body natural lays). I was hooked.   

A few weeks later, I saw some picture of her floating around on Facebook. She had recently been on the cover of Mexican Vogue… and was back down to a size 0.

Her hip bones jutted out, her collar bones sharp as razors. Her eyes looked dead and I felt betrayed. Hadn’t she just told me I was perfect the way I was? Did this mean she was lying and I really AM a disgusting cow?

The shot to my confidence was almost unbearable. I don’t want to say that some silly model made me lose my mind, but I retreated into a black hole of self pity. My poor husband… I don’t think he knew how to handle it.

It wasn’t until Crystal’s very own sister wrote me on Facebook (we connected through Crystal’s fan page) that I started to climb out of that funk. She commented on a few on my posts and let me know not to read too much into her book, that it was basically a publicity stunt to get noticed by designers, and to not let it break me.

Realizing I needed to take care of myself FOR ME was what started to change my mind. Don’t lose weight to look like someone else, don’t work out for hours on end (if that’s what you choose to do) for anyone but yourself, change your outlook FOR YOURSELF.

I’m starting the Insanity workout plan on Sunday. I’d like to lose the 40 or so pounds I’ve gained since High School because I’m tired of hiding behind myself. My self-worth doesn’t lie in the number on the scale, but doing this for myself is going to create a new love for my body, an appreciation for what it does and why it’s here. Lucky YOU for getting to read about my neuroses. 

Random Acts

I love reading stories about random acts of kindness and people who do genuinely nice things simply because their heart is in the right place. On a recent flight from Atlanta, Georgia to my home in Florida, I experienced such an act.

It had been a long day of traveling with my 2 year old son. He had been staying with my parents so that I was able to go on a 2 week long cross country road trip with my two very best girl friends (and that’s a whole ‘nother story in itself!) We’d been gone from Husband and Dad for three weeks and all we wanted was to be home with him. After a fairly uneventful first leg from North Carolina to Atlanta, Ben and I found ourselves with under 20 minutes to make our connecting flight—at a terminal 2 concourses and a shuttle away in one of the biggest International airports in the country.

It was something out of a movie: here I am, a bedraggled and emotional twenty something with a toddler, a carry-on, and a car seat, lumbering though Terminal A as I hear our names being called over the loud speaker.

“This is a passenger page. Will Emily Smith please report to Gate A13 for flight 1213 with service to VPS, Florida. The gates will close in THREE minutes.”

By some glorious act of God, I made it to the gate. They practically hit me in the ass with the door, but I made it. Every single eye on that plane was upon me as I trekked back to row 38. Honestly, of all days for a flight in Atlanta to actually be on time. 

We made it to our row and found ourselves seated next to a lovely lady with perfectly coifed hair and immaculate clothes, the spitting image of Sofia Vergara. As Ben was traveling on my lap, the quarters were tight. I was so thankful that she was nice. “Sofia” explained to me that she had two kids at home, aged 14 and 17, and just loves babies. I sat back in our tiny seat and breathed a sigh of relief, both because we made it, and because I wasn’t seated next to someone who was going to judge me for bringing a young child on a plane.

Ben occupied himself by opening and closing the window shade. Repeatedly. I’ll admit, it got a little old, but seriously? When you have kids, you learn to not care what keeps them occupied as long as they’re not A)in imminent danger, or B)causing anyone else any physical harm. Whatever keeps them quiet, am I right? I thought quietly to myself that the other passengers must be thankful he’s not screaming.

Well, apparently not.

I noticed the woman seated in front of me had paged the flight attendant. She was requesting a different seat. Her son commented that they were unhappy with the child that was “banging around behind them.” The woman declined the move after she learned the only seat available was a middle seat a few rows back.

“Sofia” helped me distract Ben from the window by graciously offering her House Beautiful magazine and a few highlighters so that he could color. She then let him riffle through her Prada purse looking for more pens.

“I used to travel with my kids when they were very young,” she said. “I was a single Mom and had to travel to keep my job. I remember people not understanding what it was like and being unfriendly towards me. I’ll do whatever I can to help you because this really takes me back.”

Hopefully, she understands how thankful I was to her. Well, halfway through our 45 minute flight, I see this overly-styled pixie haircut and big, saucer like eyes peer up from the headrest in front of me. Apparently, Lady In Front had something to say.

“Do you think you could get your kid to stop kicking my seat?” she said, contempt dripping from her words.

I tried to be polite in saying to her that he was only 2… and wasn’t even moving. She actually rolled her eyes at me, a turned around in a huff.

Not even 5 minutes later, she fully reclined her seat straight into Ben’s head. I can’t make stuff like this up. Honestly, I cracked a smile and started to laugh. Sofia, on the other head, looked at me with eyes full of horror.

“I can’t believe some people,” she said. “This is a 45 minute flight… it’s so short that there’s not even a beverage service. Can she honestly not sit still for twenty more minutes?

“You know what,” she continued. “I’m going to take that empty seat in the back.”

I tried to protest, saying she really didn’t have to do that. The flight was half over already.

“No, I’m absolutely going to take it,” she said. “I remember what it’s like to travel with young kids. Some people are too ugly to care about others.”

The Lady In Front heard this comment and turned around and started to say something. Sofia simply looked at her and shrugged her shoulders with a look on her face that said, “What?… you are.”  

She moved seats, giving me and Ben the row all to ourselves. He enjoyed getting to sit in his own seat and color with the tray table in his lap. I was overwhelmed by how nice Sofia had been, how she had given up her aisle seat to go slum it in the middle. Lady In Front had her seat reclined until the last second possible, obviously enjoying her extra four inches of space.

When we landed and began to deplane, she never once looked back at me. I very briefly contemplated saying something to her, letting her know that not everyone travels for pleasure. What if I had been on my way or returning from a funeral or something terrible like that? Having to worry about HER feelings would have been last on my list. Perhaps she should be a little more understanding.

But, I didn’t. Ethics are lost on some people.

She yammered away on her Bluetooth while we waited to go to baggage claim, driving home the point that her needs were obviously much more important than everyone else’s.

Sofia and I ended up walking through the terminal together. Ben held her hand the whole time.

It’s been almost a month since this incident, and I’m still touched by her kindness. She did not have to give up her seat like that. I made the choice to travel with a toddler in my lap, so it was my responsibility to handle other passengers. I wasn’t kidding myself, either. I know people want to cry when they see babies on planes… that fact is not lost on me. I just figured that people would see me trying and at least cut me a break.

Sofia was the one that cut me a break. Her understanding is something that will stay with me. I can only hope to someday pay it forward in a way that does her justice. I only wish I knew her real name so I could thank her properly. Maybe she’ll find this one day. J