A lifetime of confession

It's been five months since I started this blog; five months since I deemed myself ready to come out of the closet of my fatness and feel comfortable with the progress I've been making. 2008 is coming to a close, as is the 46th year of life. In January, it will be one year since I started this journey toward fitness. One year since I decided to abandon the body I had and work for a new one. One year since my blood pressure was in the danger zone, and pre-diabetic glucose leves. One year since I looked at a picture of myself in the South of France in 1995 and cried for the body I once had. But let's look at that. In 1995, my body was still "mine", but I was not doing it justice because I was abusing it. The smoking made it difficult to hike, though I managed it without much trouble, I was already feeling the toll my abuses were taking.

By 1995, I smoked 1-1/2 packs of cigs a day and was existing in some modicum of meth; just enough to keep me bouyant and productive. I was stepping a fine line between falling into total meth addiction and being a normal person. In the years following, the meth was first to go ... that was in 1996, and it took one day to get over it ( though a few more to detox). The cigarettes went away in 2002 or 2003. Leaving those additions left a void. A big hole in my psyche. I started therapy to work on anger issues, issues which were causing irreparable damage to my interpersonal relationships, my relationship with myself and my cosmic relationship. Therapy cost me friends who became hostile reminders of the enraged woman I once was. It cost me a piece of security, losing all that hatred and anger. There was an empty space where all those things once lived, and I needed something to fill it.

This empty space was packed with energy; too much for me. I filled it with booze and food and food and booze. I ate whatever I wanted, drank whatever I wanted -- but always felt holier than thou because, while I abstained from illicit drugs, I never had a taste for soft drinks, french fries, or much for fast food. What I filled myself with were cocktails and toasted cheese sandwiches on sourdough bread, and red meat several times a week. I didn't eat much at a time -- the perfect cover for a fat person -- but I ate until midnight. Those midnight sourdough cheese toasts were wonderful, and comforted me through the nights.

On top of this I never exercised anymore. I didn't MOVE. I didn't walk, other than an occasional dog-walk around the neighborhood. Gardening became a physically challenging chore, though once I loved hunkering down in my yard and pulling weeds and planting things. Though I used to ride a bike or roller skate everywhere, I started either driving or foregoing the chore.

In December of 2007, my mother brought out a photo of me in Nice, France. I was slim, beautiful (in my eyes) and smiling broadly. I was so happy then, a size 9 dress, and fully comfortable before a camera. My smile was broad, my body lovely. What my mom didn't know was how completely aware I was of the difference ... and I cried and cried. I cried for the loss of my physically comfortable self. I cried for the open smile on my face in the photograph. I cried because I had lost a piece of ME. A BIG piece of me... and my body has always been my best friend ... but I had lost her.

So you go back to late January of 2008, when I joined 5-point fitness, which got me a free nutritional and also physical evaluation. The nutritional eval was not terribly eye-opening, but it did determine that I needed to ditch the refined carbs in lieu of the whole grain breads I'd been taught to eat as a child. Trade in the whole fat cheeses for neufchatel or swiss cheese. Take in more green veggies, loose the potatoes. Keep doing what I know is right, and discontinue those that know is wrong. I keep eating red meat. I love red meat. I keep the cheese, but measure it. I ditch the sourdough for whole grain. I ditch the whole grain for hemp bread, german or "health" bread.

I stop eating rice. I stop ordering burritos. I stop eating quesadilla's, unless I me them myself. I order things that have "salad" in their description. And I stop making cheese toasts at midnight. I also stop drinking as many cocktails as I've become accustomed to.

The physical evaluation wasn't even an eye-opener. "Sure", I said, "I can do a squat!" and I did. I was asked to do sit-ups, which I did. I was asked to do several other things.... I thought I was doing okay. Stein was very kind, and didn't abort my attempts to do what I thought I was doing just fine. He just did the eval, and then said he could help me get better. I wasn't in denial about my weight, but I was in denial about my abilities. Stein didn't dispell my aberrant ideations about about my capabilities. When I chose him for my personal trainer, I was ready to accept my own weaknesses. What I didn't understand was how utterly unfit I was, and and how hard I would have to work. I still am surprised at what Stein throws at me, and how how much he understands my physical and mental abilties better than I do.

When I was 12, I was fat. Fat enough that in my hot pants and terry cloth t-shirt, the Mexicans in Ti'Juana jeered and made lewd jestures. I hated my mother for not warning me. Maybe she did, but I didn't heed it. But by the time I was 14, all that fat was gone, and I was an hour-glass without the boobs. I didn't mind the lack of boobs, being perfectly happy with the wasp waist (17 inches when I was 17 years old), and 36 inch hip. Vavoom. I was desired. Through the years I kept that figure, losing it only while I was pregnant, and coming back full circle within two months of childbirth. In fact, I was better -- my boobs were huge. Loved it.

Then, as I said before, I started a decline from about 1996 on. Unfortunately, this is when Carter and I settled into being a couple, and again unfortunately, we both started to gain weight, lose muscle tone and become more and more unhealthy.

So where does this start? I could go back to the start, when a squat was me, a weight-lifting bench under my ass and Stein telling me to do TEN of them. That moved into the bench squat on one leg, another feat of my "prowess".

I got to where I could do a semblance of a squat, and I worked with that for months. Eventually, I got to where I did an "air squat" and Stein said it was "pretty" which means I'm doing pretty good. I keep working on these, and eventually, I get to a truly good squat. I'm proud of that. Everyone in the world should be able to squat, but not many of us can actually hold one in good form. I'm one of the few.

Squats now: carry a weight bar and squat low -- not like a dog taking a shit, but a clean, curved lumbar squat. I'm still working on these, but I can squat so low you couldn't put a brick between my ass and the floor if I'm doing it right. And I do it right, at least some of the time.

Walking lunges. I used to just call these lunges, but there's a difference. I used to cross the floor with major pain in my thighs and glutes. Now, I can *kiss* the floor with my knee, all the way down and all the way back.

Push-ups: I've always tried to do these "men style", i.e. I will not do knee push-ups out of pride -- I don't know how I've improved except that I can do crossfit workouts and do them 10 or 15 at a time. No idea how I was to being with, except that I had to do them on a raised bench, and now I can do them on the floor, or with grips. I know it's gotten better, but I cannot measure how.

Rowing machine: the first time Stein told me to do 1000 meters, I struggled, sagged and fought for it. Five hundred meters can seem hard, but when you can nail 1000, five hundred isn't much (unless you do the crossfit known as "Tailpipe") Now, I do it as a part of my warm-up. It's just what I do.

Today I did a crossfit for 20 minutes time. As many sets of the following:

5 push-ups (i used handles, but on the floor, because of my tendon problems)
10 kettle bell swings (1/2 pood) -- this will be 3/4 pood after Xmas
15 air squats

I did 13 sets for the 20 minute time. Stein thought I should do 15 sets, but I got that fucking strain in my back, which slowed my squats. In fact, my squats for the last several sets SUCKED. But I'm okay with the fact that I did not quit. I even got in the five push-ups. So I'm okay with that.


Five minutes after the crossfit, Stein brought Laura (a friend and the membership Diva) to do a "partner" workout. Laura's about 10 years younger than me, and had her workout in the a.m., so had some rest --- I was heck of tired, but we did the "Tailpipe": row 500 meters, then hold a weight for the rowing time -- do this times 3.

Laura is righteous, she rowed her ass off for me. I don't know if I rowed as hard, but I tried. I was pissed that Stein set me up for this, but you know, I'd die before I'd let down someone I care for ... so I rowed as hard as I could and I felt like it would kill me ( after the aforementioned crossfit) ... and Laura is a strong-ass woman who deserves a lot of kudo's for working with me and for me. She rocks.

Crossfit really makes you stronger. It is hard, it breaks you, it makes you stronger. You sometimes feel good, but you always feel better for getting through it.

As I type, I feel like a disjointed ragdoll. I am bruised and sore, but I know that what I did today makes me better, stronger, more fit..

I'm ready for my 47th year. Thank you Stein, thank you Crossfit,

Thank you, Me.

You Caught me Smilin' (Again)

Oh yeah, the presidential campaign has, by a landslide, voted in Barack Hussein Obama as President of the United States of America. No news could be better. nothing could rejuvenate my feelings of hope. Nothing else could have renewed my trust in the people of my proud, strong and wonderful country.

I wrote last about change, and hope, and felt a difinitive connection between my hope for our upcoming president and my powerful body changes via crossfit training.

What I want to share now is the idea of Hope. Barack Obama has been lading the bill of Hope. Hope for change, hope for future, hope for security, hope for peace. I've been on his bandwagon my whole life.

The first presidential election I voted in was against Ronald Reagan in 1980. It was an important first; I voted against California Governor Reagan in a Presidential election I felt was vitally important to the safety of our country. My vote lost, and I had to wait for Clinton to give me a feeling of hope and chance that we could, as a country, regain our strength, dignity and safety.

Then there was the Bush administration. I had lost hope for the last eight years, but really it was the last four years that confounded me.

Hope. Inspiration. Change. I did a crossfit training today that seemed impossible. I felt terrible. I was worried for the presidential campaign and had nothing to eat. I couldn't eat as I was so terribly anxious and upset by this election. Additionally, my mother was setting out on a plane trip to go through a grueling divorce trial which doesn't hold her in much favor. At the gym, I asked for a carb drink -- something without caffiene or weird herbs, just an electrolyte drink, and I paid $3.00 for it. I drank it slowly, not wanting to settle a bunch of liquid in my gut, but wanting to get some glucose and sucrose and some electrolytes in my system. It felt embarassing to feel shakey and weak, but that's how I went into it, and Stein wasn't really into giving me much slack anyway.

4 sets of 5o rope jumps
4 sets of 25 jumping jacks

Then a circuit set of 3 sets each of primarily upper body work

Then the crossfit:

10 reps of thusters, 15 pounds each barbel for total of 30 lbs.
15 reps 1/2 puud kettle bell sumo swings
20 crunches
25 rope jumps (should be double-unders)

Time: 13:02.

This was a pivotal workout for me, 0nly because in my head, in my body, and in own ability, I finished. I felt like crap, but that crap wasn't enough crap to allow my mind to allow me to lose. I dared not ask where the polls were while I was diving into this particular workout, but I knew that my trainer has my same point of view.

My workout was hard, very hard, but what I had to give, I gave. I got into a zone I had never been in before. That Zone was one of those wierd zen places where you know you are not going to give up, and you're going to finish. And I dd finish. It was hard, but I got through it.

There is hope. I have hope in myself, but more so I have hope in my country and my government. But it helps if you can find your zone; once you are in that zone, it doesn't cost anybody; you just set your sites and you hit them. That's how Obama did it, and that's how I'm oing t do it, too.

Time for Change

I'm watching Barack Obama kick John McCain's ass in the current election. It's giving me hope as I watch our pessimism and culture of fear change to optimism; the glass-half-full weltenshaung. Fear has been haunting this nation for eight years, and I'm sick and tired of it. I'm not afraid anymore, including that day in 2001, September 11, when I awoke to NPR's announcement that "something" had hit both World Trade Center Towers. I spent the next several hours riveted to the television. There was no morbid curiousity, only grief in those hours.

But now I'm feeling hope. I'm no longer focused on getting Osama Bin Laden (you know the one;l the one who isn't in Iraq, the one who isn't in Iran... but we forgot where to look for him); I'm focused on getting this country back to the 'right' again. We are a nation built of tough, resilient people. We have always been strong, willful people who will fight for whatwe believe in. And we win, when we unify and dignify each other of us to imagine each individual being strong, willing and ABLE to fight for what we believe in. Not extremism, not individualism, and NOT adversarial "us versus them" mentalities that threaten the very fiber of what makes us Americans -- all of us, African-American, European-American, Latin-American, Asian-American, Middle Eastern-American, East-Indian-American and others. We are all part of the fabric that builds this country, and we have to be STRONG and fit and ready to fight for this country and for ourselves. Are you ready? I am.

That brings me to next diatribe in this blog, a blog I've sadly let go for a few months.

I'd been doing a lot of hard circuit training with my personal trainer -- dare I say, my mentor, Stein-Erik Skaar. This guy has both beat me up and encouraged me. Mostly, he's been teaching me -- how to stretch my ideas of endurance, my limitations, and what I can do to overcome my body's weakness -- the weaknesses I've allowed to creep in over the last 15 years. He's taught me a lot about what I can endure, what I can overcome, and how far I have to go. I've lost little in the way of real weight (30 pounds), but my muscles speak for themselves. I've gotten strong and lean(er) and have no doubts about my physical prowess. I like circuit training, in fact, I think circuit training is absolutely the way to go for newbies getting into physical fitness. There's only one caveat: to do circuit training safely, you need someone to show you how to do it. You do need someone to help you through a circuit, to discuss what you are working, how to use the right form to avoid injury, and how to conquer weaknesses. I've been doing circuit training for eight months now, and I've lost over 30 pounds, and likely gained 15 pounds in muscle. My heart beats like it has a purpose; no longer am I worried about a heart attack. My lungs feel as if they have expanded, though of course they haven't. What my lungs have learned is to take in as much oxygen as they can and disperse it as efficiently as possible, through my strengthened heart, and into my large muscles. This, folks, is how circuit training positively effects your body: you engage you heart, your lungs, and your large muscles in order to create a uniquely working team with your entire body.

You start with stressing the muscles, this also stresses your cardiovascular system -- which in turn, returns the oxygen to those large muscles (in particular your legs, but also everything else). In the end, the lungs are heaving to keep up with the oxygenation needs, but your heart, if it's in shape, is pumping as best it can to keep everything well oxygenated. It all works; it takes time, a little pain, a bit of discomfort... and in the end you know your body has worked for you. And it only gets better.

I had a recent conversation with a so-called trainer in a local gym who had no idea what I was talking about... he kept taking me around the Nautilus machines, telling me how isolation weight training actually helped leach toxicity from your muscles. He asked me to do some adductors on a Nautilus machine which isolates only the inner thigh. I complied, and since he'd put on about 40 pounds of resistance, I did about 40 of them (without any stress at all) before asking him if I could then stop. I tried to explain that circuit training, in my world, involved whole body movements, inculding solid core exercises that work out the whole body in a holistic manner, which better suits a person's ability to do every day activities, as well as building strength and endurance. He just didn't get it and kept carping on about the benefits of isolated muscle development. Let me tell you, in some respects, he is right. You can reap huge benefits from Universal type equipment, and you can do it without supervision or training (for the most part), but what you don't get is the overall body improvement -- cardio, vascular and muscular -- that you do from whole body circuits. Nautilus-type systems serve to build individual muscle groups; this isn't bad, but is does nothing holistically for your body, and adding in bits of cardio work isn't going to do it either. To get the best hard-hitting work, you need to both muscular involvement with cardio work, which is whole body involvement, not muscle isolation. This, the Nautilus system does not provide. Unfortunately, to do this you do need someone to train you with form and function; form is most important in order to avoid injury. A personal trainer isn't always necessary, but it certainly helps. There are many step-by-step guides that can help, but you must be careful. Movements as simple as lunges or squats can incur injury if done incorrectly, so it's important to pay attention to whatever is used as instruction.

So. Two weeks ago Stein pretty much set me up for something I've been resisting: Cross Fit. This is a workout regimen that requires 100% participation at 100% capacity for the duration. Let me elaborate: you take a workout and you do it hard, furious, and as fast as you can. In the end, what matters, is the time it takes you to get through the entire workout. It is fucking Savage. I submitted to this workout because I could tell that Stein wasn't going to let me off, and for the last three meetings, we've been doing Cross Fit. It kicks your ass, it beats you down, and in the end YOU WIN. It's like fighting yourself until you are completely beat down... but once you're done, you know no one can beat you down ... except you.

It's like taking that ass-kicking, and kicking it's ass right back.

Check out crossfit.com. It's the shit.

I Try.

Today's workout was disappointing. I seem to have pulled muscle in my butt, which affects all the tendons down my leg. Don't know how this happened, as I didn't feel the "pull" until two days after a workout a couple weeks ago. Subsequently, my workout with Stein caused a lot of pain. What a crock of shit, and I'm so frustrated with myself and my stupid little aches and pains... so now I'm on 100% upper body work, which in and of itself is a lot of crazy hard work, but when you don't have those big leg muscles working out, it feels like the work out itself is almost inconsequential.

Let me elaborate on that: When you can't work out your lower body, you have torso (back, stomach, sides) and arms (a bunch of tiny muscles in the deltoids, as well as the larger arm muscles), all of which are strong and sturdy, but none of which, collectively, work the oxygenation of your system overall. It's like to work to a painful end by stressing the muscles so hard you can't push anymore, but you don't have the overall exhaustion of the oxygen-stealing huge muscles, i.e. those in your thighs.

I spent most of yesterday sanding, spackling and then painting my 'granny unit... 400 square feet of teenage boy abused space... black-ink Sharpie penned inscriptions all over the walls, thousands of pin holes from darts thrown from various directions... an entire room of teenaged boy disaster that I had to recover and recoup in order to make a living space for my aging mother. God Damn. After four hours of secondary clean-up (having spent several hours in previous weeks prepping for this), I painted... and painted... and painted... Today the room is a bright light yellow glow, all clean of graffiti and other crappy avante garde, shitey artwork. but my arms were in total pain, tendonitis in my elbows having set in rather surprisingly.

Which brings me to today: Stein declares NO lower body at all. It's better to have no workout than to cause any additional injury that could result in a three month recovery. Of course he's right, but I'm frustrated, knowing I'll be doing all upper body work. Have to mention, I don't want to be whiner, but my elbows are hurting like crazy; I mean, it's like I have tennis elbow except I don't play tennis. Oh what the heck, I did some upper body work I've never done before, and it was kick ass. So I have a couple icee hot stickers on my body after the fact. It's all good.

I go into my workout anyway, make a small mention about the fact my elbow tendons are in pain... nah...

By the end of the workout, my arms and upper body are whipped, but the fact is I feel like I cheated. My legs and butt are singing melodious about how they didn't have to endure pain and I'm figuring my ass and legs need it most of all!

So today I write it off. I believe Stein is right; if I overwork a strained muscle I'm in for several months of recovery; if I let it rest for this week I'll be up and ready for the upcoming week. Still, in spite of lat and deltoid pain I'm suffering, which is severe and all-encompassing, I know that i'm gearing up for a serious whole body workout next week.

Carter got his first dose of Crossfit. I encourage anyone who thinks they've got what it takes to take a look at crossfit.com. This hard-core workout is for those who are ready to be worn out, but ready for all physical emergencies. Carter rocks; damn he rules! He did the Fight Gone Bad. It was a knock out, and he wasn't sure he could make it through the first set (after the bottle of sake last night), but he did... Damn he makes me feel so proud. Wish I could do what he does; so glad he does what he can. Crossfit.com; check it out. You might be inspired.

Gerald McBoing Boing

http://www.bremenonline.org/boing/boingboing.htm

Jungle Boogie

Monday was a great day! Son-ray came by the shop on his way home, and I invited him to come check out my gym, which he took me up on. Stein gracefully worked him into my routine, which I did not expect. I love Stein. He's such a great guy.

I could see that Dash was impressed after the first set (with two more sets of three to go!). Stein had him sweating and working hard, doing the same routine as me, but with heavier weights. Yeah, the kid was really sweating and I could see he was both dubious about doing the entire work-out, as well as ready to go through it to the end (hell, you can't let your middle aged mom get the best of you, can you???). He does go to the gym, and he is athletic, but he hasn't been doing these intensive training sessions, as I have, for the last six months.

At the end of the hour, Dashiell was pretty thrashed. As he should be. Stein is a great teacher, and an A-Plus task-master. But even thrashed, D. liked some of the dynamic/explosive movements so much he went in for another set. I gave Dash some of the protein smoothie I always have ready post-workout, which he was really going to need.

The apex of this whole thing was that he texted his GF as left for home; "My mom is a SAVAGE, and her trainer is NO JOKE." Yeah, that felt really good.

Hot Thang!

Today was the 5th day in a row I made it to the gym. Tues/Friday were days with Stein, but Mon, Wed, Thurs, I actually made it on my own and did those 2K rows. Today, I could think of every excuse in the world why meeting with Stein wasn't going to work; I don't know ... I have cramps. I woke up at 5:30 and I'm tired ... too much rowing ...

I woke up at 5:30 a.m., went toward the kitchen and something smells nasty. Oh hell, Stella the bulldog got diarrhea sometime during the night. Nope. Not going there... I turn around and go back to bed. And ignore it .... 7:00 a.m. I can't ignore this any longer. I clean up the crap, mop the floor, take out the trash. Damn. I have a doctor's appointment at 9:00 a.m. Go back to bed, pretend I'm just too wiped out to make the appointment. 7:30 a.m. Okay, that's lame. Get up, shower, scowl at the dogs who are cowering because they can tell I'm pissed. Open windows to air out the house.

Get to the Gyn, who is always droll. He does the PAP smear and palpates things that aren't supposed to be palpated and it doesn't feel good. He looks me in the eye as we discuss the issue of getting older, am I in menopause? No, not by a Looooong shot. Periods? Normal as they 've ever been, well I do have horrendous cramps.... He's been my Gyn for many years now. He's frank, honest, doesn't pull any punches. Offers me Motrin for my cramps, which I accept. I notice he has no problem with wiping his cheek right after taking the glove off his hand, and I'm kind of impressed that he's not grossed out that his hand was all up in me a couple minutes before, yet he doesn't even wash his hands. Weird that I took notice of this, but there ya go. Is this TMI? Yeah, to me, too. But what the fuck. Every chick goes through this, we just don't usually discuss it in detail. Suffice it to say, there is nothing more weird than a strange guy smushing your tits, then smashing your vagina in order to check everything out. Hey, Doc, it all felt okay when I got here.. now I'm not so sure... All the while we're discussing what my cervix looks like. Dude! I've never seen my cervix, and I see no need to see it now, in this sterile room with you. I can do this later with my husband, should we decide to do so. Do We Need to Be Discussing This? No. Not in this lifetime. I'm no prude, not by a longshot, but No One but a lover should be so intimate with these parts, which is probably why I do this only every three years, as prescribed by Dr. B.

Okay, so I go through that bullshit, after cleaning up dogshit, watering the tomato plants and trying to find some clean underwear. Once I get back home, I make coffee and healthy wholegrain soy-sausage egg mcmuffin's for my McMuffin, and then it's off to the Motorcycle Shop for more fun n' games.

It's a busy day, and I'm still coming up with excuses to skip my appointment with Stein. Except I know Stein's not going to accept my bullshit excuses today. I'm not sick, I haven't hurt anything, and I'm perfectly capable of doing my work out. So I go.

We start with kettle ball "throws", which means you bring it down through your legs, using your lower back, then up level to your face, using the momentum, continue up to a 20 count. Feels easy, up to a point. That point being when the lower back starts complaining about the effort, inner thighs straining, and lower back starting to strain. The sweat starts rolling and my lungs are aching. At about #10, I can feel it in my inner thighs, my abs and lower back. Stein tells me to focus on the lower back next time. I thought I was; guess I wasn't. Next, pull downs at 90 pounds, my personal best weight thus far (I've seen men who can't do this). Hell, I can't even remember the core exercise we did. But that's okay, I'll be reminded next week.

We do this two more times.

Second set: these ridiculous side-to-side skips, touching a 10 pound medicine ball from one cone on the left, ten feet over, touch down on the right. one and one, two and two, three and three... Are you kidding me? This hurts! I keep going. It sucks, what a great workout. Second exercise, hold a soccer ball between your feet, straight up. Take a weight in your two hands, and then stretch toward your feet. Count of 20. Ball plank, take two 15 pound weights and do some fly's. Yea! That's so much fun, I want to barf! Let's do that two more times!

Third set: One-leg push ups; sit on a bench, take a 20 pound medicine ball and then step up on one leg; do this 10 times on each side. You'd be surprised how hard this can be. One-armed wood choppers. I ask for an additional 10 pounds because, I suppose, I'm a masochist, but it's what I needed. Three-point plank: one foot in the air for 5 secs, the other foot up for 5 for at least 30 seconds total. It's harder than you think, especially after doing the first sets of exercises.

Here's where I discuss Stein's medicine ball: this thing is a three-foot circumference slightly smooshy ball that weighs 20 pounds. That seems easy, right? Well it's not. Try keeping one of these things aloft while you are doing lower body work. I sound like a whiner, but the truth is, the 20 pound medicine ball is a significantly difficult tool to work with and I don't like... no, not at all.

The end result of all this complaining? I feel like Super Woman, like I do every Tues/Friday and wiped out as I am, I know that my body is stronger than anyone would imagine. Powerful. Amazing. Healthy. Strong. Well, my Sun-ray calls me to tell me the sonogram of the 9 week old fetus shows four limbs, all in the right place, a nice round head, and a soundly beating heart... It's kicking and moving around like a tiny gummy bear, and all I can think is... wow! Wow! WOW! Sun-Ray is beaming, the happiest guy on the planet, and thankfully starting to consider finances and budgeting, which needs be done. Babies aren't cheap. Diapers are expensive. Thankfully, there are few of us more than interested enough to invest in baby stuff.

I get through this workout, in this week, the first week I'm pushed myself hard five days in a row, and I'm looking forward to a good five-mile hike with my doggies this weekend. Muscles are a bit sore, but they feel taut and strong, blood pressure is way down (as measured by Kaiser this a.m. -- at worst it was about 160/90, and is now 127/73 -- totally normal) and overall, I know from blood work earlier in this regimen, that my blood sugar is down from pre-diabetic to completely normal and my cholesterol is lowering dramatically.

And after I got home home and took a shower, I saw a body that I didn't have six months ago. It's a body reminiscent of one I used to know.

Hot Thang.

Nothin' from nothin' leaves nothin'

Vlad-Stein, my trainer, has been pushing me to work on my off days (those without his "tutelage"; can we re-categorize this is torture? No?) So on Monday, our Motorcycle Business's slooooowest day of the week, it was, well, slow. So I decided to take a half an hour to do something at the gym. I always feel like an ass going to the gym to walk on a treadmill, so I figured I'd try something Stein had asked me to do last week: the rowing machine. This thing was (forgive me) FUCKED UP when he first set me to the 2000 meter task, but I figured what the hell, if I can do 5oo meter mini-stints, I can do this. So, I got on the treadmill for a 10 minute warm-up, at a 10% incline and then settled in to the rower, set at level 5 (mid-level). I got to rowing, listening to some raucous Stevie Wonder tunes (having deleted the soft, soul stirring bullshit) and just sat there rowing. Before I knew it the meter read 1K, so I kept going... until the meter finally hit 2000K and I stopped, purple in the face, breath coming hard and fast. Damn, that was difficult. I'd never done that before, but I felt an amazing sense of exhiliration and accomplishment. Tuesday, meeting with Stein, once again whupped into a sense of humility, I wondered why the hell was it all so damned hard? So I went to the gym again on Wednesday, and rowed 2000 meters. But once I was in the groove, I just kept going, ending up at 2700 meters. Today, I did the same 10 minutes on the treadmill, and another 2,000 meters on the rower. I would probably have done more, except for knowing that Stein has me for an hour tomorrow and I can't completely wear myself out.

Let me also add that when I proudly told Vlad-Stein I'd done 2000 meters, he almost immediately said, "you should try to get up to 5000 meters". I'm like, What the Fuck Dude?!?!? but I knew that he'd want more from me than I think I can bring. And he's always right.

I've got a whole new body now. It's been six months, and this body is muscled like crazy. Still veiled with a layer of fat, but heck of strong. I know people look at me and think, "Gee, fat angry woman..." what they don't take into account because they can't see it is that I've got astonishing muscle-mass. I could break most women like a twig. It's the knowing this that gives me personal self-esteem; I don't need to prove shit, since I know where I'm at.

Today's anecdote: My son, Dash, started a small road-rage incident the other day ... woman in the other car tried to run the stop sign... darling Sun-ray Dash decides to get pissed off ... and the woman does, too, her toddlers in the backseat. I have to ask Sun-ray, "Dude, you know if we all have to get out of the car, you got a pregnant woman, yourself -- a guy -- and me, your mom." He looks at me for a second or two before I say, "I would break that woman like a damn toothpick. What's the fucking point? I don't want to get into that battle." He drives on, still fuming about the angry woman. I'm just glad that Sun-ray and Angry Woman didn't decide to start a battle.

I'm amazed at my stamina and strength, what my body does now defies the last ten years of laziness. My body is stronger now than it was when I was 30 and working out every day. The circuit training and core-strength emphasis is what's done it. It's even more important now that I'm going to be a grandmother. I don't want to be grandma. I want to be Nana or some derivative. As I read it, I am of a generation who just don't feel old enough to be grandmothers, so we have to redefine ourselves. Personally, I don't want to be that old lady with hard candies on the coffee table in a faux crystal candy bowl. Let me be the one who says to the kid, "We're going on a 5 mile hike..." We'll hunt for some tadpoles, sight some butterflies, identify some native plants, but all the time we'll be hiking up some insane hillside to do all that. And I'll let the kid try to wear ME out.

After I kick the kid's ass, I'm gonna go back home, build a perfect cocktail and say, "Hey, Kid, can you go get granny another olive for her martini?"

Yeah, that's the grandma I'm gonna be. That's my story and I'm sticking to it. I can't wait for my grandkids (just don't call me Granny, dammit). If the kid's dad is any example, they better come out ready to throw some rocks, row some crew, win some Karate tournaments and scrum with some Maori rugby players.... otherwise, they're not gonna be able to handle grandma.

Lovely Day

This morning, I've got this idea to go to Dark Garden and get a new corset, the one day off Carter and I have this week, but dammit, I want a waist cincher. Plus it's D.G.'s one yearly sale so I'd save some money. Poor Carter says he'll join me, but obviously he'd be chaffeuring yet again to do some needless shopping. He wouldn't enjoy it, I know this. Carter's such a great guy. He will do what I want, even if he really doesn't want to. About the only thing he will stay home for is going to some mainstream amusement park, which I understand. Other than that, he's game. What a sweetheart he is.

So Dash and Jessica show up around noon and I suddenly remember there's some event at the Dunsmuir House, so I look it up and sho' nuff, there's the Scottish Games. Now I'm of Irish heritage meself, but it sounds kind of fun, so I switch gears and decide the corset can wait. Off we go. Jessica's hell of tired. The poor thing is just dragging ass through the 2 miles of walking we end up doing, and I'm looking at her thinking "Pobrecita!" Dash, of course, is everywhere; talking to the caber tossers and tossing 90 pound rocks around with guys in kilts jeering him. We spend a great deal of time talking to falconers -- they brought out peregrine falcons, gosshawks, barbary falcons, an enormous owl, even a golden eagle -- and these people are so eager to give out information and help us understand what they do, it's amazing. The actual Scottish gamers are equally eager to talk with us and encourage our interest. These people train all year for these festivals. Dashiell falls in love with the idea of being a gamer and starts chatting up some of the gamers, and this big sturdy chick named Megan gives him her email and wants to work with him! He's so psyched. My boy Dash, he just gets himself into everything and here is wanting to hurl ginormous rocks across the lawn in competition with these big burly Scotts. Good for him!

We get home around 4 p.m. and talk about having some dinner together -- some Harris ranch prime ribs, chicken, and huge home made Caesar salad with fresh dressing -- Yum! And we're having this conversation about the games and then getting some ingredients for the Caesar dressing and Dashiell blurts out: "Jessica's pregnant."

Yeah, they are pregnant and this one (the last one failed) looks like it's going to last. In nine months I will have a grandchild. This is just a Wow evening for me. Dashiell was kind of upset that I didn't react with more glee, but to tell the truth, Jessica had hipped me to her "condition" a few weeks ago, for a variety of reasons. Dashiell has been wrestling with how, when, where to tell me and Jess and I have just been quiet about it. I didn't want to steal his thunder, but it's so obvious she's pregnant; her boobs are huge, her little tummy is pooching a little bit and she's so damned tired, all the time. I've been there, and even if she'd not said a word, I'd have been suspicious. But now the news is out and I'm damned happy about it.

It's never easy to bring a child into the world, and frankly, there's never a perfect, right time. You just do it when it happens and go for the whole ride. It's a blast, and I've never regretted my child, just as I know that this child will be everything s/he should be.

Yes, it was A (perfectly) Lovely Day.

Peace.

the lesson of the moth

i was talking to a moth
the other evening
he was trying to break into
an electric light bulb
and fry himself on the wires

why do you fellows
pull this stunt i asked him
because it is the conventional
thing for moths or why
if that had been an uncovered
candle instead of an electric
light bulb you would
now be a small unsightly cinder
have you no sense

plenty of it he answered
but at times we get tired
of using it
we get bored with the routine
and crave beauty
and excitement
fire is beautiful
and we know that if we get
too close it will kill us
but what does it matter
it is better to be happy
for a moment
and be burned up with beauty
than to live a long time
and be bored all the while
so we wad all our life up
into one little roll
and then we shoot the roll
that is what life is for
it is better to be a part of beauty
for one instance and then cease to
exist than to exist forever
and never be a part of beauty
our attitude toward life
is come easy go easy
we are like human beings
used to be before they became
too civilized to enjoy themselves

and before I could argue him
out of his philosophy
he went a immolated himself
on a patent cigar lighter
i do not agree with him
myself i would rather have
half the happiness and twice
the longevity

but at the same time i wish
there was something i wanted
as badly as he wanted to fry himself

-- archy

Smoke gets in your eyes

So I go to the gym yesterday, and I'm mad. I came in angry just because. Stein, my ever-tormenting mentor and physical trainer, sets me up for lunges and hands me two 15 pound weights to haul around on this arduous task. I ask him, "Why the hell did I just lost 30 pounds if you're gonna add it back on every time I do a exercise?" He laughs and I scowl, knowing that I'm being asked to do something more taxing, since it has become so much easier. So we get to the lunges, one and one, two and two, three and three, etc. etc. That's why I pay this man. He burns my ass and pisses me off, and works me. That's the point, you see.

The air quality is bad here in Bay Area or in California in general, in case anyone cares. We're literally burning down. Here in the cozy East Bay, we aren't burning. Yet. But we are living under a cloud of noxious particulates and smoke that hangs over like a shroud of death. There are several hundred small and large fires all over Northern CA, many of which are burning out of control. The smoke has to blow somewhere, and right now, it's blowing right into our nooks and crannies. Not fun. It causes me anxiety, the not being able to see the blue sky thing, and every time I take deep breaths -- like when doing those lunges -- and my chest clutches up and I feel like I can't breathe. Focus, I say to myself. Just focus. I tell Stein I'm having trouble breathing, and I can tell he lets up on me a little bit, just a little bit. He's waiting to see if I pass out, clutching my chest like a horror-film victim. I get the feeling he thinks I'm just complaining, but honest, I'm not. I can not fucking breath here, folks, but I'm going to do this entire hour of circuit training today because giving up is not in my vocabulary. The not giving up thing is the only viable reason I'm even here at all.

But this is circuit training, which means 3 rounds of 3 exercises with minimal rest. Then you do cardio, and another three rounds of three exercises. More cardio. Three more rounds, three more exercises. Finally, after a final round of cross-fit intensive exercises, I'm done. I'm glad and as always, proud of myself for doing it.

Here's a little story, courtesy of my own schadenfreude: I was at the gym one day a couple weeks ago, working out by myself, and there's this large woman who comes in and only does the weight machines. No cardio, no free weights, just machines. She keeps giving me the hairy eyeball, like somehow I stole her boyfriend back in high school 30 years ago. I'm seeing this out of the corner of my eye. I know she's seeing this middle aged, overweight woman doing things she'd probably never thought about (that's okay, neither did I until the last six months), and she's thinking that I'm just a show-off. My second circuit, I decide to isolate on the leg press machine, so I get on there and put on 175 pounds of resistance weight (I have done up to 210) and proceed on my 15 reps. Then I get up and go back to doing some Swiss ball crunches, and out of the corner of my eye I see the fat lady kind of sneer at me and settle herself on the leg press. She doesn't change the weight, I notice, and think "Shit! She's actually going to try it!" And by Golly Miss Molly, that dumbass really did. I watched her push as hard as she could and that weight wasn't moving anywhere. She stressed and strained, and I'm sitting there on my 20th crunch going, "Oh my god lady, you're gonna kill yourself". But thank God, she finally decided that she wasn't going to make it after all and moved the weights down. She stopped glaring at me after that. Perhaps she learned her lesson:

Don't ever think that what you see is what it appears. Just ask the fat the lady singing on the leg press machine.

By the way, I wasn't pissed off anymore yesterday, it just got kind of beaten out of me. And the sunset is wildfire orange-red, just as it should be with a huge cloud of smothering, noxious burn-off.

When we were young and beautiful...

So I spent the last few days searching through thousands of photographs... some of them good, some bad. Me? Damn, I was pretty damned cute. And the photos bring ups some seriously tumultuous emotions, which I won't go into here. Most of the photos from the era I am investigating are of my significant other, the man whose child I bore. A handsome young man whose sheer magnetics attracted me. I look at the photographs now... of a tall, thin young man, and wonder what drew me in? I know what it was, but it's nothing an ordinary person could understand. It was a challenge to live life as far as could be pushed. It was a desire to see how hard it could be to live. Dying is easy, it's living that scares me to death. Yeah,sometimes death might have been an easier choice.

It's not so hard to tell really. He was a liar as well as sincere. What he bantered to the crowd were words meant to deceive as well as draw in. He built his performance flawlessly. What he could not take into account was his inherent ability to convince; to charm and flirt. He took his crowds and gave them an incalculable reality -- believe me, because not believing me is worse. And you don't want to see that. His insanity sated the crowd. The very prowess of his ego soothed them; they could go home with his pride intact. They, on the other hand, got taken by his deception. I bet there are hundreds of people who have photos of that magician in their photo albums -- a summer vacation story that they remember. A still life of sorts that they will hold fondly forever.... "Remember the time I broke the cinder block on that guys stomach?" ...yuck yuck yuck. And you probably walked away before you gave him a dime. Shame on you.

Physics people, it's all physics.

Reality: He came home bruised, with pin pricks on his back. They didn't go away until he stopped performing that trick for several weeks.

Reality: How did he get those lemons under the cups? Well if you weren't paying attention, why should I tell you? The trick is obvious, you're just not paying attention.

Reality: A day at Disneyland is very much like taking 1/2 a step every few minutes, and checking your watch like that's going to help. Why would you even do that?

Reality: How did he pick the card you chose? Well, if you don't know, I'm not going to help out. So there. Even us laywomen have to keep things in the circle.

But at least you have some idea about why a woman would choose a magician. There's just so many scintillating secrets...

C'est vrai, mes mecs, c'est vrai.

The worms, the spice, is there a relationship?

My God. I've been spending the last many months torturing myself over my own body. Not such a bad thing, and I've made big strides to regain my sense of self, but something happened recently that has seriously made me examine some other aspects of my life. Some things I think that are more vital to understanding my life, the course of it and the why of it.

In the last week, I reconnected with a person I've not seen or spoken to in maybe 23 years. The internet, a modern miracle of technology, is to thank as I would have lost him forever without it. His name is Tom Frank, a magician, a jokester and all over hard-core guy who spent a few years with me in the immeasurable hell of the mid 1980's, a time for us of abundant drug abuse, thievery, trickery and most of all the testing of human limitations. Our common link is a man I had an intimate relationship with, and eventually, a child. We both admire and loathe this man, rue the day we met him, and yet I think we both owe him a nod of respect for introducing us to the very reasons why, in fact, we both still want to be alive. It takes reaching down into the depths of your soul and the limitations of your moral and physical endurance. This is not a story about drug addiction or unethical actions. It is a story about loss of reason. There were few who shed the garments of social convention, disdained the rules and so flagrantly broke them... and usually got away with it.

The past week has reawakened an interest in coming to grips with a past only a few could comprehend.

I am glad that Tom came back into my life not only to relive the adventure, but to move beyond it. I had long thought it would take more than one to mold the story into something coherent, something we could use as a catharsis. We need to move on, but never forget.

Time flew by

Before I knew it, it was a week before the wedding. I was a nervous wreck, everything seemed completely chaotic. I didn't want to work out, didn't want to continue the torment of the dress fitting, which was excruciating, didn't want to go to work and definitely didn't want to hear everyone tell me it was all going to go fine. Everytime I went for a fitting, the skirt got smaller and smaller, in accordance with my weight loss (that was okay) and the jacket kept getting tighter and tighter -- in accordance with the expansion of my arm muscles. The jacket just didn't fit and my dress-maker was getting frustrated. I understood but there wasn't anything she or I could do about it.

The corset, bless Dark Garden, was not an overall easy fix. Autumn, stroking her chin in perplexion: "I told you you could lose 20 pounds, but I didn't say you could change your body." Scrutinizing me and my ill-fitting corset a bit longer, "About all I can do is take it in, it will work, but you have changed your body." She did this alternation in only 2 days, bless her again, and the corset fit about as well as it could. It was in fact stunning, the most amazing thing ever. I highly recommend corsets for anyone, thick or thin.

Ditching the jacket for the wedding, choosing instead a silk Indian shawl, I felt FABULOUS and didn't mind for one minute that I was cinched up a good 4 inches smaller than I was. I've lost 25 pounds since February.

I'll blog on the wedding in another post, because there's a lot to say about weddings in general and mine specifically. Let's just say I looked like someone who walked out of a Western Saloon in 1865 and felt perfect, amazing, beautiful. That's thanks to Laura Benitez, my dress-maker and Autumn and Alysha at Dark Garden -- all amazing women who help other women feel beautiful with their craft and skill, in spite of the "flaws".

And here's to Stein who keeps laughing at me when I try to call in sick for my work-outs; it's never too hot for him (try 100 degrees without air conditioning), too tired, too stressed or too whatever. He just laughs and tells me to come in and stop being a wuss.

Keeping the faith

Finished work-out #12 today.

I'm a little frustrated, though changes are perceptible. Today noticed that maybe there's lessof that extra chin which has grown in the last 10 years much to my great annoyance. Though my pants don't feel any looser, my belt is cinched in tighter. My upper chest muscles are becoming pronounced, as are the muscles in my calves and legs overall. My stomach is definitively flatter and feels less in my way. The measurements this week are down 1/4 to 1/2 an inch, and I keep thinking I'm just tightening up the tape measure to get that extra inch. Other people, including Carter, are noticing that there's less of me. Not much less, I'd venture to say, but certainly less enough that someone other than me is either yanking my chain or honestly sees some improvement. I hope the latter.

Okay, here's why I'm really frustrated: I haven't lost any weight. I really haven't. That four pounds I mentioned early on is still the only four pounds lost and even so, I go up down between 209 and 212. Stein and I got to talking on Monday (today is Thursday) and I mentioned martini and oyster Wednesdays, and he asked how much I actually do drink, which admittedly is far more than is good for any aspect of my health. Ask my liver, she'll tell you all about the abuse I put her through.

So anyway, it bothered me so much to think that all this work is being stymied by my nightly libations that I just decided to stop for right now. Not try to limit the amount I drink, but to simply stop. It's funny how easy it really is to just. stop. Tonight is the third night without a drink, and to be perfectly honest, it isn't as hard as I thought it would be. It's easy to make excuses to toss back a few, and hey, it's Fun! but when you're easily 70 pounds overweight and working your literally ass off to melt some pounds, and aching every single day, and even so, you do those extra 1/2 hour cardio burns, etcetera, well... let's just say, it's just not too hard to pretend this big glass of water is just what I wanted. A bottle of vodka came into the house tonight, and I dabbled in the thought of having a drink and then decided not to. It's just not worth the extra calories right now, never mind the potential hangover effect, no matter how small, that may linger tomorrow.

I'd like to mention food for a minute. All the diet commercials and other weight-loss "solutions" really focus on food: how much, when, and what. Replacements for food cravings, i.e. aspartame sweetened foods rather than sugar; fat-free preparations that almost always rely on some man-made concoctions designed to fool your taste buds into believing you're ingesting fat. Pills, like Alli that promise to eliminate some percentage of fat from your colon. Other pills that promised to reduce the appetite, provide "fat burning" enzymes... what have you.

Now I'm all for a miracle Dieter's Little Helper, but for HEAVEN'S SAKE! I've tried diets, Weight Watcher's, Atkin's, versions of the South Beach Diet. I tried Allie when it was by prescription-only, Hoodia because Oprah said so, and a lot of other bullshit herbs and snake-oil tonics. However by history, I can attest to the fact that only two things really work: diet and exercise. And by diet, I mean real food -- not chemically produced, artifically flavored and colored alternatives. That includes lots of whole grains, vegetables, fruit and good-for-you proteins, but not weird nonfood substitutes. I'm not denying myself anything that I really want to eat. I'm perfectly happy eating the healthy options I usually choose, and not beating myself up when I eat a cookie or take a potsticker. For two months, I've had almost nothing but healthy foods and the upside of this tirade is that the healthier I eat, the less there are food cravings to the extent that I really blow it. Fundamentally, a healthy diet somehow regulates my blood sugar and takes long enough to digest that there aren't many times during a day that I feel a deep need for something to spike my sugar. When a real hunger pang hits between meals, a few nuts, a couple ounces of tuna or turkey slices, a piece of fruit or a yogurt suffices. I think there's really something to the glycemic index and it's effect on appetite and cravings for quick sugar sources.

Last word: on Saturday, Carter and I went for a hike in Tilden. I have tried several times to complete this one hike, always turning back before I'd gotten all the way around. Well, I finally did the entire hike. It isn't particularly hard. I'd bet it would be considered easy to mildly moderate by most estimations, but it's got an incline that just keeps going on and on (at least for me). Admittedly, I chugged for the first mile or so, but after my sore-ass muscles let go, it was good. Carter was surprised it seemed so difficult for me at the start, and I had to explain that my muscles are really fatigued and I get terrible cramps -- the biggest improvement overall was in my stamina and lung capacity. I honestly didn't get particularly fatigued at all, it was just my muscles complaining. At least I finished it. Finally.

Okay really the last word: Stein got me on the stair master today. I cannot put into words how much I hate that machine. How much I hate stairs in general. I am, after all, the one person in the entire world to refuse to climb to the top of Notre Dame out of sheer fear of stairs and the pain they give me. Three minutes was quite enough, thank you very, very much. No, really, can I just not ever do that again?

30 Days and Counting

Today marked the first month anniversary of this work-out torture. I have exactly three months until my wedding. I've lost a total sum of probably 7 pounds at most, 4 at least, but more importantly is that I feel really good. Sore, but really good. I've also lost more than an inch and half on my arms and thighs and two inches in my waist (though I question my measurement there as there is no appreciable change in how my clothes fit).

Here's how a few things have changed:

The Plank: A dirty piece of stationary torture -- you get yourself ready for a push up -- as in, your arms hold you up in the position to start a push up, with your butt and back straight like a plank -- then you just hold it. Try it; it's really hard to do. First couple times I went for 15 - 20 seconds with arms shaking under the duress. Today, I went 30 seconds on the first round and an astounding 40 seconds on the second. It was terrifically hard, but I was determined. I'm aiming for a minute in the next week.

Pull-downs: this is the lats workout; it's not so hard if you have upper body strength, which apparently I have. My trainer, Vlad-Stein the blood thirsty, put me at 75 pounds today. I've been at 40 to 50 previously. He had to spot me the last couple pull downs, but I did it! I can feel my arms are firmer and it feels good.

Deltoid presses: I can't describe this one, but here's how it went: Started out with 30 pounds which seemed too light. We added another 10, upping it to 40 pounds, and suddenly it was extremely hard. I couldn't figure it out. Got to 10 reps and I thought I was going to lose it... suddenly there's this loud *thunk* as a weight bar drops from the bar... seems 10 pounds have somehow stuck itself to the weights ... so I was lifting 5o pounds instead of what we thought was 40. Go figure. Stein thought that was effing hilarious, but I thought it was kind of funny as well.


Stein had me do some core work that entails working weights or resistance to each side, working the muscles that used to be my waist. He wanted 15 reps on each side. On the second set, he jokingly asked for 5 more, after the first 15... I asked if he was kidding, and he said, Okay, just two more... and I said, "NO way, you said five more, I'm giving you five more." I think I felt like I was going to drop to the floor and beg for mercy, but I didnt: I gave those five more.

That really buff woman who is probably in my age range was there, as usual, doing her usual crazy ab workout and squat presses. S"he impresses me no end, and I keep looking to her as the person I can be. She is always so supportive -- says hi, waves to me... today, put her hand out while she was doing her insane superwoman ab workout for a high-five, and I took her hand. It gave me strength. I don't know her name, but she is so fucking cool, and an inspiration.

My cardio on the treadmill is up from 2.0 at the start of this things to 3.5, which is very nearly jogging (my nemesis). It's not easy, but I enjoy the fact that I can do it at all.

Two days ago, on Saturday, feeling guilty for not doing any real exercise, I got on the stationary bike at home and did the hill climb sequence at level 4, which proved to be quite hard for me. I felt virtuous for doing it, and I did do it to completion, with an additional 3 minute cool-down, too. I should be doing better and more, but that will come with Stein's insistence that I do 30 minutes at the gym every day of the week between our workouts. I'm commited, or defeated. Don't know which, but I'm going to do it.

What I notice after this first month are: increased stamina and lung capacity. My upper arms are much firmer and less wiggly. My face is thinner. My back doesn't hurt when I do simple things like sweeping or mopping the house. My ability to squat/kneel is increased -- I was avoiding squating or kneeling because I felt so shaky; now I feel more centered. My agility is increased, I have more range of motion.

It's starting to feel less like walking into a painful torture session when going to my workouts than it did. It's not easy, but it feels like I'm regaining some control over my body once again. If I didn't have to see myself in a mirror while nakid, I'd say I look pretty good... gimme a couple months... I'll get there.

Ground Zero: Fat Patrol

I hate being fat. I hate feeling like all the extra "stuff" is getting in my way. I'm tired of being tired, and tired of being lazy; the one who makes every excuse not to do things that are fun, like climbing the stairs of the Notre Dame, or the Napali coast on Kauai, or even the littlest hikes in our beautiful regional parks.

I'm getting married in May. This means that at 46 years of age, I could be a fat, uncoordinated, short of breath bride this year. In short, hating myself, hating my fat. And I could still be avoiding those beautiful hikes and exercise out of doors. Or... I can do something else.

I've been getting increasingly fatter and deconditioned for the last 8 years or so. Before that I was for a short time, simply, overweight. Before that I was slim to average. Before that... well, let's just leave those couple years of meth-induced emaciation out of this conversation. And I loved every bony minute of it. That untenable habit however is long in the past, a hazy memory of thinness and overindulgence in other ways. It's over now, and I must deal with my fat the way many people do: I either live with it and continue stuffing myself with unhealthy calories while watching "Survivor" and "American Idol" or I face the fact that nothing is going to change if I don't change what I'm doing.

Mid-December (2008) I went through one of life's most humiliating experiences: My body measurements were taken for a corset fitting and then a dress fitting (just so I could have the double happiness of my enormous waist measurement told to me a second time). When other people take your measurements, you can't hide behind the lie. You can't tighten the tape measure or pretend you're measuring your waist when you're not. These experiences indisputably revealed that my waist measurement was only a couple inches smaller than my chest and my hips. In case a visual aide is needed: My body looked like a fat pear, more or less. There wasn't much curve left at my waist -- only the wisp of an indentation. Worse was the more than ample stomach flab, and this coming from someone once known for her washboard flat stomach! You know, I remember when my measurements were 34-17-36. Yeah I was 17 at the time, but hey, that's where I once was.

Mid-January 2008, my mother brought out a 12 year old photograph of what I looked like. Yes, that would be in the beginnings of my relationship with my now soon-to-be husband in a romantic medieval French town. She exclaimed how beautiful I was! How lovely I was! Although she didn't mean anything by it, other than to admire her lovely daughter, I cried in shame and humiliation and futility.

A couple weeks later, I joined the gym near our business, which offered me a free meeting with a dietitician and one with a personal trainer. The dietician applauded my diet; in general, I do eat well. But I had to give up those sourdough cheese toasts at 11 p.m. and all the high starch items. Rice, potatoes, flour tortillas (burritos!), sour dough bread, mashed potatoes. In addition, the 10 ounce steaks and carnitas had to go. It all had to go. Since I'd already moved in that direction a couple weeks prior, it wasn't so hard. I let those things go with some ease, replacing with whole-grain german flat breads, rye crisps and whole wheat tortillas. I cut down the meat to 4 -5 ounce portions, started eating a lot of ceviche and homemade tuna salad. I still have cheese, but in much smaller quantities, and not so often (like not daily, for instance). I had to incorporate more beans and whole grains. This I could do, and have been doing now for a month and a half. It's not so bad, though it takes some planning.

I have to add that last weekend I digressed, a tasting appointment at the wedding caterer (puff pastry and crackers. Foie gras. Cheese.) and a dinner of white-folk soul food tempted me with some serious white bread (Texas toast), avoided mashed potatoes, and got sweet potato "mash" with probably a bunch of butter in them. The end result was a world of hurt. Oh my God, such a case of horrible gas and shit cramps I felt like a seagull with a stomach full of alka seltzer. The next day I was having terrible gut cramps and pains. Case closed: refined wheat is the Devil and saturated fat is Evil!

Meeting with the physical trainer was a different story. Granted, I was a pretty dedicated gym rat and weight-lifter until I was 30, at which point my body was about as perfect as it was ever going to be. But 16 years later, the gym was but a distant memory. My muscles didn't have the faintest idea of what a workout was anymore. Stein evaluated my limitations, which were sufficient to worry me, but apparently not him. He then put me through a rigorous circuit during which I did things with my body that should have caused a heart attack. I was fairly certain that he was going to kill me. By the time it was over, I nearly crawled away. Every fiber in my body ached, my lungs ached, my face was bright purple/red. In spite of the pain, the fatigue and what seemed like the sheer futility of it all, I signed on for Stein's personal training, he took this project on.

For the record, I'd been having intermittent sharp chest pains and have been seriously considering seeking medical attention. I'm sure most of it is gas, to be honest, but it just keeps happening, always on the left side of my chest. I was ready to suffer that heart attack by working out, mostly because I was fairly certain it wasn't my heart giving out on me. I'm only 46, for God's sake -- not 66!

The first few workouts were truly grim. I had no stamina and what felt like I had no strength. I hated the aerobic segments and when I realized the circuit exercises he was putting me through did almost exactly the same thing as aerobics, with the added insult of muscular strain, I hated those as well. About the only I did enjoy were the isolated weight-machine circuits. Even those Stein somehow made more difficult than I remembered them being.

In the first four workouts, I felt some improvement. My stamina was getting better and muscle memory was, thankfully, allowing me some small quantitative improvement as I felt more able to take on additional weight, a few extra reps, higher levels on the treadmill or bicycle. Still there was little joy in those workouts, I was happy with the endorphin rush that came on about 1/2 way through. Other than it, it was misery. But things are getting better. I feel a lot more confident, more agile, more balanced. I feel that I can meet the challenge and do that little extra bit. I'm sure I am improving.

Today I finished workout 8. Is it 8 already!?! Geez, it feels like 20... but I know that workout #20 is going to be an epic event, and I'm looking forward to it. Every workout pushes me toward exhaustion; it takes my body 2 days to recover. And I'm actually enjoying the soreness, the knowing that I am working my body.

I've only lost a few pounds -- maybe only four -- and a couple inches all over, but what I'm seeing makes it worth while. I didn't go into this worrying about losing weight, because it's not the weight that bothers me so much as what my body feels like that is of concern. The more I work, weight loss or not, the more I know that muscle replaces fat; I might not lose weight, but I will surely get stronger and "smoother". To date, my legs are looking less "bloppy" and more even all over. That chicken-leg thing my son mentions cautiously and politely is less pronounced. My calves are filling out. Small nuggets of muscle at the tops of my thighs are becoming pronounced, as are the long, strong muscles at the back of my legs, as well as my glutes (talk about a sore ass). The curve from my waist to my hip is less lumpy. My stomach, although not noticeably smaller, is getting tauter. My lung capacity has increased -- a few deep breaths early this morning when I was still nearly asleep and I could feel my lungs taking in HUGE breaths. It felt so good - five years ago I quit smoking, and it's so nice to BREATHE.

Today's workout reminded me how hard I've been working. My legs are still healing from the last few workouts and I couldn't do the lunges Stein originally planned. Instead, he took down the step a few inches and gave me a lighter weight pole. I felt weak and paltry, but even so, I understand it's coming from the regeneration of muscle that I've not worked in 16 years. The strength comes along at a good rate, and the stamina grows incrementally at each workout. I've gone from 15 seconds of doing a "plank" ONE TIME to doing 30 seconds THREE times in one circuit. I've moved from level 1.5 - 2.0 on the treadmill to an immediate 2.5 - 3.5. I'm able to walk a 5% incline, where the first time I could barely manage it for 30 seconds. There is a muscle on the flabby part of my arm that I forgot even existed (can't remember what it's called). I noticed in the other day when I was rubbing the soreness -- and there it was -- my long lost friend.

Two very important changes: I've been loathing gardening, which used to be such a pleasure. Why? Because the last few years, I haven't been able to squat or kneel comfortably. I have to admit that it's still not particularly easy, nor is it pleasurable (especially after working out), but finally I can actually accomplish it again and I don't mind trying, which is maybe more on point here. Honestly, I was leaving shit on the floor because I didn't feel like kneeling over to pick them up! Now, I just do it.

The other thing: My lower back muscles have atrophied to the point where doing something as simple as mopping would put my back into a spasm or at least caused significant soreness. I thought it was my kidneys for a while... until I started working out again. Lo and behold, within only a few weeks my lower back has regained enough strength that those muscles don't feel like they're straining just from mopping my kitchen floor. Granted today's workout included some core movements that I had to curtail because I could feel a strain my my lower back, but that's a world away from not cleaning the house because my lower back was too weak. Oh yes, one more very important thing: since giving up refined wheat and empty carbs, AND working out, I no longer have the chest pains. They're gone.

I've got so far to go, but I've already come so far. Without a personal trainer, I might not even be going to the gym twice a week. With one, I'm going twice a week and trying to increase my daily activities on the off days. I'm hoping that eventually I will be as addicted to this as I was 16 years ago, that I can take pride in getting myself up and active. In the meantime, I'll continue to meet with my torturer -- uhm, mentor -- and get up and moving... so far so good.