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.