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.