One Of Those Days...

I'm having one of those days...
A day where I just want to hop on an exercise bike and pedal my fat ass into absolute oblivion.
I can't say that those days come very often.

I find those people that say: "Exercise is like a drug to me, there's no better high than getting a good sweat going on." or the ones that tell me: "Exercise will put you in a better mood and make you a happier person." to be quite odd. Now what planet are these people on? Exercise does nothing more than piss me off and ignite a lump of fiery coals in my Adidas track pants. It makes me sweaty, sticky, headache-y, sore, and causes me to omit a horrendous odor. Not only that but when I look in the mirror while exercising I see all that fat jiggling around which in turn makes me want to vomit. Exercise is not fun, nor pleasant. In fact, I can say without doubt that I hate it.

With that said, I do know the importance of a "healthy lifestyle." And as much as I get sick of hearing the overused term "healthy lifestyle" I can't help but consider that maybe these spandex-clad, protein goo drinking, gym monkeys have the right idea.

Like many others I tend to yo-yo back and forth between dieting and exercising to stuffing my face and laying around watching Duck Dynasty. Last spring I had a brief spurt of motivation and decided to become a member of the YMCA so that I had a place to work out. I met with a personal trainer, discussed goals and how much time and effort I had in mind to achieve those said goals. I diligently woke up every morning at 8am to go pedal on the exercise bike and plug away on the eliptical machine. (Treadmill is a bad word in my vocabulary. Don't say it, just don't!) And this was my routine for about a month until I just completely gave up, got lazy, didn't want to pay for a membership, and whatever other excuse I can use to try to justify why I stopped going.

So there I was, back at square one. I tend to have this bad habit of taking two steps forward and ending up twenty steps back. And even amuck, drowning my sorrows in a large extra chocolate chocolate milkshake a light bulb went off inside my head. Perhaps if I found some sort of physical activity that I enjoyed it would seem less like a chore and more like a pasttime, making me more apt to do it. So what could I do then? I can't swim, when it comes to sports I have absolutely no athletic abilities, and I would have to have a gun strapped to my handlebars to feel safe enough to bicycle in my neighborhood. But there is one thing I like to do and I like to think I'm pretty good at it which is dancing. Ok, Zumba it is... So I watched YouTube videos, thinking to myself: I can do this, easy as cake, walk in the park, no big thing... Ha! I arrived at the studio, track pants on, sneakers laced, hair ponytail-ed, ready to show this Zumba thing what's up. Not but ten minutes in and I'm sweating a frenzy, panting, legs on fire. So much for this "soccer mom" workout, I just got my ass handed to me wrapped up in a little lime green box. I continued to go four times a week (if it wasn't for scheduling conflicts I would have gone more) for about two weeks until my routine came to an abrupt halt due to shin splints. This, I later discovered was caused from improper footwear.

Bound and determined to not once again become a victim of laziness' evil grasp, I got back on the wagon once my shins were healed up and once I had a better pair of shoes. When I returned I felt like it was my first day all over again. By the time that hour was up you would have thought I just walked out of a sauna.

It's sad that every so often I come across some discouraging person who believes that if you're not slaving away at the gym every day, or a product of the P90x system (by no means any offense to P90x-ers, if you like it and it works keep at it!) it's not a "real" workout, that you're just doing the bare minimum so you can state the claim "Yes, I work out..." And like I said to those who gave me grief for doing yoga, those who stated: "All you're doing is stretching" don't act like you know something when you've never tried it. Even though I was thin when I began taking yoga classes, I became leaner and stronger than I ever had in my entire life. The same goes for Zumba, it's a high intensity workout that burns anywhere between 500 to 1000 calories in that one hour. I feel like I'm getting a better workout than I ever did from using an elliptical, or jogging on the hamster wheel *cough* treadmill. Not only that but, I like it, it's fun, it's challenging, I like my instructor, and most of the time I like the music that goes along with it. I'd rather be part of a program that I enjoy and look forward to going to rather than one that I hate and constantly try to find an excuse not to attend.

So here comes the part where in the past I've found myself giving up, feeling hopeless, and labeling myself as a failure. The dreaded bathroom scale. I honestly believe that it is an invention of the devil, put on earth only for girls (and pretty boys) to develop eating disorders at young ages and the primary cause of suicide, hard drug use, and divorce. (Ok, I'm stretching here!!!) But seriously, I'd rather step on a bed of nails than be victim to that little red needle that never stops at the number you want it to.
I've lost fifteen pounds...15 lbs...quinze livres. Sure, to someone weighing 135 pounds that's a lot but compared to what I need to lose it's a drop in the bucket.

It's so hard, it's so hard, it's so hard, it's so HARD!! I find myself crying out and so angry that I'm trying so hard and I want it so bad to happen but the progress is minimal. Granted, I'm sitting here drinking a VIA Pumpkin Spice Latte and even though it was made with two-percent milk rather than whole and only half a tablespoon of sugar it still is 60 calories of temporary bliss...when I should be drinking water...and I know this!! And this weekend I downed three Carlos O'Kelly's Margaritas with God knows how many calories, devoured a Crispy Chik-Fil-A sandwich, then topped the weekend off with half of a large Old Chicago pepperoni pizza. So I'm not perfect, and I have screwed up, and will probably continue to screw up here and there. But I bypass the urge to stop and get a sweet tea when I pass McDonald's on the drive home, and I have kept my sweets and salts to a bare minimum, soda has been banned from my diet harder than steroids were banned from the Olympics, I've made sure to eat my protein, my fruits, and the not so beloved vegetables. I'm just hitting a brick wall. I can make sure that I exercise and eat cautiously but I feel that if I even breathe in the odor of fried foods it heads straight to my waist. My body is just holding onto the fat like a kid holds onto his first teddy bear. This is most likely a product of depression, stress, and the greatly detested BC, which I believe to be all tied in together. (Another story in itself).

I do however notice a difference in some small ways, my Zumba workout has gotten slightly easier, I'm adding jumps where once I could only do a leg lift, I'm not out of breath when I walk up a flight of stairs, and I do feel quite a bit stronger especially in my legs. These changes prove that my efforts have not gone in vain. I still can't help but feel unsatisfied because my goals seem so unattainable at this moment. I feel as if I'm running a marathon without a finish line.

At this point all I can do is keep trudging along this rocky path. Continue to run that marathon until I can see a speck of what seems to be the finish line on the horizon. Keeping in mind that annoying phrase that's plastered all over the Internet: "Failure is not an option."

And those who have never had weight issues may never understand how trying and how tumultuous the process of losing weight can be and how depressing it is to be trapped in a body of which you feel you do not belong. They'll continue to redundantly spew the words "Just diet and exercise" like a record on repeat not ever truly understanding the mental struggles that are faced when trying to drop that extra 20, 30, 50, 100 pounds.

It is tough but I haven't yet gave up hope that I'm tougher.