Strip for me

Last night was my regular appointment with Cardio Strip. It is quickly becoming one of my favourite workouts (not least because I have to wear a stupid stack splint on my finger for SIX! WEEKS! in an effort to persuade my poor snipped tendon that it should straighten the hell out and stop being deformed. Yes, the plastic surgeon said I was deformed. Anyhow, said deformity and its treatment mean kickboxing=not so fun when you can’t make a fist with your left hand. Here’s a tip for you: if you’re going to smoke and snack, for chrissakes, use a good knife to slice the sourdough bread, lest you end up DEFORMED AND IN A SPLINT FOR SIX WEEKS DURING THE SUMMER. Ahem. I now return you to your regularly scheduled programme.)

Where was I? Ah yes, I love Cardio Strip. One, it does not require me to make a fist and hit a bag really hard. Two, the music totally rocks (High School Confidential, You Can Leave Your Hat On, Sexual Healing and, of course, Brick House).Third, the class is taught by Mean and Crazy, who comes off more Fun and Sexy in this particular 45-minute period.

But most importantly, Cardio Strip is a class in which having tits and hips and an ass? All assets. The class is just about always full…which at my gym means 20 or 25 women, and usually one guy, gay, also an instructor at the gym. Besides Jamie, the class is full of women with different kinds of bodies. Tall and gangly, short and trim, skinny, round, middle-aged, young. Doesn’t matter. What matters is a willingness to shake it. And a lack of propriety helps, too. It’s an incredibly playful class, with plenty of admonitions to “cover it up, ladies, you’ll never make any money if you show them everything at once.” Yes, at first you feel completely ridiculous covering your tank-top clad boobs with your hands, but after a bit it’s hilariously fun. You stick your butt out, you swing your hips, you wave your towel in the air like you just don’t care, and along the way you get one hell of a lower body workout. Plus, if you’re shy, it’s probably a great, safe way to feel at home in your body in public. Being not that shy, I couldn’t say for sure. Maybe it would be excruciating. But I guess if you thought that touching your own spandex-wrapped ass in front of other people (who are also, it must be noted, touching their own gym-clothed butts) would be tantamount to casually sitting on a restaurant patio sipping a latte in the all-together, Cardio Strip probably isn’t for you. And that is truly too bad, because oh my god the good time you are missing.

It’s not a brutal workout the way kickboxing is. You’re going to sweat, but you’re probably never going to feel like barfing. And have I mentioned that the people who do look a little silly in this particular class are the skinny atheletic ones? Because they kind of don’t really have any hips to swing. That said, it’s probably still best to avoid eye contact with yourself in the mirror for the first few classes because…well, it can make you feel absurd. But once you get into the swing of things, so to speak, it’s kind of awesome to check yourself out and realise, hot damn, I look sexy.

Honestly, I usually think that when I see myself in the mirror at home, but almost never do I think that when I see myself in the mirror at the gym.

And you know, we spend our lives in these bodies, maybe hating them, maybe ignoring them, certainly mistreating them—repeatedly—to the point that we have serious weight to lose. And it can feel like such a battle sometimes, you against your body; it’s such a struggle to figure it out, how many calories a day, how much exercise, what is the magic combination that will unlock the weightloss vault for me today. What a relief to spend 45 minutes a week revelling in the simple joy of some good old fashioned bump and grind. I should probably feel like a bad feminist for loving this class, but the thing of it is, any class that makes that many women caress their own buttocks with a huge smile on their face—not for the money they’re making doing it, not for the benefit of any audience, just for the sheer joy of being in their body and doing something good for it—well, frankly, if that’s wrong, sister, I don’t want to be right.

You wouldn't happen to have any pie in your pocket, would you?

Because I could really, really go for a snack right now.

I mean a snack besides the plum I ate a while back.

And something other than the cottage cheese and fruit salad I had not ten minutes ago.

And not quite the ounce of almonds I just snacked on.

The world, please, with salt and vinegar. Or brown sugar and cinnamon. Warm, cold or indifferent, put it on a plate and I will eat it.

Or not. So far, I haven’t eaten the cookies that are ten feet away, as usual. I thought I’d get an oatcake from the canteen because first of all, oats, and second, hello, cake! But there were no oatcakes to be had. So I got five jellybeans from the little candy machine, which reminded me how much I dislike refined sugar. And while that may be true, and in fact IS true, apparently I don’t dislike it enough to stop wishing I had a snack made of it in my hand right now. A better snack than five jellybeans.

What to do? Continue to resist, I guess. I have many more calories coming to me today, because I’m hitting the gym at 5:15 for cardio strip, a 15-minute ab class that will no doubt leave me begging for my life, and then cardio kickbox at 6:15. And I’ve already logged a half-hour yoga session today. That, my dudes, is a pantload of exercise.

But even I can see that eating all the sugar I can get my grubby paws on will not be the way to make it through that much exercise. The cottage cheese and fruit was a good start. I’ll follow it up with some almond butter toast with fresh sliced strawberries on it and some soymilk when I get home.

Which should be in…what?…a hundred minutes? Surely I can tough it out for a measly hundred minutes.

Right?

Renovations in progress

I met up with M&C today in the Public Gardens to discuss my personal renovation project. We discussed my goals (the obvious ones, like lose fat and build muscle; the functional ones, like learn to run and feel comfortable in a kayak; and the vanity ones, like fit into high boots and be able to shop exclusively and easily in regular stores) and how best to meet them. The words “boot camp” “early mornings” and “your ass is mine” were bandied around with insouciance (on her part) and terror (on mine).

That said, oh my god I cannot wait to start. Her kickboxing class on Saturday was, as expected, brutal, but in the best, sweatiest, most satisfying way. She screamed at us, but it was, strangely, quite motivating and invigorating. I hit that punching bag, and believe you me, it stayed hit.

I am feeling, more each day, that making these changes permanent is within my grasp. Mostly, lately anyhow, I don’t crave junk, and that is a really good thing. I’ve started to see some reluctant movement on the scale, which is heartening (not the reluctance, of course. The movement), though still excruciatingly slow. I’ve made a few tinkering changes to the calories-in part of my equation. Using the criteria at WLR, I’ve been calling myself sedentary (since I sit at my desk for eight-ish hours a day), but every other source I’ve checked would peg me as lightly to moderately active. So I’ve decided to adjust my status to moderately active, and stop counting my walks to and from work (and other random non-planned-exercise walking I might do) as exercise. I’m thinking this will all even out. The thing is, most days, I don’t find it hard to stay under 1,590 calories, but I’m kind of thinking that perhaps the reason I haven’t been losing a pound a week (as the science equation says I should) is that my calories-in are actually a bit too low. So I’m telling the computer I’m moderately active, and I’m further telling it that I want to lose a pound and a half a week, rather than a pound a week. It ups my calories by a small amount only, but I’m going to check it out for a while, see if it makes a difference. By no means do I expect to lose that much a week. Hell, I’ve learned not to expect anything. That way, when I get something, it’s an awesome surprise. This is probably sad and sick and twisted in some way, but it’s working for me just at the moment.

I’m also flirting with the idea of a weekly free day. I don’t feel the need, at all, to binge or splurge or whatever. But I do recognise in myself a need, about once a week, to be liberated from counting. Usually because there’s a social event I’d like to attend that will include consumption of food I can’t account for. And right now, I find I get stressed out about not being able to tot it all up and plug it into WLR. Which is, frankly, stupid. I’m in a good rhythm of thinking before I eat, making good or excellent choices pretty much all the time, and getting a reasonable (though not fantastic) amount of exercise. I need this process to be as much like real life as possible, because, hello, it IS real life. It has to be, or I won’t be able to sustain it. I also find, that on the weeks that I do have an unofficial free day, the scale actually moves. I know I am, like, the frillionth weightloss blogger to have figured this out, but that’s me. Late bloomer.

I am delighted with all these renos. Now, if only I could make similar progress with my house renos…

Abs-olutely horrifying

It’s possible that my love affair with Leisa Hart may be on the wane. I mean, yes, I’ve been neglecting her lately, given my current fascination with Yoga and Pilates, plus the classes at the gym. But I can’t see that that’s any reason for her to treat me the way she did last night.

I’d gone to the eye doctor’s for some arcane procedure in which they anesthetised my eyeball and then super-dilated my pupils, possibly just for kicks. The combination left me big-eyed and unable to see much. So, a visit to the gym was certainly out. On the other hand, a hearty Lebanese lunch at a restaurant and my desire to stay in bed yesterday morning, rather than haul my ass to the Pilates mat, had left me with a mere 333 calories for supper. Not enough. Especially since Taco was making pizza. Mmmmpizza. But I digress.

So, bleary-eyed but not blind enough to NOT be able to exercise, I hooked up with Leisa for what I thought would be a joyous reunion. And oh yeah, it was…all through the sweaty cardio, even into buns and thighs. My devotion to her wavered a little during the upper body workout, but that’s really my fault for not lifting weights for weeks except to move them out of my way in the morning while I’m pulling out my mat for Yoga. But Leisa really got her revenge for weeks of neglect with the abs workout. A workout I’ve never done before on that DVD. And holy shit, now I know why.

I was lying on the floor practically crying, trying to crunch and twist and oh my god, I thought Pilates was giving me a nice set of abs but who the hell have I been kidding? Taco came into the room at one point and asked how it was going. “I hate her,” I seethed, through gritted teeth as I “worked” my “obliques.” “She loves you,” Taco replied. I grunted. “She thinks you look bad!” “Yeah, but only in the bad way now,” I gasped. “The kickboxing love is gone, replaced with this fucking torture.” And then I fell back on the mat, panting and cursing.

Leisa Hart. Screw you. On the other hand, I bet if I did that abs workout a few times a week, it wouldn’t fill me with hate and pain so much. It is HARD to be a pollyanna, people, but it seems I have no choice.

In other news, this fragment of an email from Mean and Crazy this morning:
“Also, let’s make some definite plans to get you started. Maybe we should just have a short meeting so I can get a grasp of what your goals are and then
tell you what I can do for you, and to come up with a schedule that will
work for you.
You put it out there.....now your ass is mine.
Was that too tough...or tough enough?
Have a great day and I will see you later...”

That “I will see you later…” could be a threat, could be a promise. We start tomorrow, with a kickboxing class. I have thus far avoided her kickboxing class, because everyone at the gym says it’s superhard. “Who says that?” she demanded to know the other day. I cowered a little, “I dunno. People in the change room.” Please don’t hit me, I added silently. Ha ha, just kidding. Heh.

I’ll let you know how it goes. If I can still move my arms to type.

Train this

Well, it looks like I’ve got me a personal trainer.

For god’s sake.

I went to the gym last night. Hooo boy. Thirty minutes of vigorous walking on the treadmill and then a full-on insane Latin cardio class. My face was that always-enchanting shade of call-the-ambulance red, but oh my it felt good to sweat. Yoga and Pilates definitely dial my area code, in that they make me feel very happy and tall (which is really something given my five-foot-one-and-three-quarters “height”), but there is nothing like a good 45-minute cardio class led by Mean and Crazy.

Who is, of course, my friend and not that mean or crazy at all. Maybe a little crazy. Anyhow, get her in a fitness situation and she comes on all mean and crazy and sometimes, that’s exactly what I need to get those good exercise endorphins racing through my system.

Which is why, as my face “glowed” post-class, I thought it would be a good idea to ask M&C if she’d be my personal trainer.

She said, “I would love to.” Then she looked at me for a beat and said, “I’ll kick your ass.”

“I’m counting on that,” I said.

And so, this summer, she’ll be kicking my ass all over Point Pleasant Park, in intervals. And putting me through my paces in kickboxing, cardio strip and Latin cardio classes. And she told me she has big balls, which came as no surprise to me, but apparently she means stability balls, and that’s good to know. And she has one of those weighted balls, those BOSU balls, and I am so ready to flail around on and ultimately fall spectacularly off of one of those.

It’ll push me to the next level. I am ready to go there. Remind me I said this when I’m cursing her name in a week or two, wouldja?

Meanwhile, there’s a great deal on at a local yoga studio. Kravitz and I are going to take advantage of their two-fer deal. You can get two unlimited passes for summer use for 200 bucks. If I can find one other person interested in such economical beauty, Taco could get a pass, too. They have early morning yoga classes, and outdoor yoga on Wednesday evenings and meditation and all kinds of goodness. It’s probably time to shake it up a little…my morning yoga and pilates routines are getting a little easy.

Now if it would just stop raining round the clock, my plans for an excellent summer would be complete.

Whither my workout?

A quick note from a busy-so-far week. I am worried, this week, about losing last week's great momentum (even though I was on the road, eating hotdogs and high tea, I still lost a pound). My eating has been fine since I got back to town (which was actually less than 48 hours ago, now that I think about it), and I did yoga yesterday and pilates today. But no cardio yesterday, and none so far today.

Tonight I see my shrink right after work, and then right after that, I'm reading from my novel-in-progress at a bar downtown. So no cardio today, either, except for the walk to Dr. Take No Guff's office, which will probably take me around 15 minutes. Because this is Halifax and everything is a 15-minute walk.

Not really enough cardio, I'm sure you'll agree.

However, there's tomorrow, and tomorrow, and tomorrow. And there's also living in the moment and not getting too hung up on the things I can't boss around.

Of course, there are the things I can boss around -- like my ass, to the gym, tomorrow night.

I've lost 22 pounds altogether. I must stop sometimes and just feel proud of that, you know? There are miles to go, yes. But already, I've come so far.

Blinded me with science

I remain fascinated with the simplicity of calories in-calories out. I am so freed by the tangible evidence, the tally at the end of the day of calories eaten and expended. Having that concrete information is making it so much easier for me to do the right thing just about every day. Or at least to make informed decisions instead of thinking, in my previously typical way, oh, it’s not that bad. It’s just a day of junk food and no exercise, or it’s just a piece of cheese, or it’s just whatever. I don’t know what I was basing that dismissiveness on, but it certainly wasn’t actual, scientific information.

Today, for instance. I took a day off work to prepare for my trip to Toronto (read: spend the day with Taco because neither of us can stand the idea of three days apart otherwise. We are sickening, I do realise this). Days off usually mean my healthy routine goes to hell. I don’t get out of bed and do yoga or pilates, I eat breakfast late, I forget to take my vitamins and supplements. I eat weird things I can’t account for, and I rarely get enough fruits and vegetables (at work, I easily down three or four fruit and veg servings out of boredom. Is it still ok to eat from boredom if it means you’re getting your fibre for the day? Discuss!).

Today could easily have headed in that direction. I got up late, but put on my workout clothes. But then did a few things (I don’t even remember what) instead of doing yoga, and then Taco made breakfast (eggs in an egg cup with toast soldiers, oh happy happy day, to which I added some kiwi and half an orange). So, breakfast was fine, but then once it was eaten, I realised I’d need to wait a few hours before doing yoga. And I forgot my vitamins. And a few hours later, it was time for lunch. Instead of just chowing on some cheese and crackers, the way I might on a weekend when driven mad from hunger because the day slipped by without me noticing, I took the time to make a veggie stirfry with vermicelli before we got too starved to think. And then I remembered to take my vitamins, because I realised that the weekend would probably get crazy, and I might miss a few opportunities and it would be stupid to miss too many of them, especially out of sheer lazy forgetfulness. And then Taco went to work and I did pilates, mainly because I was thinking about logging my food for the day, and how I was going to Toronto in a few hours and would probably eat some things that weren’t…you know, strictly on plan and all. And how it was sure going to feel a lot better at the end of the day to have a little exercise to put up against all that.

And I finally get it. I get that there are consequences…good and bad…to my behaviour. I get that if I do pilates, it makes a little room for me to eat a Reese’s peanut butter cup at the airport, if I want (and oh, believe you me, I did). I get that if I tally up what I’ve taken in and what I’ve put out for the day before I go out at night to see some music, I can see if there’s room to have a hotdog (don’t judge me! It’s Toronto, the street veggie dogs are goddamn good, it’s a frizzillion degrees here even at midnight. The hotdog seemed like the right thing—scratch that—the hotdog was entirely the right thing to do. As a matter of fact, eating it brought my daily total to the exact right proportion of protein, carbs and fat. I realise these results are not typical, yes). And if there is, if it looks like I can have it with 14 calories to spare, I’ve figured out that if I walk from the hotel to the bar and back (easily 15 minutes, maybe 20, each way), it gives me a little bit of a buffer. In fact, I’ve figured out that any opportunity I can get to move my body and burn a few calories here, a few there, is utterly worth taking. And what’s more, I have the energy now to actually, you know, take those opportunities. Go figure.

That’s not to say there’ll be peanut butter cups and hotdogs every day. Oh god no. Even before I started my little science experiment, chocolate and hotdogs were not part of the daily repertoire.

But how great is it that you can plan to eat street meat? Like, really plan. I feel like such a dink for not figuring this out sooner. For spending all that time feeling the dread and getting fatter. However, given that I’m working on staying in the moment, rather than dwelling in the past, we’ll just call it AFLE* and move on, shall we?

Good heavens, Ms Yakimoto, you're beautiful. Bee boop boo.

*another fucking learning experience

Cookie fairy

Obviously, there is some supernatural element at play in my life. Here’s the thing. I work in an office that offers a very lively cookie culture. That is to say, someone is always bringing in a box or bag of cookies, homemade, store bought, doesn’t matter, there are ALWAYS cookies on a table about ten feet away from my desk.

When I first started here, it was a massive problem. I was eating two or three cookies a day, just because they were close at hand. Then a few months ago I just stopped, and I haven’t really even looked in the direction of the cookie cabal at all. It certainly helps that in that time I’ve realised that I actually don’t have much of a sweet tooth, unless the sweets are really REALLY good. But run of the mill grocery store chocolate chip cookies? Meh. Not that interested. Even home-baked stuff doesn’t excite me too much these days, unless it’s really complicated. Or unless I made it and I know what’s in it. Or unless my mother made it and I can rest assured that it will be entirely worth however many frillions of calories it will cost to eat it.

But all that said, every once in a while, I think, yeah, a cookie is just what I need. This usually happens if the cookies on offer are coated in chocolate. So I do my thing where I eat some of my healthy snacks, fruits or vegetables or whatever I’m packin’ on the day in question. And when I’ve done that and I still want a cookie, I have a few almonds from a bag I keep in my desk drawer. And when I’ve done that and I still want a cookie, I tell myself I can have one in a few minutes, soon as I finish reading a news story or writing a script or sitting in on a phone meeting or whatever banal task I’m “engaged” in.

And lately, by the time I’ve done THAT, and I STILL want a cookie and I decide, ok, well, it must be real, guess we’ll indulge after all, I turn around, and the cookies in question are gone. And this has happened, like, half a dozen times in the last month. Thank you, Cookie Fairy.

And you know what? I see they’re gone and I just think, oh well, ok, no cookies, then. I do not go on autopilot, grab my coins and head to the vending machine for a Mars bar. It doesn’t flip that sugar switch inside me. It just falls by the wayside.

And I kind of can’t believe that this is me. That I am calmly able to just let it go. That’s what it’s all coming down to lately, though. In the morning, I look at myself in the mirror, and quietly, I say, just let go. Let go. Let go.

I never thought I’d become the kind of girl who whispers to herself in the mirror, but hey, the world is full of surprises, many of them much nastier than this one.

And anyhow, this is my work lately. My work is letting go. As much as I laughed and laughed when the naturopath said, with some degree of solemnity, “I think your body has trouble letting go of things,” obviously, she’s right. And it’s not just my body, hell no. My mind, too, is tenacious to a fault. And the two of them work together to keep me hanging on to every thing that’s ever happened to me, everything I’ve ever put my hands on, every emotion that’s ever flitted across my heart. Every bad experience is tucked up under my right shoulder blade. At yoga in the mornings, I work on releasing it, bit by bit. I drink water and eat good food in an effort to persuade my body to let go a little, it’s alright, we won’t starve, we won’t die thirsting, we are ok here, just let go of what we don’t need anymore. I breathe deeply and walk and listen to tunes on my iPod and I realise that the moment is an ok place to be, and I don’t need to linger in the past or rush toward the future. I can let go of regrets and expectations. Let go, let go, let go.

And yeah, it’s all led to the first loss I’ve seen in a few weeks (down a pound and a half this morning), and that’s great. But better than that? Better than that by far is the way I feel. Strong and healthy and so fucking happy. Better than I’ve felt in years and years. I feel the realm of the possible expanding in the nicest way for the first time in so long, and I am standing right there, right on the edge of it, and I am moving forward.

Just to, you know, clarify

It's not that I'm anti-encouragement.

Because I am not.

In fact, you can go right ahead and encourage me, and I will not take it the wrong way, I promise.

And I am going to try to stop seeing patronising behaviour where it may not be.

I mean, it may be there, but just in case I'm wrong, I'm going to take encouragement at face value.

Because I have to spend my energy on other things, like cardio striptease and grocery shopping and ripping out a wall in my house.

Oh, the things I have to tell you, about keeping myself honest in my efforts, about my need for concrete evidence about the relative healthiness or unhealthiness of my choices and about how health insurance plans should totally cover the cost of iPods, because listening to music while walking is the best thing I've found yet for staying in the moment.

Speaking of the moment, the one I'm in right now is owed to my employer. But I promise I'll be back tonight.

Don't encourage me

Taco and I were lying around discussing the Internet, when I mentioned that I wanted to write a post about people who are kind of encouraging in a way, but then mostly they’re annoying.

Taco hesitated for a moment, and then he said, "I think that’s a really unhealthy thought.”

We were a little high, but trust me, it was hilarious.

But in fact, it’s not unhealthy. It’s not that I find encouragement annoying. Far from it. As a matter of fact, I had found great encouragement just hours before, in the gym when I looked in the mirror and recognised that my body has changed subtly and for the better after several weeks of pilates and yoga. I was encouraged when Taco sat with me for an hour after supper and helped me input all the ingredients for said amazing supper into Weight Loss Resources so that I could do the tally for the day. It was terrifically encouraging to answer Taco’s questions, and show him what I’m dealing with.

What I find less encouraging, though?

The other night, we were out and we ran into a mutual acquaintance. Said acquaintance happens to frequent the same gym I do. He is a super nice guy, but he’s…well, he’s very fit. He’s always been very fit. And he said to me, "It’s so good to see you at the gym. You’re really doing great. I think it’s so great that you’re going.”

Oh boy am I churlish. When I type it out, it looks…nothing but encouraging. But you know…I know you know how so often it can feel patronising, not encouraging.

Good for you, fat girl. Good for you for going to the gym. I always hear the subtext…what took you so long?

Actually, this kind of remark used to confuse me desperately. Back when I thought that since no one ever really treated me like I was fat, I must not be. Hee hee, those were funny times. The joke was on me, man. Anyhow. I remember doing a 21-day yoga sadhana in Winnipeg. Near the end of the 21 days, this woman from class said to me, "I’ve been meaning to tell you how glad I am that you’re doing the sadhana. I just think it’s so great. And you have really nice energy in your poses."

Truth be told, I kind of thought she had a crush on me. Maybe two hours later, I figured it out and I was mortified.

She’d singled me out to tell me she was so glad to see me exercising, and she didn’t even KNOW ME. It was so…strange and hot-face-making. I’m sure every person in that class had an excellent reason for taking the sadhana—they’re kind of intense, actually, you don’t do them without some good reason. But I was the only one she spoke to like that. Because my reason—or what she thought was my reason—was visible, she felt within her right to point it out. It feels like such an invasion, it does.

I don’t know if this is reasonable, or if it’s part of my left-over indignation at any notice anyone takes of my shape. I just realised that it wasn’t just everyone else who pretended I wasn’t fat. It was me, it started with me.

In some ways, I realise this is the way the world should be. It sounds like a Free To Be, You and Me kind of philosophy: you know, it’s what’s inside that counts, and all that.

Instead, what it did, what I did, was ignore my body to the point of making myself sick. And I silently, somehow, persuaded almost everyone I came in contact with to do the same thing. To never mention my body in any way that singled it out. To never acknowledge what was frankly impossible to ignore. My size.

Talk about the elephant in the room no one talks about. I mean that as kindly to myself as possible; it’s an unfortunate, but irresistable pun.

I’m not sure what the intelligence is here. I’m not sure what I’m supposed to take away from this realisation. I thought this post was going one way, and here it is veering off in totally another.

I guess the intelligence is this: it’s time to really pay attention to this body. It’s time to be accountable to it. It’s time to realise that indeed, I am my body, and my body is me. I’ve spent more than three decades living almost exclusively in my head. And it’s been a lovely place to live, really. But I know there’s more to life than what’s in there. I know there’s a whole world, a world of fresh cut grass, and learning to canoe, and sharing the couch with Taco, and fixing the house and being in love and cooking amazing food and becoming a runner and a million frillion other experiences. And I know I’m going to need to really live in my body, before I can really live in the world.