How many sports bras do I own? At least five and I’ve probably “lost” more than that. (Long story, don’t ask. I have a habit of losing bras, even when I like them.) Now ask me how many of my bras I actually like. One. Just one. And why is this one so good? Well for one thing it holds the girls in place, even when I do jumping jacks. And almost as importantly the damned thing zips up the front. By necessity sports bras are made to fit tightly. So what masochistic contortionist decided that they should go over your freaking head? Clearly it was someone a helluva lot more flexible than me! So what do I do to keep my lone bra fresh? I wash it every night in the sink. It’s held up remarkably well. I know I need to get a couple more, but I don’t remember paying $42 for it! I must have, but usually I don’t drop that kind of cash on anything but Wacoal.
Champion Double Dry Zip-Front Sports Bra | Champion.
I ran today. A total of two miles. I ran the last mile nonstop without any intervals in between. This represents an absolutely massive change in my mindset. I don’t enjoy running. Left to my own devices I would probably do nothing but read, write, eat bread, cheese, tomatoes and olives washed down with copious amounts of really good wine.
I run every day because that’s what it takes to maintain my body. I think it’s absurd that it took me to darn near middle-age to get the simple fact that I have to maintain my body the same way I maintain my car, and for the same reason: Maintenance is significantly cheaper than repairs. Crazy that I would never be irresponsible and not maintain my car. Why was I more careful about a thing than I was a body that I have to live in for the rest of my life? Talk about fucknuttery.
No, running is not fun, but then neither are oil changes. Or tune-ups. Or system flushes. Or all the other crap I have done to my car. I don’t look forward to any of those either, but it’s irresponsible not to do them. I think that’s where people, at least people like me get derailed. We’ve been told that fitness is supposed to be fun, and when it isn’t we feel like some type of failure. I’ve thought something was wrong with me for years because I don’t enjoy exercise, but now I get it:
IT DOESN’T HAVE TO BE FUN. IT JUST HAS TO BE DONE!!!
Needle on the scale didn’t budge today. I had a feeling that it wouldn’t this week. I can usually tell when I’m losing and it seems that my body is holding on to every ounce for dear life. I’ve hit the gym a lot harder this week. I run/walk for an hour, and then do 20-30 minutes weight training. Two days a week I only walk/run for 30 minutes and do an hour of weights. It sounds counter-intuitive, but weight training is the only thing that slims my waist and stomach. That’s probably why I lost another couple of inches off the waist. That’s good news. I’m well on my way to getting off Dr. Oz’s “Doomed to Die Young” list. I don’t think I’ll have any trouble meeting my goal of 35 inches by my birthday in September, but I was also hoping to be at my goal weight by Christmas. Not so sure about that one. We’re going to New England next week and I wanted to be down a couple more pounds for that trip so I could treat myself to a lobster roll. Oh well, I’ve still got another week. I’ve lost 16 pounds since June 9th, so I’m not exactly treading water here. I just have to focus and keep my eye on the prize.
Doing very well on my No booze. No sugar. No grazing pledge. I had a vodka tonic 4th of July weekend and that’s the only booze I’ve had in three months. The only sugar I have is from fruit and an occasional Luna bar. I do like to have honey with my greek yogurt, but I limit that to a couple teaspoons. Interesting enough I haven’t been craving sugar. That’s always the way. If I don’t eat it, I don’t crave it. I haven’t missed booze at all. Though I do wish someone would invent something calorie-free that doesn’t impact your metabolism, but would taste as good as a nice dry martini. That’s not happening anytime soon. Usually for my birthday I have a bottle of boutique bourbon and a lovely cigar, a Churchill. No bourbon this year, of course, but I’m really looking forward to that cigar. I’m thinking it’s the only vice I have left.
My hip hurts. No biggie really, but the first thought that went through my mind was that I won’t be able to run tomorrow. Immediately I changed that thought, after all, athletes run through pain all the time. If it hurts too much to run I can always walk. It’s not an injury, just a little inflammation. (My hips haven’t been the same since I had Luke. One of my legs is now shorter than the other–long story. I forgot to wear my orthotic.) The big change though is that before I would’ve let that keep me from going tomorrow. Then the next day, and the next day, and the next. Before long I’d be fat, out of shape and so disgusted and ashamed that I wouldn’t want to do anything. Excuses. Excuses. Excuses. Not this time. Unless that leg falls off, I’ve got an appointment at the Y every morning for pretty much the rest of my life. Epiphany for real.
I’ve had the same type revelation about food. I realized that I’ve had two boiled eggs for breakfast every day for two weeks. I’m a gourmet cook, and always hated to diet because of the boring repetition. Now I look at food as fuel. Sustenance. Not entertainment. Not a pacifier. Simply a necessity to keep my body going. Like gas in the car. As long as it’s wholesome and nutritious it serves its purpose. By George I think I got it.
This morning I was watching GMA and saw this fabulous lady. She just started working out twenty years ago, and now she’s the world’s oldest female bodybuilder at…wait for it…SEVENTY-FOUR. I don’t know about you, but she’s an incredible inspiration for me. She didn’t start working out until she was in her fifties, surely it’s not too late for me.
Okay, not continuously. I interval train, meaning I run two laps and then I walk two laps. Seventeen laps is a mile. So after I’d done ten laps I took a break and went to the weight room. Did three sets of squat/press, three sets of deadlifts/bicep curls, three sets of bent-over rows and I lost count of how many flys and skull-crushers (Have to maintain my guns: Moose & Squirrel!). Then I went back and did seven more laps the same way; two laps running, two laps walking. So I did a mile and then some. Isn’t that freaking awesome? And get this I didn’t even feel like hurling afterwards. Yay me!
I’ve finally made peace with some things. For one, I actually do like clothes and looking good. I like looking good A LOT. I’ve been very resentful of the effects insulin resistance has had on my body, so I’ve been acting like a petulant two year old. Fortunately I read something that Liz Hurley said (yeah I know pearls of wisdom from Liz Hurley. Whoda thunk it?) Anyway, she said as she’s aged she’s had to stop drinking alcohol and that she goes to bed hungry every night. Hmph. Bottom line is, I probably would’ve had to change the way I eat with age regardless. Back in the day I could eat whatever and as long as I worked out it was all good. Those days are gone, never to return. 1200-1400 calories is pretty much my maximum if I want to get this weight off. No sugar, no booze, no grazing. This is pretty much the way I have to eat for the rest of my life. That thought used to depress the hell out of me, but I’m realizing that it’s not nearly as bad as the thought of never wearing a swimsuit or being able to shop off the rack at Anthropologie. Hunger is not an emergency, at least as long as it doesn’t make me pass out.
I’ve always had a curvy body, and I miss my waistline more than anything on earth. Insulin resistance has given me two things I never had: a thick waist and a belly. (I’ve made peace with the c-section pooch, despite being a PITA the Luke is worth it.) So if giving up sugar, booze and grazing will help me get my figure back I’m all in. This time, I’m in it to win it.