Fighting.
I can’t help but guffaw when I see a trailer for the movie “Fighting”. Who got paid for coming up with that title? They weren’t even trying. But odds are I will try to scrounge up to the money to see it because sweaty man titties, Channing Tatum, and the promise of violence + stupid romance is appealing to me. I have simple tastes.
This morning I woke up at 8:45 but laid in bed with my phone in my hand (typical since I check Twitter, Myspace, gmail, & Facebook from bed before letting the dogs out…) drifting in and out of the last few dregs of sleep before getting my ass up and at ‘em.
Today I was going to start Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred! And I was terrified. Two sports bras, my gym shoes, my Hannah Montana shorts and a baggy paint stained t-shirt was my workout gear. Except then I realized my floors are hard on the knees so I changed into my super baggy sweatpants (three sizes too big now but they still stay on thanks to hips) and rolled out the mat. The dogs had to be locked up on my bedroom because they seem to find it completely irresistable to LEAVE ME ALONE when I’m working out. Israel sits on the end of the mat, sure to get kicked in the head. Simona tries to lick my legs. Judah tries to sit on my stomach if I’m laying down. I put the DVD into my Mac and pressed play. Then I had to go search for something to put my hair up with and could only find a real rubberband…..thankfully it didn’t rip my hair out (not that I would miss much. I have a ridiculously thick head of hair. I’m sure it’s partly due to my hirsutism. Fun.) and it did the job. And so did the Level 1 workout.
LEVEL 1?!
I wanted to die halfway through. I wanted to puke. I had to grunt and breathe hard to catch my breath. Seriously, it was like I haven’t exercised or done any physical activity the last month and a half. Which is false, I try to do something every day, whether walk a few miles at a fast pace or get on the Gazelle and do some cardio afterward. The weekend was the only break I allowed myself, but that only meant no concentrated workout—otherwise I was go-go-go Saturday through Sunday night and barely sat still. It was intense. It was difficult. I admit I had to take a breather through most of it, but I still finished. I won’t berate myself for that—because tomorrow I know it will be better and I will be able to do a lot more. And by the time I get to Level 3 (I hazard to guess what that involves) I will feel 1000% better. Working out is a habit now. I do enjoy it to an extent. Yeah, it kicks my ass, but in a great way. It gives me something to focus on and keeps me busy. Somehow finding time to work out every day makes it easier to schedule in everything else. Cleaning, internet time, walks with the dogs. It seems so backwards and I never would’ve believed it before actually doing it—but doing more has given me more time to … do more! But the familiar anger has returned with a vengeance. It’s suddenly a personal vendetta against my back fat, my spare tire, and my flabby arms. I loathe them. You can’t learn to love yourself when you’re a squishy pile of blubber. Love yourself enough to change who you are on the outside if you don’t like it—don’t force yourself to accept the reflection you aren’t happy with. To love yourself enough to be satisfied with being a fat ass who can’t imagine walking a half mile without wanting to call someone to come pick you up and drive you there isn’t doing you any favors.
Of course there’s a flip side to this mentality. It can be unhealthy and lead to eating disorders. But I’m not coming from the perspective of a girl who’s never weighed more than 120 pounds and freaks out because she can’t squeeze into her size 4 jeans anymore. I’ve NEVER been skinny. Ever. I’ve never been thin—I’ve always been overweight. Last January, at 5’6” (I might be taller, who cares) I weighed over 300 pounds. What did I have to look forward to except more years of weight gain and misery before most likely dying in 20 years—if that?
I went down to about 250 but gained back some during the winter when it was so damn cold you couldn’t stay outside long enough to get your mail without feeling like any breath would freeze your lungs and kill you. That weight loss was just a straight lifestyle change. Changing jobs, not eating very much, smoking. Not much exercise. This time it’s serious. I know I can lose weight even if it seems like it’s taking forever when I’ve really only been doing this a little over a month. A month to undo 22 years of unhealthy habits, poor eating and no physical activity at all. Reality check! I’ve finally come to grips with the fact this will never end. It’ll get a bit easier, but I will never be the kind of person who can eat whatever she wants, never worry about working out and stay at a healthy weight. I have to stop obsessing about the scale because I know I’m more muscular than I realize and that adds to my weight. The scale is NOT my friend right now so I need to kick it in the face and leave it in the dust for a few months (thankfully I don’t own one, I weigh myself at my parents, and it’s easy to stay away from tehir house!). Focus on eating right (after the workout I wanted to throw up thinking about eating chocolate, a cookie, a hamburger, etc. and drooled at the idea of a big bowl of leafy greens) and working out to build muscle and reshape my shapeless potato-sack body.
I have the most weight to lose in my torso—like my dad and his side of the family we carry all of our weight in our stomachs and backs. My spare tire was literally a spare tire—I cringe at pictures where it appears that at any moment I was going to go lounge in a pool with a giant floaty around my waist. EXCEPT IT WAS MY FAT STOMACH. Go ahead, look for yourself (I found another gem…back fat, ahoy!) Do I need to tell you which one I am? I didn’t think so. for comparison this is me 2 weeks ago. Oddly enough I hadn’t looked at those comparisons but after beating up on myself kinda want to cry because I can actually see a difference…Finally.
It’s just so damn hard. Because no matter how many compliments or encouraging comments you get, no matter how good you feel after you eat well and workout, you are ultimately alone. It’s an intense, almost crippling feeling.
This morning after barely finishing the workout I felt so trapped, suffocated. You know that joke, “Inside every fat girl is a thin girl screaming to get out. You just can’t hear her because her mouth is full of chocolate.”? Well, that’s pretty much true. I feel like the real “me” is trapped inside of this fat body and every day I have to fight to break free. But the worst part is that it always feels like I’m losing.
