Mud For Your Lives

On Saturday, May 5th, I participated in Run For Your Lives, a zombie-themed obstacle course 5k.  The anticipation of this event had been building for several months, ever since I heard about it back in the fall.  As I stated in my previous post, I had been developing some moderate anxiety about the event, the cause of which was not entirely known to me.  Hilariously enough, I inadvertently distracted myself very effectively in the days before the event by beginning the novel Fifty Shades of Grey.  If you don't know anything about it, well, let me tell you.  I have a long and pleasant history of reading erotic fiction surreptitiously on the internet, but never have I had such materials delivered to me via Amazon's Prime shipping service.  Say whatever you want about the origins of the novel (Twilight fan fiction - yes, seriously) or its not-overly-impressive prose, but I can tell you from experience - this is as well-written as this shit gets.  I'm not saying it's great, or even very good...I'm just saying that most people who write sexy stories think they're F. Scott Fitzgerald but are really just some dude named Scott.  I started the novel on Thursday night, the day I received it in the mail, and finished it today (Sunday).  I was genuinely disappointed last night that I was too exhausted from RFYL to stay up and read.  It's rather engrossing.

Back to the 5k.  I hesitate to call it a run because there was, in truth, not much running involved.  It had rained several days the week before the race and even on low-precip days, the cloud cover meant that not much drying was happening.  I knew to expect mud, but I had no idea what I was talking about.  When Dan, Marion, and I pulled into the Poland Springs parking lot after our delicious Friendly's lunch, we saw people getting off shuttle buses; they had clearly come from the event and seemed at least a little muddy, if only on their lower legs.  We knew it was going to be messy and neither Marion nor I wore any clothing we were worried about ruining.  We arrived at Amesbury Sports Park roughly a half hour before our wave start time, 3pm.  We checked in, stowed our gear, hit the extremely crowded port-a-potties (which we later realized were about 200 feet away from not-at-all-crowded ones), and lined up.

As we waiting to start, we nervously watched people descend the penultimate obstacle, a giant slip-n-slide of tarps down a huge hill used for snow tubing in the winter months.  Every so often, a runner would hit a bump just right and get launched several feet in the air, landing on their coccyx with cringe-worthy force.  Knowing that this fun but possibly painful "ride" was waiting for me was both exciting and disturbing - it also made me wonder, however, about the scale and painfulness of the other less obvious obstacles.

The first was very straight forward: climb up this big, muddy, steep hill.

It was probably not the best way to start out a 3.1 mile adventure.  The climbing was very tiring and I was out of breath fairly quickly.  Many individuals attempted to run up the entire hill, despite the fact that there were no zombies until you got to the top.  I guess they were trying to get a good time, but if I've learned anything from my foray into running, using up all your juice in the first two minutes is a huge mistake.

When Marion and I reached the top of the hill, we encountered our first handful of zombies.  It became clear that they had "zones" of coverage and that you had to evade them within a relatively small area (usually the width of the course with a depth of 5 or 10 feet).  We both got through the first two or three zombies without getting our flags taken, and we felt awesome about that.  Neither of us expected to "survive" the race, so getting around the first wave was a big success for us.  We even attempted to jog from this point to the next zombies, but soon after realized that this was neither wise nor necessary.  It was only a few minutes before the mud situation (and it was a situation) became severe enough to slow us to a walk at regular intervals.

Probably about 30 zombies in, we each lost our first flags.  We felt good about still having any, but the ease with which we had evaded most of the walking dead made us a little hopeful about our chances...losing a flag harmed those chances significantly.  After a little under a half hour, we encountered a water station.  I assumed this was the halfway point.  Which was cute of me to think.  In reality, it was roughly one mile in, or just under a third of the distance.  At this pace, we would finish in 90 minutes, or about twice my actual running 5k time.

The obstacles we encountered were actually sort of bunched together.  The first man-made obstacle was a crawl-through tube which was basically just a way to get your hands and knees dirty.  Immediately thereafter, two obstacles came back to back: a water pit (waist-high) and something which might have been labeled "Slaughterhouse" though I can't remember.  The slaughterhouse was a pitch black room which you had to enter via cut-outs in the front wall.  The bottom of the windows was about two inches higher than my inseam, so it was a bit more invasive than I anticipated.  The interior of the shack was completely dark and filled with smoke, which was a nice touch.  There were hanging wires that you could just barely make out in the dark - I assumed these were electrified and avoided them.  A few minutes later, there was a "maze" of several tall panels that everyone seemed to have figured out by the time we arrived.  Marion and I were separated at this time by about 50 people; she ended up caught in a bottleneck at the exit of the maze, where a dozen people crammed the doorway in an effort to avoid being the first ones to have to face the zombies just outside the maze.  I had no such bad luck, thankfully, though I must say that there were many sandy vaginas on full display at some of these bottleneck points.  The zombies seemed to respect the people who put in effort and tried to juke around them instead of waiting indefinitely outside the zombies' jurisdiction.

It was around this time that Marion and I got down to one flag a piece.  We saw lots of scumbags picking up lost flags from the ground and putting them on their belts, which bothered Marion very deeply - a Lawful Good if I ever saw one.  Most of these runners seemed to have gotten what was coming to them anyway, since probably 3 in 4 participants seemed to have lost all their flags by the end (official results peg the survivor percentage for the day at 17.6%).  Throughout this time, I kept my eyes peeled for "health packs" that were supposed to be scattered around the course (which would restore life as long as you carried it across the finish line).  It was not until the end of the course when we talked to other runners that we found out that the health packs had been removed from play because runners were getting into fist fights over them.  Considering it was a key part of the strategy, I was a bit miffed to find this out after the race, not before.  Even so, the chances of me getting one was slim regardless.

About 45 minutes or an hour into the race, I lost my final flag.  I acted as a meat shield for Marion as best I could during this time, but 15 or 20 minutes later, she ended up the target of a fast zombie and lost her last one as well.  Although we were disappointed to be "out", we both felt accomplished, especially since we made it almost to the halfway point (in Marion's case, I think at least halfway, though it's impossible to tell).  A lot of people we met at the end of the race had very whiny sob stories about how zombies had done such and such unfair thing or had behaved uncharacteristically, so it wasn't fair that they lost their flags, blah blah.  Some stories did seem genuinely bothersome (one dude had run at full speed past a zombie, accidentally hit a girl ahead of him, stopped to make sure she was okay, and the zombie came over and took one of his flags...that seems cheap), but for the most part there were just a lot of sore losers covered in mud.

And let me tell you about the mud.  By the time we got to the first water station, it was clear that our shoes (which were going to be donated to an on-site charity anyway) would be completely unusable after today.  Marion had some really impressive mud strata on her bare legs that differed in texture and color based on how old the mud was and how deep it had been.  Our shoes continuously threatened to come off in the deeper, gloopier parts of the course, and for other runners this was a reality.  Thankfully that never happened to us, but it very well could have.

After what I assume was the midway point, an obstacle in which we had to crawl under a length of sawhorse teepees in a sand pit (that's an obstacle?), there was a HUGE stretch of time in which we saw no zombies nor obstacles.  Most likely this was due to the terrain, which was hilly and dotted with trees, and had become completely liquid from the rain and the previous six hours of runners.  The slippery ground and all its unevenness made this easily the most dangerous part of the course, and not really in a thrilling way.  Our progress was very slow and treacherous, and my hand ended up going three inches into the mud on a few occasions when I had to catch myself from falling.  Ironically, Marion was doing better during this portion because she had aggravated an existing ankle injury early in the race (like, on the first hill) and was now enjoying the benefits of a cold mud pack on her ankle and the softest possible ground.  Even so, we were both becoming increasingly exhausted and we had almost no frame of reference for how far we had come.  We finally arrived at a second water station and figured we were two-thirds of the way through the race, a fact that was simultaneously dismaying and comforting.  "We're only that far?  Well, we know how far we have to go."

After a genuinely dangerous natural water obstacle (a stagnant pool filled with hidden logs and vines), we emerged to slightly drier ground and were at least able to walk almost like normal people.  We encountered many more zombies at this point and thoroughly enjoyed interacting with them now that we were already "infected".  We tried to act as meat shields for other runners, sometimes with no indication to the runners but often through verbal offers of assistance.  We were surprised and a little offended when so many people didn't even bother to acknowledge that we had spoken to them or offered help - and we're not talking elite runners here.  These were people who were just as slow as us and had only a single flag remaining, but still did not deign to accept the help of two eager zombies-in-waiting.  After a while, we stopped trying to help anyone and instead joked with zombies and sometimes gave undead high-fives (like normal high-fives, but with less oomph and more groaning).  Although some of the zombies were clearly bored and tired by this point, presumably having been there for a few hours, several were in on the joke, so to speak, and responded playfully to our interactions.  When Marion taunted a "pregnant" zombie with "hit her in the baby!", the zombie pointed at Marion like she was calling her shot.

After about 90 minutes, we arrived at the end of the course.  There were three obstacles stacked together at the end.  The first was an elevated water slide with wooden scaffolding to get you to the top and a big water tank at the bottom for the landing.  After that, there was the aforementioned slip-n-slide down the tubing hill.  At the end, which we did not see until we got right in front of it, was an electrified fence that had been pulled up to allow people to crawl under it with about a foot of clearance.  If Marion and I had had access to these obstacles, we would have finished in under 100 minutes easy.  Unfortunately, there were apparently several logistical issues with both water slides that caused repeated backups.  We waited for the first of the three obstacles for about twenty or thirty minutes.  We had cooled down completely by this point and were not looking forward to the pool of muddy water at the bottom.  Throughout the race, I had been coughing and and hacking (the remnants of my awesome cold from the end of April), often having to spit phlegm into the woods.  Caught in the crowd at the end, however, I was forced to spit into the muddy water in which we were all standing.  Ew.

When we finally approached the wooden lattice to climb the first slide, it became increasingly apparent that this was not simply a ladder.  The "rungs" were between three and four feet apart, which is a serious distance for someone not much over five feet tall.  Each step up was a significant effort, and at the top I had to launch with both feet and haul myself up to the platform, scraping my palm on the un-sanded wood in the process.  The slide was at an angle significantly steeper than I would ever go down on purpose in my life, and because it was continuously wet by a hose (like a traditional water slide), there was no good way to regular your own speed.  It was a short drop with a sudden stop, the stop being a disgusting muddy tank of water at the bottom in which I was completely submerged.  While I had managed to this point to go only waist-deep in any mud or water, there was no coming back from this.  Hours after the race, I went to the bathroom and found mud in my cooch.  This pit was no joke.

Perhaps the only moment - and it was but a half second - in the whole race in which I thought I might fail was when I got to the edge of the water tank.  The tank itself had edges over four feet high with no step or edge below that to use to exit the tank.  Without hesitation (or checking if I was about to kick someone in the head - yikes), I flung my body sideways onto the ledge and made it out, scraping my other palm on the wood.  Somewhere in there I also clocked my arm on something, which is the only serious bruise I have and happens to be right on the part of my wrist that wants to rest on the edge of the laptop as I type.  Ow.

After escaping the tank, we lined up for the slip-n-slide.  I had mud in my eyes, ears, nose, and mouth.  I had to use the few dry square inches of Marion's shirt to get enough mud out of my eyes that I could see where I was going.  After that, the real obstacle became the cold.  It was about 55º out, certainly not freezing, but we were exposed at the top of a hill and soaking wet.  We waited anxiously to go down Tailbreak Hill, if only to get closer to our changes of clothes.  The tarp system they were using was clearly flawed from design to execution, and constant fixes were needed to keep it in working order.  We were so cold that we began shivering, as did several others in line.  You can see the extent of the backup here:

That line wraps back around its full length, and considering that they were sending people down about four a minute with frequent two-minute breaks, we're talking a 10-20 minute wait at minimum.  Once the tarp problems became rather severe, some runners decided to run down the hill next to the slip-n-slide (also pictured) and jump into the mud at the bottom so as to "complete" the obstacle.  It took us less than a minute to decide to follow this course of action.  Although we didn't get to experience the ass-destroying power of the slide, we did get to warm up, and that was all we cared about at this point.

After one last treacherously muddy descent, we reached the final obstacle, the electrified fence.  Dan had been standing there waiting for us for over an hour, and had gotten a great chance to watch people harm themselves on this obstacle.  The electrified nature of the fence should have been obvious to everyone (there was a sign telling people that they were in the presence of an electromagnet, plus it was making a fabricated buzzing noise every few seconds), but many people went willy-nilly under the fence and allowed themselves to get zapped.  Dan's favorites, he later reported, were the people who touched the fence and jerked upward, causing themselves more zappage.

Once we crossed the finish line (2:11:51.9), we received our medals (the zombie equivalent of participation trophies), turned in our tracking chips, and headed for the "rinse off" area, which was a huge fan blowing cold mist.  It was rather ineffective.  We retrieved our gear and got into the changing area, and were finally given a chance to de-mud and get out of the soaked clothing.  It was here that I discovered that the interior of my sports bra was caked with mud.  Because, you know, that's normal for a Saturday.

Although Marion and I were not feeling super tired at this point, we weren't enthralled by the entertainment and food offerings in the "safe zone" and decided to board a shuttle bus back to the car.  From there, we went to the Ninety-Nine (at which point I ate my second chicken finger plate of the day - you know, a normal Saturday).  Dan mercifully stopped at a Dunkin' Donuts so I could get a hot chocolate, and we rode back to Boston feeling pretty good.  Upon discovering that Marion had never seen Thor, we pretty much made her come back with us to cuddle the dogs and get all Thor'd up.  We actually stayed up through the entire movie, which ended around 11pm, and Dan graciously offered to drive Marion home to Somerville (I have to give Dan props on the day - he drove a lot, stood around a lot, and then drove some more, and was cheery about the whole thing).

It was not until this morning, 18 or so hours after the race, that I discovered exactly what kind of sore I would be.  My hip flexors are completely shot.  I guess it makes sense that pulling my feet out of mud for two hours might mean that the muscles responsible for lifting my legs miiiight be a little tired.  But seriously...putting on pants is a challenge.  My glutes/hammies/quads all feel totally fine - it's just my hip flexors.  I hope they're better by tomorrow because having taken Thursday, Friday, and today (Sunday) as rest days means that I really need to get back into the gym.  I guess if I skip deads tomorrow, I can still do all the upper body work.  If I can climb the stairs to get to the gym.  Heh.

For now, it's nearly midnight and I'm already setting myself up for a very sleepy Monday.  My kids are finishing Feed tomorrow and it's sure to be an emotional conversation (they've actually become invested in the story, so the ending just might destroy them), so I need to be at the top of my game.  I'm sad that I already finished Fifty Shades of Grey today and have to wait a few days until the other books in the trilogy arrive this week.  Though to be honest, the way Dan reacted every time I went to read that book, you'd think I was eloping with the damned thing in Vegas.  Just goes to show you how men and women differ in their regards to erotica - men see it as the consolation prize if no ass is to be had, whereas women seek it out as a viable alternative/supplement to getting ass.  At least, in some cases, I should say.  Let's hope he gets a hold of himself by the time I start the second book.

Good night, all.  I'm still exhausted with a zombie hangover, though I'm happy to say I feel a quiet sort of accomplishment about finishing the event.  I'm much prouder of the work I did leading up to it, even if Marion and I did joke the entire time that training for a "run" was the biggest waste of time for this event.  I'm not done improving myself and my body, not by a long shot, and I look forward to finding new ways to impress myself.  For now, enjoy a little aesthetics:

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 18: Rule #1 - Cardio

Two hundred and twenty four days ago, a close friend of mine e-mailed me, my fiancee, and our mutual friend a link to Run For Your Lives, the zombie obstacle course 5k.  Having been slowly increasing my exercise regimen and vaguely focusing on fitness for about three months prior to that, I was intrigued and energized.  I find it hard to describe the humming, churning, bubbling feeling I had inside of me when I first read about it.  This, I thought to myself, is the funnest thing that could possibly exist on the planet.  Yes, I was so excited that I used the word "funnest" in my inner monologue.  I looked at the obstacles, figured out how long this mysterious "5k" length was, and got to work that same night.  It all started simply - a half hour on the elliptical, a few squats and lunges, an afternoon date with Turbo Jam.  At the time, I weighed 186 pounds, about 11 pounds less than my largest.  I didn't have much of a training plan, but I knew that getting my weight down was going to be priority #1 when it came to being able to finish an obstacle course race.

My initial efforts looked nothing like my current habits and routines.  In the couple of months following my decision to do RFYL, I alternated between my elliptical (aka the clothes rack) and Turbo Jam DVDs, often extending dog walks on non-exercise days.  I felt like I was being so incredibly active, but looking back at my exercise logs on My Fitness Pal, I was really only exercising about 2-3 days a week.  Still, for someone who rarely made the effort even weekly, it was a big shift.  The real difference for me and the thing that helped me lose a bunch of weight relatively quickly was calorie counting.  I kept to about 1500 calories on rest days and ate back exercise calories on my active days, losing between 1 and 2 pounds each week (most seemed like 2-pound weeks, with several no-loss or plateau periods in there).  Even though I'm on a stricter budget now, eating 1300-1400 calories most days and rarely eating back exercise calories, it felt harder in the beginning because it's such a chore to have to care at all.  Now, I weigh everything I eat and it doesn't bother me.  I don't obsess if I'm not sure of the calories in something, and I don't worry about going over budget for a day or two.  Now that I have spent more than six months taking good care of my body, I feel that I understand it better and am better able to care for it properly.

A lot has changed in my fitness regimen over the last seven months.  I use the elliptical mainly as a warm-up tool, and then it's usually at the gym before I lift weights.  Strength training has become just as important to me as running, particularly because I enjoy it significantly more than almost all other fitness activities.  Running does give me satisfaction and a lovely adrenaline/endorphin rush if I have a good run, but the act itself doesn't make me smile.  Lifting heavy things does.  I'm still firmly a n00b - my form is not great, I am not lifting impressive amounts, and I have no intention of becoming a powerlifter.  Yes, there is a huge tub of protein powder in my cabinet, but frankly it doesn't taste very good and I'm not lifting enough volume to justify a shake every lifting day.  That being said, I feel entirely confident entering the weight room at my gym, a far cry from my insecure and unsure self just three months ago when I started.  The more I am able to do and the happier I become with my body (both in appearance and ability), the fewer shits I give about what others in the gym might or might not think of me.  Yeah, I might be dead lifting in a smith machine (no oly bars? rly?), but at least I'm dead lifting instead of doing 15 different tricep exercises trying to "spot tone".  See, I'm learning.

My path to Run For Your Lives has educated me beyond what I had imagined.  I know more about fitness, weight lifting, cardio, running, my body, and nutrition than I had even planned to know.  Even though I still have so much to learn, I at least feel like, if I were left to my own devices, I could take care of myself reasonably well in the future.  Who would have thought that a silly 5k would have prompted so much change, growth, and awesomeness?

Well now it's time to face the music.  I have built up this race so much in my head that my anxiety about it is getting a little out of control.  It's not that I'm worried about my running performance - I already know that my goal is just to finish, and if I can run the whole thing that's great, but I'm not expecting to "survive" with all my flags or even make decent time.  It's not that I'm worried I will have trouble with the obstacles - although I'm not what I would call "strong", I'm no longer embarrassingly-weak and the obstacles aren't designed to be that difficult.  I don't really know what is making me so nervous.  Part of it is that I really hate being chased, as I mentioned in my original RFYL blog post.  Although I think the race will be fun, there is an element of terror involved with people coming for you.  It's not something that I suspect I will enjoy, at least on a primal level.  But even assuming that I find the zombies fun to evade and do not pee my pants when I encounter the first several, there's something else, something I can't put my finger on.  I guess there has just been so much anticipation around this mythical, infinitely-in-the-future event that its immediacy and reality are overwhelming to me.

At the same time, I look at how far I have come, ostensibly because of the inspiration gained from training for this race, and I can't help but be happy and excited.  I have lost 45 pounds total, 34 of which came off after the zombie 5k was brought to my attention.  I have completed Couch-to-5k, or more accurately, I used the first six weeks of the C25K program to get to the point where I could run a 5k.  I have made very real, very satisfying strength gains in my bench press, shoulder press, and dead lift.  I am significantly closer to being able to do a chin-up.  I comfortably fit into size 8 shorts, and had to go to Old Navy yesterday to buy pants that fit considering I have now given away all but two pairs of work pants.  And today, even though I am tired from a typical Monday of teaching, and even though I have a significant amount of work to do when I get home, I will put on my leave-nothing-to-the-imagination compression pants and I will run hills outside my house, because I need to work on my speed and acceleration.  That's not the kind of thing I really ever expected to say about myself.  But I'm happy to say it.  It feels important and genuine.  And anything that strokes my ego is welcome here.

Although I do have two runs scheduled for this summer (Pug Rescue of New England 5k on June 1st and the Color Run 5k on July 28th), neither of them inspire the same kind of zeal and fury that I felt when I first heard about the zombie 5k.  I'm not ready, physically or mentally, to start gunning for things like Tough Mudder, which would be the next logical step if I end up enjoying RFYL.  I'm still floundering a bit with my "what next?" crisis, of which I have spoken.  I'm not exactly worried that I'll fall off the wagon if I don't have a singular focus, but I do know that I work harder and better if I've got something in mind.  One of the best motivations for me on the hardest C25K days was imagining zombies chasing me at a speed juuuuuuust a little faster than my current one.  I never had to repeat any runs or take extra breaks.  What will be my next inspiration?  What amazing and innovative physical challenge is a mere 224 days away?

It feels strange to see the weather for the zombie 5k on the forecast.  That's always how I've measured the proximity of events - if the milk expires beyond the date, it's close.  If the weather forecast includes the date, it's very close.  With both of those true, I am giddy and terrified.  Four days, 22 hours, 24 minutes.  And counting.

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 17: An Open Letter to My Former Gym Teachers

Dear Beverly gym teachers from Briscoe and the high school (years 1995-2002),

You probably don't remember me.  While I think it's safe to say that many of my teachers, especially those in the English department, at least have a fair shot at remembering me because of my strong work ethic and endless brown-nosing, I doubt that either of those traits came through in the work I did for you.  In fact, I was probably firmly seated among the least memorable students, because I never caused much of a ruckus nor was I one of the elite who seemed to excel so easily at the various activities we did.  I enjoyed some of the games, stayed in the background for others, and walked the mile we were supposed to run for the Presidential Fitness Test.  Well, in middle school I at least tried to run it, but it became apparent by high school that I was not capable.  In fact, I spent most of my teenage years thinking I probably had asthma because of how difficult it was for me to breathe while running.  Turns out I was just fat and out of shape.

Gym class was one of the only places in school where I consistently felt like a failure.  I guess that's a good thing, from a certain perspective - most of the time, I did well in school and had a decent amount of success, Accelerated Algebra II notwithstanding (Mrs. McCarthy, go fuck yourself.  I still like math despite your horrible teaching).  But in gym class, at least the majority of the time, I was constantly reminded of how bad I was at everything.  It is only now, over a decade since my last phys ed class, that I am starting to understand that it was not my fault.

The curriculum was not exactly great.  If you look at what schools are supposed to be teaching in a gym class (or at least, covering between gym and health, which are separated for some reason), it sounds all well and fine, but that was not what you taught me.  We did a different sport every few weeks, rotating through them on some mysterious schedule that none of us were privy to except for you.  A few weeks of volleyball, then floor hockey, then flag football, then basketball, then tennis, then pickleball (aka "hey, go get that"), and so on.  We were rarely given any direct instruction as to the rules of these sports, but instead were expected to know them already, I guess from previous gym classes.  We had no advice as to strategy, and for team sports like flag football, indoor kids like myself were all but encouraged to keep to the side and stay out of the jocks' way.  There were no objectives, no goals, and no purpose.  Once we got changed and did our obligatory warmup, we were to wander over to the equipment bin or the field or whatever made sense for the "unit" we were on.  Your job was apparently to yell at kids who didn't want to play and make sure that no one hurt themselves or others too badly.

In fact, I don't recall you doing any instruction at all.  It seems a little strange that a teacher would be a full-time babysitter who just watches kids play for 45 minutes at a time.  What exactly did you go to school for, anyway?  I know that some of you were pretty old school and were gym teachers back when Kennedy was elected, but Jesus, even a gym teacher is a teacher.  It's right there in your title.  If nothing else, couldn't you do a little game theory?  Or strategies for the games we played?  Maybe I would have enjoyed flag football a little more if someone bothered to explain to me that there were four downs and that the goal was to get the ball ten yards closer to the other team's end zone.  Why did I have to wait until my brother explained football to me when I was 16, when I supposedly had been playing it since sixth grade?  With even the lowest possible expectations, wasn't that your job?

Of course, playing a series of sports (badly) doesn't have to be, nor should it be, the foundation of a gym class.  Where was the instruction on nutrition?  The guidance on how to be fit outside of class?  The information about anatomy and physiology that would help us understand our bodies and get/keep them in shape?  Even assuming that a health class would cover many of the topics pertinent to teenagers, like reproductive health and substance abuse/addiction, I suspect that there's more to fitness than shooting baskets by myself on the far end of the gym because I can't run enough to play an actual game.  I don't know if the blame for this immense lack of content should be placed on those who write the curriculum or those who teach the gym teachers or just the gym teachers themselves.  I don't think I can blame you entirely, because the dramatizations I've seen of fictional gym classes seem pretty similar to my experience, so at the very least, this goes beyond Beverly.

[Quick note: I'm not saying that playing sports has nothing to do with fitness or that sports are not a good use of time.  But first of all, what we were doing was NOT really playing sports, it was some people playing sports and some people pretending to play sports.  Secondly, look at an athlete's training schedule.  100% of his/her time is not spent playing scrimmages.  There's other stuff in there.  Like, a lot of other stuff.]

What I find most frustrating is that there were brief glimpses of actual fitness work at least a few times per year.  In high school, you unlocked a little room underneath some of the bleachers that we called the "Nautilus room" - which I now understand to be the brand of equipment contained therein.  And you let us go to town.  The boys mostly went across the gym to the other little room that had free weights and barbells in it, but we ladies stuck to the less-intimidating machines.  Preacher curls, tricep extensions, chest presses, shoulder presses, leg extensions, and even hip adductors/abductors (which we so cleverly called "the sex machine").  You didn't really tell us what to do or give us any advice - in fact, you usually spent the whole time across with the boys, presumably making sure they didn't drop a 400 lb barbell on their necks - but I loved it.  There's something primal and satisfying about moving weight around, and this was my favorite "unit" of the year, with the possible exception of floor hockey, which is one of the few things I am terrible at but still enjoy.

Perhaps if you had let me work in the Nautilus room instead of making me stand around like an asshole waiting to miss a tennis ball, I might have developed a real appreciation for strength training.  Like, in 1999 instead of in 2012.  I'm not saying it would have necessarily happened, and it's possible I would have just screwed around in there and learned nothing.  But it's also possible I would have actually gotten something out of gym class beyond confusion and shame.

Remember around the end of the school year when we were forced to participate in the Presidential Fitness Testing?  Of course you remember - it was the only time that any outside standards or expectations tried to hold you accountable for doing anything with us.  It's like the MCAS of gym.  The five activities we performed for these tests were: V-sit (flexibility), mile run, shuttle sprints, pull-ups, and sit-ups.  You know what would have helped me do better on those tests?  IF WE HAD EVER TRIED DOING ANY OF THOSE THINGS BEFORE BEING TESTED ON THEM.  The most you ever made us run was doing a lap around the gym for a warm-up, which was less than a quarter mile.  And forget pull-ups and sit-ups, that shit was totally foreign to me until test day.  That's like leaving me in a library to pick my nose and then giving me a reading comprehension test.  Yeah, I was surrounded by the tools that could improve my skills, but if you don't show me how to use them and work with me, what the fuck am I supposed to learn?

More than anything else, I feel disappointed about the wasted opportunity.  You had my undivided attention for 45 minutes every single day.  If I had spent even half of that time being truly active, I might not have gone from a size 10 to a size 16 over the course of high school and college.  Sure, my eating habits can take the brunt of the blame for that, but now that I know it's possible to ignite a passion for fitness inside myself, I'm angry that it took this long to happen.  YOU were the ones who could have helped me.  YOU were the ones responsible for my physical education.  YOU had the knowledge, the equipment, and the time to spare to help me get fit.  And you didn't.  You wasted my time, you made me dislike the very activities that I should have been engaging in regularly, and you judged me for it.  Maybe you think we don't notice the disdain with which you interact with the "non-sports" kids.  Maybe you think we can't see the eye rolls or the heavy sighs of impatience when we don't jump at the chance to go run around for a half hour.  Well, it was obvious to me, and I'm sure to the other kids too, exactly who you felt was worthy of your time.  And it sure as shit wasn't the chubby girl who couldn't run a mile.

I know there are a lot of barriers to having high-quality physical education in American schools.  No Child Left Behind and its test-based accountability has forced districts to emphasize the core subject areas to the detriment of electives, extra-curricular activities, sports, clubs, and even recess in elementary schools.  In Massachusetts, the MCAS tests students in English, Math, and Science.  All other subject areas and interests must be considered only after those three subjects have been covered thoroughly, which takes up a substantial portion of the day.  From a district-level perspective, I can understand that it's easy to cut phys ed requirements to make room for more academic considerations.  But gym getting the shaft makes it even more important that you make the best possible use of the time you have with kids.  You need to find ways to improve your curriculum and your teaching, and emphasize core skills and knowledge with what little time you do have.  I'm a teacher, so trust me; I know what the fuck I'm talking about here.  You don't have time to screw around with pickleball.  If you don't have control over the requirements and the administrative decisions, at least don't be a fucking asshole when it comes to decisions you do control.  Help kids.  Teach them.  Encourage them to develop skills for life in a safe, nonjudgmental environment.  Try differentiated instruction for once, you twats.

It's been a decade since I graduated high school, and I now teach in an alternative high school program for students who are struggling to graduate.  When students are admitted to my program, their schedules are created and their path to graduation is mapped out.  You know what we do to make the numbers work?  We get gym and health requirements waved.  Do you know why we do this?  Because it's easy.  Schools don't give a shit about those requirements, and since we have neither the staff nor the facilities to teach those subject areas, we get them waved.  And it fucking sucks.  Because every day I teach a bunch of overweight, unhealthy inner city kids who eat McDonald's at least twice a day.  They don't know any better, and I'm just the English teacher - the best I can manage is to tell them how many calories they should be eating a day and how many of those are covered by the extra large coffee coolata they got from Dunkin Donuts.  Then it's time to get down to academics, and leave the health stuff behind.

One of my students has clinical depression and also happens to be probably a hundred pounds overweight.  When I started losing weight, we had a few conversations about his own goals and how he was struggling to achieve anything with his inconsistent efforts.  At his request, I printed him the treadmill version of Couch-to-5k for him to try at home, which he has done a few times, but with limited success.  I gave him a Jillian Michaels DVD (that I hated because she's too mean, but he loved) as a reward for coming to school on time on a Monday (a near-impossible feat for many of my students).  But every day I see him, I know he's still struggling.  I wish I could communicate to him how much his life could change if he focused more on fitness.  I want to show him research studies that support regular exercise as a valid treatment for depression.  I want to spend time with him talking about his habits and goals, discussing food diaries and exercise plans, but that's not my place.  In fact, it would be YOUR place.  But you did fuck-all for me, so maybe I shouldn't lament that my school waves phys ed.  After all, what good did it do me?

Sincerely,
Amber H.
BHS Class of 2002
45 pounds lost in 9 months
12:00 mile
Fuck You

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 16: "Now, a clever man would put the poison into his own goblet..."

I have been noticing lately that my engagement ring feels loose.  Not quite falling-off loose, but not as secure as I would like.  I've had it for over 3 months now, so I know it's just not that it's new and I'm hyper-conscious of it, and it's not run-of-the-mill paranoia about it falling off.  I've lost exactly 17 pounds between the day I first donned the ring to now (and was about 10 lbs heavier before that, back when he asked me oh so subtly for my "jewelry sizes").  So of those 27 pounds, if even a few ounces of those came from my fingers, then yeah, it makes sense that I would be a different ring size.  My high school ring (which I lost many years ago and still miss, because it was awesome) was a size 5½ I think, and that fit my right ring finger.  In college, a size 6 was correct.  At my biggest, 6½ was my ring size.  When Dan asked me my sizes, and I was about 10 lbs down from my biggest, I told him that 6 or 6½ was my ring size.  He went with 6½, which was correct at the time, so I can't fault him for it.  It fit fine when I got it, which is why I didn't take advantage of the jeweler's free re-size period of 60 days.

However, as I descend firmly into the 150s of weight, a territory unknown to me for at least the last decade, I find that I don't know what my ring size is.  And I certainly don't know what it will be when I lose another 10 or 15 or 20 pounds.  I don't even know what weight I'm shooting for, much less whether my sausage fingers will still be little sausages at such a weight.  But I do know that I keep my ring on its designated holder on the bathroom sink more and more often these days, so paranoid am I that I'm going to calorie deficit this ring right off my finger.  And an engagement ring that you can't wear is kind of lame.

So, knowing that a re-size was in the near future, I casually dropped this information into a conversation with Dan the other day.  Here is a reenactment:

Amber: I think I've finally lost enough weight that my ring is kind of loose.  I might have to get it sized down.

Dan: Oh, shit, really?  Ugh.

Amber: Yeah, well, that's what happens when you lose a bunch of weight.

Dan: Is it like, a little loose, or falling off?

Amber: Right now it's a little loose, but it's only going to get looser.  Do know how much it'll cost to get it re-sized?  I know the company you got it from had a free re-size period, but I know it's expired by now.  I figure it'll be more expensive because it's platinum, but it shouldn't be that bad.

Dan: I mean, I don't know the exact numbers, but it's going to be crazy expensive.  With it being platinum, it's going to cost a shitload of money.

Amber: Well, if it's more than three figures, then I'm not going to worry about it, that's too much.  I'll wear it on a different finger if I have to.

Dan: Oh, it's going to be at least three figures.  I'll be lucky if I get away with paying less than $500.

Knowing that Dan didn't know what the fuck he was talking about, but also knowing that I wasn't sure of the price hike for platinum, I went online and searched around.  Information was pretty all over the place, but every forum and website I saw suggested that it would either be under $100 or free, depending on the jeweler.  I went on the website of the company that made my ring and did their little customer service chat thing.  Cost of resizing this ring?  $50.

There are several things that really bother me about this whole thing, and it's certainly not about paying no goddamned fifty bucks to re-size a ring.  First, Dan's reaction was so overwhelmingly negative that I was pretty taken aback.  I did expect him to frown upon an additional cost associated with our engagement/impending marriage, but I didn't expect him to shit bricks.  And at least a brick or two did, indeed, get shat.  I know that he doesn't understand what I'm about to say, but...seriously, you're mad about something that is a result of me losing weight?  SERIOUSLY?

[Tangent: He certainly wasn't upset when I gave away trash bag after trash bag of clothes, totaling now three separate trips to Good Will.  Does he give a shit that I just lost probably $2000 worth of my accumulated wardrobe?  Nah, honey badger don't give a fuck.  When I express any disdain for having to get rid of so many clothes, some of which were not cheap, Dan is Captain Silver Lining, saying that it's for a good reason and now I won't have such a crowded closet, yadda yadda.  He's allllll about positivity then.  And I will tell you why.  Dan believes that the amount of stuff I own is significantly greater than the amount the I need and/or the amount that any person should own.  He owns like 5 pairs of pants, so therefore everyone should own 5 pairs of pants.  He has 25 t-shirts, so therefore everyone should have 25 t-shirts.  If I have 30 t-shirts (and I assure you, the number is far greater, even with the repeated wardrobe cullings), then that is too many, regardless of the sources of the shirts, my use or need of them, or my storage of them.  Moreover, it seems to irk him, slightly but constantly, that I have "too much stuff".  I will be the first to admit that I have lots of things.  I follow George Carlin's philosophy/critique of using a house to keep all your stuff while you're out getting more stuff.  My personal  policy is that as long as everyone can be "put away" whether it be a closet or a drawer or what have you, then you're fine.  If stuff is just out and that's where it lives (hoarders-style), then that's too much stuff.  Dan and I do not have the same benchmarks/standards for this, and while I don't really care if Dan is a bit spartan in his possessions, he certainly gives a shit when I'm sybaritic in mine. /Tangent]

So the fact that Dan was so up in arms about my ring getting to be too big for me bothered me.  I'm not saying he has to celebrate every inconvenience that comes with dropping 3 stone, but maybe don't treat my weight loss as a burden, you know?  He already laments how he doesn't get to order takeout as much anymore because I won't order with him (what, are his fingers/legs broken that he can't get his own dinner?), which he's not saying to make me feel bad but is just saying what's on his mind, but holy shit, Supportive Jones he is not.  Another, weight-unrelated issue I had with our conversation about ring resizing is that he assumed that the financial burden was his.  He never thought about the possibility of me paying for this process, despite the fact that I'm the one who took action that directly resulted in the ring no longer fitting.  Maybe he assumed responsibility because he bought me the ring, or maybe it was because I bothered to say something to him about it so he figured that meant I expected him to pay for it.  I don't know.  But dude, I got this.  All fifty dollars of it.

A few weeks ago, Dan and I were talking with some mutual friend of ours whom I can't presently recall, and that person mentioned my blog.  Dan regretfully said he still hadn't read it, which I find funny because I told him about it once five years ago and have nary mentioned it again.  He later asked me if he should be afraid to read it and if I spend the whole time bad-mouthing him, and we had a good chuckle over that.  I told him that I would never be offended if he didn't read it, but that he was welcome to do so.  As I look back at past entries, I find a surprising number of them either are directly inspired by conflict with Dan or at least offer passing critiques of him.  I guess it makes sense that the person I love, live with, and plan to marry would end up being a frequent subject in my blog, but it bothers me to look at my own entries and see this sea of negativity, much of it directed at him.  It certainly was never my intent with this blog (nor could it have been, since it's been around longer than he has), but it seems that it has become a slightly different animal over time.  Even as I go back and obsessively reread this very entry for typos and spelling errors (which still seem to sneak through no matter how much I proof it), I'm a little surprised at how angry I sound/am.

I think I use this blog primarily the way I would use a therapist.  And rereading this shit, I think I might have a need for a real one of those.  This blog does a great job at accepting me for who I am and not judging me for the numerous mistakes I've made, but it doesn't offer much in the way of probing questions and insightful advice.  Yesterday I spent a half an hour looking up information on Selective Eating Disorder (what they're now calling us grown-ass picky eaters), and found that there's an eating disorders specialist at Tufts Medical Center downtown who works with selective eaters.  Should I get a referral from my PCP and just go?  Am I ready to start treatment for a disorder?  It sounds so grave when I say it like that.  Would this specialist be able to then refer me to a boring ol' psychiatrist?  Do I really want to have two shrinks when before I had none?  Oye.  It's all getting very complicated.  When I wanted to lose weight but couldn't seem to do it, life seemed a lot simpler.  There was a single enemy, and it required a single battle plan.  The reasons for my life-long weight problems were legion; I had to wade through a lot just to even get started, and many of those causes persist today.  But it was still a single issue, about which I could safely become single-minded.  Now that I have the power to change my body, something I never thought I could really do, what else can I do?  And now that I have committed to my health, am I now inextricably bound to the responsibility of fixing everything about myself?  Where do I draw the line between self-improvement and hypercritical self-destruction?  Knowing that change requires destroying the old habits and traits, how much of myself should I attempt to replace with what I believe to be the upgraded version? 

This is all getting very deep and dramatic and serious.  But it's Thursday afternoon and I have tomorrow off and PAX East is this weekend and tomorrow I'ma do a final weigh-in at my gym for a weight loss contest that I'm probably going to win.  So a lot of good things are happening and I need to just be.  To facilitate being, here is a puppy:

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 15: Please Select Your Avatar

Ever since succeeding in running my first 5k (just me versus a treadmill, not an actual race), I have been spending a lot of time ruminating on my fitness goals and long-term plans.  I am stuffed to the gills with short-term goals, and can't seem to stop making them.  The Zombie 5k looms - it is a mere five weeks away.  A month afterward, I run a far more traditional 5k to benefit Pug Rescue of New England.  I don't have any races/runs scheduled for after that, but I hope to get more comfortable with the 5k distance and actually get a decent time.  In 2013, I will hope to be somewhat competitive for the next Zombie 5k, plus there's that whole wedding thing that's going to happen, and I hear tell that some brides try to get in better shape beforehand.  Additionally, I have a few fitness goals like doing 20 kneeling push-ups in a set or completing an unassisted chin-up.  While it may take me a while to get to the point of doing those, the training is pretty straightforward and is not particularly time-consuming.

I guess what I'm really struggling with is the creation of a Fit identity.  I think spending a great deal of time on Fitocracy (or rather, with the people on Fitocracy) has made this issue more pressing, whether that's a good or bad thing.  I don't know which person I want to be: the distance runner, the sprinter, the always-heavier lifter, the vainglorious-peacock lifter, the always-in-weight-loss-mode cardio bunny, the Fitocracy-dictates-my-fitness-goals gamer, the try-something-new-every-week rudderless boat, or just the person who finds a routine they like and then just does it every single day.  Some of these hats I would not particularly care to wear; some others I worry about even being realistic.  But so far, nothing has struck me with the feeling of yes, this is my thing now. This is what I do.

To me, the Fit identity is the thing that dictates my goals, plans, and actions.  But I don't have one yet.  I know that I like a lot of what I've been doing (hence why I keep doing it).  I like lifting.  A lot.  But if I really wanted to get strong and jacked, I would have to be even more psychotic about food (macros, timing of meals and workouts, protein protein protein), if I wanted to see any real gains.  I'm looking forward to the time when I hit a healthy weight and I can start eating maintenance calories rather than cutting all the time.  Yesterday I ate 1177 calories: Corn Flakes for breakfast, Chef Boyardee Dinosaurs with Meatballs for lunch (Spaghettios are for suckers), and then Corn Flakes again for dinner.  I was supposed to have pasta with sauce for dinner, but it was hard enough to motivate myself to get off the couch after the gym, much less cook a meal with no meat in it.  If I hit a weight between 135 and 140, which is my rough estimate of what "healthy" will look like for me, I get to eat 2000 a day.  I don't even know what I would do with all those calories!  Actually, yes I do: drink a fuckton a milk.  God, I miss milk.  The point is, I want to get less obsessed with my food intake than I am now, not MORE obsessed.  So any fitness goals that require food OCD in order to get anywhere...well, they're not for me.

I also like running, although the act itself is nothing something I crave.  The accomplishment that comes with longer/faster runs, or even just runs that are less devastating to my body, is pretty addicting though.  It is a very reliable and healthy mood regulator, and I would not mind incorporating it as an activity I continue to do throughout my life.  That being said, I don't know if I want to care more about distance or speed, and if I want to do races or just care about my own progress relative to my past runs.  Since the 5k, I have even been struggling with deciding how long/how far/how fast to run at the gym, despite the fact that none of those metrics matter more than the other right now, with me being such a n00b.

I could see myself aiming for some sort of aesthetics goal, but I also see a big problem with that.  Anyone who has ever played Plants vs. Zombies will probably recall a gameplay mode called Endless Survival.  The point is to see how many rounds of zombie assault you can endure.  The game always ends, however, with your brains getting eaten.  There's no such thing as winning.  You can break your own record, get a really impressive number, make your friends look like amateurs...but you don't win, you just lose later.  I think any body/appearance goals I had would be like that, no matter how small/fit/awesome I got.  "Sure, my back boobs are basically gone, but when I wear this bra you can see them kind of pooch out."  "Yeah, being a size 8 is great, but you know what would be better?  A 6, a 4, a 2, or a zero."  "I don't know why the hell my thighs still rub together when I walk even though I'm like 130 lbs.  I want to wear a skirt without shorts underneath and this is fucking it all up."  Even if I weren't a negative nancy, I would still have to deal with the reality of hitting a natural limit.  There are only so many pants sizes I will drop, or how little body fat I can have on me.  Setting a goal that is "the lowest number I can reach" is setting me up for Pyrrhic victories: sure, I achieved something, but only because I realized I am unable to do any better.

Another issue I need to address is figuring out my long-term balance between fitness and everything else.  There are many people in this world (and yes, even in this fat country) who do not spend much time focusing on diet and exercise, but who are a healthy weight and have good enough habits in general to be physically fit.  These people may occasionally act with fitness in mind ("No, no more cake for me thanks.  I like my size the way it is."), but in general they're just going about their business, not worrying about their food/exercise more than they worry about defragmenting their hard drives or finding a good parking space at the supermarket.  Could I ever be one of those people?  Do I even want to be one of those people?  I like the way that exercise makes me feel, so I don't see myself reverting to a primarily sedentary lifestyle.  I also know that, if given total freedom of choice, I will pick calorie-dense, nutrient-poor foods more often than is healthy for me, so I will always at least need to give a shit about what I'm eating, even if someday I am able to forgo calorie counting.

I think the source of this confusion and uncertainty is that my big goal is, and has always ALWAYS been, to get to a healthy weight.  Never before has that goal been so tangible, so possible.  By next week or so, I will have lost 40 lbs.  That's like a whole 5-year-old.  Basically, for the last decade, I have been carrying a child around with me, and I finally dropped his ass off at elementary school.  I have somewhere between 15 and 20 more pounds to go, depending on what feels like a healthy weight when I get there.  I know I have at least like 15 lbs in fat to lose to get to a healthy body fat percentage, so I'm going with those numbers and seeing what happens.  I've lost that much since January and it's now the end of March, so I could theoretically hit my weight loss goal in May or June (happily enough, that is when I originally had hoped to hit such a weight, so I'm on track).  After that, then what?  Even with all the races or the times or the lifts or the reps in the world, I still won't have one big long-term goal.  Now I understand why lifters go through these cycles of bulking and cutting.  You have a goal, it's a clear number or data point, and then when you hit it, you go to another ready-made goal.  Each time you try to make progress towards the ultimate goal (perfect body, I guess?  If there is such a thing) without undoing too much of the work you did previously.  I don't know if that cycle would be particularly satisfying for me, especially with the aforementioned food obsession that would be required.

Maybe the real problem is that, if we can get morbid and dark for a second, I'm really just trying to fix up a machine that is destined to break down at some point in the future.  I have some control over how long it's likely to last and how well it performs while it's running, but the machine will break.  So in a sense, trying to achieve anything "permanent" is rather foolish.  To avoid getting suicidal, I think I need to focus on quality of life.  What is going to make the other parts of my life better?  What is going to make me happy, right now and for the foreseeable future?  There are many possible answers to those questions.  I guess it's great to have so many options for being awesome.  Even so, I feel a change in the wind.  We'll see what's coming.

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 14: Being Aware of Cultural Norms in Advertising (even when you have a TiVo)

Most people who have ever tried to lose weight know that portion control and calorie reduction are totally possible if you're in your own little world, a closed-off bubble.  When you don't have control over every single food item in your life, however, it's much harder to stick to a certain calorie count or diet plan.  I have already expressed my concerns and difficulties with the social element of eating, and it is indeed still a struggle for me.  There are at least two opportunities (social directives) to go out to eat every week, and that's not including when Dan gets cabin fever or if we want to go out to dinner on one of those date things that people seem to enjoy.  Although most places have menu selections that aren't completely awful, I'm picky as fuck, so I eat chicken fingers and fries every time.  Add a Coke to that and we're talking over 1000 calories at one meal, when I'm supposed to be at like 1200 for the day.  Even if I get the kids' meal, as I often do, it's still waaaaay more than necessary, calorie-wise.

But there's an element to this overeating that goes beyond the direct social influence of your friends.  American culture, however you want to define it, encourages and expects people to overeat.  Restaurant portions are huge, often totaling 3 servings or more for one entree.  A small Coke at most places is 12 ounces - the size of a can of soda.  That's the smallest you're permitted to get.  But the physical presence and sizing of portions is not the worst.  Nay; the most insidious cultural brainwashing is in advertising.  Most people already know that advertising is, at best, moderately deceptive in order to achieve desired results (i.e. money).  Ad execs have to be masters in psychology if they want their products to sell.  It's not enough to demonstrate the usefulness of an item or how it is superior to its competitors.  An ad must get a person's feelings wrapped up with the product; inextricably bound must be the purchase and the joy/relief of the purchase.  Why the fuck do you think it's called a Happy Meal?

And no I don't want apple slices with that, motherfucker.  Are you crazy?

Depending on the target consumers and the current trends in health/fashion/pop culture, food advertisements on TV ("commercials" for the plebs) will utilize a variety of tactics and messages to get people to buy their products.  The two primary angles tend to be "look how awful life is without this product!" and "look how awesome life is with this product!"  Often, both get used in the same commercial with a before-and-after style.  This is most obvious in infomercials, where half-retarded men-children struggle with a screwdriver until Adobe AfterEffects gives them a handy four-in-one tool that lets them remove stripped screws while simultaneously checking their prostate.  Because who has time to go to the doctor with rusty screws that need removing?!?

One such commercial comes from our friends at Coca-Cola.  Coke does an amazing job at maintaining a half dozen ad campaigns going at any one time.  A recent commercial combines celebrity endorsements with a cute storyline, though sadly was unable to incorporate the polar bears for the Coca-Cola hat-trick:

The overt message is that Coca-Cola will make you feel better after a shitty day, and it also brings people together.  The weirder, less overt message is that you can be as much of a dick as you want, and as long as you drink a Coke, people will still like you.  Coke will make you forget about all your problems.  Coke is basically a drug, which isn't too hard a connection to make, considering it's called Coke.  Look at all those people out at the park having an awesome fucking time.  Who wouldn't want to live that worry-free lifestyle with community harmony and kites and shit?  Man, I'm thirsty...I wonder if there's something that will quench that thirst but also make me forget about my crushing debt and social failings...

It's hard to be mad at that commercial, though.  The Simpsons are a great reference, and the whole thing is pretty cute.  Even so, it seems pretty over-the-top.  Coke tastes fine to me (I'm actually a Pepsi person, and I'm downing a Pepsi One right now, sooooo).  But I have never, ever had a beverage, Coke or otherwise, that made me that happy.  Maybe if I were dying of thirst, then I would feel like Mr. Burns seems to feel in that commercial after his first sip of Coke.  He's fucking delighted.

Compared to another commercial, Mr. Burns' reaction to Coke is altogether quaint.  Did you know that one simple food can save you from hallucinations that seem to indicate severe psychosis?

This commercial for Special K Chocolatey Delights has a few serious problems.  On the surface, it seems to merely be saying that, if you crave chocolate and don't want to go off your diet, this cereal is a healthy alternative to, say, eating an entire wall mural made of chocolate.  Or whatever this chick was going to do.  Maybe eat her dog, I don't know.  But I have some grave concerns.  Mainly, this commercial removes the possibility that a person (a WOMAN, no less) might have some fucking self-control and just not eat chocolate.  "Well, you're not able to keep yourself from eating," the commercial seems to say, "so you might as well shove this product down your gullet instead of eating a candy bar table, like I know you want to."

Furthermore, what makes this cereal such a good chocolate substitute?  One serving (.75 cups...yeah okay) is 120 calories.  Add just 8 ounces of skim milk and that brings to the total to 206 calories.  A regular size Hershey's candy bar is 210 calories.  So what the fuck is this saving me from?  Those four calories are seriously supposed to get me my "chocolate fix" without "undoing my whole day"?  If you were going to eat a gallon of ice cream and you ate a bowl of this cereal instead, then I guess you win.  But let's be real; if you were going to eat that much ice cream, then you're going to eat the whole BOX of cereal, and that's not doing you any favors.  The narrator of this ad (who seems to find chocolate cravings really sexy, btw) might as well just say, "Do you love chocolate but hate things that are awesome?  Do you want to simultaneously eat unnecessary calories AND stay unsatisfied?  Then we have the product for you!"

But that's enough Special K.  Let's move onto some really manipulative shit.

Remember when you were little and your mom (or dad, or grandmother, or whoever) made some awesome food just for you, and it was fucking great?  Yeah, me too.  Do  you know why that's a thing that happens?  Because we show affection with food.  And not just chocolate for Valentine's Day either, though that's got its own problems.  When you think about it, humans have a lot in common with other animals, and in the case of food, we're a lot like my two retarded pugs.  Food = love.  My dogs interpret their food-gifts as affection and affirmations of their positive behavior.  In turn, they seek me out more, feeding into my delusion that they love me and aren't just using me for Pupperoni.  Children do the same shit, though it's not always this simple.

Anybody remember the Book It! program?  It's a Pizza Hut promotion to encourage children to read.  Every time a kid reads the predetermined number of books, s/he gets a gift certificate to Pizza Hut for a personal pan pizza.  Theoretically, with enough free time, that kid could get a free pizza every couple of weeks.  "Good job, child.  Here's your treat."  It's the same shit with little league and other childhood sports organizations.  After the Big Game, you go out for pizza/ice cream/whatever.  Job well done?  Here, eat this.

Those kinds of associations show up in so many different advertisements that I actually had trouble picking ones to put here.  One of the best and most direct is a 1987 Pillsbury commercial.

This pompous little shit is about to run away (from the looks of it, in the middle of a snowstorm, so he's a retarded pompous little shit), and his mom does the classic reverse psychology move of letting him think he's free to leave.  She bakes some cookies and, lo, he decides to stay.  The love of your family?  Basic survival?  A chance at what is clearly an advantaged future?  None of those compare to the reality staring that kid in the face: there are awesome fucking cookies in the kitchen and I'ma eat 'em!  He's not punished for his poor attempt at guilting his mother into whatever he was trying to get by threatening to run away.  No; instead he is rewarded with cookies.  "Hey moms, are your kids assholes and you're afraid they don't love you enough?  Bake them cookies and they might see fit to eat them in your presence."

This suggestion is made far more plainly in what appears to be a pretty recent McDonald's commercial.  McDonald's has never been accused of being too subtle with its ad campaigns.  You have probably heard by now that McDonald's has a website catering specifically to black patrons (I suspect that, while separate, it is totally equal).  Their decade-old ad campaign of "I'm Lovin' It" uses the first person to get customers to identify with the unknown speaker and to move away from a much creepier second-person slogan - "YOU MUST LOVE THIS."  This final commercial, emphasizing similar themes to the Pillsbury nightmare above, takes the cake, though:

I'm only going to say this once.

How fucking psychotic and needy do you have to be as a parent to chase your fucking husband or wife down the street so that you can win the affections of your seven-year-old kid?

Seriously, these parents need to go to counseling.  Together, individually, I don't really give a shit.  But if they are so hard up for love that they literally buy their kid's hugs with fast food, they need help.  They're acting the same way that pregnant 14-year-olds on Maury do, talking about how they want to have a baby because the baby will love them unconditionally.  That's fucked up.  Buy yourself a happy meal, you sick fuck, and get some self-esteem.

Even if you find the relationship dynamics in this family to be fucking weird as hell, you probably don't see an issue with the fact that the happy meal itself is the currency with which love is purchased in the family.  Because that shit happens all the time.  At least with Book It! and shit like that, the food is a reward for something, usually effort, sometimes success.  Parents take kids out to eat after the big recital or when the kid wins a prize in the science fair.  But what did the little kid in the McDonald's commercial do?  Apparently nothing, except cost his parents the price of the food AND the price of a babysitter.  What fucked up schedule demands that the parents go pick up McDonald's together, or requires that they commute by foot along the same route?  Do they work in the town's only steel mill on the same shift?  Seriously, what family has both parents out of the house at McDonald's while the kid is home with some other lady?

Sigh.  Anyway.  I don't think it's fair to place all the blame, or even the majority of it, on commercials alone for creating a fucked up culture around food.  Families, friends, and our own weird tendencies do just fine at cultivating unhealthy relationships with food.  Being vaguely aware of this fact is one thing, but actually trying to unpack it and de-program ourselves is another.  Humans love habits because they are inherently comforting, which is why most people dislike change, even if it's for the better in the long run.  But hear me out, and this is important: if you are trying to make a change in your life, you MUST deal with the circumstances that created the original situation in the first place.  For people trying to lose weight, like myself, that means figuring out how you got fat.  A passion for Doritos is only part of the equation.  Being willing and able to address the psychological and emotional factors that are related to weight gain is probably one of the most important things that an overweight person can do for him/herself.  If you don't deal with the causes, you can't fix it permanently.  It's like smacking yourself in the head, but then taking a pain killer.  You may have the medicine to temporarily address the problem, but things would go a lot better if you stop fucking hitting yourself.

I'm not tryna preach from some pulpit and/or unnecessarily-high pharmacy counter.  But I know that my most difficult battles with my weight have been mental, not physical.  I can tell my body to go for a walk once in a goddamned while, but I still struggle to tell my brain not to want chocolate just because it's raining out, or whatever stupid bullshit logic I'm using to fuck myself over.  The last thing I need is for some random commercial to sell me on the idea that:

1. Food and emotions are connected, always
2. Food solves problems (besides hunger)
3. Eating is fun
4. Food is equivalent to affection

Food is for sustenance.  If it tastes good, that's great.  But in a perfect world, people should eat when they are hungry and consume only foods that fuel the body for its tasks.  If anyone figures out what dimension that world is in, hit me up.

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 13: Who do you think you are?!? I AM!!

I wish I had written this on Thursday evening, or even Friday, when my endorphins were still crazy high and I was riding a wave of success.  But honestly, the wave has already crested and it's only Tuesday, so I feel like I need to remind myself how awesome I am (see blog title) and keep the positive vibes going.  So here we go.

I started Couch-to-5k on January 19th.  For those not in the know, it's a 9-week beginner's running program that uses intervals of walking and running to help people break into running and increase their stamina.  By the end of the program, runners are able to go for at least 30 minutes, which is about how long it takes to run a 5k if you're capable but not too speedy.  Week 1 starts out with 60 seconds of running and 90 seconds of walking alternating.  Given that I couldn't really run for 60 seconds, it was a leap for me to start the program, but I had a couple things going for me.  First, I had just lost several pounds in a short amount of time and was feeling GREAT.  Second, I had purchased running shoes which I had used a little outside and I knew I at least would not perish after three strides.  And third, I had just joined a gym with a slew (yes, a slew) of treadmills.  The treadmills were probably the most important because they helped me ease into running and gave me supreme control over the timing and parameters of each run.

With the exception of a few delays from minor strains (not running-related, but when you can't breathe deeply, it's not a good idea to exert yourself), I kept with the 3-day-a-week program and never had to repeat a day.  I was surprised because I expected to have to repeat some of the early runs before being able to do the longer intervals.  Week 3 jumps from 90 second runs to 3 full minutes; I laughed when I saw it the first time and thought, Well that shit ain't gonna happen for a while.  But I did it, and it was fine.  Then in week 4, the 3-minute runs are the short intervals, and there are two 5-minute runs each day.  I didn't believe I could transition into that without having to modify it or repeat days.  But I did fine.  Week 5 ends with a 20-minute run, no walking intervals necessary.  I honestly thought I would have to take breaks, if only to puke, and that 20 minutes was way beyond my ability.  It was difficult, but also fine.  Week 6 had a similar story, progressing through the week to a 25-minute run.

After Day 2 of Week 6, I had a crazy thought. You know, I mused to myself, as I am wont to do, if I'm supposed to be able to run 25 minutes next time, what if I just ran a fuckin' 5k? (I often curse in my inner monologues.)  I've been getting through about 2 miles in the recent runs, so why not just try for 3.1 miles?  What's the worst that could happen?  I'm only supposed to run for 25 minutes anyway, so if I hit that number then the rest is gravy.

Thursday, the day after my previous run (and, admittedly, a day I was supposed to do lifting or crosstraining), I went for it.  I had eaten an entire candy bar earlier, I was feeling saucy, and I was ready for anything.  Having learned from my previous C25K days that starting fast is a great recipe for burning out right away, I did a full warm-up beforehand and started out at 4mph, which is literally the slowest speed I am able to run.  Some people use this as their walking speed, and those people can go straight to hell.  By the mid-way point, I had jacked it up to about 4.3mph, and ended up hitting maybe 4.5mph somewhere in there.

When I got on the treadmill, I loaded up my most recent running playlist and started running.  And I didn't stop until I hit 3.1 miles.  I had some feelings of doubt around the midway point, when I was getting tired and knew that I had expended more than half of my immediately-available energy, and therefore would not necessarily be able to finish.  But by the time I hit about 2 miles, I had become reinvigorated and knew that this shit was happening.  Stopping was no longer an option.  Within a half mile of finishing, I didn't even think about stopping anymore, I just thought about how awesome I was.

That feeling stuck with me for a WHILE.  I felt like Dory from Finding Nemo remembering the address of P. Sherman (42 Wallaby Way, Sidney).  Every five seconds, I thought, Holy shit, I ran 5k today.  Like, at once.  I'm fucking awesome.  I contemplated telling the guy at my gym's front desk, but I felt like that was unnecessary.  Besides, his feelings would never be as amped as mine, and it would undoubtedly be a let-down to see his positive but subdued reaction.  So I texted Dan (see prev. sentence) and posted on Fitocracy and Facebook (yes, in that order), and walked home.  That's right - I walked the fuck home after running a 5k.  Like a boss.

Feeding off of this vibe, I took some time on Friday to look at Fitocracy quests to see what I could theoretically do in a gym session.  I wasn't at all sore from the 5k (though I suspect that my sore calves over the weekend might have been related) and wanted to recapture that jazzed up feeling from the day before.  I ended up running a 12-minute mile on Friday (something that had been a 3-months-out goal only like 2 weeks before) and finish 4 total quests on Fitocracy.  None of them were particularly monstrous challenges (well, doing 100 jumping jacks isn't monsterous, but it is a pain in the ass), but I still felt pretty great completing them.  It certainly didn't trump my 5k accomplishment by any means, but it was a nice way to close out the week.

Things I learned from these two days:

1. I am capable of doing a LOT more than I assumed my limits were.
2. Mental energy and physical energy are not the same thing, and I don't require big reserves of both in order to accomplish great things.

The problem now is that the high of victory from Thursday is something I wish to recapture at all costs.  But it was such a monumental, concrete, specific yet not nitpicky goal, that I'm not even sure what the next thing is.  I don't know if I want to hit a faster time, run a longer distance, or just focus on actual races (the first of which is May 5th, 7 weeks away).  I could also have strength training goals, either with reps or weight.  One of my other monumental goals when I joined the gym was to do a pull-up (well really, starting with a chin-up is slightly easier, but that's splitting hairs).  Maybe I should focus on some sweet lats and try to do a pull-up before a certain date.  I dunno.  I didn't even realize that running a 5k was such a big thing for me, nor did I anticipate this sort of happy but lost feeling once I did it.  This "now what?" scenario is new to me - I've always had something to do.  Rather, I've always had something I should be doing.

Yesterday, because it was nice out (but mostly for shits and/or giggles), I ran home from work.  I had to do intervals because it was my first time running not on a treadmill since starting C25K in January (and because Kenmore Square to Brighton is uphill most of the way, and because I was going into the wind, yadda yadda).  I knew that intervals would happen, and I ran the vast majority of the distance, but I still didn't quite get the glorious feeling of completion and success that I got last week.  I knew I had done well, and I had that mild feeling of satisfaction that comes from exercise in general, but the mental/emotional boost wasn't there.  But instead of being all pissy or sad about it, I'm just going to figure out what the next thing is that's going to make me feel like I won a bowling championship.

I'm still figuring it out.  I want it to be major but not so far off that it's unrealistic or insufficiently motivating.  I want it to be more exhilarating than shaving a few seconds off my time or adding incremental distance.  I want it to be epic.  And as I learned from last Thursday, apparently I require that others find it epic too.  So I better find something that other people think is bad-ass.  Fuck if I know what that is.  My next vague plan is to focus on strength training because now that I know I can physically finish the distance of the Zombie 5k, I need to be able to complete the obstacles too.  Information about their exact nature is hard to come by, but I know that there's climbing, crawling, and other such activities involved.  Basically, I should just train for Ninja Warrior, and be happy when it ends up being just a 4-foot wall.

The trouble, I think, right now with my motivation is that my weight loss has slowed to the point of being almost non-existent (net loss over the last month has been just over 2 lbs).  I'm not really one to obsess over the scale, but I got very, very used to big losses every week, like clockwork, and I'm now missing that continual motivation/reinforcement.  My scale used to tell me, "Yes, mademoiselle, you are doing ze right tsings.  Also, zose jeans look very fetching on you."  (My scale is French.  Obvs.)  Now it just kind of shrugs and takes a nap.  It is le tired.  If I stayed this weight forever, but kept losing inches and gaining strength/stamina/ability, I think I would probably become comfortable with that.  But shit, I'm trying to win a free year at my gym in a weight loss contest, and if my body doesn't get its shit together by Easter, it can kiss that $228 goodbye!

But really, what I need to do is listen to my own advice and remember how I got started with this.  I spend a lot of time online telling distraught and discouraged people that hard work pays off and that the body is not just a machine that you operate to achieve exact results.  I also tell a lot of people to ignore the scale if they know they're doing things correctly.  So I should just try a little of my own medicine.  When I first started exercising, even losing a single pound was pretty exciting because the number had been going the other way for so long that just reversing course was great.  I felt like a champion just a little bit every time I got home from work and changed into my workout clothes even though I wanted to change into pajamas.  But with my successes and new habits, I have now developed new (harsher) expectations of myself, and the expectations have become associated with things that I can't really control.  I can decide what to eat (and how much), when to work out, how hard to try...but I can't decide what the results of those efforts will be.  My self-assessment needs to move away from How did I change myself today? and move towards What bad-assery did I accomplish today?  If I can be in that mindset, AND find something goal-related to get jazzed about, then I'll be all set.

Today?  Headed to the gym to lift weights.  Upping my deadlift weight from where I started a few weeks ago.  Maybe adding some pull-up negatives for functional training.  Enough talk.  Ima go
see about gettin' swole.

Diary of a Fat Girl - Episode 12: My Love/Hate Relationship with Social Fitness

When I was 15 or so, I discovered a newsgroup that would become pretty central to my development into an adult.  Alt.Music.Tool (AMT, for those in the know) was a place where most of the people were funny, intellectual, interesting, and willing to have lengthy discussions on just about any topic.  With the installation of a sweet (read: terrible) PC in my bedroom and my family's new cable internet, I was free to debate, joke, and socialize to my heart's content.  It was a nice change for me, getting involved in a sizable community of like-minded peers who consistently challenged my views and respected my opinions.

At least, that's how I like to remember it.  The reality, as the Google Groups archives will tell you, was not always so rosy.  AMT did indeed foster my communication and debate skills, encourage me to continue writing (since all discussion in the newsgroup was, necessarily, in text form), and connect me with some extremely awesome people.  But considering the emotional and psychological place I was in at the time, it also helped me develop some rather unfortunate habits.  Being one of the few females in that sausage-fest meant that I got a great deal of attention simply for having a pair of X chromosomes.  I often encouraged this attention by alternating between rather crass and bawdy humor and overtly sexual discussion.  By demonstrating that "I wasn't like other girls" - in that I listened to Tool, laughed at (and made) dick & fart jokes, and could hang with the fellas - I felt that I was standing out and showing how special I was.  I took any and all attention from that newsgroup to be a confirmation of that very fact.  I even entered into a long-term relationship with someone from AMT, which somehow lasted two years.  Remember that post I made about communicating in a relationship, where I talked about that boyfriend I had the epic fights with?  Yup.

The word "pedant" would have been good to know in 2001.

The high of being loved and respected (okay, maybe liked and acknowledged) was addictive, and I was deeply wounded if I felt it start to wane.  If someone who wasn't one of my "fanboys" made a really good counter-argument to a post I had made, and clearly did not give a shit about hurting my feelings, I was not happy about it.  It was as close as I ever got to being one of those "mean girls" who needs others to suffer in order for her to feel any self worth.  I took great pleasure in either berating non-allies until they gave up (or made a fallacious argument) or seeing those who were five or ten years older than me swoop in and come to my rescue.  It was pretty fucked up.  I was pretty fucked up.  But I loved that newsgroup all the same, and still do, even though I haven't participated in almost a decade.  For all of its and my faults, I would not have developed into the woman I am today without it, and I think I'm doing alright.

One lasting effect of my years on AMT is that I am sensitive to the vibes of any online community.  If there are forums, boards, or threads, I only need to read a few posts before getting a sense of which kind of bullshit is going on.  Because let's be honest...there is not a single online community free of bullshit.  Sometimes it's the elitist circle-jerk (love you, AMT).  Sometimes it's a sea of n00bs with insufficient guidance to help them along, leading to answer-less threads and a handful of frustrated experts.  Sometimes, and this is perhaps the most delicious, it's a war between two factions who can hardly remember what the disagreement was but will fiercely defend the "right" side.  Even if a board or forum does somehow get to the positive feedback loop utopia of helpful, kind, and happy people, the moderators and OGs have to police that shit like crazy just to keep it the way it is.  Which, in itself, is its own kind of bullshit.

When I joined MyFitnessPal.com in July of 2011, I did not see it as a community.  It was a place to track calories in and out, use a few calculators or tools, and call it a day.  I had two friends on there, both of whom I knew in real life, and neither of whom were particularly active on the site.  We left each other alone and I was happy with that.  But eventually, I couldn't help myself.  The front page of the site has recent forum topics listed, and there is ALWAYS some insane/desperate subject line like "Is 700 calories a day enough?" or "WHY CAN'T I LOSE WEIGHT?!?"  At first, I would tell myself that I was just curious and wanted to "make sure" that someone had responded to the question sanely.  Eventually I realized that I felt truly compelled to give advice, particularly in cases when the OP seemed to be incredibly ignorant but genuinely seeking help.  After Christmas, a new wave of users joined the site for their New Years resolutions.  I immediately detested all of these people, even though I knew that it was for no good reason.  My old elitism had kicked in and I was unhappy to be lumped in with all of these fools who thought that starting on a certain day held some magical significance that would make it stick this time.  I felt the same way when I joined a gym in January.  I joined because their deal was excellent, but I also knew that I looked like that guy, and I hate being that guy.

Unfortunately, my involvement in the social component of MFP combined with the influx of n00bs meant that I was suddenly exposed to hundreds of "bad juju" posts a day ranging from whining to panic to guilt to misplaced anger and self-satisfaction.  Dozens of people would post their plans and goals, some realistic and direct ("I'm going to eat sensible portions and go to the gym once a week"), some depressing and vague ("I'm going to show everyone that I can do this and I'm going to be perfect all the time from here on out!").  Worse yet, the responses to these goals, all meant to be encouraging and helpful, were helping even the least realistic people feel as though they had already accomplished something.  I have even seen people reply "Congratulations" when someone identifies their goals.  Congratulations for what?

Judgmental owl wonders the same thing.

 Yes, I know, just taking the first step towards a healthier lifestyle, deciding to actually do it, is a big deal.  But there are no participation trophies in this game.  When someone has a question, or is struggling through a personal issue that is making them evaluate their stress eating, or has been at a plateau for 2 months, I take no issue with the kindest and gentlest support.  That's what people need that website for.  But if you want people to give you digital hugs because you binged on Valentine's candy (after having binged on Halloween candy, post-Halloween sale candy, Christmas candy, post-Christmas sale candy, etc...) and you're looking to get talked out of your self-loathing...well, maybe that's what you need this website for, but I want no part of it.

When I joined Fitocracy in December of 2011, I was dismayed by the seemingly-uniform policy of "There's no crying in baseball!" - or rather, that consideration of emotions, effort, and psychology played absolutely NO role in any of the goings-on there.  I had swung from one side of the pendulum, where everyone was crying and hugging each other while sneaking chocolates, to the other side, where everyone seemed to get bonus points for being critical of each other.  Of course, both characterizations are grand exaggerations.  There are plenty of stable, normal people on both websites.  But stable, normal people don't stand out.  In fact, I have even found that I am completely surrounded on Fitocracy because even if I manage to get away from various dudebros, cultists, and aggressive advisors, the other side is still there: the Weight Loss group.  I had joined this group very early in my time on Fitocracy because the website is not at all designed for that specific goal.  If anything, it is designed for hardcore strength guys and bodybuilders.  And while I'm sure that I would look awesome with huuuuuge traps, that's not exactly me.  So I figured that supplementing the Fitocracy gameplay with some like-minded folk in the Weight Loss group would be perfect.  After all, the people on such a nerdy and weird website like Fitocracy couldn't be as unbearable as some of those MyFitnessPals, could they?

...could they?

They could.

While 70% or more of the posts in the group are asking for advice, telling funny anecdotes, or sharing successes, the other posts follow a pretty predictable pattern: "My scale says I am at (x) weight, which is unacceptable.  I did 15 hours of cardio yesterday so I should be at (x-5).  I'm having a crisis of faith.  Also, I ate a whole cheesecake while I was typing this."  Thankfully, most of the replies to this will be something like, "Stop weighing yourself everyday, lift some weights every once in a while, and put the goddamned cheesecake down."  Well, they're usually phrased more sweetly, but you get the idea. 

Instead of continuing to perseverate on all my harsh judgments of these people, I'm now turning the lens inward, as they say.  I think my feelings on this issue are so strong because of a combination of things.  First, ignorance drives me crazy.  Especially willful ignorance.  People being stupid about something is familiar - I deal with it every day with my students.  But so MANY people being the same kind of stupid can be very tiring, and it's far worse when they don't seem to want to listen to any advice.  So that's one thing.  On the other hand, though, I do think that I see parts of my subconscious reflected in the weaknesses I'm identifying in others, which bothers me.  When I see someone complain about how hard it is to stay within your calorie budget for the day when you're having a company lunch at work and then dinner out with the family, I respond in my head with something like, "oh, bitch bitch bitch, just do what you know you're supposed to do and ignore anyone who gives you shit about it."  And then I think about all the times I have rued the social plans that involve cooperative meals, felt serious anxiety about sticking to long-term plans given that my friends seem unable to imagine a hang-out not centered on food, or been annoyed when my co-workers bring in cookies for our staff meetings.  The criticisms I (silently) make of others are often things I have unconsciously said to myself - essentialy, STFU and get down to business.  I have indeed told myself about how much crying there is in baseball, and let me tell you, it is a very small amount.

Sigh...seriously though, this is our problem?

Maybe my eye-rolling and "Oh, FFS"-ing has a lot more to do with my concerns about how I'm perceived than I had initially thought.  God knows I'm paranoid about being a whiner or a blubbering heap of awful.  And trust me, I do whine, and I'm aware of it.  But I don't want to come off as worse than I am.  I don't really know why I care.  I don't know why it should matter to me if internet strangers roll their eyes and cuss about my weaknesses.  If I know that I'm there to do real work and that I've already lost a bunch of weight, why should it matter if it "looks like" I'm a New Years resolution person at the gym?  Why should I give a shit about what anyone thinks about my weight, looks, or efforts, ever?

The short answer is, I shouldn't.  It doesn't mean I don't - I certainly spend enough time picking out my hilarious, obscure-reference gym t-shirts.  But maybe if I spent a little less time judging other people, I wouldn't be so worried about getting judged myself.  This whole process becomes a lot simpler when you divide all concerns into two categories: things that will help me reach my goals and things that won't.  Worrying about other people's thoughts?  Won't.  Thinking badly of others?  Won't.  Being aware of my psychological processes and trying to maintain only the healthy ones?  Will.  Getting off my ass and finally cleaning the house because I kept saying "I'll do that on vacation" but it's already Thursday?  Definitely will.  Maybe instead of just getting up and doing the work, I should go to the forums and say how bad I feel about not doing the work...

[Okay, I still have some work to do on this whole judgmental thing.]