Training Day(s)

What the hell was I thinking?

That’s what I was thinking, somewhere around .75 of a mile, the dance mix of Jennifer Hudson’s version of “And I Am Telling You” blaring from my iPod as I trotted down Colonial Avenue, up-hill toward Farm Park, on my most recent training run.

As I mentioned on Facebook, I’m registered for the Lemon Run on November 14 (benefitting Alex’s Lemonade Stand – I’m also looking for sponsors, if you haven’t sponsored me, and if your budget allows, please do so – here’s the link http://www.alexslemonade.org/mypage/69338).

As you can see, I’m taking this whole body transformation thing quite seriously. I’ve joined a gym, hired a trainer and am doing a 5k on November 14 (3.2 miles for those of you not into the metric system) four days after I turn 36.

I’m not going to sugar coat it, the training has been tough. Literally blood, sweat and tears, along with vomit and blisters. It’s not easy getting a 230 pound body back to 135 pound shape. I’m generally lazy and impatient – I want instant results with minimal effort. While that may have worked when I was in 6th grade English class, that doesn’t hold true to physical fitness as a 30+ old woman. To date I’m down 31.2 pounds, 5.5 points of BMI and 62.4 pounds away from my goal weight of 135.

I’m having running shoe issues (had a fitting at one store, spent $100 on shoes that gave me blisters, exchanged then for another shoe that gave me more blisters), endurance issues (thanks ragweed allergies and asthma) and the above mentioned general disposition to laziness.

I won’t lie, there are days I want to say f**k it and go get a 10 pack of McNuggets and a large order of fries. I’m trying really hard to fight the urge. As I write this I’m sipping on my 4 oz of white wine (2 points) and bag of Jolly Time Healthy Pop Kettle Korn (1 point) and hoping for a better, more positive, day tomorrow.

Please keep sending me positive vibes and happy thoughts. I know I can do this!

Distance

I’m not a marathoner. Never have been, and I’m not just talking about running.

I’ve always been a short-term kind of person. I know I’m not unique in that I want results now.

I knew when I started on this weight loss journey that I wouldn’t shed the weight overnight. I knew it would take me a long, long time to lose the 95 pounds I’ve gained over the past 2 and a half years. There would be long hours at the gym, a lot of weighing and journaling of food and times when I wouldn’t see the results despite working (literally) my ass off.

Days like today, hell weeks like this one, make me want to throw up my hands and get some chicken fingers and french fries for lunch and wash it all down with a cold, non lite, beer.

I guess it all started on Monday – I was getting ready to take a bath and against my better judgment I hopped on the scale, yes, at night, and shocker, wasn’t happy with the number. Then I caught a glimpse of myself, in all my naked glory, in the full length mirror on the door. Rationally I know I’m better off than when I started almost three months ago. I have a dorky spreadsheet that tracks my progress….29 pounds down, 4.5 points of BMI lost, but at times it’s hard to see it. Still, I tried to brush it off and move on. I went to spinning on Tuesday, and took last night off from the gym since I hadn’t had a day off from exercise in almost 10 days.

I made the mistake of weighing myself this morning – the number was lower than last Friday but it was a reminder…a reminder I still have roughly 65 more pounds to lose. Then I went into work, my hair down and freshly flat ironed, makeup carefully applied (I even wore lipstick!) and went to have my picture taken for our company directory.

Thanks to the wonders of digital photography, I got to see the pictures. My heart sank. Who is that fat girl? Why do I look like a contestant on RuPaul’s Drag Race?

There’s a part of me that now really wants to say screw it and eat whatever I want for lunch – maybe a fried chicken cutlet on crusty bread that’s been calling my name. Or a basket of chicken fingers. Maybe a cheese steak.

Then I remember tomorrow is weigh in, that I packed a salad, and that this is marathon, not a sprint.

So I need to brush off the bad picture. Remind myself that I’m in this for the long haul, and I can’t let one (or four) bad picture derail what I’ve accomplished.

Off to the Races

I've been talking about it and now the deed is done. I've signed up for a 5k, the first in over a year, in order to give myself a real goal.

Back in my thinner days, I regularly ran the equivalent of a 5k every day on my treadmill. I didn't do any cross training and went to Curves three times a week for strength training. It shouldn't have come as a surprise to anyone that I eventually injured myself and couldn't run. The depression crept in along with the pounds.

Last year I attempted to get back into the game and again was sidelined. There were a lot of reasons, most of them mental and some of them physical, that caused me to not be as successful as I would have liked. I had signed up for a 5k and while I finished, it wasn't satisfying in that "Yay me!" kind of way.

Over the summer I decided to do an overhaul. Going to a gym, working with a trainer and, of course, doing Weight Watchers. I'm mixing up my cardio with spinning, the stair master and yes, running. My endurance isn't where I would like it to be, but I'm working on it along with everything else.

So, four days after I turn 36 (aack!) I'm going to run what I hope will be my return to racing. A little older, hopefully a little wiser. My expectations are low, I just want to finish, hopefully without barfing. Wish me luck!

Like Julia Roberts, But Fatter and Less Toothy

Sadly, I didn't go to Italy, India or Indonesia. I didn't have any life changing revelations. I didn't meet any cute boys. Heck, I didn't even use my passport.

I am returning from my own Eat, Pray, Love, although I prefer to call it Eat, Drink, Shop. So while I didn't need my (expired) passport, I did put roughly 230 miles round trip on my car while driving to Rehoboth Beach, Delaware, home of several gay bars (hence the not meeting any boys) and tax free shopping.

I had an amazing time. I had some awesome pizza (Grotto Pizza), some mediocre pizza (Nicola), a night of reckless drinking with my brother-in-law (my liver still isn't talking to me) and got not one, but three handbags. Oh, and 2 flasks, 5 rings, multiple pair of earrings, 3 t-shirts and didn't run one mile despite bringing 2 pair of running shoes and several work out outfits.

I had a personal best at the arcade while trying to win a Spirit Head (still not sure what it is or what it does) for my niece and confirming that if I lived closer to Atlantic City I'd be in even more debt than I already am. We survived a hurricane (Earl), even if it was a wimpy one by the time it got up to us. Watched countless hours of children's TV - is it wrong that I'm completely up to speed on The Suite Life On Deck, and can't wait for the sequel to Camp Rock?

Today I returned to Pennsylvania and reality. The goal for the upcoming week is to get back on the WW Wagon and take my lumps on Friday without getting discouraged. I'm on a great track right now and can't stop now. It felt amazing to put on a pair of shorts I bought at the beginning of the summer and find them loose. I even put on a bathing suit for the first time in almost a decade and wear it in public. I need to keep the momentum going and get back into feeling the good pain.

Hope you all had a great summer and have a fantastic Labor Day!

Where, Oh Where, Did My Ambition Go?

I was doing so well... updating my little blog every few days, going to the gym, exercising like a mad woman and eating right, then it all went to pot.

The day after my grandfather died I had a therapeutic cruller (admittedly shoved in my mouth so I didn't say something I'd regret to a melodramatic family member) and a Happy Meal on my way home in lieu of a healthy lunch. Monday and Tuesday weren't all that bad except I didn't really count Points like a good little WW'er.

The day of my grandfather's funeral was probably the height of bad eating -

Breakfast: WW Almond Granola Bar (good start)

Lunch: Chicken Marsala, baked potato, broccoli in cheese sauce (ok not bad)
1 Biscuit with butter
Side salad with Caesar dressing
3 Glasses of Wine and a Shot of Irish Mist (all before 1pm)
A piece of cheesecake

Dinner: Farfalle in rose sauce with chicken, mushrooms and spinach and a side of garlic bread
Mozzarella Sticks somewhere around 10:00 pm
Chips and salsa around midnight
So much alcohol I spent the night sleeping on the floor holding on for dear life

Yeah, I cope with food (and booze apparently), you got a problem with that? Needless to say the gym took a backseat with everything else that was going on, so imagine my surprise when I hopped up on the scale last Friday and was told I lost 2 pounds.

Oh well, I 'm getting back on track and that is what counts.

This week has been a rebuilding week. I went back to the gym on Monday and am trying to hit it hard. I'm not sleeping all that well to be honest - perhaps it's the fact that I've worked from home for the past two weeks, but I'm frankly exhausted. Tonight I had my session with my trainer with the plan of hitting it hard afterwards and just couldn't. I'm not saying that the 25 minutes of cardio pre-trainer and 30 minutes of weights aren't respectable, but my feeble attempt at running afterward was pathetic.

I'm not sure what the take away from all of this is. I know I can't save the world, and I know I need to not be so hard on myself. Two and a half years of therapy at $30 a week taught me that. Perhaps the lesson is shit happens, you put on your big girl panties, deal and move on.

Maybe that should be my new credo.

Deep Breath....

As you might imagine, this week has been a long one. Only now am I really processing everything, but considering my hyperactive tear ducts, I haven't cried as much as I would expect.

I was talking to my sister yesterday and I told her I felt the same way I did after watching Schindler's List. I had stayed as far away from that movie as I could for as long as possible, knowing myself and the fact that I once cried watching a McDonald's commercial. Perhaps I had built up an emotional callus, but it wasn't until the end of the movie that I cried, precisely because I hadn't cried while watching the horrors in that movie.

That's not to say that throughout the past few days I haven't shed a few tears.

I walked into my grandparents house last Saturday and was shocked at what I saw. I was greeted by what looked like a corpse who slightly resembled my grandfather, gasping for breath, my aunt having a nervous breakdown and my grandmother sitting in a chair with a blank smile on her face, clearly with no real clue as to what was happening. My sister, a hospice nurse by trade was taking control having set up a command center in the kitchen. She was doing her best to hold it together but was clearly holding on by a thread. My mother was going through the motions because her sister wasn't able to and I felt like I had no other choice but to put on my big girl panties and move on.

My aunt tried to talk to me - triggering some tears and I had to push her off. On some level I knew if I started to cry I would be useless. I also didn't want to face the fact that my grandfather was going to die and I couldn't go near him - the figure in that chair was not my grandfather. I was the errand girl for the day, getting lunch, sitting at the pharmacy waiting for palliative medication to ease Grandpop's transition, going home to pack bags for my mother and sister. I've always said I don't want to be around myself when I'm ill, and I really can't stand to see loved ones in pain.

I didn't want to remember my grandfather the way I last saw him - a bruise under his eye (the result of a broken cheekbone from a fall), his eyes tightly shut, mouth agape. I wanted to remember the robust man who loved to walk, coupons in his back pocket, up to the shopping center, proudly coming home with a bag full of merchandise that he paid next to nothing for, so what if he had no use for the stuff? I used to joke that I was afraid one day he'd come home with a pack of condoms and box of Tampax purely because they were on sale and he had a coupon.

I got the call shortly before 11:00 on Saturday night that he had passed peacefully. I shed a few tears, but oddly felt the need to share the news. I posted on Facebook, texted a few close friends. It's almost like I wanted this to be outside of myself, not my experience alone.

Even now, I'm not sure I've truly mourned, even though that's what I'm telling my family. On some level I'm expecting to hear his voice when I call, or see him sitting up in his chair, remote in hand ready to pass off to my niece on our Sunday visits.

There's a part of me that doesn't quite believe that my Grandpop won't be at my wedding (if that ever happens) and that he'll never meet my children. I'm jealous my sister has had that chance. I miss my Grandpop. I want to turn back time to when I was four or five and would wait on the sidewalk outside of their house, waiting to see him walking down the sidewalk coming him from work at GE. I want to argue with him about politics (especially Obama), about the stock market and unions. I want to give him a kiss again and tell him I love him.

Grandpop

Throughout his 88 years on this earth, Martin Barrett had many titles. Son, Sailor, Husband, Father. My sister and I knew him as Grandpop.

He was the quintessential stubborn Irishman. My mother said that he was giving orders right up until the end. It was his way or the highway. But when it came to his grandchildren, anything went.

One of our favorite family stories was The Tale of the Red Mary Janes. My aunt got married in 1975, and a white dress with red trim was chosen for my then 3 year old sister to wear in her role as flower girl. Kelly decided that she had to have red patent leather Mary Janes to go with her dress. Well, if Kelly wanted red Mary Janes, then red Mary Janes she would have. Legend has it Grandpop went from store to store; shoe stores, department stores, boutiques, you name it, Marty Barrett went in search of the elusive red shoes for Kelly to wear. He was told it was impossible, but find them he did. Of course 3 year olds being as they are, those darn shoes almost never made their debut, Kelly having cold (albeit red patent leather) feet minutes before her trek down the aisle. At one point, Grandpop was going to have to march forward, the bride on one hand, the timid flower girl on the other. At the end of the day, Kelly was coaxed forward and all was well in the end.

But that was my grandfather. He would do anything for family. Whether it was buying my Barbies $21 hand sewn dresses – an obnoxious price now, let alone in 1984 - because they caught my eye, schlepping to Dunkin Donuts first thing on Sunday morning to make sure his great-granddaughter Tara had donuts with sprinkles on them or making sure his beloved Cass (nobody else could get away with calling her that) wanted for nothing.

I love you Grandpop. Rest in peace.