The Post-Apocalyptic Workout

Day 91: Run, Fatgirl, Run!

I have something to confess. 

I skipped running* twice this week.

I'd like to say it was due to the fact that I was whisked away to a Super Secret Location to complete a emergency rewrite on Hannah Montana Goes to Rehab  (you do know that's what I do for a living, right?  But things have been slow, so hire me already!) but I'd be lying.  And I'm already a liar.

Since starting my diet three weeks ago I've fluctuated between 900-1600 calories a day, well within (even below) the recommended weight-loss range.  I've been adhering to my workouts; I gave up sugar; and yet I am still fluctuating between 162-166 pounds.  The exact same numbers from when I began this little experiment, when I was running less and counting cake as its own food group.

I should be thrilled.  My body loves me! It's trying to keep me alive.  Being able to run while conserving precious life-sustaining fat is a Post-Apocalyptic Survival Technique only available through superior DNA. 

Which is fine.  But...I gave up CAKE.

When a woman on the Internet complains about her weight**, there are a few predictable responses. I'll sum them up here:

I like a woman with some meat on her bones!
No man likes a stick!
Don't lose your curves!
You're not fat!
You're being brainwashed by the Hollywood, the capitalistic and white male hegemony!
I am toothpaste, hear me roar! (Or whatever empowerminty slogan we're using these days.)

Now there could be a few plausible explanations.  I have special genes.  This is the most common I-can't-lose-weight excuse, and I ain't buying it.  I am not special.  Some of you think I have special willpower, but I assure you, separating my ass from the couch is just as difficult for me as it is for you - even with the added pressure of having my weight splattered across the screen like roadkill.

I'm hypothyroid, and my meds might need adjusting.  I haven't had my thyroid checked for nearly two years, so I need to get my butt into the doctor for a blood test.  In a Post-Apocalyptic World I'd have to stab myself in the arm and do the test myself with a coconut shell, a piece of gum and a rubber band.  But I've got this fancy pre-apocalyptic perk called insurance.  Time to use it.

My body composition is changing (that should probably be in the above responses).  But it's really hard to gain muscle, especially as a woman.  Although any gym discussion invariably leads to women who gain muscles easily and men who can't gain muscle at all.  It comes down to Women, Eat Less and Men, Eat More.  I'm tracking my intake so I know what goes into my mouth (insert dirty joke here) which means eat less.  Which means scaling calories back to 900-1200 a day, continuing my workouts, and tracking from there.

Yes, that's practically no food.  But I've done it.  I remind myself that I was down to 140 pounds six years ago.  But then I remind myself that I was 200 pounds two years before that. 

People sometimes ask me what it's like to be a woman in Los Angeles, a place where a supermodel lurks behind every corner.   They won the DNA Olympics,I tell people.  You wouldn't challenge Jackie Joyner-Kersee to a footrace.

But the writer in me says it makes a better story if I end up looking like this:

But, y'know, with bigger boobs.  I'm going to have to include bra-making in my post-apocalyptic skills, as I still sported a DDD chest when I was <20% bodyfat.  See: my body loves me.

I haven't decided what I'm going to do yet.  Part of me feels like I've made no progress, but as I thought about it while on my 'short run' - a mere twenty minutes, I thought holy crap, my short run is twenty minutes!

So my progress is glacial.  At least it's progress.  They say the turtle won that race. 

I'd better hope they're right.

*I initially wrote this as 'I skipped my runs' and then upon re-reading, realized that skipping the runs sounds like a good thing.

**The flip side of this is when you refer to yourself as attractive/pretty/beautiful/cute/thin/in shape, you're reminded that you are wrong and in fact you are ugly/hideous/fat/have a face that scares babies.  Let me tell you: you cannot win.

Day 73: Challenge One = FAIL?

You be the judge.

The preceding broadcast can be viewed at blip.tv or YouTube!

Details on the next challenge Faster Slackmistress! Kill! Kill! coming...soon.

Day 59: Fathead!

The end of week eight proves that the zombies aren't the only thing experiencing corpse bloat.

Previously:

This Week:

My weight is up but my measurements are (mostly) down.  I blame this on my parents, as they forced me to join them in Florida and feast on the innards of the bugs of the sea and consume many alcoholic libations.  Also, the whole point of having parents is that you have someone to blame things on.  This is why orphans are sad.

My husband said to me why don't you lie about your weight?  They're not gonna know.  But I feel like lying about that starts a slippery slope that ends in book deals and Oprah. 

Okay, I know, like that's gonna happen again.  Waitaminute...

Anyway, the only place I lie about my weight is at the DMV.

Moving on.

This the Final Week of the Couch-to-5K.  Spinning has mostly fallen to the wayside as has weight training as I gear my body to put one foot in front of the other for thirty minutes straight.  Sunday was my first outing, and at 8:00am I strapped on my running shoes and kissed Mr. Boy and Daisy the WonderDog goodbye and told them to shoot my ashes from a cannon if I didn't make it home alive. 

With the help of Google Maps, I had plotted a course to run outside.  We've had fabulous weather here in Los Angeles, and it only seems fitting that I start taking it to the streets, just like Michael McDonald.

FORTY minutes, people.  Forty mothereffing minutes.  In a mothereffing row.

A hair under three miles. 

Today I   left at 3pm to try it again.   However, I didn't follow my own advice on dumbassery  - that 2.5 pounds I gained over the past two weeks all must have gone to my head - as I hadn't eaten a damned thing (minus coffee) all day.  I bonked after 1.7 miles and walked the rest of the way but can I just have a moment to say I - the fat, slow kid who huffed and puffed through Hernia Hill - ran 1.7 miles in a fasted state.

Will try again tomorrow, sans dumbassery. 

And next Monday I start the next training phase of the PAW.  Stay tuned....

 

Day 54: And a Dog Shall Lead Them. Maaaaaybe.

As I wrote yesterday, I'm nursing a wee bit of a wonky hip so I had to adjust my workout schedule accordingly.  Being that I'm practically at the end of week eight, that's somewhat of a bummer.  But it's a reminder that we just can't plan for everything (and the first eight-week challenge is really nine weeks, so I have some wiggle room.)

Speaking of wiggling, as I laced up my shoes to head to the gym I thought y'know, it's a beautiful day outside...  Thirty second later I was half-dressed (when I get an idea, I drop everything including trou)  at the computer, checking to see what my route should be.  My last 25-minute run covered 2.3 miles (I.R.Slow) and moments later I had a route - shorter, around two miles, as I wanted to baby my hip (not a baby on my hip - I can train for that later) and grabbed my keys when I saw...

The Sad Eyes.

The logical jump to make is to take Daisy with me.  Except that walks with Daisy are an exercise in Doggie ADD where she stops every three seconds to send pee-mail (lifting her leg to do so - my bitch is butch!) and occasionally acting like a terror when she sees a dog off leash.  Daisy, you see, is a pit bull, and while Daisy is a doll with children (hanging with my niece since she was a month old) to the old folks, Daisy is NOT a fan of other dogs.  Will and I have worked with some basic behavior modification (all positive training, a beautiful thing) so she doesn't go apeshit when she sees another dog, but there's something about dogs off leash that drives her crazy. (She takes after me this way.)  It starts with a small but discernible whine and ends up with an OMGOMGOMGOMGOMG barkmonster.    

Again, we train through all of these things.  And she's not a danger, as she is only 47 pounds and I can easily pick her up as I've had to when my neighbor's westie runs across the busy street and then attacks her. (The neighbor finds this 'funny' even when I explain that her dog is going to be pancaked by a passing car.) 

I thought to myself:

can I really run two miles outside, with people, traffic, kids playing, cracks in the sidewalk, people selling fruit on the corner, and cat calls, all while towing along my 47-pound dog who hates other dogs and likes to stop every thirteen steps to lift her leg on a tree or poop under the world's thorniest bush that I end up looking like a cutter after I extract her stinky offense in an attempt to be a good citizen?

Shockingly, the answer to that question turned out to be yes.

I started out too quickly but we eventually hit our rhythm, and I only almost got clotheslined twice.  Not too shabby for our first outing.  My hip held up until the last few blocks, but that ended up not being a issue because I outlasted my dog.

Daisy the Wonderdog, exhausted! Minutes ago.

I think I'll be working her into the next training challenge... 

Day 53: Half-Assed.

I have returned from the other side of the country tanner, fatter, and a wee bit achier as I spent ~6 hours crammed into a seat made for an anorexic midget, not to mention the spill I took when I was sprinting across the Houston Airport to make my connecting flight to Los Angeles. 

The second my Fluevog hit the overly-waxed patch of tile that I knew I'd be flying ass-over-teakettle momentarily. If I was in a movie they'd slam to a slow-motion-montage: a baby crying, a burst of light; kids on swingsets; a faucet, dripping; a flower opens, then closes, and then back to real time where my last thought was savetheMacBooksavehteMacBooksavetheMacBook. My body instinctively cocooned my precious computer cargo as my ass slammed to the floor.

Ow.

When I got back from the airport, I should have gently stretched it out, then taken a wee bit of a walk to get everything moving and limber. 

Instead, I installed myself on the couch, curled up next to the HusbandThing, and caught up on my TiVo.

Which brings me to this morning.  The hip's a little tighter, although the ass isn't so sore.  I'm scheduled to head out to the gym and do a 28-minute run. 

What I should do is warm up a little longer, maybe schedule a shorter jog today and a longer jog tomorrow.  I should take a day to stretch and work out the tightness, as it's just muscular and was compounded by a) sitting in an airplane seat and b) totally biting it on the airport floor. 

So what do I do?

I head out to the gym, walk the instructed 'brisk, 5-minute warmup' and then start to jog.

At the five minute mark, the muscles around my right hip and asscheek decide that if I won't listen to reason that they're going on an all-out protest, and not one of those non-violent protests where people light candles and hum and play hackysack and welcome you int the friendship circle, no, this is one of those protest where they get out the billy clubs and  tear gas and the attack dogs.

It looked a little something like this:

Okay, I didn't actually fall off the treadmill, but, y'know, I could've.  I walked for a bit, then gently stretched the cramp.  It still needs some work - thankfully I've got the Foam Roller of Doom (tm).  So while all y'all are showing off your "mobility" with your whole "walking on two legs," I will be rolling my right hip and corresppnding asscheek over a firm, coffee-can shaped piece of foam and swearing at the top of my lungs.

Kinky...just not the good kind.

Day 44: In(shape)spiration.

I know I owe you a Post-Apocalyptic Scorecard.  Tomorrow, je promis. 

In the meantime:

If the first five minutes of 28 Weeks Later don't motivate you to get into run-your-ass-off-but-quick shape? 

Nothing will.

Back to the show...and see you tomorrow if the zombies don't come.

Day 39: Slick, Grace!

The question has been asked: what will I do now that the strike is over?  Will The Post-Apocalyptic Workout continue, or will I laugh into my golden chalice of unicorn juice as I send my butler to finish the remaining workouts of that pesky first challenge?

I shall continue, because the Apocalypse waits for no (wo)man!

Also, I was unemployed prior to the strike.  However, if you're thinking man, I could really use a writer with  some post-apocalyptic training, maybe a CPR certification, a couple of Teen Choice Awards and a really cool Atari 2600 Adventure shirt, don't hesitate to email me, as my career as a Diablo Cody lookalike is coming to an end.

This week marked the beginning of week six of the Couch-to-5K running plan, and I've quickly discovered that more running = less weight training for me.  I've had to back off on some poundages because the sheer act of running 20 minutes in a row (laugh it up, fuzzball!) are definitely taking their toll on my body.   As runs get longer, I'm taking more time to recover.  However, I've only been running for six weeks.  Everything I've read suggests that the body takes time to adapt, so I've gone from the honeymoon period to okay-now-this-is-a-bitch.  My endurance continues to improve, although I learned the hard way that just because I can run eight minutes at 5.5mph doesn't mean that I can run 20 minutes at that speed. 

Perhaps it was a wee bit ambitious to run/bike/lift.  Perhaps isn't even the word - it was ambitious.  I haven't been perfect with getting everything in except for the running, but I'd say that I complete about 85% of my workouts.  Not too shabby.

I'll leave you with this tidbit from the PAW's Favorite Gym Member,  I overheard yesterday.   She was on the treadmill, with the same trainer on the one next to her.  Jefferson Airplane's "White Rabbit" is blasting through the speakers of the gym.

Trainer: Do you know who this is?

Girl: Is it...Chicago?

Trainer: No, it's Jefferson Airplane. 

Girl: Oh.

Trainer: D'you know who the lead singer is?

Girl: I know this!  Mama Cass!

Trainer: No, it's Grace Slick.

Girl: Grace who?

Trainer: Grace Slick.

Girl: You made that up.

Trainer: You've never heard of Grace Slick?

Girl: I was born in 1974! I was a Nixon baby!

Trainer: Oh, well I was a Lincoln baby.

Girl: [laughs] You were not born when the first President was around!

Trainer: [beat]

Girl: Oh, duh, wait, that wasn't Lincoln.

Trainer: I didn't want to say--

Girl: Everyone knows that's Ben Franklin.

It's a good thing she's pretty.  Although post-apocalypse, that's not gonna get her as far as it does now...

Day 29: the Good, the Bad, & the Ugly.

I look more dorktastic than normal in this week's scorecard.  I attribute it to the oh shit, it's 7:15am on a Sunday and I have to snap this quickly before I head to the gym.


Previously:


Today:



The Good:
My endurance has definitely improved.  While my pace on the Couch-to-5K isn't the 10-minute mile they imagine you'll run, it's definitely improving.  Today began week five, and the idea of running five minutes in a row didn't inspire feelings of impending doom.  I'm getting stronger. And while some days the idea of going to the gym (or back to the gym, if I've worked that morning) make me want to stab myself in the eye, I'm going, dammit.

The Bad:
While I mentioned Friday that I want to use the scale as tool of measurement and nothing more, this morning's number was accompanied by a ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!  UP TWO POUNDS?!  However, this is precisely why I take measurements.  Clearly something is happening, and my clothes are looser.  And I swear to you I didn't get hit in the face with a shovel, it was early and I needed to get my workout in before I headed to my new job.  (That's four, if anyone was counting.)

Currently I'm eating between 1400-2000 calories a day, with most days falling in the 1500-1600 category.  I've made the executive decision not to start my diet until the next eight-week challenge.  Because I don't wanna.  Yes, I'd like to lose some weight and it would be nice if it magically fell off my body, but it would also be wonderful if the Universe was one big Puppy Bowl (and someone dropped a bag of money off at my door.)  But in the grand scheme of things, not really a problem.  I'll get over it.   (Interspersed with periods of whining, but I bet  you guessed that already.)

The Ugly:
Guess who was back at the gym with her boyfriend this morning?  He kissed her and went to do curls in the squat rack; she took to the elliptical at the end of the row of treadmills.  She looked at him, and I smiled at her.  She turned away, clearly uncomfortable.

But not uncomfortable enough to chat with the trainer.

Trainer: You're here early.  Got plans for the Superbowl?
Girl: [indicating toward her boyfriend] He's going to a sports bar.
Trainer: You're not going with?
Girl: You couldn't pay me twelve thousand dollars to go to a sports bar.
Trainer: Twelve thousand dollars?  Really?
Girl: Really.
Trainer: I'm not a fan of sports bars, but I think my price would be less.  Maybe a thousand bucks.
Girl: Okay, twelve hundred.  But after taxes.
Trainer: You've given this some thought.
Girl: I think a lot.

At this point, I stumble and almost fall off the treadmill.  Recovering, I send a psychic message to the trainer.  JohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwardsJohnEdwards.

Trainer: So, your boy John Edwards dropped out of the race.

YES!

Girl: Yeah, I'm so upset.
Trainer: So who're you gonna vote for now?
Girl: I don't have a choice.
Trainer: What do you mean?
Girl: You can't vote Republican*, so you only have one choice of who you can vote for.  Which sort of  ruins the whole point of voting, because voting is all about choice.

Okay, I lied.  This last part?  Totally the good.

*For the record, I'm a Democrat.  But stupidity clearly cuts across all parties.
 

Day 24: John Edwards is the New Chuck Norris.

I headed to the gym today for a lower-body workout as well as Week Four Session Two of the Couch-to-5K Running Plan.  Now if my previous pictures didn't clue you in, I'm not much for dressing up to head out to the gym.  Sure, I make sure that my clothes are clean and my teeth are brushed (most of the time), but a coordinating outfit and makeup don't even fit into my game plan.  I even leave my wedding and engagement rings at home as weightlifting can wear down the bands.  The only two truly important pieces of gear are a sports bra and a decent pair of running shoes.

But trust me when I say that it's not like I'm in danger of being picked up by anyone anytime soon.  I've mastered the art of invisibility: getting in, getting my workout, going home.  I don't encourage people to talk to me, to look at me, to notice me in any way. 

I honed this ability while I was 200+ pounds and trying to make my way around the chrome-n-tone I joined in an effort to lose weight.  While I was comfortable in the weight room (thanks to being brought up around large, football-playing brothers, the weight room didn't intimidate me) but the second I walked into the sea of machines, I wilted.  I'd walk past the row of cardio bunnies, all who gave me the Eye of Judgment as I found an empty treadmill and climbed on, trying to pretend they weren't all watching while I fumbled with the buttons.

Years later, I lost nearly sixty pounds (and kept forty of it off) and I'm as comfortable in a gym as I am in front of my computer.  While I'm still bigger than most of the women who workout there (this is Los Angeles, after all), most of the looks come as I load plates onto the leg press or haul ass on the treadmill.  But the way overweight people are generally treated at the gym is one of my biggest pet peeves about gym culture.

As I've written before, I don't wear an iPod or listen to music while I run.  I prefer to figure out how to either tune out the world around me, or become hyper-aware of everything.  I've been reading Brooks' The Zombie Survival Guide and he writes about how zombies rely on their other senses, and I've been working on this very thing.  I hear moronically well (I also have an amazing sense of smell), so when I can I try not to rely on my eyes but my ears to tell me what's going on. (Note: do not attempt this while driving.) 

Today found me at the gym in my bright pink pants, grey wifebeater and the World's Oldest Black Sweatshirt, hastily assembled from the pile of clean clothes that I have yet to put away. As I started to jog, I picked up on the conversation of a couple in their 30s a few treadmills down who were talking with a trainer who was in-between sets.

Guy: So I'm a Giants fan.
Girl: Because we're from New York.
Trainer: Not the Jets?
Girls: Um, no.  We're from New York! Born and raised. Duh!

I cough, suppressing a laugh.  The girl turns and looks at me and says something to her boyfriend.

Trainer: So where you watching the game?  At home?
Guy: I'm going to [garbled.]
Trainer: [to the girl] You're not going?
Girl: You couldn't pay me ten thousand dollars to go.  People in sports bars are morons!

The boyfriend gets off the treadmill and heads into another room.  The trainer takes the treadmill next to the girl.  I start to run.

Trainer: So you don't like sports?
Girl: No, I'm really into politics and current events.  Like, did you know Hillary Clinton was 60?
Trainer: Are you voting for her?
Girl: No way, she's not a Democrat.
Trainer: I thought she was.
Girl: Democrat means everyone has a voice.  She's always cutting people off.
Trainer: Oh.

I start to run faster, imagining that there's only two spots in the Bunker.  I've got to outrun her.

Girl: I'm voting for Edwards.
Trainer: I always thought he was kinda Socialist.
Girl: He is not a Socialist!  He just wants to help every person with government money.  That's why we have government, to help people.
Trainer: Isn't that---
Girl: Anyway, he's the only honest one, he's not in it for the money.

I push my speed even more.

Trainer: Well,  technically politicians don't make--
Girl: And he's done things like in a court case he took away a medical license of a doctor who deprived a baby of oxygen and gave it Cerebral Palsy.
Trainer: Huh?
Girl: In fact, John Edwards proved that  Cerebral Palsy is caused by doctors who deliver babies wrong*.
Trainer: Well, no, the jury found the doctor at fault and legally responsible.  That doesn't mean anything in terms of science.
Girl: No, you're wrong.  Listen, it's complicated, you wouldn't understand.

I finish the last two minutes in a full-out sprint.

Cooling down, I wipe down my machine and find a place to stretch.  As I walk out of the room, I hear the girl say to her boyfriend:

You'd think she'd put a little effort into her appearance.

I turn and catch her looking directly at me.  She blushes. I smile.

I thought I could explain where my effort was directed, but then I thought it was complicated and she wouldn't understand.  Besides, I have to outrun her to the Bunker.

*Doesn't this totally sound like a Chuck Norris Fact?

Day 22: Checkin' In.

I woke up to the sound of rain and wondered how I'd make it to the gym.  After all, I would have to:

1. Get to the car. (Nearly twenty feet away!  OUTSIDE! Where there was rain!)
2. Drive.  (Through the rain!)
3. Find a parking space. (In the rain!)
4. Walk to the gym. (Possibly up to two blocks!  In the...well, you know.)

Because I am a Post-Apocalyptic Warrior not entirely a wuss too mortified not to go because I'm playing in front of a live studio audience, I hopped to it.  Upper body workout +  week four of the Couch-to-5K Run = one tired slackmistress.

But not too tired for a post-gym dispatch: