Sunday, March 29, 2009

Bedtime stories didn't used to be this scary

Last night before bed I spent about 15 minutes with Maya. Her version of bedtime stories involve squats and lunges, bicep curls and tricep presses, crunches and some odd little thing where I curl into a ball and roll back and forth. I'm supposed to bring my knees to my chest for this. I haven't brought my knees successfully to my chest since I was a fetus, I assure you. I think I prefer my bedtime stories have ghosts, dragons, gory details of dismemberment, and the like. They'd provide far less nightmare potential for me I think.

This morning I decided to see what she serves for breakfast. Planks. The bitch had me doing planks. I guess she IS a real trainer because they ALL make you do planks! Where's the originality in that I ask? As you're working out with Maya she occasionally asks you how that last little bit of torture treated you. You can choose from "No sweat," "I was working hard," and "I couldn't keep up." This allows her to decide how she wants to ream you the next time you hang out. She'll only dial it up a notch if you say no sweat, people. I'm just sayin'! She is kind enough to let you have a rest period between certain things. Just long enough for her to adjust her ponytail, her shoe, her spandex, whatever might be riding up into her nether regions. And before you start another part of the workout, she'll ask you to wait while she "finds the beat." My new BFF for sure!

After dinner I went for a walk. I needed to clear my head and see if it filled back up with clarity. It didn't. I've been so disconnected the last week. So indifferent to everything. I've been seeing someone lately and I've even pulled away from that (for various reasons I'll not get into). School starts tomorrow and I don't want to go. Since when haven't I been jacked up on school? Even when I was drowning in it I was still loving it. Right now, I'm not. Maybe I'm depressed. Maybe I'm just tired. My life is still all kerfucked and I'm getting quite fed up with it all.

Before I sat down to write this I popped in my new Jillian Michaels' Fitness Ultimatum 2009 game for the Wii. I did about 15 minutes with it. I'm not all that impressed with it yet, but maybe I'm not doing it right. Maya works me out much harder than Jillian so far. My Wii Balance Board can be used on that one, maybe that'll make the difference. Right now it's just a lot of running in place. The rowing and the monkey bars seems good, but F@#$ it all if I can figure out the grenade toss. I'll have to play with it some more and see what happens. As you work out you gain access to new training tips and things.

For those of you trying to tally my activity for today. I got in about an hour. Considering how sedentary I've been for the last, eesh, six months...this is huge. Tomorrow starts another 11ish weeks of hell. Let's see if I can't bring my A game this time, shall we?

Saturday, March 28, 2009

Wii are fat

and by Wii I mean me as determined by my Wii. I'm embarrassed to admit that my left shoulder is sore from an hour of bowling that I did a couple days ago. Granted, I don't just click and flick to knock those pins down, I actually DO go through the actual motion of bowling, but that is tragic. I turned on my Wii Fit a couple weeks ago just to see what would happen and, naturally, one of the first things it wants to do is weigh me. I got on it just for the hell of it and quickly regretted it. Nothing like a little animated balance board telling you that you exceed its weight limits. Today I got a game called My Fitness Coach. It doesn't require the balance board so I thought it was a good idea. Another notion I should have reconsidered.

I would like to tell you more about it at this point, but I haven't really done it yet because setting up my profile was about all I could handle today. I haven't really worked out to any significant degree since this summer. My nephew was in my room with me when we turned it on. A hot, animated chick with a perfect body proceeds to explain that I'll need to set up the aforementioned profile. This, as the paperwork explains, is new personal trainer. Personally, I wish that she was a he that stood about 6'4", with biceps the size of small children and abs I could do laundry on, but who am I to complain? Maya will do just fine. She politely asked for my particulars. When it got to my weight I made my nephew take Lola downstairs. I didn't want to scar the child. He came back up and it was asking for various measurements. I kicked him out again as I took them. When he came back in I was doing the resting heart rate. Simple enough. What's that? You want me to do jumping jacks now? hard can that be? For two minutes? No problem, Maya. I'm your girl. WTF? When did jumping jacks get so hard? Did I mention that I had just taken my bra off when I did the measurements? Ouch.

After I nursed my black eye I had to do squats, modified pushups, crunches, and test my flexibility. Fair enough. Then Maya told me that I'm outside the healthy weight range. Money well spent, my friends. I'd been living the lie up until this point. She wanted to know my goal weight and if my objective was Weight Loss, Upper Body Strength, Lower Body Strength, Core Body Strength, Cardio Fitness, or Flexibility. After the revelation that I was outside the healthy weight range I signed up for weight loss, natch. Now Maya wanted me to set up a commitment schedule. Ya know, when will I work out and how long? Silly girl. She asked what equipment I have at home so she knows how to properly torture me.

As far as I can tell I get to choose music, workout location, and she'll ask me my mood before we work out. I get to choose from "Nothing can stop me," "Not too bad," and "You're lucky I'm here!" I think I'd rather have one that says "You're lucky I don't cut you, you skinny little animated bitch." Should be fun, no?

Wednesday, March 25, 2009

The Death of a Perfectionist

As explained by the Graphic Design grading standards of my school, when you get a B you are producing exceptional work. You are showing tremendous creativity and your application of design principles are above and beyond the call of duty. You are...phenomenal.

When you get an A? The clouds part and angels sing. A great light shines down upon your project and the world seems to be a better place. Instructors weep and your classmates feel inadequate. When you get an A you are destined for greatness. You are...a design God.

I was one such design God...until yesterday. I got online for about the 50th time to see if my last grade had been posted. So far I had three more A's to put in my pocket and was waiting for just one more. The one, mind you, that I was most worried about. The one from an instructor that is scattered, disorganized, and harsh. We got along fine on a personal level, but I knew during the first class that this could be my downfall. She was never involved in the critiques so the only feedback you got was from your classmates. She rarely answered questions regarding what she thought of something when you had the chance to pull her aside. When you turned in your project you were going in blind. There was no real prior feedback to hold your hand while you waited for your grade. I made my way through the many levels required to get to the page that would show my grades. There, tainting all my pretty little, streamlined A's was a letter foreign to me. My grade? Was a B.

B? I'm not a B kind of girl if you're new to this blog. I'm a 4.0 with no room for exceptions kind of girl. I'm a perfectionist. A perfectionist verging on O.C.D. when it comes to school. I pay attention to details that others don't think about. I tweek and perfect and then tweek again until perfect is no longer an adequate descriptor. I don't miss class. I'm not late. I am the girl that others come to for an opinion on their work. I was proud of my A's and held my head high in those classes. Now, when I see this particular instructor I will be looking at the floor and avoiding eye contact. Not because I'm ashamed, but because I might attack. I might take a T-square to her knees Tanya Harding style and do things with an Xacto knife that would make prisonyard stabbings look like foreplay. I got a B!

What's worse? I wouldn't even give myself anything better when it comes to weightloss 101. I weigh less than when the term started and only gained once throughout it all, but I should have done better. I could have done better. I have excuses galore, but it doesn't matter. I should have done better. I have only lost 15.2 pounds in the last two and a half months. I'm capable of more. Maybe I am not the perfectionist that I thought I was. Maybe I am a B student.

Friday, March 20, 2009

Did you know?

Did you know that you can put stints in the arteries of your heart that are 99% clogged, but you can't do anything when all of your major blood pumping heart vessels have minor blockage? That when that is the case you can't reverse it, you can only prevent it from getting worse? That bypass surgery would be of little use because it's not like you can just up and rebuild all of your arteries? Did you know that you can have 4 stints in your heart, diabetes, a skin disease that's basically eating away at your legs, and a host of other problems and still not care about losing weight and getting healthy? Did you know that stints aren't as easy an option for women as they are for men because women's arteries are smaller? Did you know that Prednisone can raise your blood pressure causing you to have a heart attack and raise your blood sugar to the upper 300's? Did you know that when you have a heart attack it goes not only up your arm, but also through to your jaw? Or that, though common sense would tell us otherwise, it's not something worth going to the hospital for? Or that you can have a wife, three children and two grandchildren and still not be able to find a reason to change your life and be healthy?

These are just a few of the lessons my dad has taught me. I can't say I know how to change a tire or drive a stick shift, but I do know where my dad's nitro pills are and when I need to run and get them. I've never been taught how it is that I should be treated by a man, I've grown up believing that my dad never thought I could even get a man. I have been taught, however, that hearing the words "You're a worthless piece of shit. You'll never amount to anything." will stick with you for your entire life. My dad has never lead by example on how to be healthy, he has only preached to me about things he won't do himself. He's quick to point out my do's and don'ts on dieting all from the comfort of his recliner. I've been taught that your eyes can be wide open to the failing health of your best friend and the reasons behind it, but still be blind to the fact that you are walking down the same path.

My father taught me that, though disowning each other was the right choice for he and his dad, forgiveness is the right choice for me. My father taught me that the ways in which you fail your child when they are young can be made up for when they are older. My father taught me that, in some ways, people CAN change...if they want to. My father taught me that a daughter can turn her childhood into 360+ pounds and a son will take the same childhood and turn it into anger and bitterness. My father taught me how to fish, but won't be around to teach my children how because, though he also taught me how important family is, he also taught me that they aren't important enough to live for. Maybe my brother will have to teach them. My brother will probably also have to walk me down the aisle some day because my dad will likely not be around for that either. At the rate he's going, he won't even see me FINALLY get a college degree.

I don't know if my dad is proud of me because he never tells me. I'm told he brags about me to other people, but he never tells me. I don't know if my dad thinks I'm pretty, but I do know he thinks I'm fat. I don't know if he still thinks I'm worthless or if I've actually amounted to something in his eyes. I do know that when I was young I was scared to death of my dad and now I'm scared to death that he's going to die. I know that I'm angry. I'm angry that the things he's always bitching about are things he has the power to change. I'm angry that his heart condition and his diabetes are likely going to kill him before cancer will get the chance and those are two things that he could remedy significantly if he would just lose weight. I'm angry that he can judge me for my weight and make me feel so terrible about mine when he is dying from his. I'm angry because, at the age of 32, I have to resign myself to the fact that my dad is going to die simply because he is content to do so. I'm angry because I try EVERY DAY to change my life and every day I watch him give up on his. I'm angry because the last lesson my dad will teach me is how to quit.

(Note to those that know my dad: printing this and using it as some sort of intervention method would not be wise and only make me stop writing as honestly as I do)