Can We Talk?

I hit some milestones last weekend and I was pretty euphoric about it. As is almost always the case, euphoria was followed by a crash.

I like to talk about -- and especially to write about -- the euphoric parts. I need to talk about -- or at least to write about -- the crashes.

I committed a super faux pax last week and used Facebook as a forum for writing about the euphoria. It was not the proper venue. It came across like bragging. I meant to share a small triumph -- a small milestone -- a small hurdle managed -- and instead I was alienating and obnoxious.

I don't want to do that anymore.

But I need to talk.

So I'm opening this blog up again.

I will whine here.

I will pat myself on the back here.

I will be brutally honest in my journey towards fitness -- the good, the bad and the ugly.

Because I need to.

Sometimes things need to be said, even if they don't need to be heard.

So.

The euphoria.

I shopped in a straight sizes store. Old Navy. Not just jersey shirts -- which I've pretty much always been able to buy there. Jeans. Straight size jeans. First time in a very long time. So long I can't remember when the last time was. I know a lot of words, but none of them could accurately convey the way I felt when I zipped up those jeans. Without lying down. Without jumping up and down. Without Spanx. Just me and a pair of jeans from Old Navy that zipped easily.

This was a triumph, and I presented it as such.

A lot of people celebrated it, too -- the people who weren't too turned off by the obnoxiousness of it all, anyway -- and I panicked. I had presented myself as some kind of success story and I am NOT. I have lost almost 50 pounds -- and that is undeniably an accomplishment to be proud of -- but it is not a fait accompli. I still have over 100 pounds to go before anyone sane would consider me a success story. Hell, even THEN most would still think I could benefit from dropping a few more pounds. I just wanted to share my joy at my little milestone. I didn't mean to imply that I have succeeded. I have  merely begun. 

The crash.

A small triumph in the dressing room lead to a small set-back in the gym and on the scale. I could not begin to tell you why. My limited background in psychology doesn't offer an explanation, although I'm certain that there is a simple one. But I didn't want to go to the gym. When I got there, I didn't want to work. And when my trainer missed our session yesterday I cut out early and had pancakes.

What.

The.

Bloody.

Fucking.

Hell.

I haven't had pancakes in over 9 months.

They tasted good.

And I felt like shit the whole day. 

Just like my doctor told me I would if I ate carbs for breakfast.

Just like I knew I would.

And I ate them anyway.

I had to force myself to eat a healthy lunch, snack and dinner -- all I wanted to do was crash. I felt awful and I couldn't concentrate. And gassy? Oh my Lord. What an awful, yucky, and completely self-imposed and absolutely deserved day.

And my back hurt. That wasn't because of the pancakes. Carbs are bad for me, but they are not the source of ALL evil. (everyone knows THAT title belongs to the diet industry. Another post for another day.) I went to the gym anyway. Friday is normally a cardio day, so I was plugging along on the elliptical, watching the seconds tick by and pissed at the world when I decided to cut cardio short, call it a warm-up, and lift. I'd missed my session with my trainer yesterday and I was going to miss my usual Saturday session -- not a reason in the world not to.

I kept my sore back in mind as I chose my starting weights. It would have been hard not to, the pain was such that it was difficult even to breathe. Check this out -- I was doing a reclined bench press. I started out with nothing on the bar to warm up. My nose itched in the middle of a lift and I took one hand off of the bar and scratched it, continuing to pump with one arm. It was light, so this was no great feat of strength, but it cracked me up. Look, Ma...

I increased my weights slowly and got myself to a point of reasonable respect.

I was breathing easier and my back hurt less.

I moved on to weighted squats. About halfway through my second set I realized that my back didn't hurt anymore.

I felt good again.

Lifting is magic.

I can't deprive myself of it -- it is just too wonderful -- too overall great for me.

I don't -- and never will -- look like someone who enjoys lifting. 

I am 50 pounds lighter but still ridiculously overweight.

I don't get to enjoy the benefits of a beautiful muscular physique.

But I get to wear jeans from Old Navy and my back doesn't hurt.

I ate a healthy and delicious high protein breakfast this morning.

Today is already kicking yesterday's ass.