Musings on Muscles

I do not expect this to shock anyone, but like Janet Weiss before me, I'm a muscle fan.

I find human musculature fascinating.

I like watching the really muscular people move. I like wondering how certain muscles were built and why the same muscle can look different -- covered by skin as it is -- on different people.

There is absolutely no sexual attraction in this.

Sometimes even the opposite, truth be told.

So, attraction? No. Fascination? Oh hell yes.

I stick to a pretty regular schedule at the gym through the week, but on the weekends, I land there when I land there. The faces are, therefore, not as familiar. Neither are the muscles. More on that later. 

Sometimes on Saturday morning, a few of the cardio machines are not turned on. I assume this has to do with late night/early morning vacuuming by folks who are not the regular weekday morning staff. Anyway, it's happened to me often enough that I know how to do the easy fix. (Um, find the switch and turn it on...) So this woman I'd never seen before was there today. She was attractive and nicely muscled; I took notice of that in a positive way. She got on the machine in front of me and poked and poked then gave up and got off to try the one next to it. It didn't work either. Obviously I knew what the problem was, so when she gave up on that, too and walked past me I said, "Excuse me," then, getting her attention, "you just have to..." She cut me off with a backwards wave of her hand and went to another machine. She didn't say, "Hey, fat girl, you don't have ANYthing to tell ME on my turf." but her look of disdain and dismissal did.

She became extraordinarily unattractive very quickly.

Later in the morning, she executed a longer series of pull-ups than most women can handle and I found myself grudgingly admiring her. 

But I still didn't think she was attractive. 

I'm pretty sure that my flip-flopping opinions, if she were privy to them, would have had absolutely no effect on her mood and certainly none on her self-esteem.

And then there was another unfamiliar face.

She was cute and trim and appeared confident. I watched as she did a lot of the same things that I do. She was pretty consistently pushing around about 1/3 of the weight I push around for about 1/2 as many sets. And I thought -- there it is. This certainly backs up the we're all different and there is no one-size-fits-all plan theory. Because she was not working as hard as I do. I mean not even nearly. Not even in the same ball park. But if you saw the two of us walking side by side, you would surely peg her as the more fit. And I'll bet that if you complimented her figure she'd thank you and tell you that she works hard for it. She might even think -- privately or not so privately -- that anyone who is NOT as fit as her just isn't putting the effort in. And such a small effort it is, really. Why, anyone could do it. But some people are too fat and lazy...

Oh my.

She just as easily might not think any of those things. Projection is pretty high on the list of my personality flaws.

But that's what's been running all around in my brain this fine Saturday morning, week leventy-leven of my great weight plateau.

Oh, that and an immense amount of pride in the fact that I didn't eat chips at the Mexican restaurant last night. Avoiding them was miserable. I'm not exaggerating -- there may have been real tears. But the pride in having managed it has lasted for hours. 

Yay me.

Score one for the fat girl.

Uncle?

I think I might be giving up.

I feel it all slipping away.

What is the point?

I can't find motivation anywhere.

I am so unhappy.

Reality Check

What a day yesterday was. I am still recovering physically and emotionally. High highs, low lows, but most importantly: a reality check.

It wasn't brutal or disheartening, as reality checks sometimes are. I simply came to some realizations that I should have come to months ago. That's not how it generally works, though.

I stepped way out of my league yesterday.

The Survivor Race was not intended for middle-aged fat chicks -- no matter how fit they fancy themselves to be. I am glad I did it. I rose to every challenge and only ultimately failed one. I felt a little bit like Seegar in An Officer and a Gentleman when she just couldn't make it over the climbing wall. As I hung there -- right at the top, but unable to make it over -- I actually flashed to that. It didn't ultimately defeat her, but she had a little more time than I did to conquer it. Tom played the Mayo role, offering encouragement and help and not allowing me to judge myself too harshly when I ultimately failed.

Tom was amazing.

He took every challenge easily and helped me when I struggled.

When the two of us hit the finish line last, he stepped back and let me cross it first.

We had talked about it going in. His goal was to complete every obstacle. My goal was the same as it is in every race: Not last and not lost. For the first time in my life it looked like I wasn't going to reach that goal. But he didn't allow it. He stepped back and crossed behind me -- claiming last for himself and allowing me to hit my goal.

I do not have any words to describe how loved I felt in that moment.

I've been grunting and howling and posing like I'm some sort of fitness success story.

I am very very very much not.

That realization could have been tearful and painful, but he transformed it into a moment of unselfish love. My smiles at the finish line were genuine. Not because I'd finished. Not because I'd attempted every obstacle and failed only one, but because I felt, in that moment, the depth of my husbands love. This race wasn't important to him, but he knew it was important to me. He didn't allow me to fail.

I am overwhelmed.

I win.

I have worked so hard in the past year. Tom, who does nothing fitness-wise, met every challenge. I struggled. There are just genetics and other circumstances at play here that cannot be denied. Am I in better shape than I was a year ago? Indubitably. Am I in good shape? Not even close.

Our visit to the Arnold Classic Fitness Expo sealed the deal. It was huge and crowded and loud. The energy was high. It is THE expo for fitness -- my thing, right? -- in the US. And I didn't belong there. I anticipated that moment Liv had when the Chicago TARDIS convention hit its stride. She was home. She was with her people. She nearly wept with joy. That didn't happen for me. Not even close.

I imagine I'm the only one who was even mildly surprised by that.

I will keep lifting. I love lifting. And maybe now I can get back to the love of it and away from the weight and fitness goals. I'm not going to be thin. I'm not going to be fit. I'm not going to be hot. But damned if I can't push heavy things around.

I have strayed from the low-carb lifestyle, but I will get back to it.

I am not an athlete, though.

No more competitions.

Just for fun races and events, maybe. 

Because fun is fun.

But no competitions.

I didn't cross the finish line last, but I earned last place.

Not fun.

I am not an athlete.

I could fill a book with all of the things that I am not, and that makes me sad.

I'm fifty years old. I should have figured out what I am by now.

I do know one thing that I am, though. 

I am loved.

I really am.

And maybe that is enough. It's more than many folks ever get to experience. In the long run, it's more important than finding a niche.

I write a little.

I knit a lot.

I lift.

And I am loved.

That's not so bad.

That's not bad at all.

Bi's, Tri's and Sighs

Biceps and triceps day is not my favorite.

I don't mind tricep work -- I think my tri's are actually becoming sort of strong. But my biceps are weak, weak, weak. I know that just means I need to work them more -- and I DO -- but it is not my favorite. It makes me feel weak and feeling weak makes me feel angry and feeling weak and angry inevitably leads to me questioning my motivation towards the whole thing.

So I'm doing cable bicep curls -- with an embarrassingly low weight and what must have been a nasty grimace on my face -- when a gym acquaintance touched me on the shoulder to get my attention then started a slow clap. Annoyed, and sure that he was making fun of me (believe me -- he's not using low weights on ANY move) because of the pussy weights I was lifting, I popped out one ear plug and said, "Seriously? I don't deserve clapping on bicep day. Stop it."

Ever the cheerleader, he said, "Yes you do! You're doing great!" I still felt a little bad, and then a little worse because I realized that I may have inadvertently fished for a compliment (which he cheerfully provided, but...) He continued, "You are here. On this REALLY cold day. You don't have to be, but you are. You are here and you are working on the body part you least enjoy working on and that, my friend, deserves applause."

God damn.

He was right.

I could have been in the warmth of my home, wrapped in a blanket and eating pancakes, but I wasn't.

I was there, because to be anywhere else would've felt wrong.

I think I can safely say that the workouts have become a habit. A routine. Something that is just done.

And that makes me feel kind of strong.

Do Unto Yourself As You Do Unto Others

Last night I ran into one of my daughter's friend's moms. I hadn't seen her in quite some time. She had lost weight (though she was still not what anyone would call svelte). Her hair looked pretty. She looked 10-15 years younger. She looked lovely.

I spoke to my daughter about her this morning. She said that she had been experimenting with dressing better and wearing make-up because of a new career opportunity.

I think her experiment was a success.

And then I wondered -- why can't I cut myself the same break?

Like I said -- she was thinner, but not thin.

She was considerably less frumpy, but not glamorous.

She was so happy that she glowed.

She. Looked. Great.

I qualified it above, but only for the sake of comparison.

Because I, too, am thinner but not thin. And I can't forgive myself or the powers that be for that. I gave up all of the things! I work hard! I deserve to be hot, not slightly less gross!

I would have never said or even thought those things about her. I simply thought she looked great.

I, too, have been playing with make-up and hair and it makes me feel better about myself. But I beat myself up because I'm not beautiful.

I have been told that my happiness shines through. Or did, until quite recently anyway. I hear that as "she ain't much to look at, but she's got a good heart".

Isn't that stupid?

That is not what I thought of her at all.

I thought she looked great.

No qualifiers.

Not:  She looked great for her.

Not: She looked better than she used to.

Just: She looked great.

I need to work hard on cutting myself the breaks that I instinctively cut her.

Why is that so much harder? Do we hold ourselves to higher standards than we hold the rest of the world to? Is that fair?

It's not.

I think I'm going to tell the mirror it looks great today.

I'll try not to laugh (or cry) when I do so.

It will be a step in the right direction.

Crash

It was inevitable.

I was flying pretty high.

People were feeding me compliments and I was eating them up.

I was feeding myself, too.

I saw a lot of change this week and I felt great about it.

I was caught up in how far I'd come and I forgot about how far I had to go.

I really forgot.

Every now and then I'd get a little reminder -- a little glimpse in a mirror -- but it was easily dismissed by whatever positivity was going on at the time.

All the exercise -- I think -- was releasing so many endorphins that I was able to dismiss the little glimpses of how very disgusting I still am.

I speak proudly of losing 60 pounds -- but I lose track of the fact that I have a good hundred -- ninety, anyway -- left to lose. I'm not even half way there.

I'm gross.

And worse -- I'm gross and I've been feeling and acting like I'm not.

How repulsive.

This mood will pass. It needs to.

Tom reminded me last night that it's not about the weight. It was never supposed to be about the weight.

I'm healthy -- way, way healthier than I was, anyway.

That should be enough.

That was supposed to be enough.

I'll get over it. I'll be back at the gym tomorrow, hitting it hard.

But maybe I'll have the good sense to go back to dressing like the fat chick that I am instead of the buff chick that I want to be. Maybe life would make more sense if I went back to living like her, too. Eating, drinking, knowing how the fuck to handle myself in social situations...

I feel better now -- there is no doubt. I guess I look better, but I don't look good. I remain an AWFUL lot of pounds away from looking good. An insurmountable amount. An almost unfathomable amount. It has taken me almost a year to lose 60 pounds -- and that was the beginning -- it always comes off more quickly in the beginning. I need to face facts -- I am never going to lose enough weight to look good, or normal. 

Never.

It is an unreasonable goal.

So I've given up my social life and foods and drinks (sigh) that made me happy for the chance to be slightly less disgusting.

AND to feel better physically than I have in years. I can't let this little mood dive obliterate that fact.

Worth it? 

I just don't fucking know right now.

In a few weeks, I'll take the first bike ride of the spring. That should help to clear up my priorities.

Intuitive Eating

Before the doc pronounced my carb sensitivity in a way which I was open to hear, I would have told you that I was practicing Intuitive Eating. I would not have been lying to you, not consciously at least. When I started eating low-carb, I moved thoughts of Intuitive Eating to the back of my mind. But I realized this week that I am following it more closely now than I was when I actually claimed to be following it. I have really tuned in to the needs of my body. I do pay more attention to when I'm hungry and when I'm not. It does not follow the same path every day. 

It seems like eating low-carb goes against the tenants of principle 3:

Make Peace with Food. Call a truce, stop the food fight! Give yourself unconditional permission to eat. If you tell yourself that you can't or shouldn't have a particular food, it can lead to intense feelings of deprivation that build into uncontrollable cravings and, often, bingeing When you finally “give-in” to your forbidden food, eating will be experienced with such intensity, it usually results in Last Supper overeating, and overwhelming guilt.

But in retrospect, I don't think it really does. I have indeed experienced that intense overeating -- usually at a Mexican restaurant -- I just can't resist a basket of warm chips and a bowl of fresh salsa. A bag of tortilla chips from the grocery store? Pfffft. That has no power over me. My family has chips at home all the time. Doesn't tempt me a bit. But those warm tortilla chips in a Mexican restaurant? Forget about it. They are my Kryptonite. Knowing this helps a little bit. I try to stay away from them when I can and when I can't I give myself permission to indulge without guilt. But you know what? I feel like hell when I do! Not guilt -- I don't beat myself up for being "weak" or "bad" because I am neither of those things -- I feel really physically bad. The tummy ache that you might expect after a person who generally eats moderately eats without inhibition, sure -- but more than that -- I feel sluggish and exhausted and generally gross.

Sometimes it's worth it, though...

It's a conscious decision.

I find that I just know when it's time for me to get some carbs into my system. And it's usually -- surprise, surprise -- every 7-10 days, just like the doctor ordered. Sometimes it is a little sooner than 7 days -- and I listen to that message when my body sends it. Sometimes I actually go longer than 10 days and I listen to that message as well.

Principle 5 is one I'm still working on, too:

Respect Your Fullness. Listen for the body signals that tell you that you are no longer hungry. Observe the signs that show that you're comfortably full. Pause in the middle of a meal or food and ask yourself how the food tastes, and what is your current fullness level?

Man, that one seems like it ought to be easy, doesn't it? But sometimes the food is just too delicious to stop when the belly holds up its hand and I just keep eating until it waves a white flag. Lifetime member of the Clean Plate Club. I'm working on it. I'm trying to undo 5 decades of abuse, here -- it doesn't happen overnight.

I am much more in tune than I ever have been before. My body never wanted all of those carbs -- they always made me feel sluggish and -- gross. But I didn't make the association. I just thought that was the way I was supposed to feel. That was my normal. 

The new normal is better.

My body speaks.  I listen.

Usually.

Breaking Up Is Hard to Do

Y'know that part -- at the end of a relationship -- when both parties know that it's over but it's been such a long, comfortable thing that nobody knows quite how to say the words that will actually set them both free? Usually -- although not always -- one party wants out and the other just sort of feels desperate and out of control -- the writing is on the wall but they can't bring themselves to really read the words out loud. They go through the motions for a while. Make excuses to be gone more and more. Maybe do things that will make the other person initiate the break.

It's a horrible time. If you've lived to adulthood, you've undoubtedly seen it once or twice from both sides.

It's where my trainer and I are.

And I am the one feeling desperate and out of control.

I know that she is doing what she needs to do and that she needs to take care of herself. She needs to move on. There is no place for me where she is going. I am old baggage from a past life and her only remaining tie to me is guilt. I don't want to be an obligation. I want her to succeed like crazy.

But I want to succeed like crazy, too, and I'm not completely confident that I can do it without her guidance and support.

I'm still brainstorming. What am I going to do?

I guess the easy answer is that I should just find another trainer. And eventually that is probably what I will do. But oh, I so don't want to. My relationship with this one has been so satisfying. I don't want to have to take the time to convince someone new that I am not how I appear. I think if I met with someone new and they handed me a Barbie weight, I would throw it at them. And that would not be nice or fair -- it would not be their fault for treating a frumpy middle-aged woman like a frumpy middle-aged woman. No, I am not ready to train a new trainer yet.

I toyed with the idea of becoming a trainer myself -- just to be able to take things into my own hands so that I would never have to rely on anyone else again. It's an interesting plan, and I am not ready to completely dismiss it, but it is not what I really want.

I think what I really want is a serious workout partner, but I don't see that happening. So many factors would have to line up -- it would have to be someone I liked on a personal level, it would have to be someone who lived near me and had a similar schedule and belonged to the same gym. It would have to be someone with similar goals and similar enough strength that we could confidently spot each other. It is too much to hope for -- I don't think that person is out there. If they are, they're probably not looking for a frumpy middle-aged woman.

All I know with any degree of certainty is that I don't want my flailing relationship with my trainer to signal an end to my relationship with fitness. I've come too far and worked too hard. While she is still giving me a thread to hang on to, I need to figure out my next move.

Books, classes -- whatever it will take to keep me moving in a positive direction.

I love my trainer.

But I love myself more.

I will survive this -- I just need to figure out how.

Woo and Might I Add a Hearty Hoo

I lost weight on my vacation.

Somewhere in the neighborhood of 4.5 pounds.

I am astounded and thrilled.

That should not have happened. 

I ate weird.

I worked out light.

And yet.

Perhaps this is another lesson learned -- or a continuation of the one I've been learning. The rest and the indulgences are an integral part of the plan. All work and no play not only makes Tammy a dull girl, it makes her a girl who sticks at plateaus too long. A carbalicious treat, a lighter workout, a skipped workout -- as long as they're used sparingly -- can provide the push that is needed to get over a bump in the road.

This isn't supposed to be about the weight.

It isn't supposed to be about the scale.

But it sure is nice when things move in the direction you want them to.

It sure is nice.

Head, Shoulders Knees and Toes

Vacations do not provide a nurturing environment for a fit lifestyle. 

I suppose that's ok -- a little indulgence can be a good thing. A little bread with my dinner (twice!), baked potato (once) and cheesecake (once -- and 4 of us split it) does not necessarily point to the end of healthy eating. I could've done a little better -- I could've done a lot worse.

As for exercise? I took the work out of workout and made it fun. While I don't think there's anything inherently wrong with that, I also know that it was not as effective as what I'm used to. Again -- no big deal. One week out of my life, and I didn't totally slack off -- I just relaxed a little bit.

These are not bad things, although my body is craving a return to a more serious plan. 

My body is craving that.

But my head almost gave up yesterday.

And an awful lot of fitness is in the head.

This is not the most flattering picture ever taken of me, but I like it -- I think there's a lot of  ME in it.

My head got buff way before my body. I think like a weight-lifter, even though I still look like a fat frumpy middle-aged suburbanite. I mean, I WENT THERE in my head. That manifested as an increase in confidence that made almost every aspect of my life better. 

But...

When I relaxed this week, I got a few glimpses of myself as I actually am rather than as I have begun to envision myself. And those glimpses, along with the lax atmosphere, played in my head and flirted with the idea of giving it all up. I wanted a cocktail on a patio. I wanted a big-ass slice of pizza (or 3). I wanted fudge and taffy -- beach food. I wanted to put my damn oysters on a cracker. People do those things. Normal sized people do those things. Why couldn't I do those things?

The answer is, of course, that I can. I am an adult living in a free country with an income -- if I want a martini or a pizza or a whole damn cake, I can have it. But I can't have it and be normal sized. And that is just not frickin' fair. But I guess it's all a trade off. I looked at those normal sized people indulging in those things and realized that - while they can have a treat and remain normal sized, there are trade-offs they're making in other areas of their life. Nobody gets a free ride -- even the people who look like they do.

So I reminded myself of how far I've come by buying far too many clothes. I shopped in stores that were not available to me a year ago. I shopped anywhere I wanted. And I shopped a lot. I spent what I would have spent on food and booze on clothes. 

And that was probably good (although not spending the money at all would have been arguably better).

But I am still so large.

Still very very large.

And I would've said fuck it. if I hadn't been reminded, in a dressing room one day, of my shoulders.

My shoulders are the only body part that have actually visibly changed due to my weight lifting. I can feel the muscles in my arms and legs, but they are still obscured beneath a lot of fat. When and if that melts away..... The muscles are definitely there -- but you're just going to have to take my word for it because they haven't made a public appearance yet. My shoulders, though... I love the way my shoulders look. They didn't look like this before. This is a change that I made happen. I did this. I built these shoulders. And they rock. What if I gave up and started eating and drinking again and I lost these shoulders? No. I think I love these shoulders more than I love pizza. Or booze. Or even cupcakes.

And then there are the knees.

I have degenerative arthritis in my knees and I have a lot of intermittent pain because of this. This pain is one of the things that held me back from exercising for a long time -- I didn't want to exacerbate it. But the damndest thing -- weight lifting didn't make it worse -- it made it better. Not -- like -- fixed it, healed it, made it ALL better -- but comparatively better. I strengthened the muscles around those joints and that lead to less pain. 

photo: http://toneandfit.wordpress.com/2012/08/09/squats/  - this is closer to what I look like on the INside

So. Awesome.

Toes? Well, toes don't really come into play much. But they're part of the song. So here's a picture of mine beside my innovative kettle bell substitute. 

Wet sand kettlebells, lots of steps (I'm on the 10th, gym is on the 15th, coffee is on the 2nd) and walks in the soft sand, sometimes against the wind... not a great permanent plan, but it'll do for vacation.

Also -- I guess walking barefoot in the sand causes ones toes to grip, thereby putting a little stretch on the calves. So -- yay toes.

I won't give up. Not today. I'll keep it up for my head, shoulders, knees and toes (knees and toes). 

Gym Rats and Beach Bums

For weeks leading up to my vacation I worried -- what effect was being away from home -- and my gym -- going to have on my fitness progress? I considered buying a weekly membership at a local gym, but my mother assured me that there was a great workout facility in her condo. I had my trainer help me out with some workouts that didn't rely too heavily on equipment and I approached my week off without a care in the world.

When we got here, I immediately went to the exercise facility to get the lay of the land. It was a bad lay. Pretty, pristine, well-maintained -- but no substance.

Sumbitch.

I texted my trainer in a minor panic. I could've made due for a weekend -- but for 10 days? I didn't like to think about how far backwards that might take me. She came through, of course. Because there is ALWAYS something you can do. No excuses.

One plan she wrote for me was a beach workout.

Are you picturing something like this?

photo: http://www.sunlightfitness.com/home/folly-beach-personal-trainer/

Because I totally was. And this is hot.

But I look like this.

So I approached it with a little trepidation.

People thinking of this came to mind.

photo: http://www.dnainfo.com/new-york/20121226/breezy-point/beached-whale-found-breezy-point

But I gave myself a good talking to. For Pete's sake. I've come so far. So I don't have a beach body. Doesn't mean I don't deserve to workout on the beach. Today was gonna be the day. Just do it.

I donned a long sleeved T-shirt and a hoodie -- because the folks on the local news were making it sound like it was going to feel like the tundra out there and those were the warmest things I'd packed -- and headed outside.

I started out walking -- then sideways walking and backwards walking -- squats -- pushups -- squats with leg lifts -- always walking between each set.

My training partners were only slightly less shrill and obnoxious than Jillian Michaels. And way more charming. Though considerably less helpful than my own beloved trainer. Eh. You take what you can get.

Did people notice me? Did they think I looked foolish? I have no earthly idea, and -- what's more -- I couldn't care less. Could. Not. Care. Less. Because it wasn't for them, it was for me. And it was awesome.

Change is Good

Things have been changing fast 'round here.

I mentioned the health problems my trainer was having. Well, they provided a wake up call and she has made some changes in her life -- her story to tell, not mine. But it affected me. She has taken a day job and is either cutting waaaaaaay back on her training, if not cutting it out altogether.

She said she wanted to continue with me -- and I believe that she does want to -- but as she was describing the changes in her life I had a sinking feeling in my stomach. She wants to continue, but it's just not going to happen.

What the hell was I going to do?

I contacted her -- expressed my concerns -- and proposed a solution. I had been lifting with her 3 times a week and on my own 1 time a week and just doing cardio 2 days. Sunday I either do nothing or do something just for fun -- like a bike ride or a hike. I was starting to feel like I wanted more -- I was ready for a change anyway. So I asked her to map out a schedule that involved 6 days of lifting -- that she could tell me what body part or parts to work on each day and give me a couple sample workouts and then -- when she was available to train me, she'd know what body part or parts were due next and when she was not available I would never have to worry that what I chose to do would conflict with something she had planned.

She took it one better.

She wrote me actual workout plans for the week and has promised to do so every week. She will work with me when she can, but when she can't I'll know just what to do. I just completed my 4th day of the 1st week with this new system and I have to say -- wow.

I have been able to give myself a really challenging workout each day. I push myself to failure on at least one muscle/muscle group every day and I am really feeling it. And it feels good. It feels like it did when I first got started.

She didn't work with me at all this week, and next week I will be on vacation -- continuing my workouts in the gym there -- but I know next time we do manage to get together she will be pleased with me. Her plans are well-written and well thought out and I am following them to the letter. The change in her life DID result in a change in mine as well -- but we have managed to make it a change for the better.

I have never felt stronger than I do today (though I suspect that tomorrow I might feel just a little bit stronger).

Righteous.

Take What You Need...

... need what you take.

Some facsimile of that platitude is posted at every all-you-can-eat restaurant. The same theory is at play with the take a penny/leave a penny cups at the registers at most convenience stores and gas stations.

It makes sense.

My trainer -- a young and extraordinarily fit woman -- had a heart cath over the weekend. I spoke to her husband this morning and he said she expected to be back to training mid-week next week. I told him -- and meant it quite sincerely -- that she should take whatever she needs -- that her recovery is certainly more important than my (and, I assume, her other clients') training. She needs to rest and take care of herself and follow her doctor's orders and recover.

Take what you need.

But she also DOES need to get back to work and to her own training as soon as she is able. And that does not necessarily mean that she needs to wait until she is 100%. How many of us put off any number of things because we're not 100%? It is not an all-or-nothing game. If she feels 50% recovered and exerts 50% of her previous effort -- that is 100% made of win.

Need what you take.

On a much smaller scale, this refers to what I wrote about yesterday -- I needed a little rest after my bout with stomach flu. I do not feel 100% today. But I feel a lot better. I went to the gym and I gave it what I had. I have had better workouts, no doubt. But what I had was better than nothing. Way better. I took what I needed, I gave it what I had. I can't ask more of myself.

Another point that this raises: she is such a great trainer, that I will be able to proceed without her. Of course I prefer working with her. I work harder and heavier with her -- partially because of her encouragement and confidence, but mostly because I know that she is spotting me. If I overextend my limits I won't get hurt. But she has not taught me dependence. She has given me the tools that I need and I'll be ok while she takes what she needs.

And I know she needs what she takes.

Maybe

Maybe I could've gone to the gym today.

I didn't.

Maybe I could've gone to work today.

I didn't.

I was wicked sick yesterday and -- although I feel a lot better today -- I am giving myself time to recover.

I am reminding myself of my goals -- to be healthier and feel better. To be stronger. Yesterday I was too weak to climb the stairs without needing a little nap to recover. Today I am stronger than that.

Tomorrow maybe I will go back to the gym.

Tomorrow maybe I will go back to work.

Tomorrow maybe I will go back to normal.

Today I will recover and maybe even baby myself a little bit.

Because my training has never been about a specific goal.

It's about being stronger every day.

It's about learning moderation.

I wrote about how the "cheat day" is an important and integral part of the eating plan. I don't need or want a "rest day" from exercise every week. But maybe -- one or two now and then -- is just what my body needs.

I needed to rest today.

Tomorrow, maybe I will be fierce.

Today? I will take another nap.

And maybe that's just what I need.