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.