Tuesday, September 11, 2012
Ok, so I finally managed to work so hard I maintained a drippy ring of sweat, even with the "helicopter fans" in full rotor! A woman in the locker room laughed as I frantically tried to capture the "effort" with my cameraphone (she knew the backstory), and I swear, one minute into cooldown the ring had *vanished*. [Hmmm... seeing a new way to save electricity on laundry day].
At another facility I hearkened back to the sage advice a fellow Sparkonian left on the first sweat blog--that I need to wear heather or grey to best show off my efforts. It turns out that a sweat ring is quite difficult to see on hot pink. It's there. Really. Look below the "shelf". If you really squint, you can see it. Or greyscale the dang thing on your computer. Whatever works. It's there, trust me.
Getting adequate evidence of effort is much more difficult than I had imagined.
I suspect I will actually have to start weighing myself again. Poo.
Saturday, September 01, 2012
As I commented on a Sparkfriend’s blog earlier today, date nights are a food pitfall for me. My DH loves Chinese food and restaurants that specialize in comfort food (translation--high fat and high calorie), and he rarely exercises any more. Our date nights have basically become excuses to eat out. It also seems as if this has become our only “together time”.
I miss the dates where we went to the gym together, whipped up experiments in the kitchen and snuggled into the comfy chairs on our covered porch sipping from mugs and listening to the rustling of leaves from our new trees.
He has his yardwork and hobbies that he settles into when he comes home. I work too much and only have time for the gym before coming home to crash exhausted on the couch. I watch a little idiot box action before I find myself dozing upright with a cat purring on my chest.
However, the other night I came home lamenting that I had skipped the gym, and now I felt bad about that decision. I shared with him my goal of 1000 fitness minutes for August and that I wasn’t going to be able to reach my goal because I had skipped too many days.--now I would have to exercise more than 2 hours a day for 3 days (or something like that) to reach my goal. With my schedule and knees, that wasn’t going to happen. My goal was going to hang over me, unreached, and he knew how much that would bother me. Also, he knows that, once I get home, I'm HOME, so there was no question of getting back into the car to go to the gym.
After my venting, I wasn't even contemplating working out. I was actually headed into the kitchen to scrounge for yummies.
Out of the blue he asked, "Do you want to go for a walk?"
He was looking at me the way a dog looks at you after he has poked you with his nose, liquid brown eyes showing concern, eager to urge you out of your funk.
Inside, something was whispering, “Noooo. Just quit. You’re tired.”
I looked at him again. Suddenly, I did. I DID want to go for a walk. I dropped my gym bag and started undressing. I whipped out my workout gear and dressed right there in the middle of the living room. The living room that has no curtains, by the way. [Hi, neighbors! This is my “before” shot…]
There was only about 1/2 an hour of sunlight left, so we hopped in the car, drove to a nearby public lake, and started walking on the gravel path. As we walked, he showed me spots on the lake he liked to fish, and I shared with him my day and some worries that have been weighing on me. Soon we were laughing and pointing out frogs and plants to one another, and at one point, he gently touched my arm to guide me back to the center of the path to prevent me from stumbling on the sloping sides of the path (I have balance and dizziness issues). I work in a health field and work to help people all day long, and then I come home and make sure everyone’s needs are met there, as well. I don’t think he has any idea how romantic and comforting that one action was for me. That gesture, that concern and caring for my well-being, made my heart swell.
We were still walking as the light faded to blackness. To my surprise, he clicked on a headlamp on his baseball cap to light our path. My Eagle Scout. Who knew? God, I love this man.
My DH was not only there for me in my moment of weakness, he encouraged my making a better choice, AND was prepared to join me, even in darkness, for some exercise. He knew I needed this.
And it was a great date.
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
Sooo I was working out for the first time in a new gym that I joined the other day (I'm a member of 3--can anyone say *excess*?), and I realized that, after 45 minutes, I still was not producing a sweat-ring. I checked my HRM, and I was at 140+. I could *feel* the sweat trickling down past my ears, but nothing was accumulating on my shirt. Wha...?
That's when I realized that this new gym has three HUGE, helicoptor-blade-sized fans on the ceiling. I switched treadmills three times. There wasn't a single place in that gym without sweat-evaporating-level breezes! And it's not like I could complain to anyone, either. "Hey, what's up with the incredibly efficient air handling and cooling system in this dang place, anyway?!"
So, no sweat ring pics will be posted after working out *there*.
Saturday, August 25, 2012
I believe that there is an athlete inside me. I'm not talking about the transformation from sedentary to active person due to living more mindfully. Fitness has increased, no doubt. But this feeling is different. I swear there is an athlete inside me. She dances. And runs. Man, can she ever run.
Each time I watch a show where there is ballroom dancing, I realize sometime during the show that my upper body, specifically shoulders, neck, head, and hips are oriented in the position of the female dancer. I have been dancing as I watched yet wasn't even aware of it. I feel the tension, the arc, the grace, as they glide, salsa, and tango across the floor. I have to actually bring myself back to earth a little as I realize what my body is doing. Like it wants so desperately to be *there*, not here on this couch. And I want to be there, too, but I can't.
Recently I started taking 5 minute visualization breaks to relax and let stress slide out of me. I found a pastoral scene in my mind, visiting it daily, feeling the fall breezes brush my hair and skin. One day, I went to my cranial getaway, but instead of meditatively looking around, I started running. It started as a slow jog, but the scenery changed, and I was in the mountains, in fields of wildflowers, on gravel paths, and in forests...I could feel my feet effortlessly treading the soft ground beneath me, my breathing smooth and steady, arms, rhythmically swinging on either side of my healthy, weightless torso. Atalanta at her peak before the suitors... I would rouse myself only to feel the disappointment that I was here, not there. That I wasn't running. That I can't.
As I was walking on the treadmill the other day, I got angry that I have to use the word "can't". I HATE not being able to do something. Given enough time, motivation, and perseverance, I can usually accomplish anything I set out to do. Of course, I set out to do things that have reasonable outcomes. But dancing and running should be in the realm of reasonable things to do. I used to be able to do them--perhaps not well, but awkward attempts at least. It kills me that now I can't. The truth is, the arthritis and torn meniscus both prevent me from dancing and running without excruciating pain.
And it is making me feel defeated and depressed.
The dancer and runner want out. She still arches her back during turns and breathes the cool air deep into her lungs as she avoids exposed roots on the trail.
I am trapped in an aging body that isn't yet old.
Thursday, August 23, 2012
I am slacking in my effort pics, but I keep forgetting to find a mirror immediately after working out. By the time I get home, the ring has diminished significantly and looks like I barely did anything. So here is my pic from Monday. The sweat on the back actually encompassed both shoulders and went down into my shorts. Couldn't get a pic of it (I'm not that bendy), and frankly, it would have been a bit too graphic/gross to post.
The sweat in this one actually goes down past the border of the pic. :) I've had better/bigger sweat rings, but with the current lack of motivation I have been fighting, I'm pretty pleased with this one. It was solid to the braline where it went into the bra. I was actually able to wring it out a little.
Does anyone else feel oogey getting into their car sporting butt-sweat? I have GOT to remember to take a towel for the seat. Gross. But gross in a good way, right?
Get An Email Alert Each Time JENNY160 Posts