My cupcake eating days are o.v.e.r.
This was my Facebook status earlier this evening. Wait? Did somebody say “cupcakes”?
For better or, quite possibly, for worse, I have joined fat camp. I didn’t intend to join fat camp, not one bit. I intended to join the gym so that I could start swimming again.
Last winter, I started swimming right about this time. It lasted a good, solid 2 months. I felt great. I slept great. I ate…like usual. But, I felt good. More energy…blah, blah, blah. So, in the spirit of wanting to feel better I should probably haul my (larger than last year) butt back to the pool. If…I can fit into the swimsuit.
Which I can’t. That? Is a problem.
So I join the gym. Which smells like lavender instead of sweat socks. The child care area rivals ChuckECheese. The lockers are cherry wood and towel service is free. I got 3 free personal training sessions just for signing up this weekend. (More on that later.) It’s spendy, kind of. Slightly more than the moldy old Y that we came from. And a longer drive for sure but that’s just the way it is here in urban-sprawl land.
On Saturday, after the tour, I sat at a desk and signed the requisite paperwork and handed over my debit card.
“Would you like to talk to a trainer today?” the assistant sales corporate guy says to me.
“I can call Brian down to my office. It won’t be any trouble.”
Uh….well…as much as I think I would benefit from a trainer…I just don’t….well… (articulate, I know)
“I’ll just see if he’s busy. Won’t take but a minute.”
One minute later…in walks one of the most beautiful men I have ever shared a room with. Brian. Eyelashes for days. Bright smile. Platinum wedding band. Figures. Starts asking questions about my goals and about my job and what do I need in a trainer.
I start yammering like a fool about being a stagehand and about the single mom thing and about the death in the family. Both of them. And about how I need a “Bob” and not a “Jillian” right at the moment but I would probably benefit from a “Jillian”.
I lost track of everything. Time. Space. I had just enough wits left to remain continent. But only just.
He asks if I want education or results.
Ten minutes and SEVERAL Benjamins later…I am enrolled in Team Weight Loss. Fat Camp. 10 weeks (the class is 12 but I enrolled late).
I lost track of how many times this trainer and the sales guy said “Oh yes, THIS is what you need.” “You will get so much out of this.”
3 days a week, one hour a day. 15 people in the class and I am not the least fit. Or the most fit. Neither the oldest nor the youngest. Invisibly in the middle…just where I like it. I got weighed and measured. With my shoes on. Horror! At 6pm. Gasp! The only time I weigh myself, I am naked after dropping a deuce in the morning before breakfast. (TMI? Have I gone too far with the visuals?)
We also meet with a nutritionist for 30 minutes a week. And keep a journal. It is less calorie based and more about portion sizes and getting rid of the junk. The focus this week is supposed to be about removing all forms of High Fructose Corn Syrup (HFCS) from the house. Really? I *just* got groceries. Turns out, that shit is really bad for you. And not just in the empty calories kind of way. It’s bad for insulin and cholesterol and mood (eek!) and energy.
The nutritionist wants us to de-tox. Eat only food. Real food. Unprocessed. Less than 10 ingredients. No eating out. No artificial sweeteners.
My trainer (and class teacher, it turns out) is Molly. She is my height but wears a shirt with “Triathlete” on the back. Dark hair, dark eyes. Very kind it seems. And really very encouraging. And not judgey at all. Not one little bit. Kind of makes me want to cry giant tears. And do really well all at the same time. She is very matter of fact and quick to move us from one activity to another. Torture device du jour:
The Bosu. A half a ball on a platform that, when turned upside down, becomes a bouncy, tippy object. Now, place your hands at 3 and 9 and do some push ups. And then some squat-thrusts. Go ahead. I’ll wait.
The tops of my thighs will never be the same.
If all goes well, I will be doing this until early April. That’s, like, spring.
My goal is 23 pounds. I’ll be back to “fightin’ weight”. The weight that I was when I started dating Stephen. And what I was before each baby. And, if you do the math, you’ll find that it’s about 9% of my current weight. So, reasonable for 10 weeks. If I do this the right way. For real.