Since I have been UNABLE TO MOVE without pain since Tuesday morning, I’ve had some time on my ass to do some research on all this information that I have been given.
First up, let’s define “Masochistic”, shall we?
Masochistic, adj. gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one’s own actions or the actions of others, esp. the tendency to seek this form of gratification.
The question is, am I bringing the pain to myself? Or am I just begging for it to be administered?
Because I am here to say that I am in pain. My quads are tender to the touch, swollen almost. I hobble about the house like an elderly hausfrau. I don’t even want to sit down because I know the pain of standing up. And stairs? Fuggettaboudid. Going up? Not a big deal. Going down? No.
Besides all that, I’m afraid to eat. I was challenged to remove all HFCS from the house, everything partially hydrogenated, all artificial sweeteners and anything with more than just a few chemical ingredients. The idea is to detox. Make it all not an option. Know what that leaves me for meal options? Not a damn thing.
It all makes me very, very not hungry.
Which is probably not helping the leg soreness.
On the upside, I have had a HFCS-free day today. It is late in the evening and I don’t have a single craving. I’m not combing the cupboards for a snack.
I discovered in my internet research, that HFCS is metabolized in the liver (whereas sucrose “sugar” is metabolized in the gut). In the liver…just like booze. Sweet, sweet booze. Anyway, so not only is it feeling the need to be “filtered” and kicked back into the kidneys (diabetic, much?) but the brain will never recognize it as food. Never.
Which explains why I can’t have just one cookie, I must have five. Five. In a stack. Waiting. And why, when I make cookies at home, one or two is enough. Unless I make the ones with peanut butter and oatmeal and chocolate chips AND m&m’s. And even then, I can be stopped. (Those are really good cookies, by the way. I can post the recipe so somebody else can bask in their yumminess.)
Day 2 of fat camp was lower on the anxiety scale than day 1.
I was paired up with Kim. Who is probably about the same age as my mom. She was wearing makeup, people. Makeup. And she has a bad hip. But a lovely woman, for sure. We both started at the same time, two weeks after everyone else in the class. And maybe that’s why we were paired. I hope it wasn’t because of perceived fitness level. Because I KICKED HER ASS. But she’s really quite lovely. We encouraged each other. Or, rather, I wouldn’t let her quit.
Yeah, right. I must have some dehydration delusions going on.
As I’m growling at my sweet trainer, Molly, about my sore quads, I see our treadmills in use. OUR class treadmills. Being ran on by the tall and the muscular and the very, very sweaty. More than moist. Sweaty. Drippy. I point them out to Molly who explains that, on Wednesdays, we share our space with the RUNNING CLUB. Nice. These people are actually running. Not the 4mph at a 3 incline that we are huffing our way through. These people are running like they are on fire. Running like they are being chased by a cheetah. Or a cougar. (har, har)
I suppose it’s supposed to be inspiring. We should all WANT to be in that kind of zone. We should all NEED and WORK TOWARDS that runner’s high.
But today? It makes me feel really, really ungainly. Uncoordinated. And decidedly unathletic.
Torture device du jour: the 4 pound medicine ball.
A medicine ball looks like a small, innocuous playground ball about 7″ in diameter.
But it is actually filled with lead shot. And my trainer Molly, looked right past my cherub cheeks and into my sweaty eyes (Did you know eyes could sweat? I swear mine were sweating tonight.) and told me…demanded…that I drop and give her 30. With one hand on the ground and one hand on the ball. Do one push up and then roll the ball to the other hand and do a push up. Repeat. 15 times each arm. Fuck off. Seriously?
Oh, and then, after 10 grueling minutes on the elliptical (I’ll get to that in a minute) she wants me to hold the ball over my face (my face!!) and do 30 crunches. And then after 10 minutes on the treadmill (at a 10 incline!!!) she wants me to sit in a “V”. Mkay. “Now, here, take the ball and twist. With your legs still in the air. Lean back! Lean back!”
Molly, I love you. I really do. We hardly know each other and I would actually choose you as a friend. But you are killing me, girl.
I mean that in the best possible way, of course.
Oh, and her answer to my excruciating pain? Guess. If you guessed, “The worst thing you can do is not do anything.” then you would be correct. Her answer was to make a trip to the gym. Or go for a walk. Heavy stretching. Get the blood moving.
I take it back, Molly. My friends would never do this to me. My friends would bring me cocktails and put in a movie.
And wouldn’t laugh at me at all when I made ouchie noises getting up from the chair to get another cookie.