Fat Camp, day 3.

Ella has a new catch phrase.  When she was little (like 2 going on 3), she ended every sentence with “…okay.”  It was a statement, not a question.

“I’m going to get a snack…okay.”  Like, if she said “okay” then it must be okay.  With me.  It was endearing and made me laugh even though some of what she was doing was decidedly naughty.

Her new thing is to start her sentences with “Yeah, well…”  Very dramatic like.

Hey, Ella, pick up your clothes and take them to the laundry.  “Yeah, well, my arms are really tired.”

Why did you come home with only one glove?  Again.  “Yeah, well, there were these boys on the bus…”

Ella, get back up here and finish your supper.  “Yeah, well, I’m not hungry anymore.”

It’s not snotty.  It’s matter of fact.  With a touch of annoyance.  I know where she got it.  We’ve been reading Junie B Jones books and Junie (also in Kindergarten) begins many of her sentences with the “yeah, well…”  I only have myself to blame.

I hate being wrong.  I hate knowing better and going ahead with the original plan.  Or, non-plan.

I have known for quite a while that exercise would make me feel better.  That I am much happier with a wee bit of structure to my day.  That making a batch of brownies just for an excuse to eat batter off the wooden spoon would come back and bite me in the ass. 

Yeah, well…I do feel pretty good.  Mostly.

My lungs, currently, feel like they’ve been dry cleaned.  And I’m probably hilarious to watch walking down the stairs.  I need a helmet and one of those physical therapy belts so I don’t injure myself.  I might hit my head on something trying not to move my upper thighs at all because they are still searing.

And I’m going to guess that my upper arms are going to ache tomorrow.  Molly might actually be a sadist.  Seriously.  She looks all innocent in her ponytail and shiny engagement ring.  But really, she loves standing on the front edge of the treadmills, barking out the next painful step in the evening’s misery.

Sidenote:  I was betting on a little alone time tonight.  Ten minute chunks of hot treadmill or bike action where I could regress into my own thoughts.  To avoid going that deep, I brought my ipod.  My armband is currently missing and has probably become a purse for a doll of some sort and it is probably stuffed with legos and granola.  I’m just guessing.  So I load my ipod with music to make me move a little faster and that sounds better the louder it is played.  Linkin Park, I’m talking to you.  Also, Peter Gabriel Live and maybe a little bit of Trent Reznor.  You too, Disturbed.  Yeah well, there was no time to get lost when somebody is beating your body to the ground, one incline percentage at a time.

Torture du jour:  the treadmill.  I know, I know.  Everyone has one.  My parents had one for years and it was the world’s most expensive clothes rack.  It’s one of those things that sounds like a good idea at the time.  “Oh yeah, I’d totally walk every day.  It would be so easy to get in a workout in front of the TV.”  And then it becomes a coat hanger.

Tonight I was introduced to the power of the incline.  I’ve dabbled in it on my own but, just like that one time in college where I may or may not have inhaled, I back away before I do too much damage to my lungs.  And (also like college) it’s not cool for other people to think that you might collapse from lack of oxygen.

Did you know that a 4% incline is about what it’s like to run up an exit ramp?  That 6% looks like wall from the bottom of the hill?  Did you know that we were at 10% tonight for more than 15 minutes of the workout?  With a 5 pound handweight in each hand?  With the weights alternately pressed above our heads?

Kill me now, Molly.  Just do it.

I was seeing stars.  And just when I thought I’d really make an ass out of myself and fall off or, heaven forbid, cut a nasty fart, she replaced our hand weights with green bands.  They look like surgical tubing with handles.  Or sling shots.  Wrap that around your back and press forward.  While walking uphill and only uphill.  Both ways.

55 minutes on the treadmill.  Almost 3 miles walked.  Anywhere from 2% to 10% and everything in between.

Yeah, well…you know what?  I found that zone.  The complete and total focus that comes from intense sweat and frustration and concentration. 

I’m more than certain it wasn’t a pretty sight.  My heart rate was up to 175 just before cool down.  I was working hard.  Much harder than I have worked in forever.  Maybe…ever?

And that bitch Molly caught me every time I tried to hold on to the bar with even just one weight.  But she did get me a dry towel so maybe we’re even.  She also commented on how well I was doing considering that I didn’t have the 2 week ramp-up that everyone else in the class has had. 

So, I guess I’ll go back next week.  I guess.  I mean, I paid for it.

Just don’t tell anyone that I almost maybe might like the high. 

Even if it only lasted for about 15 seconds.


4 thoughts on “Fat Camp, day 3.

  1. Nothing motivates like Trent Reznor. NIN is a staple on my Ipod and the louder the better.

    The high is why I run. People who don’t do it don’t get it. But I really feel strong when I run. Don’t get me wrong…it ‘aint pretty. I’m drenched in sweat and my face turns the color of a cherry tomato. (Hate those pretty runners!)

    Sounds like you’re kicking ass and taking names in this class Jenn! So.freaking.cool.

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