“Hey, Jenn! Find a treadmill!” Molly is chirpy. Turns out that she is almost delirious because she had to be at the gym at 5am to substitute teach a class.
I know how she feels. A little. I mean, she can feel her hip bones and I can’t but I can guess how tired she must be. I also had to “work” today. I had to be at work. Okay, I had to drive a van and go get a piano. And load in said piano. Twice. But I am certainly tired. It is cold and rainy and everything upon everything is the color of dirty snow.
Eager to get in good with the teacher, I inform her that I worked out ON MY OWN for MORE THAN AN HOUR on Friday. And, because I can’t stop talking when I need to (is there a medical diagnosis for this?), I inform her that Friday was my ONLY weekend workout.
“You should not have told me!”
Mondays are weird at Fat Camp. We have 30 minutes of dizzying strength training (read: push ups and reverse lunges and squats) and treadmill work alternating in two-minute intervals. And then we go to 30 minutes of nutrition class where we discuss our weekend of fails.
I did get to mention my relatively minor victory. I have been HFCS free for almost a week. I am sleeping better. I don’t think about food all day long. Only part of the day but it’s a step, right? And my night cravings are gone. If I feel the need for a snack at night, it is because I am honestly hungry.
Food tip for the night: if you are craving something sweet, eat a dill pickle. One of the cold from the fridge, salty pickles. It will take away your sweet craving by confusing your taste buds and brain.
I also read an interesting article this weekend on Yahoo health (which, like, totally makes it true!) that was about a study done on blood sugar levels and decision-making ability. Apparently, if your blood sugar is low, you are unable to make long-term decisions and are in a constant quest for instant gratification. Those same subjects, after a real sugar soda, could see the big picture again and could wait for rewards.
Or something like that.
There are times when I feel like the internets are speaking directly to me. Like the ads off to the side of my Facebook profile page. How do they know that I am a 34-year-old mother in need of a ten thousand dollar stimulus?
It was a mistake to tell Molly that life got in the way of working out over the weekend. That I am bound by the child care hours. And, honestly, the whims of my preschooler who just wanted to stay home and watch movies and read books. Times like this? Are when I wish that there was another adult in the house. But Molly so doesn’t care. All she knows is that I am three days from my last workout.
“Crank up your speed Jenn!”
“Don’t hold on, Jenn”
“Drop your hips on those push ups, ladies. Jenn! I’m talking to you!”
“Press your heels down on those squats! Head up! Chest forward! Go deeper on that squat!”
Next time? I will keep my fucking mouth shut. I will also not skip all weekend. But for me. Not for her.
Because after only 30 minutes, it hurt again to walk down the stairs. And then I had to go back to work and move a piano again. Like pack it up on its side, put it into a van, drive it across town, get it out of the van, take it to the rehearsal space, put the legs back on and tip it upright.
Tomorrow morning, I have my first personal training session. With Molly. I can only assume that she is going to kick my ass on the weight machines. After she does my FitPoint assessment where she will determine my body fat percentage, oxygen usage (to determine metabolism) and my “actual age.”
I hope my computer doesn’t fry from all the big alligator tears that will pour from my body by mid-day tomorrow.
I just know that this isn’t going to be pretty. At all.