Right before class, I draped myself across Molly’s desk.
“What’s up, Jenn?”
I? Am going to be fat forever.
She laughs. Perfect.
It’s Wednesday, you see. We weigh in on Wednesday. And, I’m sure I’ve mentioned it before but it is evening. And we weigh in with our shoes on. Fully clothed. And that’s not fair but at least it’s consistent. There are times when I’m a good 4 pounds heavier at the gym under those conditions than I am the first thing in the morning before breakfast, naked and after dropping deuce. Easily a 4 pound difference.
Want to talk about cranky? Want to talk about why I think I’m going to be fat forever?
When I weighed in at the gym, want to know what the difference was between this week and last?
There is no way. No freaking way. I didn’t bury my head in a bag of mini chocolate donuts and not come up for air. I didn’t drink my weight in margaritas. I didn’t sit on my ass all week. In fact, I spent more time at the gym (and more active in general) than I have ever spent. I feel strong. I’m sleeping well. My stress is low.
I don’t get it.
And I know that I’ve changed because, even though I was highly pissed off, I didn’t walk out. I wanted to. I wanted to chuck the whole thing. But I didn’t walk out.
Molly handed our workout to us (that’s what happens on Wednesday). Written in Spanish in honor of Cinco de Mayo. We started on the bike at a level 5. 100+ rpm for 30 seconds followed by 60+ rpm for 30 seconds to recover. For 5 minutes. And then 5 minutes at a consistent 80+ rpm. Yeah.
I’m so mad. Molly thought that maybe the scale in the locker room was off so she weighed me on the “official” scale. The scale in the locker room was not off. Not at all. I have hot, burning tears starting. (Due partly to the lack of SSRIs and a mild case of PMS.) I hit that bike flying. 100 is no problem. Heartrate is barely up.
I skip the 30 second recovery. And, at the 5 minute mark, I keep going at 110.
With two minutes to go, I am cycling at 115 rpm. But…I am calm. Focused. Not about to crack. Still kind of pissed. But I don’t know who or what to be mad at.
And it doesn’t matter anymore.
I finished the night strong and with new goals in mind. And I never doubted for a minute (you know, past that first little temper tantrum) that I was in the right place.
But seriously, is it necessary for it to be this hard? If it were easy would I recognize its worth?
The problem with this whole thing being just for me is that it is all me. Pass or fail…I own the result.