The Wednesday Whine

Well. That was an interesting six weeks.

2010-07-06T08:19:00.001-07:00

I finally got cleared by the various Medical Professionals I'm seeing to work out again. That clearance came with caveats galore, though: no running, no jumping, absolutely no plyometrics, nothing high-impact. No heavy lifting. Bending over is strictly limited.

I suppose, given that my neck could've just gone out and left me with limited sensation and movement all over, that some restrictions are reasonable. It was still frustrating. More on that in a moment--for now, let's recap the First Workout In Forever.

For starters, Atilla showed up with a short haircut. Her hair had been down to her waist, but she cut it--herself!--into a really cute pixie. Just looking at her made me want to head down to Ye Olde Hair Salon and get mine chopped. I'm waiting for the feeling to go away.

I tried bicep curls with a measly eight pounds. On my right side, I could do the full three sets of twenty, no problem. On the left, where I'm still lacking sensation and strength, I managed a total of fourteen: eight the first time and six the second. The third set, I couldn't manage to lift the weight at all. It's a weird thing to have happen: your brain is sending messages to your muscle, and you're fully aware of that, but the muscle is just plain out to lunch. There's no contraction, no effort, nothing. It's a total blank.

So we worked mostly on legs and core. Which is fine; I'm not into going balls-to-the-wall any longer just to prove I can.

And that brings me to the main point of the last six weeks. I've been learning to be patient, to be humble, and to ask for help when I need it. None of these things are natural for me in the least, but all of them have become necessary.

My yard was already getting overgrown when I got hurt, but it still took me two weeks to muster the courage (and swallow my pride) to ask my neighbor to mow it for me. I'm no longer trying to move heavy patients by myself or with just one other person to help. When it comes to what my average day off is like, things have really changed. Seven weeks ago, I'd've done a hard workout in the morning--enough to make me want to vomit--then mowed both yards and maybe cleaned house as well.

Today, I did a light workout. Then I showered. And that will be it for the day. The rest of the day I'll spend either cooking for the week, or painting my toenails, or reading.

The days of thousand-calories-burned workouts are probably over forever. That bothers me more than I thought it would; it's surprising how much I'd come to depend on the feeling that I could do damn near anything. I lifted heavier, ran faster (I was just able to run again when this neck thing happened), and was more agile than any of Atilla's other clients, despite being much heavier than all of them. Being that fucking tough was a point of pride for me. If Atilla couldn't lift the weight I was pressing, I knew I was on the right track.

No more. (Dammit!) Now I have to keep in mind that I have a really serious, potentially chronic, only-partly-fixable-with-surgery injury in a place that, should that injury get worse, could be catastrophic. Necks should not be messed with under any circumstances.

I'm coming to terms with it. I'm coming to terms with the fact that I have to ask for help at work, in a business and on a unit where the standard for toughness is set by twenty-six-year-old residents who never sleep. I'm slowly, slowly coming to terms with the fact that I am forty years old, no matter that I feel no older than 27, and shit is wearing out. I'm facing the fact that I might not be able, going forward, to do everything that I want to do when I want to do it.

Because honestly? I'd much rather be out trimming back the rose bushes than typing this. I just know I can't and still expect to be functional in the morning.

The first three weeks of this were hell. I couldn't move the damn arm at all, not in any useful way, and had to take a nap--I am not kidding--after every shower, it was so exhausting. The second three weeks were a lesson in learning how to do things differently. I'm going to have some hellacious accessory muscles on this left side, thanks to nearly a month of having to steer primarily with my lats and neck muscles.

Even now, six weeks out, when I'm recovering as quickly as expected, I still have very limited function in my left arm at the end of the day. My left forearm and part of my hand is still numb after twelve hours of starting IVs and working on the computer. Sometimes my hand just flops around without warning, like I've got a dying fish at the end of my wrist. And sometimes (thankfully, it's rare any more) the whole left side of my back hurts so badly that nothing will fix it except lying atop a variety of frozen food bags for half an hour at a stretch.

We'll see how it goes. The first three weeks, I was mostly depressed and drinking. This second three weeks has been much more productive, and much better for me mentally.

The whole trouble has been in learning that I am human, and thus fallible.

Jo reflects: Injury, depression, getting a clue

2010-06-18T03:59:00.001-07:00

Yeah, um. So. It's been a month. Sorry 'bout that.

If you read Head Nurse, you'll know that I have a well and truly jacked up neck at the moment. Recap: heavy lifting, big weeks at work, huge muscle spasm in back, non-functional left arm, scary intimations of damage to cervical discs, X-rays, massage, painkillers, new pillow, return of some function in left arm. MD's prohibition on doing *anything*, including walking on the treadmill, until the 21st of this month.

It's been a bad three weeks.

Working out consistently is a joy. Working out consistently also predisposes a body to depression and despair when that working out is taken away. The release of endorphins that happens after you get close to barfing during a cross-training session is gone; your body craves those endorphins like they're heroin (which, in a sense, they are, being very closely chemically related). When you've been training like a motherfucker and suddenly you're told not to do anything at all challenging, things suck hard very quickly. Combine that with searing pain and the fear of being permanently disabled, and you're in a bad headspace before you know it.

It's my own damn fault. I had been lifting heavier so that I could do more on my own at work, and doing more on my own because I had been lifting heavier. The injury I'm dealing with now is nothing more than an overuse syndrome. (For those who are curious, I have adhesions from hell in my shoulder muscles and rhomboids that are compressing a number of spinal nerves.) A combination of a new pillow and very expensive, very effective massage has left me free of pain, though I still can't lift my arm above my shoulder.

For now, the depression that came along with not training is lifting. I no longer feel like standing in front of the mirror and cataloging all the ways my body is going to hell. I start myofascial release treatments today (picnic!), and expect to be back to *light* weight training and cardio by the end of the month. Meanwhile, all I have to deal with is boredom.

I'm not joking when I say my doc banned all physical activity for three weeks. I can't weed the garden, vacuum (although I have; the cost-benefit analysis of cat hair balls versus nerve damage came down heavily on the side of not choking on dust bunnies), lift patients, bend over, flip my bangs out of my eyes, or turn sharply from one side to another. I am prohibited entirely from working out or even walking the dog. I am not allowed to trot, let alone run. Because, let's face it, the consequences of a high spinal injury are nasty, I have mostly adhered to these prescriptions.

For now, I'm okay. I'm working to be better than okay, but it's going to be a while. Recovering from this most basic injury to a very sensitive system is going to require that I get over being Superwoman and swallow my pride (more on that in a later post). I'm going to actually, you know, have to ask for help. I'm going to have to learn a different way of working out than just balls-to-the-wall all the time.

*sigh*

Meanwhile, I'm thankful it wasn't any worse. Yes, I have a muscle knot in my left rhomboid that is approximately the size and shape of a bratwurst, but it's fixable. I'm not dealing with a paralyzed arm for the rest of my life. I got really freaking lucky in that; apparently, the vertebrae in my spine could've been pulled out of alignment by the muscle spasm, it was so bad.

More on all of this later. Charlotte over at GFE has been in my head this week, so I've got some thoughts on psychologically-loaded fitness-related goals. For now, though, it's ice and rest and maybe a bowl of soup.

On fear, self-sabotage, and lifting heavy.

2010-05-13T18:54:00.001-07:00

Charlotte is in rare form these days. I don't know what's gotten into her, but damn if she's not hitting an entirely new level with her writing.

Right now, I think at least partially as a consequence of having had her daughter, she's doing a lot of really hard mental work. I've been watching with interest because a lot of what she's saying and discovering about herself is stuff I've had a hard time articulating or clarifying to myself about me. Good Lord, what a sentence that was.

Anyway, her most recent gobstopper of a post was about being broken, and about using that broken-ness as a way of being selfish. For the record, I see the recognition and embrace of one's own brokenness not so much as being selfish as it is a reaction to the fear of putting yourself out there. Y'know, if you tell yourself that there's something wrong with you in your reactions to various situations, you'll never have to get far enough outside your own head to look at other people's reactions to those same situations, and maybe engage with them.

I was badly broken by my marriage, and further dented by the circumstances of the divorce that followed. Coming home sick from work to find your husband and best friend in flagrante is so banal and cliched that you start wondering if Jerry Springer is going to leap out of a closet. Still, it's horrible, and losing the entirety of your social circle, your home, and your best pal as a result is so traumatic I can't even begin to go there. Basically, I endured ten years of pretty-constant suck, gave up everything including my dog to get away, was humiliated and stalked and badmouthed, and didn't even get a lollipop at the end.

And boy, was "broken" a part of my identity for a while. I might've, had I not had a fear of nasty bugs, had it tattooed on my forehead. As it was, I wore Broken as a shield. It was the first thing everybody saw and the last thing that they remembered. Broken defined my life from the minute I moved out until just a couple of years ago.

It was time, and the love of a very good man (as cliched and banal as that sounds) that helped. That, and the realization that while horrible things had happened to me, I was not necessarily going to be allowed to marinate in them forever. For one thing, it gets boring. For another, it was stopping me from doing the stuff I wanted to do, like have actual fun once in a while. For a third, I was getting fat and weak and sessile and stood a very good chance of simply attaching to a rock and waving my fronds to catch passing cheeseburgers.

So I quit being broken. Broken was no longer a major part of my personality; nor was Bitter.

It took a while. It was hard. And it was scary and painful to a certain degree. As I told Charlotte, it's not that getting outside of yourself gets easier or less frightening; it's just that by doing it often enough, you develop a habit that overcomes fear.

The biggest single act that made me not-broken was calling Amalgamated Fitness Trainers, Inc. and hooking up with Attila. She was working for them at the time and showed up that first day, taught me to do a pushup properly, and went away. And I could do a pushup.

I could do a pushup. That was something I'd never ("You'd be so much more attractive if you just worked out a few times a week," he said; "You'd look so good if you lost a few pounds," he said, with me at five-two and 120) been able to do before.

Later, Attila made me run. On the treadmill. Two minutes at a time, followed by walking, then another two minutes at a time. I had never ("Are you sure you want to eat that?" he asked) run before, not even for two minutes. Not even in elementary school.

Pretty soon I was running for twenty minutes on my own. After all, if I could do two minutes, I could do five. And if I could run for five, I could run for ten. And if I could run for ten, I could run for ten more, and finish watching this awful movie. I did that on my own. It was something a broken person would not do. I was still fat, and I was still closer to sessile than I liked, but I could do something different with my body.

The real revelation came when I lifted a twenty-pound barbell twenty times. You try it; it's not easy. It's especially not easy when it's the third twenty times you've lifted it, and your muscles aren't screaming so much as simply going on strike, and they don't even hurt, they're so tired.

Yet something came out of my spinal column or my chi or my subconscious and I lifted that damned barbell for three sets of twenty, proving that I could do anything. And Attila was there, counting down the last five reps, poised to rescue me should my bicep roll up like a rollerblind. And at the end of that workout, I heard her say for the first time, "Good job today." That's like a ticker-tape parade and fireworks combined.

The good man later decided that he didn't want a woman with bigger biceps than his, and I decided that I didn't want somebody who couldn't trust me. The little apartment where I'd licked my wounds went away, replaced by a house that needed as much love and care and chance-taking as I could muster. The dog, praise be, came back to me after four years. And Attila stayed through it all.

More importantly, the fact that I could get outside myself stayed. If, I reasoned, I could humiliate myself in front of five guys in the weight room and survive, I could surely potentially humiliate myself in front of one person somewhere else, right? Right. I got outside of my head by doing the one thing every day that allowed me to feel like I wasn't Broken. And, eventually, the habit of being Not Broken took over.

Never underestimate the power of transferring your possibilities in one arena to another arena. Habit can overcome fear to the point that fear and self-sabotage become secondary or tertiary considerations.

In which Jo gives up, throws in the towel, and sees the doctor.

2010-05-03T16:45:00.000-07:00

For those of you who weren't keeping up on Cranky Fitness, my blood pressure went sky-freaking-high about the time I hit the 20-pound mark with Weight Watchers.

After some running to and fro and generalized consternation, I took a look at my diet. All the folks in my family who are hypertensive are what's called salt-reactive: in other words, they're part of the minority of people for whom sodium intake makes a difference in blood pressure.

Turns out that what I was eating on WW, while both varied and healthy, and while well within the limit for sodium set by the Feds, was way too high in sodium for me. So I ditched the Boca Burgers with tears in my eyes, went to low-salt cheese, and dumped all manner of processed foods on my neighbors, who are fifteen years younger than me and who run every day.

And damned if it didn't work! My blood pressure came down--sit down for this; you ready?--THIRTY POINTS in three weeks of low-salt eating. And it wasn't even that difficult to do. I bought a book on DASH (diet modifications for hypertension), but ended up not even using it all that much. All I really did was ditch the processed stuff and eat more bananas and avocados.

The point of this is, even people who are close to a healthy size can have hypertension. And, if you do, it's worth it to try dietary modifications and lifestyle changes first, as they can make huge differences.

"So, Jo," you're saying to yourself right now, "how come you went to the doctor? And what's this about throwing in the towel?"

Even with all this good news about blood pressure, there was A Dark Cloud On The Horizon. That dark cloud is called "working night shift". I was fine for three weeks, then noticed my pressures getting quite weird: they'd vary thirty points or more in the course of a shift, and never *quite* get back to normal. So I ditched caffeine, mostly, upped my potassium intake, and (*sob*) cut down on alcohol.

My pressures stabilized until about two weeks ago. At that point--and remember, I'm still circadian-opposite--my systolic decided that 160 was a fantastic place to live and my diastolic (that's the bottom number in blood pressure; the one that tells you how much pressure there is on your heart while it's relaxed) was a dangerous, scary 100 or so.

So off I went to the doc today. My doctor is a kindly, rumpled, reassuring Muppet from the Philippines who said, as he wrote me a prescription for generic Ziac 5/6.25 "You're a real American now, just like me! All real Americans have high blood pressure!"

I have taken one pill so far and feel....strangely mellow. My heart no longer feels like it's going to POUND out of my CHEST at any SECOND, and the headache I've had for two weeks is subsiding.

The moral of this story is, since every story has to have a moral, this: Even if you lose X number of pounds, or lift Y pounds of weights without trouble, or just finished a Z-mile run, *stay on top of your basic health information.* This means checking blood pressures once in a while, women getting Pap smears regularly, guys doing the old testicle-check for lumps and bumps, and all the other boring stuff your doctor is always bugging you about. Just because you now weigh less or move more than you used to, don't assume you're automatically healthier.

I had the triple-whammy of diet (mostly taken care of), night-shift work (boo), and genetics hit me within six months. I'm off of night shift in three weeks and will get rechecked in six weeks to see how Ye Olde Systolic is doing (though I'll be monitoring it at home regularly, too).

Taking medication is a pain in the ass, yes, but it's kind of nice to know I'm less likely to suddenly have a hemorrhagic stroke in the middle of a workout with Attila. That would totally ruin her day.

Diet, Schmiet. Bah.

2010-04-17T20:01:00.000-07:00

Fast oxidizer, slow oxidizer. Vegan, vegetarian, Atkins, primal. Weight Watchers, low-carb, high-carb, Sensa. Oh. Fuck. You.

Why can't we just eat a variety of things in moderation with a treat once in a while?

Note: The following rant does not apply to those people who are vegetarian or vegan for ethical or environmental reasons. It also does not apply to people who avoid certain foods for religious reasons. Nor does it apply to folks who restrict diet in response to diabetes and/or heart disease and/or allergies. It does, however, apply to everybody else.

I work with a woman who is an ortorexic. She refuses to eat anything that isn't "healthy", and her definition of "healthy" has narrowed so substantially over time that she's down to eating a plum for breakfast, a small salad for lunch, and six ounces of white-meat turkey once a week. Not surprisingly, she weighs almost nothing, has little to no muscle mass, and obsesses about food all the time.

And yet nobody (except maybe me) sees this as an eating disorder. It is.

Restricting the amount or type of food you take in to the point that you are getting less than your body requires of nutrients is an eating disorder. It's not a diet, it's not "going raw". It's a psychological condition that will eventually harm or kill you unless you figure out what it is about your life and your brain that is making you want to exercise control in that area, and to that extent. It is no more healthy than bulemia or anorexia, and it's no more connected to diet than those conditions. It's a symptom of a larger problem that is expressed through dietary control.

And, may I say, just because you switch from one extremely restrictive diet to another (Pritikin, Atkins, raw, primal) for no other reason than to exercise more control over your body, that does not make you less eating-disordered. It just means you have a little more variety to your symptoms.

Restrictive eating is popular right now. Chicken fat is bad, coconut oil is good (no matter that your body sees them in essentially the same way). Eating high-protein is smart only if you're a Type X body or have Type Y blood. Everybody and his dog has a "food allergy" of one sort or another that usually has zero to do with an actual allergy or intolerance. I know some people who eat three freaking salads a day--and I love me some salad--because they automatically equate "salad" with "healthy". (Note: uncooked spinach can block the absorption of calcium. Uncooked broccoli can do weird things to your iron levels. Some veggies need to be cooked to be ideally processed by the human body. That's called science.)

And here I am, stuck in the middle. I know that for me, a high-protein diet works wonders. If I don't have my two-egg-white, cheese, GoLean breakfast, I'm hungry within an hour and have nasty sugar crashes. If I don't get plenty of vegetables, beans, and nuts, I'm grouchy and constipated and have no energy. Pancakes put me out and make my mood seesaw and my belly bloat.

I also know that a varied diet is the only way to go. If you eat the same damn plum every day for breakfast and the same damn peach every day for lunch, your bones will not thank you. Likewise, if you restrict yourself to high-fat, high-protein foods with few or no carbs, you'll get all ketotic and light-headed and ka-ray-zee within a few days.

Look: I'll be straight with you: the type and amount of exercise I do accounts for, at most, thirty percent of what I've achieved in terms of weight lost and strength gained over the last three years. Diet is responsible for 70%, minimum, of the changes I see. And the diet I follow religiously is this: eat less than is necessary to make you full. Eat when you're hungry. Eat protein in the morning (and this is personal, not a prescription) so you don't get hungry fast; otherwise, eat mostly plants. Stay away from shit with ingredients you can't pronounce or food that's pretending to be something it's not.

In short, to paraphrase Mark Twain, I eat what I like and let it fight it out inside.

Your diet is none of my damn business. It just makes me angry and sad to see smart people--mostly women, but a few men, too--spending so much energy on what they put into their bodies. Thirty years ago, it was all about how we looked--that took energy away from more important things, like personal development and political action. Now it's all about what we eat, with the same results.

If you spent even half the energy you spend on your freaking food doing something for somebody else, what would be the result? What could you accomplish by paying attention to something outside of yourself for the space of one meal?

Heavy Lifting, Day Two: Fifty-pound deadlifts? No problem.

2010-04-14T16:10:00.000-07:00

Fifty-pound deadlifts combined with a shoulder row?

Owie.

Three sets of fifteen was as much as I could manage. Start with a regular deadlift, but stop just short of coming up fully straight. Then do a pullback motion.

Scream internally for the first eight reps. For the last seven, scream externally. Accomplish the last set while making a noise like a rabid teakettle.

Attila looked at me today after I'd finished a combo curl/row move and said, "Have you been eating a lot of protein lately? You're getting a lot stronger really fast." I told her protein has nothing to do with it (as we all, save for Olympic athletes, carry enough stores to last us a good long while, even with activity); it's simply figuring out what works.

What works for me seems to be standing in one place and lifting really heavy shit.

Also eating five times a day while still doing Weight Watchers. I haven't lost any more weight (dammit; how long can I plateau within a four-pound range?) but oh, I am changing, fearfully changing. My waist is smaller, my arms are already a half-inch bigger, my legs are losing the cankle look.

With any luck I'll look like Wolverine by the end of the summer, just like I've always wanted to.

With less back hair.

Many things are happening.

2010-04-11T03:08:00.000-07:00

I have--wait for it!--repaired my weight bench.

It's a scavenged weight bench, a cheap-ass thing made with MDF. The MDF, having sat outside through winters and summers, disintegrated the moment I put any weight on it, so I had to sort of work around splintered woodlike substances and moldy foam. It was gross.

A couple of months ago, I took two sliding closet doors off a closet so I could put shelving in it. One of those closet doors--well, part of it, anyhow--became the new sitting-bits of my weight bench. You can't really go wrong with inch-thick hardwood plywood. It looks odd, since I haven't gotten around to putting padding on the thing, but it's usable.

The pads on the leg attachment were shedding bits of foam rubber, too, so I stuck some brightly-colored tube socks over them. I plan to put hot pink vinyl and foam rubber over the bench sometime soon. It'll be a psychedelic weight bench.

In other news, Attila and I have changed the way I lift.

Attila's real big on the light-weight, high-rep thing. I don't like that much: it's hard on the joints and it doesn't give me the size or definition I really want from weight training. Yeah, I'm strong, but I'm not strong *enough*, is another consideration.

So this week we shook things up and started heavy, heavy training. Eight reps to failure heavy. Holy shit, do my upper arms ever hurt heavy. I think I'll have to go buy some more plates heavy.

Shockingly, after only two sessions of yowza heavy lifting, I can already see changes in my shoulders and biceps. That's mostly due to the fact that they're pumped more than usual, but I think it's also that my body responds really well to lifting heavy things slowly. My brain responds well, too--the concentration that heavy lifting takes, along with attention to form, leaves me physically drained and mentally very clear after only 45 minutes.

There are some people who are just plain meant to lift heavy shit over and over, and I'm one of them. I'll never be a natural runner like my neighbors Pastor Paul and His Lovely Wife Val; they run something like nine miles a day and call it a warm-up. They're both tall and slender and gazelle-like, whereas I am short and stocky and thick-necked. However! When The Man of God was having trouble getting a washing machine into his truck, I was able to grab the strap he'd cinched around it, heave it up onto my knees, and balls it up into the bed of the pickup with effort but no injury.

You go ahead and run down that antelope. I'll haul it back to the campfire for you.

With that in mind, here's a particularly twisted little exercise Attila sprang on me this week:

**Nota Bene: please be aware that form is crucial in this exercise. You cannot slop around and not hurt yourself, so start light and go slow. Do it in front of a mirror or with somebody who can let you know when you're getting out of alignment.**

Grab yerself a barbell. It doesn't really matter what size, but I would recommend going lighter rather than heavier at first. I started with fifteen pounds and moved up to twenty, but don't go there if you're doubtful. Start with eight pounds, or five, or three. Form is key here.

Hold your arm straight out at shoulder height to the side. Keep your elbow soft.

Moving slowly and carefully, do a bicep curl until your knuckles are almost at your shoulder. Don't waggle, don't try to do this fast, and for God's sake, don't lock your elbow when you return to the starting position. That way lies disaster.

Do fewer reps and fewer sets than you think you can. Your muscles will fatigue quickly with this one.

Shockingly, this exercise takes quite a bit of balance. I was wearing normal Nikes during the workout, but would love to try this with MBTs on, for the challenge. Be aware that if you're hearing clicks from your elbow as you do this, you should definitely stop. Elbows are very hard to replace successfully.

Be prepared to be insanely, toxically sore two days after you do this, no matter how many reps or sets you do.

Also: Hack squats: they're totally doable without a machine. Again, it takes concentration and adjustment in front of a mirror or another person in order to maintain form, but it's worth it. (Hack squats, for the uninitiated, are a variation of the normal squat in which your body is aligned as though you're doing a wall-sit. Your back stays straight, you don't go down as far, and you scream differently on the third rep.)

Hack squats, however, are best done with a trainer who can lift the amount of weight you're squatting without injuring herself. Attila is one of those fast, coordinated, gazelle-like creatures, and is having difficulty moving the amount of weight I can handle. The last thing you want to hear when you gasp, "I can get through this set, but be ready to grab the bar" is a doubtful, "Er...okay?"

I think I might have to build a weight stand that's a little higher than the one on my bench, is what I'm saying.

Gracious. Has it been two weeks? It has.

2010-03-31T22:48:00.001-07:00

Sorry 'bout that. Lots going on.

I have had exactly two workouts with Attila in the last two weeks, primarily because I've been working an insane schedule. Like, one day off a week insane. I was supposed to see her last Saturday, but instead managed to sleep through two alarms, two phone calls, and multiple knocks on the door, only to awaken an hour or so after the session was to have ended.

Yay, me.

The good news is that I took off all the weight I put on after the knee debacle. The bad news is that some of it has come back, as a result of stress eating.

This past weekend a friend of mine showed up at my door, beaten half to hell. She had gone to see an ex-boyfriend who'd beat her up before, they'd gotten into a fight, and she'd come to me. That's all the detail I want to go into at the moment: suffice to say that the whole experience has left me feeling alternately nauseated and in need of a hug and a cup of tea, and failing a hug and a cup of tea, large amounts of Thai food have to suffice.

I have no clue what I weigh at the moment, and I'm not going to weigh or measure until Saturday, my normally-schedule weigh-in day. If I got close to a scale right now, I'd only get depressed.

In other news, Attila managed a couple of truly awful inventions this week and two weeks ago. The first is something that makes me yell "Big Strong Russian Woman!" in a bad Central European accent whenever she suggests I do it; the other is a varation on the crunch.

To perform the BSRW, you take a couple of heavy-ish barbells. I used ten pounds for three sets of twenty/twenty-five/thirty reps, but you're welcome to start with eight. Or five. Or three.

Stand with your legs slightly more than shoulder-width apart. Holding the barbells parallel, perpendicular to the floor, swing down from the waist and swing those suckers through your legs at just lower than knee height. Come back up and, keeping your elbows soft, raise said barbells to shoulder height.

This works your lower back, shoulders (duh), and your core. It's a surprising core workout, in fact--all that swinging your arms up really makes your abs work to stabilize your body.

The Evil Variation On The Crunch is actually quite simple: lie on your back on a step, yoga mat, the floor, whatever, legs extended and arms at your sides. Holding two eight (or ten or five or three) pound weights, crunch up while pulling your knees in and extending those arms out past your knees. Then, as you straighten your knees and lie back down, pull the weights in to your chest as though you were going to do a bench press. Again, we did 20/25/30, and I screamed after the twelfth or thirteenth one every single time.

You would think, with the myriad variations of crunches and V-ups that I'm put through on a regular basis, that a plain old situp would not be a challenge.

You would be sadly, sadly wrong, my friend. I tried to do thirty situps workout-before-last, and lo and behold, I had to make it two sets of fifteen. Obviously my abs are not as strong as I'd thought they were; more than that, they're not strong throughout their range of motion.

So that's one new goal. I have three, actually: be able to do situps, increase my exercise frequency without Attila around (that would take the form of 30 minutes of walking, minimum, three times a week), and be able to do fifty military-style pushups. I don't have a timeline yet, but I'll get one.

More later this week, after my next two torture sessions. Sorry to leave both my readers in the lurch, but Jeebus Grits what a couple of weeks it's been.

Hm. That's weird.

2010-03-17T04:28:00.000-07:00

I have nothing at all to say today. Not a single damn thing.

Except maybe that I had a real, live, cross-training workout with Attila on Monday, and it went fine. I was sore, knee-wise, after about 45 minutes, but I finished with no problem and had no residual soreness yesterday.

And something else, this kind of weird: As Mom puts it, my ballast is changing. I don't know if it's because I haven't been able to do the sort of twisting upper body workout (uppercuts with weights and so on) that work obliques, but my waist is smaller. A couple of inches smaller, despite my having put on a few pounds due to the Fecking Knee.

Besides that, there's a really funny post over at Charlotte's place on Neti pots. Her first experience with nasal irrigation sounds like mine (aside from the breastfeeding part)--do it, turn into a snotmonster!

Oh, and I'm up to 15 lbs on bicep curls.

Oh! And one thing I discovered yesterday: Old-Fashioned Sit-Ups Are Really Hard. I figured, what with the V-ups and the leg lifts and so on that I do every week with Attila, that thirty or so situps would be a breeze.

I had to break that thirty into two sets of fifteen. Sit-ups are loathesome.

And that is all for today.

Gracious. Another workout.

2010-03-12T00:49:00.000-08:00

There is nothing in the world to make you feel good like lifting really heavy weights for a set period of time, then taking a scalding-hot shower and washing your hair.

Just thought I'd throw that out there.

My triceps will feel as though they're shredded on Friday, but right now I feel too damn fine.

Attila's Bum Knee Workout; or, Sweatin' To The Oldies Has Merit!

2010-03-10T05:07:00.000-08:00

Limping is becoming normal, and I don't like it.

Luckily for me, Attila has some new, nifty, non-knee-using workouts for me. I managed some half-squats the other day, so she ramped up the intensity of the NKU workouts yesterday.

Good-Mornings are always good, and they don't require the bending and stretching that could screw up my already bum leg. They're especially good when Attila ups the weight *and* the reps.

We also worked shoulders:

Grab a pair of eight pound weights. Lean over slightly, and swing the weights, arms bent slightly, up to shoulder height. Then swing them back parallel to your body. The swing must be a controlled swing, or else you'll eff up your shoulder to match your knee. Do three sets of twenty. Scream like a girl during the last set.

Keeping hold of the eight-pounders, press out from your shoulders while standing up straight. See "scream like a girl" for all three sets of twenty.

Still holding those (redacted) eight-pound weights, lift your arms straight out from your sides, elbows soft, hold for a count of two, and return. Ibid on the "scream like a girl" thing.

And we worked itty-bitty butt muscles as well. These, I joked, must've come from "Sweatin' To The Oldies"--and Attila blushed and said, yes, they did:

Put your five-pound ankle weights on. Kneel, and kick one leg out behind you, straight. Now bring your knee up to your chest. Do twenty. Be amazed at your butt muscle's protests.

Do the other leg.

Now, keeping your leg bent, lift that leg like you're a dog at a fire hydrant. (Sorry; there's no other way to put it and make it clear.) Do three sets of twenty, or 20/25/30, and voice your astonishment that there is apparently an itty-bitty muscle on the side of your butt that hasn't been worked in three years. Feel the burn, and I'm not joking.

She also had me work through the Horrendous, Worse Than Isometrics ab exercises, like V-up, pause and hold two seconds, return in a controlled fashion.

Honestly? I was sweating as much during this workout as I did during any of the interval training we've ever done (though the barfing feeling didn't surface). My shoulders are sore, and my ass is saying, "Missa Golightly! I protest!"

Two days ago, I saw a woman jogging down my street. I was seized with envy. Eventually, I'll get back there, but gosh it feels like it's taking a long time.

First workout post-knee-garbling: Working around, through, and past

2010-03-03T04:00:00.000-08:00

*Whew*.

Attila came by last night with her usual array of weights, bands, and other torture devices. It was my first workout with her after spraining my knee (see below).

It was....interesting.

Attila is certified eight ways from Sunday and has some PT experience, so I had confidence that she could figure out a way to work me pretty hard without using that knee much. I was right. My upper body got a full workout, my lower body got a light one, and my core got shredded.

I thought cardio would be a problem. I can't walk any faster than 3.5 mph on the treadmill; my pre-injury speed was anything from 3.8 to 4.5, plus running. Attila had me start with a very, very gentle warmup on the treadmill, then got me swinging weights--literally--with my arms. Let me tell you: moving from five to eight to ten pounds in each hand, pressing out and swinging them across your body and generally moving 'em around in a pretty quick cadence will get your heart rate up for sure. So cardio wasn't a problem after all. (*pant* *pant*)

I was also afraid that doing things like, oh, bending my knee would hurt. It didn't. I can only bend it so far, but it'll bend and even hold my weight if I'm not moving it.

We've decided to work upper body and core this week, and next week start some extremely circumspect rehab on the knee. Luckily, I quit bracing the dadratted thing a week ago. It felt like the muscles in that leg were getting weaker (turns out that's right; immobilizing a knee can significantly weaken your quads), so I took off the brace and actually felt better. You can still see, though--and this is totally crazy--where my right leg has smallified a bit after nearly a month of not lifting. I had no idea it could happen that fast.

Two nice things have happened as a result of this injury: First, I'm carrying enough muscle mass that, despite not moving much outside of work for three weeks, I've only gained a pound and a half total. Second, a colleague of mine, an orthopedic surgeon, told me that what I had suspected was true: if my leg muscles hadn't been as strong as they were, my knee would've been much worse off.

In fact, he said (in his British way, pointing a pencil at the side of my leg), "If your legs were weak, your kneecap would be about.....here."

yikes

So yeah, I feel better. I'm glad to be moving again, though I won't be my usual balls-to-the-wall self for another six weeks at least.

I'm also glad my kneecap didn't end up.....there.

The Monday Moan, or The Return of the High-Pitched Whine.

2010-02-28T23:07:00.001-08:00

from lefthandedtoons.com

Yes, I have returned.

For those of you who are new or who've been living in a cave, I've been over at Cranky Fitness for the last several months. Three blogs were just too much to handle, so I ditched this'un temporarily because, frankly, the Crab did it better than I could. Crabby is now on a Crabbatical, so I'm back.

(This blog is weeping bitter tears at the thought of coming in second. Don't cry, blog! Coming in second to Crabby McSlacker is like losing to Canada at hockey!)

In the last couple of months, a number of things have happened:

I've changed jobs. I'm now working night shift. This makes me swing wildly between acceptance and sobbing, nauseated despair, and not just because I hate working nights.

Blogging about fitness and health at a blog that isn't All About Jo has changed both my perspective and my blogging style. More on that in a minute.

I sprained my right fecking knee. The way that I sprained it was particularly moronic: doing jumping jacks off of a step. (I know, I know.) In retrospect, I should've listened to the little voice in the back of my head, but I didn't, and now I have a strained MCL, patellar tendonitis, and a possibly-torn meniscus in my right fecking knee. That triad has kept me from working out for three weeks.

Despite not working out for three weeks, despite working nights, despite not doing crap with healthy eating, I've maintained my weight at a solid 172.

And this is considerably less important than it used to be.

See, blogging over at CF taught me one thing: the most important component of overall fitness is how your head is doing. There are plenty of folks out there who are considerably more in-shape than I am who are still horribly miserable and obsessive about things.

I would post a workout that I did with Atilla, and get a variety of comments. Most of 'em were of the "Holy shit, you're hardcore! That would make me puke!" type, to which I always wanted to reply, "Yeah, it made me puke, too." Some comments were hilarious. Some were heartbreaking--they came from people who were obviously doing just fine already but who compared themselves to this paragon of fitness (I'll give you a minute to quit laughing) who was posting on the Web from a cloud of lightly-scented gorgeousness.

From the time that I decided that I really didn't want to be a size 20 at five-foot-something for the rest of my life, I've lost a total of 20 pounds. I have 20 more to go, and that'll come off. What's changed most, though, isn't my body. It's my brain. I put on forty poundses because I was miserable, mentally and emotionally, and was trying to fill a huge fucking scary awful angry hole in my metaphysical belly. As I've grown less angry and frightened, that hole has been filling itself in with stuff other than fried chicken and beer.

The point is that I started dieting/changing my eating habits/what the hellever you want to call it because I was angry and frustrated and frightened about my body and my health. As I've been learning how to deal with hunger (mental/emotional/physical) and seeing things change (ibid), I've been running into other people who are in the same bobsled I'm in. Some of us are further to the front than others, but we're all hurtling down the track at 90 mph, trying to figure things out.

All of this is a long-winded (you don't say!) way of saying that you can look for more Cranky Fitness-type posts here than the older, here's-what-I-lost-this-week, don't-life-suck stuff from the beginning.

I really wish the Crab hadn't decided she needed a break. She did, though, in order to maintain her mental fitness, and see above. I'm very fortunate to have gotten the chance to hang out over there. It taught me more than I even know yet.

Anyway, I'm back. More to come.

The Wednesday Whine is on semi-permanent hiatus...

2010-01-11T17:51:00.001-08:00

Please join me at Cranky Fitness!

Gnargh.

2009-12-09T02:39:00.000-08:00

I'm up two poundses this week, Precious, probably as a result of The Dreaded Hormonal Water Retention. I know my brain feels like it's being squeezed; I'm grouchy and sleepy and ate an entire Moose Munch bar yesterday, which I would normally be unable to do.

So, in an attempt to neutralize what would be six hundred words of complaint, I'll simply direct you over to Cranky Fitness. My latest post over there is overwhelmingly positive. It's a response to the "Exposed" series done by a number of diet/fitness bloggers.

The Wednesday Whine becomes the Thursday Threnody!

2009-12-03T15:01:00.000-08:00

Sorry about missing last week. It *was* Thanksgiving, you know, and I was on the road to large amounts of turkey and mashed potatoes.

And just back from the doctor. I've been having some belly issues for a while. I thought at first they were gallbladder problems, but they're not. It seems instead that I have some sort of stress-related, weird gastroenteritis. It's landed me on a combination of generic Zantac and Cipro, both of which seem to be helping so far.

Unfortunately, it's cut hard into both working out and eating well. There were days I felt like such absolute unmitigated shit that I wasn't able to keep up even a brisk walk, let alone go through the sort of grueling session that Attila demands (see Cranky Fitness for more details). There were also days when I couldn't eat anything, or days when I could eat only, say, ramen or white toast or juice.

However! I haven't put any weight back on. Because of the lack of consistent exercise, I've gotten a little baggier in spots, but I'm not actually any fatter than I was a month ago when all this started.

Now that I'm feeling more human again, it's time to get back to the Weight Watchers thing. There's something about an achy tummy that makes lean proteins and vegetables really, *really* unappealing....but they're starting to look better. Twenty-two points a day, broccoli and salmon, salad and fruit ahoy!

I've taken off fifteen pounds so far and have twenty-five more to go, but I'm not looking at it that way. I have another fifteen pounds, I tell myself, and that's all I'm concentrating on for now. Plus, my cholesterol was not as good as I'd like, though better than when I started this whole diet/exercise thing, so I'm looking now at low-chol options through WW. *sigh* Does this mean no more sausage and bacon for brekkers? I think, between the weight, belly, and cholesterol of 212, it does.

So. More next week, after a weigh-in. Yesterday's weight was 174. Oh! And that skirt I bought that I was hoping to fit into by January? I put on last week. The waist fits, though the combination of its fabric and my thigh muscles put me in mind of Patrick Swayze in "To Wong Foo: Thanks for Everything". You can't win 'em all.

Wednesday Whine: Now With More Grouch!

2009-11-18T03:06:00.000-08:00

173.8. Not bad, considering.

Considering that my fucking gallbladder seems to be on the fritz.

*sigh*

For the last week, since I had my twice-monthly marvelous cheeseburger at my local marvelous cheeseburger store, I have been dealing with the symptoms associated with gallbladder problems. It's certainly better than it was last week, but I'm still feeling something heavy in my upper right quadrant and not terribly interested in eating anything good for me. Mostly, I want dry toast and raw spinach and the occasional limeade.

After an extremely frustrating trip to the doctor (note to self: find new primary care physician, STAT), I came away with orders to get my blood drawn today for a complete metabolic panel and lipids and all that stuff, and the suggestion that I get an abdominal ultrasound. Frustration and a high grouch level made me leave the office before I got an order for that last, so I have to go *back* there today and get that.

I'm glad he's being conservative, really. The last time I went to a doctor (not this guy) and the doc recommended surgery right away--this was years ago, for carpal tunnel--I flipped out and didn't go back, luckily, because my problem turned out not to be CTS. Still, I wish he'd have listened to me. I told him twice that I didn't have any problems with reflux or heartburn, and still walked away with a prescription for Zantac.

It's also frustrating to be told that which you already know, and have to restate that which you've told the doc a million times. For instance, I am dangerously hypertensive whenever I go to a medical office--so much so that I generally take a couple weeks' worth of at-work BP readings to the Planned Parenthood when I get my annual exam, just so they don't lose it when I read out at 160/100. That's in my chart, yet I got *another* lecture on baseline blood pressure readings (and yes, he has at-work BPs in my chart too) and cardiomyopathy and CHF.

And, (and I'm sure this will come as a newsflash), I'm FAT. He made sure to point that out, as if I don't own a mirror, hadn't recently lost 15 pounds, and haven't been watching what I eat. I invited him, as calmly as I could, to come do an hour with me and Attila this afternoon, and see if "fat" couldn't also include "fit".

Once I get over this hump, I'm sure I'll feel better and more like my old self. Right now, though, what with being generally achy and low-energy and unwilling to track points, I'm rather bummed out.

Can I get a DIY cholecystectomy kit on the Internet?

Gnaaaah.

2009-11-11T16:58:00.000-08:00

Sick, tired, sore. Frustrated.

176.4.

I'm tired of this plateau. I'm also tired of whatever it is that's been hitting me like a truck every few weeks now: one day I'm fine, and the next I've got horrible gut problems, complete with nausea and rumbly-tummy and a host of other, less pleasant symptoms.

I had to leave work today because of it, which *sucks*. Now I'm bloated and nauseated and achy all over. Recurrent viral gastroenteritis? Giardia? Who knows? Things like this are hard to diagnose when you're asymptomatic, but when you're full of symptoms, you don't want to sit at the doctor's.

Off to eat more melba toast. Gar.

Mmmmmrrrrrggghhhppppfffffft.

2009-11-04T01:19:00.000-08:00

Sorry I missed last week; it's been kind of a monthlong rout around here.

And it's showing. Although I've been keeping up with working out (not much choice, when Attila shows up in the morning armed and ready), I have *not* been keeping up with eating well. In fact, I actually ordered and ate (most of) a pizza the other night, a food I haven't really wanted for six months.

So I've learned two things:

1. Working out like a madwoman, not compulsively, but regularly, has made it possible for me to do things that the average person can't do. Like lift huge heavy boxes down from the shelves at IKEA by myself, load them into the car, and get them inside the house, all with a minimum of fuss. (See Cranky Fitness for details.)

I gather from what I've read that continuing to lift heavy things and plod along on the treadmill will make it possible for me to continue to do things beyond the Average Bear's capabilities for quite a while, even as I get older.

Living alone and owning my own fixer-upper has made that very important. I didn't realize how much Attila's training had benefitted me until the third time I lifted that Besta box without trouble. Basically, what I'm realizing is this: I have a physically demanding job, a physically demanding non-job life, and I'm able to keep up with it all only because I'm subjected to grueling workouts three days a week by a woman who's fitter than I'll ever be.

Although she did say on Monday, "Gosh, your abs are strong." Yeah, dude, my abs are strong because you've been making me work them regularly for the last three years. Credit where it's due, okay?

2. Not eating well? Sucks. It's not quite 3:30 am as I write this, and I've been up for just over a half hour. Middle-of-the-night insomnia is my bugaboo when I eat pizza and ice cream. It goes hand in hand with mental fogginess and the inability to get through the day without a nap.

I hadn't realized, truly, how much nutrition affected me until this week. Some of my friends and coworkers (residents, particularly) can go through life eating licorice and chips and do fine--and even do brain surgery, for the love of God--but *I can't*.

With that realization last night, I put a big pot of beans on the stove and made sure I've got plenty of veggies in the fridge and freezer. It's back to lean protein and plenty of green things this week. The first couple of days will be horrendous, I'm sure, as I'll be switching from a pizza-beer-whatever's available-brisket diet back to Things That Actually Make My Life Easier, but it'll be worth it in the end.

Maybe this should become the Thursday Threnody.

2009-10-22T02:12:00.001-07:00

Still at 175, measurements still unchanged. Plateau, plateau, how you frustrate me!

However! My speed has improved where the heavy bag is concerned, and I'm much more agile, thanks to Attila's new emphasis on speed and, well, agility. I no longer have the huge guns I used to, but it's *so* nice to be able to say I'm getting back to an 8-minute mile. I also feel less lumbering than I did six months ago, and my clothes are all getting too big.

(Did I mention? Had to take the legs of my jeans in by an inch the other week. Pretty soon I'll be ice-cream-cone shaped.)

The view's sure nice from this here plateau.

2009-10-14T15:06:00.000-07:00

175.

Well, that's two whole ounces. Measurements haven't changed, either.

However, as Beloved Sister points out, weight loss (like any other physical process) does not follow a curve. Instead, it goes stepwise.

If anything is going to get me off this step/shelf/plateau, it'll be the new workouts Attila has devised. I have one coming up in about twenty minutes, so I need to go get changed and make sure my will is updated.

My butt? STILL hurts from last Friday.

Well, duh.

2009-10-07T08:21:00.001-07:00

I just clicked "recalculate points" on the WW website. Although my activity level hasn't changed, the number of calories I'm allowed during the day has.

So I'm down to 22 points. I had been eating 26. That's somewhere in the neighborhood of 200 calories or thereabouts a day.

Which might explain the plateau.

Dur.

So. This is a plateau, is it?

2009-10-07T02:31:00.000-07:00

175.2. 44-36-42.5.

For the last three weeks, I've been dancing between 173 and 176, depending on what time of day I weigh myself.

This is frustrating. Some of it is my fault (what? Crab cakes with a caper and shrimp sauce aren't zero-points foods? Damn.) and some of it might be water weight, and some of it is just metabolism. It's not the end of the world--not by a long, long chalk--but it's still irritating.

However! On Monday, I had the hardest damn workout of my life. Attila had me do a full hour of high-intensity interval training, WITH WEIGHTS, and I actually cried a little bit at the end. Let me tell you a secret: any workout that begins with walk/running a half mile and ends with forty weighted crunches combined with shoulder presses is a hard, hard workout.

We're doing it again today. I'm going to have the lovely Attila write down everydamnthing she has me do today, then post the workout on Cranky Fitness. I'll tell you: I felt like a total strutting badass when I finished that hour, so much so that I begged her to make two out of three of our workouts just like it. I *mean*. I like working the heavy bag as much as the next girl, and deadlifting the equivalent of several small Eastern European countries is fun and empowering, but nothing makes you feel more like a swaggering tough than an hour of good, old-fashioned ass-kicking.

Another thing I *just* thought of as I was rereading this was about diet: many days in the last two weeks, I've not eaten anything close to what I should in terms of calories. Not that I'm getting too many--I'm not getting enough. For example, on Monday, I got home to realize that of 26 allowed points, I had consumed nine. Nine. And I got home well after four pip emma. Now, by that time, I should've eaten at least half of the points I'm allowed, just to keep my metabolism humming, but I was too busy/not hungry/eating huge amounts of vegetables because I've had this weird Brussels sprout craving lately. This week has been schizophrenic: either I'm eating a liquid diet with the addition of ice cream (thanks, stomach virus!) or I'm eating nothing but green veggies.

So, plan for this week: Kick ass repeatedly with Attila. Ixnay on the crab cakes (sob!), nut up and eat more good, old-fashioned lean protein. Keep up with my vitamin intake, because when I don't, I retain water. Banish the Ben & Jerry's. Congratulate myself on the fact that the size-smaller scrubs I bought last week not only fit, but are a little loose in the chest and waist. Try to keep my jeans on in the grocery store--note to self: invest in a belt.

Aaand I'll be seeing you over at CF!

Thank Frogs for my sister, who knows more than I do.

2009-10-01T17:34:00.000-07:00

I emailed Beloved Sister about the Lean Cuisine debacle. She replied that she'd tried a couple of Lean Cuisines (or equally-vomitrocious equivalents) in the past and, at one point, had actually gotten toxic from all the salt in them.

I'm a neuro nurse. I *know* the signs of sodium toxicity. Hypernatremia involves such things as water retention, nausea, diarrhea, and irritability. I had all of those signs last night and today and yet didn't connect them with salt fucking POISONING.

Of course, some of us wander around happily hyponatremic and eukalemic (low sodium, normal potassium) most of the time: I'm one of those people. My sodium is low enough to give neurological surgeons pause and make Dr. Dink, my shrink/neurologist wonder if I'm all good. I've never had a problem; a sodium level of 130 is quite fine with me. But damn! Eat one packaged meal and everything goes to hell.

The good news is that after I finished washing out all that damn salt, I was back at 173, and my ankles once again have bones to them. I can open my eyes completely. I've taken a B-complex just to be on the safe side and intend to be up all night peeing, but damn is it nice to be able to see my own bone structure again.

Lesson learned.

Wednesday Whine: The Lean-My-Ass-Cuisine Rant.

2009-09-30T16:59:00.000-07:00

Yeah, so.

I got home last night, starvacious beyond belief, and pulled out one of those Lean Cuisine (they were on sale) meals that advertises itself as having more than the usual amount of protein. I don't recall the particular meal, and refuse to dig through the recycling bin to find it; suffice to say that it had a chickenlike material, some sort of mixed odds-and-butt-ends of vegetables, and something that might have, in a different world, been called brown rice.

This morning I woke up with a 37.5-inch waist, 45-inch chest, and weighed 174.8 lbs.

I was disturbed. Disgruntled. Disheartened, even. Then I remembered the fake food I'd eaten last night and dug through the recycling to read the sodium content on the label.

880 milligrams of sodium, my friends.

That's, what? Five teaspoons, or something like that? (Okay, I know it's not five teaspoons, but it sure feels like it. You could put me out in a field when deer season starts and use me as a salt lick.) When you're used to eating only the sodium that comes naturally in foods, and when celery tastes way too salty, that's a lot of salt. Never mind the other stuff on the label that I couldn't pronounce.

The upshot of that entirely nasty "meal" is that my ankles--and I say this with no exaggeration for dramatic effect--are actually lopping out over the tops of my socks. I just got done seeing Attila, and my sweat tastes about four times as salty as usual. My calves have turned into cankles, my boobs are sore as hell, and my face is puffy. (Some of that puffiness is probably due to the fact that I burst out sobbing in the middle of a particularly diabolical set, but anyway.) I feel premenstrual, probably due to the fact that my brain is swollen from excess salt.

Aside: didja know that's what causes a lot of PMS symptoms? No, really. I won't go into the hormones here, but suffice to say that hormonal changes lead to water retention, which increases your intracranial pressure and thus makes you irritable, sleepy, weepy, suicidal, raging, and all that other fun stuff. This is why pills like Yaz and Yasmin, which contain a diuretic that works particularly well on the fluid in your central nervous system, are so good at controlling PMS and PMDD.

Lesson learned: do not eat prepackaged meals, especially the "healthy" sort, unless they're Amy's Organic or Kashi or something specifically low-sodium and low-sugar (because high sugar content can do the same thing, BION).

I'll drink lots and lots of water tonight and maybe have a beer (excellent diuretic; cuts off the production of antidiuretic hormone in your brain!) and reweigh on Friday. Friday might bring a Friday Flip-Out post, but I'll give it a shot anyhow.

(Oh, and that diabolical exercise? Try this: Put three-pound ankle weights on. Now grab a couple of ten-pound barbells. Squat with your arms at your sides, then as you come up, lift one leg to the side while raising the barbells in a fly motion above your head. [By "fly" I don't mean "do a James Brown", but rather "lift out to the side and then up.] Do fourteen more on that side. Now switch and do fifteen on the other. Now see how long it takes you to burst into frustrated sobbing--it's harder than it looks.)

It is, as my dad says, a really big shoe!

2009-09-30T15:56:00.000-07:00

Check it out, people!

As of tomorrow morning, I will be blogging over at Cranky Fitness. Crabby asked me to come join in when her beloved (*our* beloved) Merry Sunshine left, and I was so gobsmacked I said yes.

I'm not sure how I'll combine whining, whining, bitching, moaning, and blogging about fitness, but I'm going to give it a shot.

WW update later tonight or tomorrow, I promise. Attila is nearly here.

Rowr.

2009-09-28T17:22:00.000-07:00

(Please note: This is not Your Faithful Correspondent.)

I feel suddenly, very strongly, that I need a black slim skirt. Not that I *need* one, you understand, but that I won't last another week without one. One that fits. One that's not actually--get this--too big.

And shoes to go with it, of course. United Nude pumps are all well and good, but the Eames lacks a certain something. Maybe it's that wearing a shoe with a heel based on a chair leg doesn't bring the boys to the yard, I dunno.

(Yeah, way cool, but only for the nerdiest of evenings. And my sister's wedding.)

Anyway, black pencil skirt. Black pumps. What the hell to put atop it so I don't look either like I'm playing Sexy Librarian for Hallowe'en or like an accountant, I don't know. But black pencil skirt. Before too long. Rowr.

(This is what happens when a glute/leg/core workout goes really, really well. Something about umpteen bazillion deadlifts and squats makes a girl want a black pencil skirt. And a glass of water. And a nap. But skirt first.)

173.8. Eat that, bitches.

2009-09-23T18:37:00.000-07:00

Ooooh yeah.

Seems eating nothing while in an internship program will make you lose a pound without even trying. So, tonight, I had tacos and Stone IPA to celebrate.

Yes, tacos and Stone are not on the WW program. Neither are tiny amounts of food and huge amounts of Scotch, which is what I've been having lately--between studying critical care stuff and trying to re-learn the anatomy of the Circle of Willis. Jeebus grits, I've forgotten more than I ever knew I knew.

In workout news....well, there's nothing. There'll certainly be something by the weekend, as Atilla has "something new" planned for me. I *hate* it when she says "something new" with that glint in her eye, as it invariably means that I won't be able to walk for a week.

More on Friday. Or Saturday. Or sometime after I learn what the hell the anterior descending whingummy thinagmajig whoozit sinus does to your left pinky finger.

Holy Crap, is it Thursday already?

2009-09-17T03:39:00.000-07:00

175.1 this morning. Huzzah!

Although the great undetermined They say that 80% of weight loss is changing one's diet, I'm finding out (to my great grief) that a good 25% of it is exercise. Yeah, I know that the two don't add up to 100%, but nothing in this whole saga is adding up, so just handle it.

Atilla has devised new tortures for me on a weekly basis--sometimes they're new every session. For the last three years, we'd been working on building strength, plain and simple. My job requires lifting people, and I needed to be able to lift them without hurting myself. (It's like that line from "Nurse Jackie": "What do you call a nurse with a bad back? Unemployed.") Now we're working on better balance, better stability in motion, and trying not to bulk me up (which, thanks to genetics, I do pretty easily).

Anyway, for the last three years, I've been lifting Really Heavy Things a few times, often in combination with other moves that built stability and functional strength. Now I'm lifting Less Heavy Things a whole hell of a lot more times, at odd angles, while moving around, or with a stack of china balanced on my chin.

Okay, not that last. But pretty close.

Let me tell you, fiends and neighers: There is a huge difference between doing, say, three sets of twenty squats with a hundred pounds on the bar and doing, say, three sets of twenty squats with forty pounds on the bar, except you're at a funny angle. Then follow that set of squats with a 3/20 round that involves turning your toes out like a ballerina and squatting like a sumo wrestler, but with only only your body weight as resistance. Then follow *that* with a couple of bizarre things that require you to simultaneously bend, stretch to one side, and act like you're rowing a canoe...and you can't walk the next day. I begin to see why ballet dancers and gymnasts, who use only body weight, kick such ass.

I'm squatting at weird angles. I'm doing bicep curls at weird angles, for the love of Mike. I'm doing things with a stability ball that ought to be banned under the Geneva Convention. And don't get me started on the Evil Tiny Rubber Band Thingies that work the itty-bitty muscles you didn't know you had, or the balance exercises that, if not done properly, result in an eight-pound barbell falling on your toes.

So what's the result of all of this? Well, my biceps are no longer huge. Which is sad, and kind of hard to get used to. Instead of having something that rounds up nicely when I flex, I have this long, slender muscle that, while equally strong, is less pronounced.

My back doesn't hurt, which is good, and I have a greater range of motion. One thing about lifting heavy: unless you're very consistent and careful with range-of-motion exercises and stretching--which I am not--you'll tend to stiffen up and start getting less flexible over time. Although the weights I'm lifting are lighter, Atilla is using them in such a way that I'm stronger in more than one direction, if that makes sense.

I'm also faster. I used to lumber a bit, but now I've dropped both enough weight and enough bulk that working the heavy bag is a pleasure rather than a chore.

The biggest change has been in my overall shape. Even when I was heavier, I had that narrow-hipped, broad-shouldered look without much of a waist. My neck was very, very short. Buying shirts and bras was nearly impossible given my dimensions. Now I look almost female, with an actual indentation where I think my waist will eventually be.

And the biggest reward of all this functional fitness? I can now move my body weight in every direction save one: I still can't do a single pull-up. That'll change, of course, but it's nice in the meantime to do pushups with my feet three feet up the wall.

In other news, I'll have a Big Announcement at the end of the month. You'll have to wait until then, but rest assured that it's exciting, glamorous, and involves puppies and caramel apples.

Quick and helpful tips for those shopping at Old Navy:

2009-09-14T16:06:00.000-07:00

Old Navy pants, while reasonably priced and nicely cut (try the classic rise straight-leg; even on shortwaisted, big-bellied Me, they work!) are not meant for women who squat. Go a size up to fit your thighs.

Likewise, if you lift *at all*, nothing from the ON women's department will ever fit you, except maybe (*maybe*) the T-shirts. Go to the men's department and try on those shirts instead. If you have a tiny waist, you can always take 'em in and add darts.

Finally, if you feel as I do (that adults ought to have access to silly footie pajamas), please let your local Old Navy know that you'd like to see dinosaur-print footie PJs in adult sizes.

And maybe a couple of those dragon Halloween costumes as well. Or the spider ones. I'm not picky.

Monday WOW.

2009-09-14T08:04:00.001-07:00

Screw the hippo on the treadmill. This is goin' up next to my weight bench.

AAAAAAAAAUGH!

2009-09-10T02:34:00.000-07:00

I put on three-tenths of a pound this week! Alert the media! Stop the presses! Get rid of everything in my refrigerator and replace it with carrots and MasterCleanse!

Not really.

Yeah, I put on weight. You wanna know why I put on weight? Two reasons:

One: I am Jo, and I am like unto the Hoover Dam at the moment. I'm retaining so much water that if you stuck me with a pin, I would leak clear fluid rather than blood. Given that I have no idea where I am in my cycle, and my calendar is across the room and I'm too lazy to go get it, I'm not sure if the water retention is due to hormones or just pistachios. Mmmm, pistachios.

Two: A whole bunch of people I haven't seen in (mumblemumble) years showed up on my doorstep this past weekend, and I'm damned if I'm going to prioritize losing a fucking three-tenths of a pound over seeing people I love and having a hell of a time. You put four divorced women in their late thirties and early forties in a room together, add beer, and watch what happens: it was totally worth screwing WW for two days. It was totally, totally worth three-tenths of a pound--even a pound or two would not have made me cry.

Which leads me to the point of this: I refuse, absolutely and categorically, to put Shit before People.

You know how it is: "Oh, I can't go out; I have to do laundry." "I can't have dinner there; there's nothing I can eat on my plan." That is putting Shit before People, and it will always lead to tragedy, tears, and the heartbreak of psoriasis. (Well, maybe not that last.)

It's okay to quote-unquote screw up if you do it for the right reasons. My reasons this past weekend were completely right, and I had a lovely time. If it means I'm slower at getting into the vintage dresses, so be it: I have a weekend full of fantastic memories and blackmail-worthy photos to remember.

Now back to fiber, fruit, salad, and lean protein.

The Wednesday Whine: A Day Late And A Dollar Short

2009-09-09T18:04:00.000-07:00

I'll be posting for real tomorrow. Suffice to say that a couple of people tried to harsh my mellow today, and found theirs comprehensively harshed instead. I'm worn out and want to relax and read fashion websites.

Weekly weigh-in, what-the-hell and whine in the a.m.

The Wednesday Whine: Happy Hippie Edition

2009-09-02T02:26:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned over on the other blog, it has been one whopper of a week this week at work. I took a few hours off last night in order to be a complete lunatic, and it actually worked out quite well. The kids across the street turned out to be good cooks, pleasant company, strangely deferential to a person who's not only gainfully employed but also two decades older than them, and just all-around nice people.

176.1 this morning, 43-35.5-42. Wahoo! Only a half-inch to go before I'm allowed to drop bills on new scrubs, and oh gracious will I ever need them by that point. I'm thinking, though, that I might want to wait, as I'm losing faster than I had intended. If I get new scrubs too soon, I'll just have to *re*get them in a few months. It might be time to haul out ye olde sewing machine.

Question for those of you who've done this before: When can I expect to plateau? I don't want to panic and get frustrated and quit when it happens. Beloved Sister stuck with her new eating pattern and continued to exercise through a SEVEN WEEK plateau--that's not only worthy of a standing ovation, but is also a level of determination I'm not sure I can match.

Off to eat some whole grains now.

WW works, even if you fuck it up.

2009-09-01T16:38:00.000-07:00

I am not too proud to report that, this week, I ate barely anything that's listed anywhere on the Weight Watchers site. Due to a combination of circumstances, I had bacon. And cardboardesque cheese quesadillas from the hospital cafeteria. And beer.

And I lost eight-tenths of a pound as of this morning.

Hm! Seems the Appetite From Hell is getting appeased. In fact, I know it is: when I made the bacon/eggs/popovers I had for dinner Sunday night, I ate less than half of what I cooked. I just wasn't all that hungry. The Max-Dog was happy that he got my leftovers: "Bay-cun? BAY-CUN! I love bay-cun! Oh boy! Ohboyohboyohboy!"

He didn't know that I'd slipped his hated heartworm chewies in amongst the bits of bacon and popover.

In Things I've Never Done Before News, I have ordered two vintage dresses from My Favorite Vintage, an Etsy seller. They will way not fit. They are, in fact, within two inches of the size I plan to be when I hit goal. They'll go up on the bedroom wall along with the Boden skirt I ordered to motivate me and the pages from the really good scrub catalog I tore out when all this started.

What do they look like, you ask? I'm so glad you want to know. One is a 1940's "College Girl" brand brown dress with a double-breased front, short sleeves, and white polka dots. It's Utility style, which means that the lapels are quite thin (single, rather than double-layered), the skirt has pin-pleats in it, and the chiffon is transparent.

The other is a 1950's day dress, probably homemade, with a wide v-neck, long tight sleeves, and a full skirt. It's the remnants of the New Look with the free, rounded shoulder and tiny, nipped-in waist. It's in a black-and-white stripe, but get this! Inside the white stripes are tiny line-drawing cartoons of various fruits and vegetables. If I could find a wallpaper in that pattern, my life would be complete.

I love them both so much just from pictures that if, after this weight all comes off, I have to go without breathing in order to wear them, that will be okay.

I can't wait to put on the 1950's one with a modified crinoline, black heeled Oxfords, stacks of hematite beads, and a headband and go all Defiant Punk June Cleaver on somebody's ass.

Something to remember.

2009-08-28T03:21:00.001-07:00

Today: 175.6.

Wednesday: 177.8.

What happened? I diuresed like a sumbitch.

Note to self: monthly weight gain of a quart of water, or roughly two pounds, should be expected.

Things I am promising myself.

2009-08-27T17:48:00.000-07:00

When I reach goal:

I will buy a bikini. Never wore one in my twenties; don't know what the hell I was thinking.

(Oh, wait. As Friend Suzie The Rat Wrangler pointed out in the comments on the other blog, I burn under the light of a sixty-watt bulb. That must've been what I was thinking. Oh, well, they make 100 SPF sunscreen now, which oughta buy me ten minutes.)

I will also buy clothes from Boden. I love Boden's clothes. Except for the froofy cardigans with ruffles; I am not a ruffle girl. What I already have, I plan to alter, except for the Bangin' Jersey Print Dress, which will have to be replaced.

I will wear the vintage stuff that I have packed away in my cedar chest. Elsita at The Hidden Seed is my shero. She dresses like I used to before nursing school, scrubs, divorce, and binge eating took their toll. I have lost any fashion sense I used to have and promise myself I'll get it back.

(Important parenthetical note: Elsita has another blog dedicated to her art that makes me so, so happy. Plus, on THS, she has some excellent reflections on self-love and motivation.)

I will look in the mirror and not be so damned self-critical. Even if my body is not the exact shape I'd like, or my waist measurement goes up an inch in 24 hours, I will no longer hate myself for looking like myself.

(Another parenthetical note: Attila asked me the other day if there's ever a time I don't feel bad about how I look. I responded, without thinking, "When I'm asleep." If I think about it, I have to admit that I don't feel bad about, or even think about, how I look when I'm working. The job I have is completely other-focused. In any event, self-loathing on a minute-by-minute basis is really, really fucking pathetic and awful and toxic and must stop. I'm working on it now, I swear.)

(Which makes me think of something else: after my marriage broke up [long story short, he and my best pal of 15 years hooked up] the only constant I had for months was self-loathing. I mean, after all, here I was, unable to save my marriage/keep my man/cut a bitch, alone, 33, living in a tiny wee apartment, with no social life. In retrospect, the plain fact that I was miserable and lonely was what led me to eat and eat and eat until I was so full there was no room for thinking or feeling, and I simply had to go to bed. It's interesting that, as the self-loathing diminished [it really only happens now when I look in the mirror; I'm pleased about my brains, my sense of humor, my choice of friends, etcetera], the habitual stuffing of the face had not. There're plenty of studies out there that tie dopamine production to bingeing, so it's not just that people who binge lack self control. We're literally self-medicating depression.)

I will watch every one of John Hughes's movies, in order. The only one I've seen is "Some Kind of Wonderful", and given that I graduated high school in 1987, I feel like I've missed out on a major cultural influence.

I will take a road trip over the border into Oklahoma, where I know of a place where black irises grow. Truly, truly black irises, not the dark-red or dark-purple sort. There is a graveyard where they've grown for years, and a horse in a field next door. I want a couple of the roots to grow amongst the white irises that live along my back fence.

I will buy truffles and eat them, shaved, in mashed potatoes. I will infuse oil with the truffles and bury the remainder in a jar of rice.

I will find that secret spot where morels and white peaches grow.

I will run a 5K. This is actually the plan for November, regardless of where I am measurement- and scale-wise.

Now, not later:

I will actually do all those things I've been planning to do all summer, except it's been too damn hot. Like walk places. And get a really neat toothbrush holder. And redo the utility room floor.

When it gets cooler, I'll take Max along when I walk places. Max is a furry beast and can't handle a three-mile walk in the heat, although he can go forever when it's below 50*.

I'll not berate myself for wanting Fritos. Sometimes you want Fritos, y'know? You just have to deal with it (perhaps by having a small handful) and then move on. Food is not a moral thing; it's a fuel.

I will, at some point this year, take a trip to Seattle. Not just to see my folks, but also to see my dear, beloved pal Rob and his husband Adam. Rob was one of the most important people to me when I was growing up, from the time we were both eight years old, and I miss him.

If it sounds like something scary, I will consider doing it anyway. If it can be done without risk to life/limb/license, I'll do it.

I will not spend time in shoulda-coulda-wouldas and what-ifs. As Lauren Bacall said, "I think about Bogey a lot, but I don't say, 'Oh, I wish...' I don't think that way. If you live that way, you lose today, and I feel that today is very important. It's the only thing that matters, really."

If it snows (by some miracle) this year, I am *so* going out to build a snow fort and sled. Last time it snowed, two years ago, I had a cold. That sucked.

The one thing I will not do, even if I end up weighing a hundred pounds and grow ten inches:

Get a Brazillian wax.

Seriously. That was the reward a friend of mine used to get fifty pounds off. I looked at her when she told me that and was all, dude, that would totally make me eat chocolate cake, of which I am not fond anyhow, in order to keep from reaching my goal weight.

Willpower, positive thinking, blar dee blar blar bleugh.

2009-08-27T03:21:00.000-07:00

Crabby McSlacker had a great post on willpower the other day; head over to Cranky Fitness and check it out.

I had plenty of opportunity this week to think about willpower, passing things up, what triggers a binge, and how to get around all that mental static. At home, I don't have snack food in the cupboards. If a bag of chips gets in, it'll be gone in a day or two because I'll sit on the couch and eat chips for hours. I can't have anything with white flour in it around, because I'll binge on white bread until I'm sick. White wine and champagne aren't allowed in the fridge for the same reason. White rice? Same deal.

When I get to work, though, there's a bag of Fritos in a prominent place. There are white bread rolls, cakes, cookies, and donuts in profusion. The only thing that's missing from my binge-trigger list is the white wine, and I'm sure somebody could come up with that without too much trouble.

So I don't eat that stuff. And I feel grumpy for two reasons: one, I feel deprived--even though these foods aren't a daily part of my diet--because if I see it, I want it. Two, I get grouchy because I can't eat like a normal person when confronted with sweet, sweet white flour and butter and white rice and salt and sugar. If I eat one donut hole, I'll eat sixteen. It seems unfair that I'm not able to enjoy that stuff in moderation, because that means that I can't have it at all.

One of Crabby's commenters had an excellent point: If you didn't want it before you saw it, you don't want it now. In other words, a Frito craving that's triggered by the sight of Fritos isn't really a Frito craving. If Fritos are dancing through your head on a regular basis, even though they're not right in front of you, then *that's* a Frito craving. (Case in point: I'm typing "Frito" so much that it's not even looking like a real word any more, but I still don't want any.) I told myself that a lot this week: "If I didn't want it before I saw it, then I don't really want it now."

Another thing I told myself a lot was "Going a little hungry in the midst of plenty won't hurt you." Being gut-rumble hungry is a bitch, especially when you're trying to keep your head together at a fairly active, demanding job. Getting the hell away from anybody who was eating helped, as did doing all those little niggly annoying jobs that never seem to get done, just to stay busy. We have some very clean, very well-oiled carts now on our unit.

The thing that's hardest is that being on a diet (or, in this case, changing eating habits entirely and for good) is BORING. There's a learning curve, and that learning curve is a drag. It's dull to have to think about food choices, and exhausting to have to calculate how many points X or Y or Z has, and whether eating that thing now will leave me enough points for the evening. It's not something that anybody wants to talk about, because the only thing more boring than your own diet is somebody else's diet.

The only thing to do, I've found, is to take it meal by meal. I don't mean that in the sense that every meal is an opportunity for success or failure; I'm trying to stay away from the mindset that labels some foods as "good" and others as "bad". Food shouldn't come with moral judgements. So, instead, I take every single time I eat as a fresh chance to reinforce being a normal, healthy eater. Which is boring as hell, but seems to be the only way I'll make permanent changes.

Separating emotional eating from hunger-based eating is a whole 'nother kettle of monkeys, and one I haven't started excavating yet. That should be fun. And boring.

Amen, Bow Wow.

2009-08-26T17:56:00.001-07:00

Wednesday WTF?

2009-08-26T03:53:00.001-07:00

44-37-43, 177.8

Well, I'll be damned. I actually lost weight again this week. Hm. (Not sure what's up with that waist measurement, but I'm not gonna get obsessive. It's a half inch.)

Who knew eating less and moving more would actually work if you stuck to it?

On the subject of eating less, and I don't want to sound like I'm whining when what I'm actually doing is bitching and complaining, I was gut-rumble hungry *all the time* at work these last two days. Weight Watchers is the bomb, don't get me wrong on that, but it's one thing to eat your however-many points when you're at the house and moving when you want and another to have that same number of points when you're running your ass off and lifting people.

I was eating my zero-points salad and two-point Boca Burger, watching my coworker demolish ziti, vegetables, and Boston cream pie (she's one of those genetically blessed Gumbies with super-extendo limbs and the metabolism of a cracked-out Jack Russell terrier) and feeling quite put-upon when another coworker patted my shoulder. She said, "Look. You are just plain going to be hungry for a while." Given that that particular coworker lost 70 pounds two years ago and has kept it off, I figure she's got it down. And, as she pointed out, being hungry in the midst of plenty will not hurt you.

On the up-side, food tastes amazing when I actually do get to eat it. Who knew that a carton of yogurt could have such complexity, such mild creaminess, such a wealth of fresh-fruit flavor? You know those silly Yoplait commercials in which two women discuss how "good" their yogurt is? Like, "This is pedicure-and-massage good." "No, this is three-weeks-in-the-Bahamas good." "No, this is a-tanned-pool-boy-named-Luis good." Well, the reason their Yoplait is so damned good is that they're starving by the time they get the chance to do some damage to some yogurt.

That said, I'm hoping that what I've heard is true, and that my appetite and hunger triggers will adjust soon. It's hard to walk through the break room and be confronted with Fritos. It's embarassing to realize that you're considering arm-wrestling one of your patients for his pie. And it's making me grumpy to be on the far end of the vaguely-hungry-to-starving scale most of the time.

A little later, or perhaps tomorrow, I want to write about willpower and positive self-talk and all that happy mental stuff. Right now, though, I have to go eat something and get ready to meet Attila.

Wednesday Whining: Wow.

2009-08-19T03:00:00.000-07:00

45-36.5-43.25.

Another half inch off the waist, and six pounds down. And yes, I went *up* an inch on my chest, but dammit, I have been doing pushups and lat flyes like there's no tomorrow, so I'm swollen as heck from the waist up. Ow-eee.

I learned some things this week:

1. It is entirely possible to live without butter. It sucks for the first few days, but you get used to it pretty quickly and don't miss it. (Butter is one of those things that, if I eat a pinch, I'll eat a pound; it's easier just to stay away.)

2. It is also entirely possible to lose control of your exercise ball and do a really impressive face-plant while doing pushups. This was less amusing for me than it was for Attila.

3. Beans? Are good. High in protein, high in fiber, low in WW points values, and just the ticket, warm or cold, when you are so damn hungry you're about to chew off your own arm. (Which reminds me of an episode of Spongebob, actually.)

4. Being hungry won't kill you. Also, not being constantly, uncomfortably full all the time is actually kind of nice.

5. I need new running shoes. Anybody got any good suggestions for shoes with very good, firm arch support and narrow heels? I've got some Rykas right now that just aren't doing the trick.

6. No matter how many curls you do, your biceps cannot leave your arms and apply to the UN for amnesty. There is no international charter on bicep rights, you guys, so quit whining.

This is totally off-topic, but y'all over on the Eastern seaboard and in the deep South might want to cool it on the doggie day cares and dog parks for a little bit. There's some sort of dog-flu going around that's sounding awfully dangerous. (H1N38? Is that it? Can't recall.) It doesn't kill that many dogs--only about one percent--but it's no bueno if that one out of a hundred pooches is yours. Plus, it can make critters pretty ill, from what I'm hearing.

In further animal news, if anybody wants a pair of innocent-looking yet devious, destructive, and generally completely insane half-grown cats, please do let me know. I'm willing to rent them out by the day or the week.

Monday Mutterings

2009-08-17T17:00:00.000-07:00

I went and spent rather-a-lot of money today on a new scale, as mine was weighing at (pick one) 190, 180, 185, and 188 depending on how often I'd stepped on the thing in the last five minutes. I mean, I expect a little variation in weight, depending on how I leap on to the thing (with all the grace of a gazelle, I might point out), but ten pounds on two different tries, thirty seconds apart? That is, in the words of my favorite Peruvian sculptor, bool-sheet.

So I have a new Weight Watchers scale. It tells you how much you weigh, down to the last ounce or two-tenths of a milligram, or something, and also tells you what your bone mass, water proportion, and fat proportion are. It also lets you know how many pounds of fat you're carrying, which is a terrifying thing indeed. At 181.4 pounds, I carry just over 64 pounds of fat. It's right here, split evenly on each side of my chest. That which brings the boys to the yard, as it were, was apparently not weighed by this particular scale.

I'm sure you'll all be heartened to know that my bone density is normal and that I am sufficiently hydrated. I would be scared if it were any other way.

Actually, the "sufficiently hydrated" part is a huge relief. On Friday, Attila put me through one of the more babyish workouts I've had in the last two-and-a-half years with her, and I still died. I mean, I was gasping, panting, wanting to vomit, seeing black spots in front of my eyes, hearing the voices of long-dead loved ones; the works. I hadn't connected that with the fact that I lost five pounds in a week despite champagne with Suz and plenty of ramen. Those of you with a better understanding of basic human physiology than I have will immediately recognize that I was severely, distressingly dehydrated. Five pounds of fluid is a quart plus one cup; that's a lot of fluid for any human to lose in four days (which is how long I had my bug).

So. The good news is that my weight actually *increased* a pound this week, at the same time the skin on the back of my hands stopped tenting.

In Torture With Attila news, things are going...well. Surprisingly well. After four months of not training with her (and thus not training, as I can always think of an excuse not to move), my back and abs hurt, my knees were complaining, and I felt like shit. All the time. I had, like, indigestion. And gas. And was grouchy. And was breaking out.

Today I ran faster than I'd run since about February, and kept it up: six miles an hour! For five minutes! And I lifted, not heavy, but enough to make me feel it.

My back hurts a bit (we did lower back today and on Friday), but I'll tell you: physical activity, especially when you have a physically demanding job, will make the difference between lying around feeling like you have the flu and being engaged and happy.

After seven workouts with her, I have the energy I remember having, and my skin has cleared up. It's also improved my stamina, and my hooves are strong and supple...oh, wait. Wrong species.

Plus, I'm sleeping better, and I don't want to kill people for very little reason.

Speaking of sleeping, that's about all I have energy for at the moment. Wednesday is weigh-and-measure day, bah humbug. We'll see how the WW is working then.

Slightly OCD Saturday

2009-08-15T19:39:00.000-07:00

After completely falling off the wagon this week (what is it about cheap-ass ramen that tastes so good when you've got a tummy bug? The salt, maybe?), I've decided to redeem myself with activity. Diet has gone to hell, but activity has been *major*.

For instance: I cooked dinner for my pals Suz and Mike, cleaned out every single cabinet and closet I've got save one (which I had cleaned out and organized earlier this month), painted the weird little hallway and installed one of those cool rope lights in the ceiling (and my fingers are still sore from sorting out all the bitty teeny light clips), reorganized the utility shelves in the Everything Room, hung an unimaginable number of vintage advertisements and magazine covers in the aforementioned hallway (need the bathroom? Head past Bess and Harry and take a right by the rationing poster), scrubbed new and old paint off the floors (thanks, kitties), scrubbed new strawberry puree off the kitchen cabinets (thanks, Notamus cat), worked out with Attila twice, and mowed the front yard. Oh, and I hung a mirror.

And flossed. And cleaned house.

My ass is still sore, not only from the workouts, but also from bending/lifting/straightening things on shelves/climbing ladders all day long. If you read the other blog, you'll know that I recently bought a $500 Miele vacuum. It has been my downfall, kind of like when Betty Friedan wrote about women who'd gotten automatic washing machines for the first time: the standard of "clean" went from "sheets washed once a week" to "sheets washed every day".

I vacuumed the tops of my doors and the ceilings and all the picture frames today. I am not proud. I vacuumed out the cabinets, then wiped them down. I vacuumed the damn trash can.

Then I arranged all my spice bottles in alphabetical order and made sure they were exactly one centimeter apart. Yes, I'm a little OCD today, thanks for noticing.

I have had a beer in order to turn off the little Organizing Voices in my head and am now heading to bed. Yes, I have clean sheets.

A day late, a dollar short: Thursday Threnody.

2009-08-13T08:17:00.000-07:00

The week started really, really well.

Until I got some sort of tummy bug yesterday. It seemed to resolve by last evening, though I still felt tired. This morning at about 3 am it was back with a vengeance. Apparently, I picked up more than artichokes at the grocery store.

Back for a nap. I'm not off-track, per se, because I'm not taking in as many calories as I'm losing. As it were.

Meh, Or: The Sunday Scruit

2009-08-09T11:51:00.000-07:00

Good thing I measure. In four days, I gained five pounds.

Now, I know there's no way I consumed fourteen thousand extra calories (that's a LOT of beer) in four days, so I have to assume that there's either something wrong with my scale (which there may be; it read 190 the first time I got on it, and 184 the second) OR there's some weird fluid-retention-thing going on.

Which is why I had potato chips for lunch. Water follows salt, after all; I should begin to diurese any minute now.

Especially with the help of this screw-cap wine (Root 1 Sauv Blanc, courtesy of World Market, where I spent $$$ on curtains The Kit-taynz cannot destroy).

Yeah, I'm saying scruit today. I don't know what happened this morning to make me do that; all I know is that dieting SUCKS. If I'm not hungry, I'm feeling guilty. And all the dieting in the world, combined with three workouts with Attila, have only conspired to make me lose an inch off my waist in a week; I was expecting to be a size 8 by now.

Immediate Gratification: I expects it.

The point, and yes-I-have-one, is that I haven't gained any inches. I've actually lost a half-inch off of my butt. And no, that's not due to measuring differences; I measure where there's a mole, so I know I'm measuring at the same place every time. Just like there's a mole two inches above my navel, which is where I measure my waist. That measurement has stayed the same, so we're at 44-37-43 now, which ain't too bad.

Thank God I'm measuring, or else I would've eaten those chips with feeling.

nomnomnomnom

2009-08-07T15:06:00.001-07:00

I am so freaking hungry.

Just thought I'd share that.

Wednesday Whining: the Well, That's Bizarre edition

2009-08-05T08:56:00.000-07:00

*whew*

Sixty squats with 20 lbs should not be as hard as they were today.

This was my second meeting with Atilla. I'm not as weak and puny as I'd feared, but I'm also not *quite* as strong through the back and abs as I'd like to be. (Why is it that the back always goes first, anyway? I use it all the time.) Hilarity ensued when I used that misbegotten fitness ball for the first time in six weeks; probably the biggest casualty of not training has been my balance. Not everybody can do a face-plant during pushups with the speed and style that is my birthright, although I hear that some people on YouTube do try.

So, yeah. Sixty fast squats with twenty pounds left me shaking and nauseated. But! I ran for ten whole minutes, faster than I've ever run before, and wasn't dead at the end of it. There are compensations. I can now do a ten-minute mile (just one, but still!) and not want to vomit.

On to the bizarre: Why the hell would I have a muscle spasm in my right lat? I mean, what is *up* with that? I was sitting right here, quietly entering The Evil Points on the WW site, and all of a sudden my right arm just came off the keyboard (nearly hitting me in the face) and then dropped to my side and my shoulder rolled back. I felt a little like old what's-his-chin in Evil Dead: "Give me back my HAAAND!!"

Eventually it stopped, allowing me to take my measurements. After a whopping five days of more-or-less committed adherence to the Evil Point System and two workouts, I'm down an inch on the waist and a half inch through my hips. Loud cheers! I have no clue what I weigh and am not about to hop on the scale right now, so those of you measuring density rather than circumference will just have to sit on your hands for a bit.

And now it's time for a nap. (Yes, yes, I know, it's only 11:20 am.) Due to the scratchiest sheets in the world and a couple of hyperactive cats, I didn't sleep much last night.

Wednesday Whining: part three

2009-07-28T10:28:00.000-07:00

In part one, I bitched. In part two, I bitched. In part three, I not only shove bitching into its own little blog, but I set goals. And bitch.

Currently, I'm at 44-38-44 (aka Jo's Holy Shit Moment). My long- and short-term goals are thus:

1. Lose ten inches off the waist, eight inches each from hip and bust measurements.

You'll note here that I say nothing about weight or clothing size. That's for a reason: if I obsess about numbers on the scale or numbers in the closet, I get even more miserable than I do with a tape measure in hand.

2. Run three ten-minute miles in succession.

Three miles in thirty minutes was where I was a couple of summers ago, thanks to long hours on the treadmill. I would like to run a 5K sometime this fall, so back to the treadmill it is.

3. Accomplish all of this by my fortieth birthday.

That's six and a half months away. Totally doable.

In nursing school, you learn that care plans (which is what this is, in a way) have to be specific, timed, and measurable. I've got the specific, measured, and timed part down; now all that has to happen is ways to get from here to there.

1. Since I've already joined Weight Watchers online, I'll do that. Twenty-seven points a day, wahoo!

2. I'll also work out an hour on the days when I'm off (and yes, yardwork will count toward that; living here means yardwork isn't the sweet, pastoral hobby it is in other places. Rather, it's a fight to the death with thorny things) and twenty minutes each morning and evening on the days I work.

Twenty minutes in the morning is easy, as all I do is listen to the Beeb and treadmill, and it sets me up for being (relatively) cheerful and energetic all day. Twenty minutes in the evening will be tougher, as I'll have to pick something that is not energizing. That means weights and/or yoga and/or stretching and/or cat-swinging.

3. I am, to my liver's relief, ditching the hooch until I've gotten halfway to the goal waist measurement. Those of you who live to read the beer reviews on HN will have to suffer.

This is a rip-off of the Jenny Craig method, which mandates no booze until you're halfway to your goal weight. Since I have no goal weight, I'm going with waist measurement.

Now, then. If I'm to be consistent, I'll need carrots as well as sticks. My carrots are as follows:

1. After three inches off the waist, I'll buy new scrubs.

This is less a carrot than a recognition of reality. I'll *need* new scrubs at that point, since the ones I have are already a little big.

2. Five inches off means a new skirt from Boden and a weekly beer.

There's a nice polka-dotted brown one I have my eye on. Skirt, not beer.

3. Four inches off hips means new jeans.

See #1 carrot above...but it's something, right?

Another something that I'm looking forward to--more, truthfully, than even a brown velvet skirt from Boden--is feeling better, plain and simple. Since Atilla moved to the big city, I've slacked off substantially from exercising, and my diet's gone to shit. I'm feeling it. Not only am I creakier and crankier than I've been for a long time, but things like my gallbladder and lungs are starting to complain. Not being aware of my own internal structure will be pleasant.

And, with that, I'm off to buy Boca Burgers and vegetables for the week ahead.

UPDATE: Atilla the Trainer has moved back to town! Just as I was getting sad again, wishing she hadn't succumbed to the lure of the bright lights in Big City, I got an email from her. She's back!

I am hopping up and down like a small child on Christmas morning. If anybody had told me five years ago that I'd be hopping up and down at the thought of strength and cardio training, I'd've shot them. But this is now. Right? Right.