Over three weeks into the new year and guess how much weight I’ve lost?
Not one god forsaken ounce.
I know these things take time but really? Not even one lousy pound? I’m surprised I didn’t go into some type of sugar deprived coma with the abrupt overnight cessation of martinis alone. I’m actually doing quite well and I know that 23 days aren’t enough to gauge any type of progress, really. I’d like to think that I’m not losing weight because I’m building muscle. That sounds good, doesn’t it? I’m on the stinking treadmill every night holding on for dear life while listening to “rad runnerz trax” or some shit I downloaded from iTunes in a lame-o effort to get motivated. My coordination level doesn’t lend itself well to that medieval torture machine but I’m trying. I’m waiting for my sweatpants to somehow get caught in the belt and consequently fling me like a human slingshot into the hallway just as Johnny is coming downstairs.
I’m eating right. Small portions. Lots of veggies and leafy greens. Almonds and apple snacks. Lots of water. As I mentioned before every night I borderline slip into a coma when I crawl into bed. I’m also spending a LOT more time in the bathroom but for just this once, I’ll spare you the details. I’m steaming broccoli and cauliflower. I’m drinking green tea and taking vitamins. I AM WALKING THE WALK, people.
At the peak of my frustration last weekend a casual acquaintance told me about a circuit training group she belongs to and invited me as her guest to tag along for a class. Insert record scratching off the turntable noise here. This, my friends, was the missing link.
You long time readers may remember my foray into Boot Camp a few years ago. It turned out to be one of the best decisions I’d ever made. I lost weight and gained muscle and made life long friends. I figured anything is worth a look, right? It’s clear that my haphazard approach to exercise wasn’t really panning out. So, I said sure and off we went this last Tuesday. As I followed her into the parking lot that evening I started to get nervous. It was a shot-out old warehouse down a dimly lit street in a not-so-great area of town. As I manuevered my car around the gravel parking lot dodging watery potholes I caught a glimpse of some hooded figures lurking around the front door under a spastically flickering lightbulb. My first thought was “THE FIRST RULE OF FIT CLUB IS YOU DO NOT TALK ABOUT FIT CLUB”.
Seriously. It looked waaaaaaaaaaay dodgy.
As we walked inside and my eyes adjusted to the bright lights, I spotted a trash can in the center of the room. It had a sign taped to it that read, “INSERT VOMIT HERE”.
Awwww, hells yes…I’m home. For the next hour I did squats. I lunged. I did push-ups and I ran and then ran some more. I did 100 sit-ups. I was also introduced to some sort of Satanical practice called the “burpee”, which clearly was just made up to make people barf and lose their will to live. I almost did both. I was so sore when I got home that I could barely lower myself onto the couch and when a sneeze surprised me later that night, it almost brought tears to my eyes.
Yesterday morning found me rolling out of bed and crawling to the bathroom until I was able to brace myself on the sink to rise up on my two wobbly legs. Holy shit balls was I sore. So what did I do? I went back for more last night. Weights, bench presses and kettlebells. Running. Jumping jacks. More laughter than tears combined with a whole lot of sweat. I joined on the spot. I called my hoodie-wearing instructor “the real Slim Shady” and managed to earn myself a couple extra laps. Just like old times! Now if I just had my pals Brooks and Doyle beside me. Well, in their honor I will continue. I will sweat, swear and audibly fart just for you guys. I WILL GO ON.
I don’t need a clean well lit fitness center with a smoothie bar. I don’t need “hot” yoga. I don’t need a bunch of classmates wearing matching Old Navy capris and cami’s. I need a dirty-ass dark warehouse filled with people that smell bad and one in particularly motivational fella that will encourage you to push yourself until you excel and meet expecations higher than you could ever set for yourself.
Or you may just vomit.
Either way, as they say, you’re lapping everyone who is sitting on their couch. Look out 45, I’m totally going to kick your ass.