[Note: I'm not even getting riled about the ridonkulous reffing and outcome of a certain sporting event earlier this evening. Because it didn't happen. Game 1 is Sunday night and the rules of this series are simply that the Wings have to win 4 of 6 games compared to the 3 of 6 the Sharks must win to clinch. Because Bettman's Band of Asshat Zebras screwed Detroit over yet again, and I'm not dignifying it with anger. Or a response. I'm not. Really. . . Asshats.]
Anyway. An amazing thing happened today.
If you’ve been reading recently, you know that I’ve been slugging it out with the damned Weight Watchers scale, and said scale has essentially kicked me, beaten me, taunted me and done everything short of Tyson-ing my ear. But I told the scale to kiss my ever-so-slowly-diminishing ass and worked every good decision possible this week. . . I tracked points. I hit the gym numerous times. I ordered the salad. I packed my own lunch.
And at the end of the Week O’ Reckoning? I finally hit the 15-pound milestone I’ve been struggling with for so long.
Freaking. Yay. Me.
I’m not going to lie and say it wasn’t an overwhelming relief to step on the scale and see that 1 + 1 = 2 this week, instead of Pi (or pie) or whatever the bloody hell it’s been totaling lately. Work + smart choices = results, and it felt damn good. Thank god all is right with the world again.
But believe it or not, that wasn’t the amazing part. The “are you sitting down?” moment came earlier today, when I still didn’t know what numbers would flash at me tonight. I’ve picked up a temporary admin job with Time Out Chicago, and one of the benefits of working a part-time gig for some really cool people is that they’ve been flexible enough to let me set my own hours. In fact, many of the staff members regularly work a 10a-6p shift, so starting later in the day — basically the holy grail of office schedules for someone as allergic to mornings as I am — would be completely and totally okay.
Under normal circumstances, I’d have wished for the agility to turn a cartwheel over this news. But rather than plot my post-rush-hour commute and leisurely wake-up times, do you know what I did? I began figuring out which days I could shift my schedule UP by a few hours to be able to make a 5:30 or 6:30 evening water aerobics class.
Did everyone get that? My friends have to rock/paper/scissors to see who gets stuck waking my lazy ass up during group weekends and I just voluntarily suggested coming in at 8am two days a week. Not because that’s when the job starts, but because it was my own insane idea. Sure, that might not sound early to most people, but I’ve been sleeping college student (or vampire bat) hours for 18 months now. Agreeing to come in at 8 is the equivalent of a normal person taking on a 2am start to her day. . .
All because I didn’t want to give up my workouts.
The fact is I’ve become a total water aerobics slut in these past few weeks — my favorite class being Aqua Blast (higher-intensity cardio and more dynamic movements for 60 minutes), but Aqua Mix (same time, more emphasis on strength training and targeted movements) offers a nice bit of variety on Mondays. Honestly, I never thought I’d enjoy exercise — it’s been a nemesis for as long as I can remember, and I can’t put this feeling to words any better than I did in a recent FGG post:
Exercise and I have never been good friends. Like many fat girls I’ve met over the years, my gym class experiences were always a torment, and I gravitated toward friends who were more likely to pass time playing cards or watching 90210 reruns than starting a pick-up game of basketball or soccer. Between the sweat, the beet-red face, and the fact that every movement was a struggle, most workouts I’ve tackled as an adult have been faced with gritted teeth and an eagle eye on the clock’s second hand. So when I skeptically accompanied a new weight-loss friend to her fitness center several years ago, I expected to grind through my guest-pass meetings with both treadmill and trainer before scampering back to the safety of my couch – or at least my Tae-Bo videos and closed blinds.
The minute we walked into Galter Life Center, however, the smell of pool chlorine greeted me like an old friend. As a direct result of my Pavlovian response to water of any kind, I walked out of the gym that day with a membership contract and began working out regularly. But for some reason, I never set foot in the pool – the very thing that sold me on joining — until last Friday. Years after previously abandoning my membership and gaining back the weight I’d lost, I put every fear and excuse aside and joined my best friend in the pool for my first-ever water aerobics class . . . and it was love at first splash.
- April 8, 2010
So the girl who adores sleep and hates to exercise — who could happily hit the snooze button for 3 hours at a time and who used to cry the night before the school’s P.E. semester started — that girl just chose the gym over sleep. Fitness over forty winks, and swimming over slumber. For those of you keeping score, this may indeed be a sign of the apocalypse.
So there it is. I didn’t think anything would make me feel better than finally passing that elusive 15-pound marker, but damned if this didn’t do it. The crazy thing is, I do believe I used to hang out with this gym-rat girl and her wacky priorities — and I’ve missed her.
