Years ago I came to the realization of what it would take for me to really, and for actually lose this weight. Or even be a normal-ish weight and healthy. Ish. To do this I, would need to become something that was an anathema to my first, most conscious self; me as a teenager. The thing that was the bane of my existence, that thing that I hated with the hot fires of the loathing of my heart? A jock. An athlete. A sporty. In my high school, in small-town New Mexico, the jocks were the populars… and they also tended to be the mindless followers, the taunters, the a@@hats, and my enemies. Luckily, when I realized that I needed to become one, I was well out of the HS scene and no longer cared who saw me in a track suit and cross trainers.
I used to be a punk.
Back in my graduating year of 1987, that meant a little different thing that it does today… but not much. I was a serious smoker, loved my Doc Martins, hung out in coffeeshops and wrote angsty poetry. Today it’s possible that I would have leaned a bit more to the Goth or Emo side… but those social categories were not open, back in the day. So I was a punk. An individual, living my individual way… dressing to express my individuality in pretty much the same way that all the other individuals did back then. Wheee!
Fast forward to me cleaning up, straightening out and preparing to serve a mission for my church. The LDS church, and I mention this because my religion factors in heavily to… well… every aspect of my life, including my body and how I feel about it. How I believe that I really SHOULD feel about it. First off, although it torques some people’s hides to hear a Mormon say it… but I am a Christian. I believe in the literal resurrection of Christ, and I also believe that He made it so that every human spirit who has ever been (or will be) housed in a body (saint, sinner and everything in between), will enjoy that same resurrection at some point. This body. Forever. Only in a perfected state. Before I go off on a vast theological tangent, and even if you are an atheist… take a moment to consider. A perfected body. What exactly does THAT mean?
I’ll admit it, I have for as long as I can remember, fought the Hollywood ideal of “perfect.” Fought it, and yet I seem to come back to the same bizarre picture of a seventeen year old, hot body, quasi anorexic as my first-thing-that-pops-into-my-head idea of “perfect.” With perky boobs, did I mention perky boobs?
Sorry. All I’m getting at, is sometimes my stupid ideals of perfect trip me up.
So back to the athletics. I have proved to myself time and time again that I cannot lose weight for someone else. I also cannot lose weight to look good, be treated better, fit cute clothes or for my overall good health. Not motivating enough for me.
But I have discovered that I am a Weight Watchers and exercising MACHINE when it comes to getting all this extra weight out of my way, so that I can do fun stuff. Run longer. Kick higher, and some day have the oompa-doo to kick the living crap out of anyone who would try to hurt me or mine. To that end I have glommed onto my oldest daughter’s morning Kindergarten time slot, to take time for myself to exercise. Starting in the first part of September, I began walking for about 40 minutes while pushing a double stroller stroller and two kids. I have since added running, or if you prefer truth in advertising; slogging.
This time? Is mine. Don’t touch it.
Now that it is getting too cold for the kiddos, I head to the local church house and run/walk the cultural hall/basketball court, with a friend or two. The kids play off to the side.
This morning I added the seventh level of hell to the menu. My neighbor/friend/hairdresser who runs marathons has decided to take those who are interested through a free run of personal trainer agony on Tuesday and Thursday mornings. Today we did rotations of the following tortures: sissy squats, lunges, jump rope, crunches, cheek squeeze, curls, push ups, and a new-to-me version of core strengthening death… a think called “plank.” Don’t ask. I’ll only start crying again. Because I cried like a little girl. Because then we did cardio. And then more rotations. And cardio. And I cried some more. And then we did some ab work.
At this point, I don’t give a flying hoopty-doo what the scale says at my weigh-in tonight. I will limp in there and take whatever number pops up like trooper. Because I am IRON WOMAN! Who, you know… feels like her muscles are made out of soggy bubblegum.