For the past six or so years, my greatest weight loss efforts have been done in conjunction with preparing for a new surrogacy journey. A lower BMI means better chances of being approved by REs and later, better chances for transfer success. With each crash ending of the three surrogacy journeys of the past few years, I have given fate/the Universe/whoever the finger by immediately dropping whatever weight loss effort I was doing and running for the first tub of ice cream I could find. And cookies. Lots of those.
I know the psychology but have been too lazy to do anything about it. Yes, I need to lose weight for general health and not just for surrogacy and blah blah blah. Whatever. DO YOU KNOW HOW GOOD COOKIES ARE?
There is a recurring theme here in these early days of my sparkly new blog. I am doing things for me. I’m writing for me, going gangsta and getting a tattoo for me, and now I am getting healthier for me.
Still – that doesn’t mean I have to be enthusiastic about not kissing cookies. I know that I will be happy in the long run when there is a one-digit number on the tag of my jeans, but I am a short run, instant gratification kind of girl. Being thin tomorrow is appealing, but not quite as much as eating cookies today. I will be writing here sometimes about the pure and utter agony that is losing weight, and I’m sure I will make the posts funny in a self-deprecating sort of way. But there will be no chipper, Richard Simmons-esque motivational platitudes or calorie-by-calorie dictations of what I ate (unless I ate cookies, because those are always newsworthy). More power to people who write about their weight loss in that way, but quite frankly, I find it a little bit creepy and a lotta bit boring when it goes down like that.
However, because the method of torture I have chosen is P90X, I will most certainly discuss some instances in which I have broken my ass and other assorted body parts. I sort-of got suckered into it. A surro-buddy of mine jumped on the P90X train a couple of years ago and had astounding results. Now she is like a chocolate Richard Simmons and sprinkles P90X glitter all over Facebook. Last week, she challenged me to do 30 days of P90X, betting that by the end of it, I would be so in love with it that I would WANT to do the last 60.
“But Latashia,” I whined, “I have seen those damned infomercials. My body hurts just watching them. I should start with something über remedial, like the gospel aerobics guy on YouTube.”
Then she did some sort of fitness leprechaun trickery on me, and the next thing I know, her copy of P90X is sitting on my doorstep.
Frank is doing it with me because he said he wants to “get my basketball legs back under me and redefine the cuts in my arms and abs.” WHAT THE HELL EVER. I hate him. He’s gained 25 lbs in the ten years that he’s been out of the Army and I’m all, “But WHERE THE HELL DID IT GO? You gain 25 pounds and it’s invisible. I gain 25 pounds and there is a small African village stuffed under my shirt.”
Today was Day 1, and the focus was on the upper body. It was tough work, but we were both able to keep up, by going at our own paces, of course. For some exercises, that meant doing only 1-3 reps when The Tony and his backup dancers were blazing through 30+. Even Frank couldn’t do more than a few reps for some moves, so I didn’t feel quite so bad when I punked out after barely squeaking through just one diamond push-up.
Afterwards, we also had to do the Ab-Ripper X routine, which is a 16-minute string of WTF? ab work. We’re not going to even discuss that one today. Let’s just say for now that I seem to have only marshmallow fluff where there should be abdominal muscles. But I got through it, for whatever it was worth. I mostly just laid on the floor, grunted, and attempted to do the ab work, but not really succeeding. Hopefully that will improve over time. I hope not to Stay-Puft forever.
Today I feel good post-work out, but I’m quite sure that was because it was an upper body day, and my upper body has always had more strength than my lower. I expect though, that by the end of the week I will wish I had a Segway to get around.
Motivation and support in any form – even the jazz hands Richard Simmons kind – is welcome. May the chipper YOU CAN DO IT chatter drown out the siren call of cookies.