So this morning my friends R and J were waiting for me at the gym. I was still high from last night, and even higher since I stepped on the scale this morning and saw I had shed THREE POUNDS this week after kicking sugar!
Still, trepidation set in as this was about to be my first step class ever.
I don’t do well at classes. I try one, thinking it will be fun and a great workout and I get lost in the choreography and end up being very discouraged, never looking back.
The first 25 minutes were pretty good. I fumbled a couple times but nothing major, and I actually was thinking about Kimberle and her jazzercise and how much fun that would be. J told me she used to do jazzercise but that it’s not offered here in Pleasantville.
Which might be a good thing because…
The last 35 minutes of class my brain fired my legs to go opposite ways and even though there was a Motherbumper look-a-like in front of me to mimic (she was obviously a regular), I royally sucked. Still, R and J were first-timers as well and doing their best to keep going so I did too.
By the end I was really worn out and ready for a good old fashioned hose-down. I was soaked – the sign of a good workout I suppose, and despite looking like a dork in some spots, I’m pretty proud of myself.
Course, I could have just stayed home and done this:
I’m writing this totally high on the evening. After setting out stuff for dinner while Daren BBQ’d, I decided I wasn’t hungry. I was craving, WAIT FOR IT: EXERCISE.
WHAT THE WHAT?
Lemme back up a couple days – Haley, Leslie, Lotus and I were gabbing on Twitter and I forget which 2 or 3 of them came up with the hashtag #HotAssPact2009 but basically, each of them was giving up something that they loved in order to gain one very hot ass by BlogHer.
Ms. Cheaty Monkey herself, is a Chai Tea ADDICT to the maxitude. She is giving up her usual Starbucks Sin. It’s causing headache withdrawals that I could certainly sympathize with yesterday as I was KO’d with a doozy.
Lovely Lotus is giving up the MOONSHINE, er, alcohol. Moonshine = Muffintop and Lotus is determined to lose 20 lbs. I only WISH I had 20 to lose.
My favorite West Coast Hottie (who I doubt needs any help in the weight loss department, Flingers with the Zingers, is giving up sugar AND processed carbs. Girl. is. crazy.
Me?
Sugar.
Sugar and I are hot, nasty lovers. We crave each other – seek each other out – have torrid steamy affairs when no one is around to judge the pull of our love.
I quit running back in August/September when we moved to the crapartment. I’d love to blame all kinds of factors but the truth of the matter is I was being lazy. I had lost Homie G to the move (we both moved around the same time) and she really was an amazing driving force that got my ass moving on the darkest of days.
Since we moved to Pleasantville, I have been in a full-on disgusting all-day-every-day make-out session with sugar. Dude. It’s gross. Like the biggish bags of M&M peanuts? Gone in one sitting. Me, jammie-clad, searching for any kind of sugar late at night – the kid’s puddings, peanut butter on toast with cinnamon and sugar, a bowl of cereal here and there….oh HELLO FAT ASS.
Instead of losing weight with the It’s On Like Donkey Kong challenge, I gained. Shocker! The kicker is I have been going to the gym and seeing a new trainer (who is entirely too soft on me – I must discipline myself). So for over a month I’ve been working out, and eating like mad and of course, I gained 5 freaking pounds.
Yes, I’m kicking myself once again.
So. Pushing my way into #HotAssPact2009 is where I will get daily accountability. Tuesday was Day One. I did great – no sugar.
Day Two – one cupcake killed my resolve mid-day. Day Three – I sent the remaining cupcakes to Thomas’ class, and spent the day down for the count with a horrible migraine BUT no sugar. None. Ouchie. Head. Hurt. Withdrawal?
TODAY was Day Four: I started my day with fresh cherries and sugar-free vanilla yogurt. I drove into London and ended up having a Gyros on Wholewheat Pita loaded with veggies, feta and tzatziki. I had an apple late afternoon and decided today was the day I would start running again.
So I left Daren and the kids to eat together and hit the gym. Having gained my muffintop back, I have been really nervous about running at the new gym. I don’t know why, it’s not like I wasn’t WAY worse off the first time I started but it’s a small town – I really didn’t want anyone to see me.
I told myself to stop being such a stupid idiot and go.
Going in, I wasn’t sure if I’d find the balls to actually run. I mean, I’ve had the intention to run before and then chickened out. LAME. Where is the brave girl I once was?
The main gym was mostly empty, but I ventured into the women’s only section anyway. I was feeling sheepish when I saw the only two women in there were together, but I thought I’d better get over it – they probably could care less who I am or what I’m doing. In the women’s only there are 3 treadmills: one against the wall and the other two right beside that. Of course one of the girls was on the middle one. It’s funny, I imagine guys in a urinal crowding situation when I think of this and I’m all like should I go for the wall treadmill or the outer one?
I went for the wall. ‘BALLS TO THE WALL,’ I thought.
I started up the treadmill at 3.5 like I always do, and right away vowed to start running at 4 minutes in.
Tick tock.
3:30 went by…3:35…. so I got a song ready that I remembered I love to run to:
Yeah I know. And mine? Is the Kanye West version (Stronger). Shuddap.
So 4 minutes came along and I punched in 5.5. I ran. It left gooooooood.
My first goal was to run for 1 minute, but I made it to 2.
I walked for 2, ran for 2 more, then RAN FOR FOUR FREAKING MINUTES. It was like getting right back on a bicycle.
I did the walk/run thing for about 30 minutes (it’s hard to tell cuz the treadmills quit after 20 minutes which is STUPID, so I had to re-start the thing.) I was watching distance anyway, not really timing myself. After some quick math, I figured I could probably do 5K total.
And I DID.
Holy freaking frack, I DID IT. My FIRST time back to running, and OMG I did FIVE FREAKING KILOMETRES!
Having not seen my trainer in two weeks, I asked to leave a note:
“Dear J, Karen is BACK BABY. (Call me?) I ran 5K tonight. (holy crap.)”
I’m HIGH.
And I made it through the day without sugar.
Sweet Deals.
p.s. You can join the #HotAssPact2009 on Twitter or join us in our new forum:
p.p.s. I did a one minute plank after I was so high.
p.p.p.s. Yes, I remembered to stretch.
p.p.p.p.s. I’m going to a step class at 9 a.m. tomorrow with 2 friends. Can’t back outta that one!
Holy shit my daughter is annoying. It’s great that she wants to watch Max for me all the time, especially since these hangovers are killer. But the whiny demands are piercing my very soul! No wonder I don’t want to spend any time with that child. She sounds just like my mother. Bossy, overbearing girl is going to drive her brother either: into the arms of a nagging wife who will emasculate what’s left of him within the 1st year; or he’ll be a serial killer. Super. I need another drink to drown out her tea party with that blobby kid from down the street.
Loonette’s mother’s MySpace (Big Comfy Couch):
WHY am I always finding dollies and toys under these damn couch cushions? This is the third vacuum this year that has died from trying to clean up this mess. What did I do to get such a weirdo kid? My sister said clowns were creepy but she doesn’t know the half of it – I basically gave birth to one. And what is with all of Loonette’s rules? She performs a high-speed clean-up routine called the “Ten-Second Tidy”. If, however, there is no mess made, then it is called the “Ten-Second Untidy, Tidy” (where Loonette has to make a mess and then clean up afterwards). If the mess was already cleaned up, then it is called the “Ten-Second Silly” (where Loonette has to be silly for 10 seconds). If Loonette did not make a mess but Molly did, then Molly has to do the “Ten-Second Tidy” with Loonette’s help. I’d like 10 seconds of her not rolling around on the floor like a lumpy beach ball. Or 10 seconds of her not talking to that weirdo Major Bedhead down the street. I guess I shouldn’t have ‘Major Bedheaded’ that Carnie 34 years ago. Having a 34 year old toddler…well you just don’t know what that’s like. There aren’t mommy-groups for people like me.
Caillou’s Mother on Blogspot:
How did I end up being Mommy to such a bald 4 year old? I mean the girl is cute as heck, but Calliou is a conundrum. I guess things would be better if our house didn’t look like a kindergarten class with all the primary colours and if my husband would man up and tell Calliou to stop whining already. I mean at the end of the day, all I want to do is crack open the wine and forget I basically married a giant wussyman. Hopefully Rosie will marry Calliou and straighten him out because clearly, his father is about to run away with the mailman and I can’t afford the therapy it will take to fix Whiny McWhinerpants.
Dora’s Daddy has something to say:
I keep packing her backpack with all the things she would need to explore her way the hell out of here. She is more shrill than my mother-in-law and I’m sick of hearing her repeat everything she says. Damn football headed child. My wife’s beatbox will never be the same. FML
