kick-assed

As my previous post so cleverly (read: lazily) illustrated -- I had a birthday!

I turned 27 on 2/7. Which seemed only mildly cool until I started to figure out the "magic" birthdays of other members of my family, and realized that not everyone lives to see this numerological milestone. For example, my brother will have to wait until he turns 127 on 12/7. Sorry, Ev.

Anyway -- birthdays are always an excuse for festivity, magic number or not! I definitely dragged the celebrating out for a whole weekend. A weekend full of booze, fried food, and waffles.

And it was glorious!

So after a delicious party-bender, I returned to the gym for my Monday afternoon session with Ron. I was feelin' ok -- a little bloated, maybe, but certainly not hungover.

"Are you ready for me?" Ron asked.

"Sure!" I blithely replied, as I wandered over to the weight room and plunked myself down on the giant rubber exercise ball.

Five minutes later, I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. The muscles in my arms felt like they'd been replaced with waffles.

"Are you sweating maple syrup?" asked the 6-foot talking lobster with Ron's voice.

"I'm dying!" I groaned, and rolled ever so gracefully off the ball and onto the floor. Where I planned to remain until Spring.

"Party too hard?" Ron asked, as he pressed some slightly-less torturous 3lb dumbbells into my hands.

"It was my birthday weekend," I said.

"Ahhhhh . . ." Ron said, as he propped my limp body up against a wall. "Seven reps, you can do it . . . ok, seven more . . ."

Ron was not about to let me off easy, even though I was about to let loose a weekend's worth of junk-food all over his sneakers. I'd had my fun, and now Ron -- and my pathetically uncooperative body -- were going to make me pay for it.

At this moment, I hated Ron. The same hot, prickly, frustrated rage I felt towards every gym teacher and soccer coach I've ever had. Why are you making me do this? I can't! Not today. I can't.

It turns out, I could. And I did. Ron cut the end of the session a little sort and let me off without much of an ab workout. He was probably also afraid that I was about puke all over him. I limped and crawled frantically out of the gym like I was escaping from some sort of POW camp.

Never again, I thought to myself. That SUCKED.

At first, I blamed Ron. Couldn't that bastard cut me a break? It was my birthday . . . er . . . month, after all! I was pissed. And . . . disappointed.

I'd been feeling so good about my little baby-steps of gym progress. Lifting weights and doing crunches had made me feel strong and powerful and capable. Like my body was a well-tuned machine, instead of a doughy sack of insecurities. I was on the road to becoming a stronger, healthier, less insane me . . . and now I was back to square one. Cue the crying and shame eating.

It's taken a little time to shake off the frustration. I'm realizing, though, that getting in shape really takes a certain amount of commitment. I've always rolled my eyes at people who get up at 5am on Christmas Day to get in their workout or whatever . . . but I'll bet those people feel pretty damn good when they're done.

Yes, there are going to be days when my brain says, "Eff it, Tea -- let's skip the gym today. You went yesterday, you can go tomorrow!" Or, "Life sucks, have another beer!" I can choose to listen to that voice -- and there will probably be times when I do -- but there will be consequences. I will feel like ass the next day. My strength training will come to a standstill, and workouts will get harder. I will continue hallucinate that Ron is a giant crustacean.

Basically -- I gotta make a commitment. Which, for a commitment-phobe like moi, is scary shit. But I also need to choose what's more important to me -- feeling good in the long term, or self-gratification in the short term.

Heady stuff, man. And I thought I was just signing on to drop a few pounds for bathing suit season!

This week, I'm gonna get back in the saddle and commit to the plan. Four strength training workouts a week -- 1 with Ron, 3 on my own. That's 2 Upper Body Days, 2 Lower Body Days. I'm also gonna be brave and hit up the Sunday morning yoga class. I'm gonna include my Couch to 5k training sessions as warm-ups before my strength training sessions.

I don't have to do everything perfectly, but I have to make the effort. Time makes things easier -- but only if you stick with it!

Sticking with things has never been a strength of mine. But this is all about getting stronger -- in every sense of the word.

the lazy-ass and the 5k: part I

Once upon a time, there were three girls named . . . er . . . Miss T., Miss C. and Miss M. They worked together all day (and sometimes all night) at a Big Nameless Company in a City Near You. These lovely ladies were sassy, stylish and awesome, even in the face of adversity, hardship, and evil sea witches.

Sometimes, they were very busy. And sometimes, they were very bored.

When boredom struck, these three intrepid young ingenues turned to the internets for distraction and entertainment. They started blogs, and stalked other peoples blogs, and obsessively checked boston.com for updates on the outside world.

Miss C. became an internet celebrity.

Miss M. learned 4000 new ways to prepare oatmeal.

Miss T. laughed out loud too much, and often got scolded.

Eventually, the three friends were forced to part ways, but their love of voyeuristically stalking girls much more motivated and physically fit than themselves remained strong. United by their love of shit on the internet, they remained in touch.

One day, in the bitter depths of January, Miss M. sent her fallen comrades a message, reminding them of a pact they'd once made. (well . . . not so much a "pact", as "half-assed pipe-dream". and Miss C. would probably argue that she'd never agree to such crap in the first place -- but whatever).

"Hey guys -- Remember when we talked about running a 5k? Well, I've found the perfect one for us! It's a flat course, with a scenic view -- and there'll be refreshments afterwards!"

At first, Miss T. and Miss C. were a bit hesitant. Miss C. hates running. Miss T. has never actually run anywhere, ever. But the more they pondered the challenge, the more appealing it became. Sort of. And after all, if all those "healthy living" girls could run marathons and whatever -- surely our three heroes could do it too, yeh?

"Miss M. -- you had me at refreshments," replied Miss T.

So the three girls vowed to get themselves in running shape and kick some 5k ass. They have 2 months.

Let the adventure begin!!



Guess what, guys? That's a true story! I know, you were probably thinking it was some sort of Disney princess fairy tale, right? Any minute now, a singing june-bug is gonna come in and teach Miss T. about the importance of hydration while training. And maybe that will happen, if I get dehydrated and delirious enough!

So yeh . . . I'm gonna run a 5k. My two former co-workers have signed on to join me. Anyone else wanna be part of the story?! It'll be awesome -- you might even get to see me cry / throw up!

Seriously -- you should all come join us. Yes you, blog reader. I know who you are, and what you're thinking. And you're thinking, "Oh, heeeelllll no!" Well stop thinking that, and come sign up for the 5k with me. You know you want to.

Anyway --as the story above states -- I've never run before in my life, except to catch a bus or something. And even then . . . .I give up easily. Eh, there'll be another bus . . . sometime. In the meantime, lets just sit on this bench . . . .zzzzzz . . .

Miss M., knowing about my reluctance to move, also sent along the link to this handy Couch to 5k training program. Any exercise program that has the word "couch" in the title is a-ok in my book. Today, as I hit up the gym for a non-trainer sweat session, I decided to put the plan to action.

Week 1, Workout 1 is clearly designed for people who loooove their couches. Like moi. After a "brisk 5 minute warm up walk", you then jog for 60 seconds and walk for 90 seconds. You keep that up for 20 minutes. Then you're done.

Even I found this to be pretty easy.

10 minutes in, I was feeling pretty good. I'll admit, it was a little awkward cranking the treadmill back and forth from "run" speed to "walk" speed every 60 seconds. It only got more lame when some long-legged Olympian hopped on the treadmill next to me and broke into a flat out sprint.

Walking . . . . .jogging! Ok, walking . . . walking . . . jogging! . . . Walking . . .

My grandma could probably have done the walk/jog thing more gracefully. Granted, my grandmother also probably has much better support garments than I. But I digress.

So I was nearly done with Workout 1, when my trainer, Ron, wanders over and gives me the thumbs up. Yes, hi Ron. Good to see you too. My arms, shoulders and back still aren't speaking to you, though -- so eff off.

I realized Ron was probably expecting me to go bench-press some shit after this lame treadmill routine, so I shamefully dragged myself over to the free-weight area and actually completed a decent set of squats and lunges.

Ron says I have "perfect form" while squatting. I know. I know.

After 20 diligent minutes of bobbing around with the giant exercise ball and stretching, I scampered the hell out of there. Mission accomplished! Workout 1, in the bag!

Two months is not a long time to go from lazy-ass to runner, but I'm keepin' the faith. If things are looking bad come race day, I'm sure a whistling cricket or a dancing crab will come to my aid with some golden sneakers or something.

Cuz that's how fairy tales work, yo.