I've been working out, hard, for months now. I'm fully addicted to my Nike Plus, my perpetually sweat-smocked black armband is busting through the velcro with overuse. The bottoms of my running shoes are threadbare, I never go more than a day without running anywhere from 5 to 15 kilometres.
Corey's coerced me into the gym, this last month, and though I've occasionally thrown small temper tantrums (because dude, do you know how intimidating it can be to work out with a man who can lift four times what you can? With two or three fingers?) - I am resigned to kicking the crap out of my arms, my shoulders, my poor abdomen. We're doing boot camp once a week, and again - I give it my all. We've even changed our diet, and yes - I've started eating (free range, organic and local) meat again.
I subsist very largely on cottage cheese, tuna, and fraudulent sugar. Any "real" food (ie. crusty Italian sandwiches, popcorn, chocolate, wine, OMG) is reserved for one day a week. I've never in my life been this disciplined and focused on my fitness routine. I've worked out in patches throughout my life, for sure, but Starbucks oat fudge bars were never out of my peripheral vision, I'd never given up late night snacking with any degree of seriousness.
But I'm serious now, this exercise and diet stuff has replaced Strongbow and debauchery and globetrotting as my project du jour and I've been committed. I've been expecting serious results.
***
I've purposely waited for three full months before getting on the scale. I logged over 115 km in October, 130 km in September, over 100 in October. Things feel firmer and I think my face is narrower and there might be a semblance of something firm poking through the chicken fat on my upper arm? I am sure I've lost at least 10 pounds of fat. For sure, right?
I step on the scale and look down and my heart sinks into the floorboards and hurtles down into the banana slugs, somewhere under the basement.
I weigh 150 pounds.
I have gained 8 pounds since I started dieting and working out frantically.What. The. Hell.
I feel pinpricks on my eyes. I feel like I've studied my ass off for months and been rewarded with an F. I feel like I've messed it up, and more than anything I feel like inhaling a gigantic slice of cherry cheesecake. Because obviously, it doesn't matter, right?
***
Corey and I have a slightly heated discussion: look in the mirror, he says, you can see changes, right?
I guess, I say, but what the hell? I don't care if I'm ripped to shreds if I am going to weigh 200 pounds!
And he rolls his eyes a bit like I am being a dramatic, delicate little flower and of course I am being dramatic. The situation calls for it.
I am a woman, and the scale is kind of tied to me, I have to seriously teach myself that it doesn't matter. What matters is the way my jeans fit (they're looser), how my stomach hangs (it doesn't, it's pretty taut), how much weight I can lift with my left arm (honestly I kinda don't care at all, but some people care about strength, right?).
I know all this, I do, but in the meantime, I'm going to throw out my scale. I'm not going to let this weight gain stop me from doing what I'm doing. But I have to admit it's disconcerting to see numbers jump up when you expect the opposite.
I'm going to keep chugging along, doing what I'm doing, and eventually I believe I'll have full confidence that this exercise thing is totally working. And that no matter how many sit ups I do, I won't likely reach 200 pounds.
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