Be The Inspiration

Now that my body is 2.5 years into its transformation I’m experiencing a new change. Once diagnosed with Hashimoto's the weight loss was shockingly fast, now after a year of a consistent body weight I feel my strength and stamina increasing in leaps and bounds.

My body amazes me, it’s this wondrous machine that constantly morphs and fills me with awe and amazement. Sure last year my body decided to fall apart and send me into an emotional spiral of anxiety and depression, that was ‘wondrous’ too, but more like a – what the fuck is going on with you – wondrous. Now I’m pushing hard and getting stronger and much to my enjoyment discovering inspiration from an endless fountain of awesomeness - and that fresh spring of power is ME!

Several weeks ago while plowing through my Tuesday spinning class I approached my scheduled breaking point…the body wrecking hill climb. For months I visualized Swason powering through her marathon training or Sweets calling out to me “Just a little further, you are so strong!” to pump a droplet of inspiration into my melting body but that day I did not call upon my virtual cheerleaders, that day I thought, “My legs are amazing, they are strong, and not only CAN I do this, but I have done it and I am AWESOME!” That day I became my own inspiration, my body, my soul, my tenacity is what inspired me, and continues to keep my adventure legs pushing stronger and further.

I try to remember how remarkable my powerful body is especially when my eyes fall to the areas of my skin that are scarred from the previous 40 years of body noncompliance. It sucks, and I don’t want to hate my body (I never did when I was larger), but I do have feelings of being cheated by biochemistry. Sure I could pay thousands of dollars for plastic surgery to remove the sagging elephant skin on my legs and tummy (I have stopped looking at my butt, I just like to assume it is juicy and full), but really shouldn’t I get my stupid dead tooth fixed first? Or maybe I should use that cash (that I don’t have) for something fun like a trip to Bali… ya see how that wrinkly skin doesn’t seem so bad anymore… ahhhh Bali.

Recently when a wave of body ughhhhh wafted over me I immediately signed up for a beginners stand up paddle board class and I killed it! I flew past those perfectly flawless skinned chicks and was the prized pupil, garnering praise from the instructor as well as my co-paddlers. My body does things, strong things, difficult things, and I know for certain that one hour of stand up paddle boarding is far superior to one saggy wrinkled tummy. Continuing on my strong body love-fest I did something last week that I have NEVER done before, I purchased a two piece athletic “bathing costume” (feels weird calling it a bathing suit). Even though my middle parts have not felt the warmth of direct sun since the age of 3 I decided to do it – buy an athletic sports bra swimming top and a cute pair of swimmy shorts so that my next venture out on the rental board will be a triumph for both my body and my head – crap I’m gonna need some SPF 70.

Waiting For the Phone to Ring

I placed my call for help to three head shrinkers and now I impatiently await a reply and hopefully a purgefest of all this gray goopyness.

As I wait I have taken a few steps to stem back the tide of emotional malaise and promote forward movement:

1 – I removed ALL Adele tunes from my ipod, damn that woman knows how to poke at a sore spot, and I replaced her tracks with The Olympic Theme. I pity the person who can feel stagnant when those trumpets blow; glad I haven’t gotten to that point yet.

2- I’m back at the gym, “they” say that being active organically stimulates your endorphins. I don’t know about that but I do know that for an hour my hatred of my Boot Camp instructor gives my emotional overload a new target of obsession.

3- I made a very adult decision last night to NOT buy a brownie and drink the fancy beer that is store housed in my fridge – even though I wanted it badly. I have never been an emotional eater or drinker so I thought I shouldn’t start now, one less thing to discuss with the head shrinker.  Even though I was able to fend off the urge to engage my digestive system to numb out my head, I did hit up Zappos and bought four pairs of shiny black 4” heels. Don’t judge readers, I’m SICK…. I have to self soothe somehow.

However even after laying all this powerful groundwork I still  find myself slowly releasing big soft heavy wet tears onto my desktop each time I read a loving text, email, and/ or Facebook comment from my so supportive pals. Crap I don’t even need that sentimental stimulus; I was tearing up at the Korean deli yesterday afternoon ordering a tuna wrap. NOBODY should be crying when ordering a tuna wrap, that is most pathetic. Now I am totally regretting that brownie decision, a brownie would never allow such a public display of unhappiness.

A Quickie

Just a little check in and update:

I am finally owning this newly revved up thyroid as well as my new body. As of this morning I have dropped over 10% of my body weight…hold it… what?! Yep the good old thyroid is chugging along after 40 years of deep slumber – way to go thyroid!

The YMCA is killing me softly with their change in schedule. The Y-guys have tested my fortitude by changing ALL three of my weekly classes, however they do not know the power of Swason’s motivational afternoon texts or the incentive put forth by the promise of one of her “winners only” home cooked meals – losers stay at home.

Talking about winners - this will only be news to persons who spend less than than 4 minutes with me - we WON the Olympic ticket raffle!!! Yep we won the lottery to purchase Opening Ceremonies tickets to London 2012. This was a huge win thanks to the all loving Zeus and Athena, for only .13% of ticket buyers were granted the opportunity to plop down a few thousand bucks to attend the ceremonies and Mom and I are now part of that .13% - USA USA USA (Hail Britannia as well). Next up 13 months of pre Olympic blog postings.

And since we are on topic of winners and the YMCA I would like to publicly report that I DO NOT punk out during my most hated work out, Boot Camp. I may be in the lower portion of ‘fit level’ but I do everything (even if modified) and remain jogging ON THE TRACK even when my feet are mysteriously turned to cement blocks encased in lead while other THIN people sneak back into the workout room through the back door. Yeah you people are PUNKS and losers; they would never get dinner at Swason’s Astoria Roof Top Café. WINNING!!!!

Mondays at 5:30pm, I DOMINATE YOU!

It has taken 3.5 months but I have finally reached the pinnacle of super success in my YMCA Mondays at 5:30pm “High Low Step Class”. This past Monday I owned that step routine, so much so that I even placed a RISER under my platform. Yes – the woman with the long and tumultuous relationship with stairs actually RAISED her step and did not as much as waiver when the pull of gravity reared its unforgiving powers of persuasion. Also I actually remembered to take a shot off my inhaler BEFORE class (allergy induced asthma), which apparently really ups my game. Who knew that full lung capacity could make such a huge difference in stamina?*So there I was, pole position, owning the front of class, smirking on the inside as two uber skinny ladies turned crimson and sulked off into the corners. I know rejoicing in the pain of others is not very nice (yet it is very German – see schadenfreude), but besides being able to breathe the one other thing that surprisingly keeps my feet a- movin’ is being better than somebody – no matter how old or feeble. I RULE YOU!

Of course in hindsight I should have seen it coming … I mean really, can’t a chunkster grab a break? During stretch my Monday instructor sadly announced that our small clan of High Low Steppers was being disbanded in two weeks time to make room for ANOTHER Zumba class… what the what???!!! Damn you trendy Latin Queens YMCA members and your insatiable desire to pop and lock. Now I’m going back to the bottom of the pack, AND in a class that requires coordination and grace…ughhhh.

Feeling dejected I feverishly texted Swason bemoaning my grievance towards this Zumba ridiculousness. Swason who is the original competitor (backstroke dominator) informed me at once that I would NOT be at the back of the Zumba pack for it is not the High Low Step Class that I dominate, but the TIME SLOT that is my bitch. Therefore according to Swason (a well seasoned teller of truths) no matter what class is scheduled for Mondays at 5:30pm I will RULE that room.

Carpe Zumba!

Stop Hating On My Lady Parts

Sadness, Perky Bottoms is on a medical leave of absence from the YMCA and while she’s off cooling her heals I am stuck with a substitute instructor that… um… is a douche bag. This interim fitness dude is the same guy who teaches all the hard core boot camp classes and other random sweat till you vomit your right lung through your left nostril nonsense – but ahem…. Pardon et vous, this is a step class so maybe DROP the incessant drill sergeant barking son, OK?

On top of his abrasive bug dog demeanor this guy is also one of my least favorite types of Gays, he is the woman hating gay. Not only does he hate woman he assumes that we also hate ourselves and secretly wish were hard bodied, fully waxed, with a 9 inch schlong throbbing between… ok you get it. I’ve experienced these Gays before at other gyms, they attempt to motivate by yelling at a room full of women, “You don’t want those hips!!!”, “Summer is coming soon, work off that ass ladies!!”, “Pull those arms in closer, you want to lose that chest”. HOLD UP! REALLY? Why would I EVER want to lose my money makers? These round soft spots are my parts that make me a woman, and true though I may not be the preferred dish on the majority of American Males’ menus the discerning connoisseurs that ARE worshiping at this temple would be sorely remiss if I lost my lady lumps.

I am all for getting to a place where each individual feels their best, for some that is flat and hard, and for others it’s curvy and soft – or any place on the spectrum in between. I’m also fine with an instructor utilizing GENDER NEUTRAL verbiage to target body parts, but to listen to a man screaming at a room of woman for an hour about how much they all must HATE their unattractive womanly bodies, and if you didn’t you should now, makes me want to smother this smug tiny tot between my two heaving breasts.

Yoga Ain’t Ready For This Jelly

On Friday nights when I’m not out kicking up a rumpus I’ve committed myself to FAST walking 2 miles on the track and an hour of Family Yoga at the Y.

Last Friday was only my second appearance at Family Yoga but I was feeling rather confident, I mean sure those 7 year olds may be limber but I got focus and my OHMing rocks– eat it kids.

Our class is headed by a very sweet compact Chinese woman who quietly guides us into postures with instructions such as “Pace yor hans on yor ties”. I know it is awful (well awful awesome) but I LOVE it every time she says ‘ties’.

This past Friday we began by perching our bottoms on a firm foam brick, crossing our legs and sitting tall and relaxed. This I got. I sat with my shoulders down, head up, chest out, clear mind, while Miss. Susie circulated around the class of fidgety children adjusting their posture. Once again kids – big deal so you can put your foot behind your head – I can SIT – I rule this class.

Miss. Susie finally arrived at my mat. As she stood at my back she gently laid a soft hand on my left shoulder, leaned in and quietly said, “You should be sitting on a brick”. I turned my head over my shoulder and with a cocked eyebrow I responded, “I am.

”YES my bottom is THAT luscious that I engulfed the ENTIRE BRICK!

Miss. Susie was mortified, I was not. She apologized profusely, stammering, “I don’t see… I didn’t know… you… umm… yes… now I see… I don’t want to embarrass.” I wriggled on my brick as I laughed, trying to convince my mini yogi that all was well. We continued our death match of I’m Sorry – That’s Ok verbal table tennis as the class sat in studied silence watching the insanity unfold until I finally nodded, pointed towards my junky trunk, and said “I have a lot of cushion back there”. Miss. Susie assuming I was exhibiting self-deprecating behavior jumped at this opportunity to bolster my tender ego, “Oh no that’s GOOD”. Shockingly I responded, “I know”

I Love to Hate You

Welcome to the 2^nd full week of my YMCA membership where I believe I’m blossoming into a very well rounded masochist. I’ve belonged to gyms before and have always enjoyed it, sure I’m not a muscle head or a lithe aerobics master with boundless spring and energy, but I push my sweaty ass around laughing between my dying gasps of life. I can think of a bucket load of things that are so much worse than my gym time, actually after experiencing the ‘prep’ for my colonoscopy 2 weeks ago I have a whole new gauge as to what is really not THAT bad. However there is something about going to this YMCA that creates within me a wonderful cocktail of hatefulness and joy, and isn’t that the core of masochism?
Fun House Mirrors – I know there are mirrors created in this world to lull me into a false reality of my body proportions. There are retail dressing rooms equipped with such magical looking glasses that I’ve not wanted to redress for I felt as though I should be sharing this wondrous nakedness with the entire city - I’m a freakin’ Venus! However at the Y, these sadists have installed the reverse of those wonderful mental rainbow inducing mirrors. For the past 2 weeks of class I’ve been taken by surprised to see this woman in the mirror who is wearing my work out gear but is at least 4 inches shorter and totally round, WTF that is SO not me! I didn’t look like that when I left home. It’s odd though because when I look at the other women in the class then look at their reflections their representations are spot on….hmmmm must be the angle.

Perky Perfection – My instructor has the body of a graceful ballerina combined with a rock hard marathon runner. I am confident that her boundless energy can only be the result of a fist full of coke (please just let me live with that delusion) and if it wasn’t enough that she is perfectly perfect physically she is a professional pastry chef… right of course you are. However the other day there was a sliver of light when during our stretch she blurted out to the class, “Ughhh my skin is so dry, it’s disgusting”. For at that exact moment while trying to reach the tips of my fingers to my shins I thought, “You know what, my skin feels rather fantastic – I RULE YOU INSTRUCTOR!”

Random Gawkers – OK I get that this is the Y and because I’m saving cash I have to deal with crap that wouldn’t happen at a real gym that cost some bucks. Well I mean I am TRYING to get that this is the Y and unlike the gym where adults are there for one thing and one thing only – working it – at the Y I’m sharing the space with a multitude of users. Hi piano class! Howdy Chinese learners! Check it out, 7 year olds learning to play the recorder! Now if you all could just stay put in your classrooms and NOT loiter in the doorway of the studio gawking at my red faced sweaty mess we all could get along. Or YOU GUYS I can see your reflection in the mirror, stop leering through the window at the back of the studio and keep running the track! The other night a guy actually had the balls to stand at the front of the class checking us out (?) and after a few seconds the instructor said, “Are you here for class” he calmly looked at her and answered “Oh no, I’m not here for class” and remained leaning against the mirrored wall, well until the instructor pointedly told him to leave.

So that’s just a few of my observations from the past fortnight but oddly enough none of those bitterly annoying things appear to inhibit my level of enjoyment. I get a kick out of attending class and I feel better for it even if the process does tend to piss me off.

mas·och·ism gratification gained from pain, deprivation, degradation, etc., inflicted or imposed on oneself, either as a result of one's own actions or the actions of others.