Category: Exercise

This Little Piggy has an Eating Problem

Self-sabotage is my name, and unhealthy eating is my game.

I have decided that, starting tomorrow and continuing through the month of February, I will be giving up complex carbs. I should probably go ahead and give up over-eating.

But first, I had to say goodbye to all of my friends:

Donuts, bagels, sushi…yes, sushi is pretty healthy, but when you eat until you’re full, and then take 3 more bites, it loses its healthfulness.

I’m sitting here right now, having just finished a massive sushi platter, and then followed it with a Panera At Home Broccoli Cheddar Soup. I was full before I even started the soup, but I had already heated it up. In fact, the sushi only happened because I’m at work, and Xander asked me to get him lunch. I ran to the commissary, and then foolishly let myself walk by the sushi kiosk.

Now, I’m too full, and while I’m sitting here thinking, “oh my gut,” I’m debating if I should just sit back and wait to digest all of this, or if I should have one more bite.

Because one more bite will definitely fix the situation!

It won’t. I used to do the same thing when I was pregnant, but with acid reflux. “Oh, my acid reflux! Maybe I should have ice cream, because the Oreos are killing me!”

Step 1: Announce to Terry the Torturer my plan, so that in 3 days when I walk past a bagel and cry longingly, I will be less likely to grab it and cram it into my mouth as fast as possible. Because, if he found out, ooh I would be in so much trouble–which really means an hour of burpees on top of everything else he makes me do that day.

Step 2: Also admit to Terry the Torturer that I have been sabotaging myself these past few months. I know, we had this same talk this summer, when Water Park fried food was working against me. His words: “You work way too hard to sabotage yourself eating that crap.” He’s right. Sadface.

So long, tasty snack friends. Ben, Jerry, I’ll miss you too. But you’re making it too hard to reach my goal. We need a break.

My mouth will miss you, but my waistline will thank me for kissing you all goodbye…and then immediately devouring you.

Ok, my waistline (and scale) can start thanking me tomorrow.

For the Love of Burpees

I have a great trainer. He’s evil.

A good personal trainer is like a good therapist. These days, my trainer is equal parts trainer and therapist, probably because it’s easier for me to text Terry the Torturer and say, “let’s work out,” thank it is to call and try to fit an appointment into my schedule, just to talk to my therapist. Also, Terry throws workouts and threats at me if I don’t contact him first–there aren’t many therapists that threaten you with “Cardio of Death” if you don’t call and set up an appointment. If they exist, I’ve yet to find them.

Now, for the burpees.

Were you aware of the plethora of burpee varieties?! For many months, it was the Spartan Burpee that was the favored torture device. My sassy sarcasm lead to hundreds of spartan burpees. There were Burpees Around the World, which is an adorable way to say, “do burpees the entire distance around the gym’s track.” Then, for funsies, add a broad jump. Or a squat. Or both!

Over the last two weeks, I have had a lot of (justified, in my opinion) excuses for not making time to work out. Terry, of course, has no sympathy. It’s part of what makes him a good fit for me–I have excuses for days, and he won’t accept any of them. Find the time; make the time. It is just that easy, but, gosh, it is just as easy to say, “not today. I have too much work to do.”

The problem with every excuse is that I work in a gym. Plus I have a home gym. And I also have a goal that Terry refuses to let me forget about setting.

These days, the burpee of choice is a lovely combination of burped and high-knee jump squat action. Just when you begin to think burpees can’t get worse, they get SO much worse! According to him, there will be more varieties–most likely, they will be worse than the current variety.

Maybe I should hire Terry to come to my house and threaten me with more burpees if I don’t do the dishes. But if I’m completely honest with myself, having to do dishes is so much worse than burpees.

Deployment Law

First of all, Justin is not deployed. He’s just stationed 7,000 miles away from us.

Also, I had intended on writing a post about me getting peer pressured into doing the Reverse Sprint Triathlon. It will start out that way, but then thanks to “Deployment Law,” it will all go terribly wrong.

Thursday at work, I was convinced by a co-worker to do the Reverse Sprint Tri–I did it last year, so why not?! I hired a babysitter, threw my bike rack on the van, put air in my bike tires, and went out for a 4 mile run. I was ready!

Or was I?

This morning I got there, and got everything set up. I went into the pool’s guard room and dropped my stuff off. 5 minutes into the run I thought, “wait–did I bring my bike helmet into the guard room?! Surely not!” Oh, I surely did.

So, after adding a good 2/10 mile onto the already 3.4 mile run, I hopped on my bike and away I went. Biking has never been so hard. No matter what I did, I really felt like I was putting WAY too much effort into it. At 3 miles I realized the back tire was making weird noises. At 4 miles, I hopped off to see what was up.

My tire was flat. Painfully flat. I pulled out my phone and thought about who I could possibly contact. My list of acquaintances is short, consisting mainly of people I work with–people currently working, or racing. But the truck that was bringing up the rear was rapidly approaching. Quick! Act like you’re calling someone!

I panicked, and FaceTimed Justin. The truck pulled over and asked if everything was ok: “Oh, it’s fine. I have a flat tire.”

“Do you have someone coming to pick you up? Are you sure you’re ok?”

I am a big fat liar. I told them it was fine–I just lived down the street. It’s not entirely false. I do live down the street…and then another take a left and go another 2 miles. Either that, or say, “it’s cool, but I don’t actually know people.”

Introvert problems.

I cried a little (ok, I cried a lot) to Justin: “why does this crap have to happen!?” It’s the second race I’ve failed this year. No, this wasn’t a panic attack-induced drop out, but still!

After letting him know what happened, I was offered a ride from Dom, aka the co-worker who talked me into this in the first place. I told him it was no biggie; I was almost home. Also not a lie, but I did still have a 3 mile walk back to work so I could get my car (sorry Dom, I’m a liar).

This is what we in my family call “being a Ballschmieder.”

No no, everything is fine! I am a thousand percent ok with walking my bike home, and then all the way back to work to get my car. I don’t want to be a burden–just don’t wait for me.

So, Deployment Law: basically, if it can go wrong, it will, while your husband is TDY, or deployed, or stationed on the other side of the world. Ask any army wife, and they will tell you a horrible story of something going terribly wrong while their husband was gone. It might be the same in the civilian world too, who knows. I was thinking this morning about the fact that we’ve gone a full week, and it’s been going relatively smoothly. I’m staying positive, because my worry is that it’s all downhill from here.

Or uphill, on flat tires.

How Did I Pass Kindergarten!?

Working with a trainer this past month has taught me 2 things about myself: I have to learn how to run, and I can’t jump rope.

Excuse me what?!

While my kids were home on spring break, I was given the task of jumping rope during one of my at home workouts. It was the worst. 100 passes took me most of the day. How could an activity children do for fun, be so evil!? My heart was pounding, I was unbelievably sweaty. It was brutal. What a workout.

Last Tuesday, Terry the Tormentor brought jump rope back to our workout routine. 50 passes. Ok, Sam. Deep breath, you can do this…until I hit 20something and he shouts, “what?! What?! No no no. Stop. What are you doing!?” Everything wrong, that’s what. He asked if Justin had ever seen me jump rope. Um, NO! He’s never seen me pee either, and I’m ok with keeping both activities private from him, thank you!

Of course, with my poor jump roping skills, and my poor running technique, I was left wondering: how in the world did I ever graduate from Kindergarten!?

Before you start thinking too hard about what I’m doing wrong, I’ll tell you. I’m kick my feet up to my butt, bend my knees, swing my arms like wild windmills. Do I jump over the rope? Obviously. Can I do it multiple times in a row? Of course! Am I putting way too much effort into what everyone else makes look like a simple task? You have no idea.

I watched as the surrounding men in the gym subtly relocated away from my wildly swinging rope, with a look of fear and amazement in their eyes, as if to say, “what is she doing,” and “I don’t want to die.” I don’t blame them. I would move away from my awkwardly, wild swinging rope too! Nothing about what I do makes sense, and it all seems dangerous.

I can color in the lines, and I can write my name. Kindergarten PE: Fail.

Oh, My Butt!

Pregnancy and childbirth are magical things–that I’d like to think are wonderful memories from my past. Except…

Sciatica. It’s also a magical thing. Not the good, Harry Potter magic. More like, Voldermort’s dark arts. My scoliosis is partly to blame. That “cool trick” in my teens, where I used to pop my hip out is partly (probably a larger part. Oh, regrets) to blame. And those darling children I carried for 9 months, who assisted in the expanding of my hips. All lead to what I lovingly refer to as “numb-butt,” where my left leg is numb from just above my butt, to just above the back of my knee.

Numb like pins and needles, “my leg fell asleep and is waking up,” weird numb. Whatever, I’m used to it. Sometimes I don’t notice, or it’s not bad; sometimes it’s tingly!

And then sometimes my left hip HURTS, in the “take your breath away,” wincy face kind of way. And I mean my hip joint. All the way inside my thigh/butt, where it can’t be reached. But it says, “set me free, Sam! I don’t want to be attached to you anymore. I think we should break up.”

For nearly a week, my hip has been at that point. I did not for one second think about sciatica, because I’m oh so used to numb-butt being the issue. Do I stretch? Did I over-stretch? Is this one of those things that will eventually lead to my needing a hip replacement? Does my leg really want to break up with me?!

I walk around my house, randomly propping my foot up on tall objects. To stretch, obviously, but all I can hear in my head is Molly Shannon stating, “My name is Sally O’Mally and I am 50 years old.” The stretching helps, but where’s my spandex and cameltoe when I need it!?

My sister Alissa has been known to sometimes punch her butt while announcing, “sciatica!” Maybe this is the pain-in-the-butt she feels. Alissa is currently 8 1/2 months pregnant, so all I can say to her is, it’ll only get better. And by better I mean worse.

My name is not Sally O’Mally, and I’m only 34 years old. I like to stretch. A lot. Because, oh, my butt!