Before you roll your eyes or anything like that, I know I’m not fat. I’m just…a little thicker than I once was. It’s fine. It’s whatever. It’s driving me crazy.
I took this slow week at work as an opportunity to try something new–working out with a personal trainer. It’s not an entirely new concept. Back in 2009 when Justin was in Iraq and I was in the throes of postpartum depression, thinking I looked something like a beached whale whose belly had been attacked by a pizza cutter (an analogy I’ve stolen from my friend Nicole. Because it’s so unbelievably true, and the perfect way to describe it…unless you sew, then maybe you were attacked by a rotary cutter. Both are gruesome thoughts–sorry everyone). Thanks to the YMCA having an awesome program for military families who do not live near a post/base, I was able to get a free membership. I decided to treat myself with a personal trainer, who I met with twice a week. She was awfully nice, but honestly, it was more chatting and not so much intense working out. Which was fine at the time. By the time Justin returned, I was back to my happy 145 (still 20lbs more than I weighed when we got married, but let’s be honest, that girl is long gone. 22-year-old metabolism, you sure were amazing, and I’ll always remember the times we had together).
I also managed to get back to that magical number in 2013 when Justin was again deployed. Noticing a pattern here? I kicked my own butt, 4 days a week in our garage gym. Of course, the stress of Shea’s tonsillectomy also helped me drop weight fast.
And then I decided to get Mirena, and in the 2 months before he returned, I gained the 20lbs back.
“Justin, I lost 20lbs while you were gone!”
“And then I gained it all back right before you got home.”
Little known fact: When men (and maybe women too, I don’t have a lot of experience with military ladies–Justin’s in the Boys’ Club known as the Infantry) deploy, they get CRAZY fit. Every time he comes home from a deployment, he’s all muscles and no body fat. I keep saying I’ll take the next deployment and he can stay here with the kids, but again, if he won’t let me take his fun little TDY trip, I doubt a deployment would be permissible. Plus the fact that I would be hiding behind things, shouting “STOP SHOOTING AT ME!!! WHAT DID I EVER DO TO YOU!?!?” And also, the heat. He compares the breezes in Kuwait to turning a hair dryer on hot and blowing it in your face. It sounds gross.
Right, well, along with the 3 days a week I normally lift weights with my work/workout friend, and the 4 days a week I normally run, I decided that I would also add Torture with Terry to my Tues/Thurs running days. Why not, right? I mean, his kettle bell class was evil enough, so why not triple the amount of time I spent with him each week.
Again, If you find yourself at Fort Knox, in need of any fitness related anything, he’s the man to see. Because he’s EVIL. But in a good way.
Of course, in being honest with him, I have subjected myself to something he likes to refer to as Cardio of Death. It’s evil. And my rapid heart rate makes him nervous:
“Your watch says your heart rate is 170…”
“Shh. Pay no attention to that.”
“Ok…” he says, wide-eyed.
“I did ask if you were CPR certified.”
“I don’t actually want to have to use that training on you!”
Ah, genes. While I get my sweatiness from my Dad, I most likely get my rapid heart rate from my Mom’s side. Test after test later, and all they can tell me is that I have a rapid resting heart rate. It’s 84 right now, which is pretty low for me–usually it’s between 90-110. It doesn’t do the weird fluttery thing it used to do once upon a time when I was a twig, or before I had kids. So there’s that. It makes cardio suck. Maybe cardio just sucks for everyone, but man alive, I dislike it. I would rather pick up heavy things all day. But cardio is good for me, and blah blah blah.
So, I climbed to the top of the Eiffel tower. On a machine that was evil. After I did the Jacob’s Ladder to nowhere evil. After I climbed a stairway to nowhere for 3 minutes, which was really more like 3 hours. But it was 3 minutes. In. Slow. Motion. Time goes SO SLOWLY when you’re being tortured.
There’s no talking. There’s minimal talking. Between gasps. This is NOT the hour of chitchat and gossip I “endured” at 26. This is sweat dripping everywhere, huffing and puffing, “Terry…I’m…Dying…” while he giggles and says, “it’s fine. You’re doing great! Look, you’re halfway there!” It’s the giggling and sinister smile that get me. “We’re going to do squats and throw this heavy weight around, and then you’re going to run a lap.” Sinister smile. Something like the Grinch, when he’s plotting to steal Christmas from the Whos.” Except, not as green. Equal amounts of evil plotting though.
Five minutes into my first session, as I paused in between pull-ups, some sort of evil burpees with a star jump WITH an elastic band around my ankles, AND running up and down the stairs on repeat, I honestly thought, “this was a mistake. It’s time to tap out and say, ‘sorry Terry. I was mistaken. I don’t need a trainer–I need a nap.'” Of course then he threw some hate toward my boys, Ben and Jerry. You might know them–their ice cream is DELICIOUS. I love them.
I survived. Barely. By the end of each session, my arms are curled up like a raptor, or a t-rex. I walk something like an ostrich. I’m SOAKING wet. And my inner-fat-girl is inside me crying, “we’re REALLY going to do this again?! Are you mad?!”
Every morning since Wednesday I have woken up at 5:30 (don’t judge me. I like the quiet before the world wakes up), and my head has said, “get your ass out of bed,” while my body replies, “please don’t make me!” I jumped on the scale this morning (because I only weigh myself on Saturdays and Mondays–otherwise I would become obsessive), and I’ve lost one pound.
ONE?! That’s IT?!?! No ice cream and 10 hours of cardio/heavy lifting/slow running this week, and I lost one frigging pound?! For all my hurt, and the agony of a week without ice cream, I wanted to be at my target weight by now.
WHAT DO YOU MEAN THAT’S NOT HOW IT WORKS!?!?!?