Week eight (and a little bit of seven)

3/8 - 3/14 (and 3/1 - 3/7)

I didn't write last week on purpose. Usually I don't abide by the "if you can't say something nice, don't say anything at all" rule. In fact it's quite the opposite. I will usually only say nice things behind backs (if I like you) or not at all (if I don't). I know, that doesn't make sense, and there is a bit of hyperbole in there (cause I speak mostly in hyperbole and other forms of exaggeration), of course I say nice things to the people I like, how else would I keep them around? But I digress. Week seven was an asshole and I didn't want to talk about it then. I'll talk about it now.

The first week of March was my "mix-it-up" week. I went to the gym in the morning. In. The. Morning. Anyone who has ever met me knows that mornings are not my thing. I tend to grunt, swear and make a lot of ridiculous noises and hand gestures. So I try not to venture out of my house before 10am, for the good of the people. But something had to be done. I was STUCK in the 190s. You know because you've been reading. Or you know because I just told you. But I was stuck and if working out in the morning was going to help then I was going to do it. I pushed up my intervals and only did 35 minute workouts. I upped my weights and reps when I did strength training. I even had to buy weight lifting gloves for my baby soft hands that have never seen a day of hard labor. Well, one day. I got paid cash and it was worth it. And while I didn't watch my calories like a giant overweight hawk I did keep it in check and within range.

So when I got on the scale Monday morning (the only indulgence of the week was the maybe two or three margaritas the day before) and I'd GAINED two pounds I got really pissed. I didn't even gain two pounds over Christmas. I know (I KNOW) muscle weighs more than fat. I know (I KNOW) my body will take a while to adjust. I know (I KNOW) I shouldn't let it get me down. But it does. And it did. When someone has 60 pounds of fat on their body, HALF of which they're trying to lose, putting on two pounds of muscle isn't the problem. It just isn't. But in the long run (ugh, I hate running) I couldn't let it bug me too much. I flung myself onto my bed Disney princess style (with more swearing of course) and grumbled (and swore) for a while but then decided it was time to move on and keep trying. 192.1 lbs means there's nowhere to go but down.

Problem was, on my way to margaritas and Mexican food on Sunday I'd fallen really badly down my driveway. Stupid moss. Nature and I already have a pretty tough time together without it actively trying to hurt me. But time + tragedy = humor, right? It's already getting to be pretty funny when I think about how I must've looked. I did fake man splits when I fell, spilled water all over myself, broke my key chain and my shoe flew off. Of course I yelled a swear and it echoed through the neighborhood. As I type now, nine days later, my foot wound still hurts and is painful to the touch. Because of the weird angle at which I slammed to the ground, my whole right leg was sore and along with the wounds I skipped the gym for two days, just watched really closely what I ate.

Then I did what I wanted for the rest of the week. If I wanted to work out at night I did. If I wanted to do strength training, I did. I bought some "old-man-pooping-drink" (or Metamucil, mmm... orange flavor) to help with my fiber intake. I bought strawberries and made lentil soup, but still wasn't getting enough fiber. I started taking my vitamins again. I made sure there were always vegetables in the house and started eating quinoa again. I've missed quinoa, it's SO good if you haven't had it. So much protein and it goes with pretty much anything, I enjoy it with sauteed veggies and a little chicken sausage. Delicious. And the trick is to make enough so I have lunch at work the next day. If I forget lunch at work I'm pretty much screwed, I don't have the calories (or cash) to spend on anything that's not homemade.

I tried, but I didn't overdo it. Trying to lose weight is such a bitch. There's so many emotions that go along with it. Mostly guilt and anger, but for those split seconds when the scale shows some progress, it's (almost) all worth it. Yes, clothes fit better (I have to wash the "skinny" (not actually skinny) jeans I bought just so they'll fit me, I've gone down two sizes and I can just pick a Large up off the rack knowing it will fit, it's wonderful), I have an omnipresent collarbone - side note: there are WAY too many pretty, skinny girls with really bad posture. Is it so things don't stick out weird? Is it to showcase boobs? Hide a non-existent gut? I'm confused and you need to stand up straight - and I am rocking short hair like I never thought I could, but it's nice to see the results ON THE SCALE.

Monday morning. Finally results. Finally in the 180s. Yes it's 189.7 but I could NOT care less. It says 18- at the beginning of my weight and I'm on my way again to being "normal" for my height. Only 10 more pounds till that milestone. And till I weigh as much as my youngest brother. And that's more exciting than any number on the scale.

But I'll get into that next week.