Working Out, Part 2: The Unfattening

See this post was going to be all about how I battled through a back injury, recovered, reinjured it later carrying cat litter, and even suffered through a stomach bug, but you know what? That’s not really a great thing to talk about. Because who the hell cares? The point is it hurt and I had to deal with it because that’s just part of life. I will say that a big part of dealing with it was a massage from my friend/massage therapist extraordinaire Mike Gray, who, in an hour, made me go from feeling like this:

To feeling like this:

If you ever need some help in that area, let me know. I'll get you Mike Gray's contact info!

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On to the real point of this post: Going to the gym.

The truth is the hardest part about working out is putting on pants. I’m not even kidding. Because pants are the enemy. I mean, I’m sure I could go to Orangetheory Fitness in a toga to workout. People would look a little askance at my outfit, but let me workout anyway. That’s because they’re awesome though. I actually had a woman concede the point this past week when I confessed that I was exhausted. She nodded sagely, ‘Well you’ve already got pants on, so the hard part is done.’ Perhaps the studio (that’s what OTF calls it) needs to consider a pants-free workout?

Maybe not.

Anyway, let’s go back a few weeks. I had a realization after a few weeks of just simply treadmilling my workouts. No other activities, basically because I was trying to baby my back (which is sort of like Baby Got Back, only no Becky.) At one point Wes (one of the trainers) pointed out that it’s an easy trap to fall into and that maybe I should just try a little to push myself further, all while listening to my body. If it hurt, and more than just you know, ‘Ew, exercise!’ I needed to stop. But if it was just uncomfortable because I love nachos and sitting on my ass? That’s a bearable level of exertion. So I did. And I actually started to see results on my speeds on the treadmill. Heidi (another trainer) made the point of mentioning that hills could put strain on my lower back (where I was injured) so I was mindful of not putting too much incline on me, but I kept increasing my speed…...sometimes rapidly, say when there was a trainer around.

You know we all do it.

It was a couple weeks after my back injury that Mike (another trainer) showed me some stretches I could do--even in bed before I got up in the morning. This is what I love about Orange--he knew I was trying to increase my range of motion, he helped me, and I didn’t feel shy or dumb for asking for the help.

So every morning I started disrupting the cats with my stretches. I’d bend this way and that, Cheddar and Colby would run from one end of the bed to the other, extremely disgruntled. As I eased into the floor exercises (utilizing weights, straps, mats, and other tools for torture exercise,) the team showed me modified exercises to help keep me in the game, especially when things looked like this:

What is that even, fit people? You are outside of your minds. Mike told me that as long as I kept moving, that was all he cared about. If it meant doing jumping jacks while people were doing a form of push up that should be reserved for prisoners, so be it.

Anyway, something weird happened. While I was pushing myself harder on the treadmill, I noticed that I would feel like I was dying, what with the exercise and all, when suddenly I would… not be dying. It would only last 30 seconds or so, but it wasn’t just a mental thing. My heart monitor reflected that indeed, I was doing something besides dying. My heart rate would drop slightly, and I’d have this feeling that I can only describe as comfortable. What is that, y’all? If it’s a runner’s high, I call bullshit, because y’all made it sound like that lasted a lot longer than 30 seconds and that it felt way nicer.

Another interesting thing happened to me, this one far more recently. I was wearing a pair of jeans that were admittedly kind of loose. And then I was almost not wearing the jeans, and a good number of people found out I have some really cute turquoise underwear. Related: I am now in the market for a belt.

It’s been over a month of working out. I haven’t lost weight--in fact I think I’m up 2 pounds, but my pants don’t fit. So that’s progress, I guess? The real issue is consistency on my part. I’ll be the first to admit that I’ve let my physical maladies and life in general sidetrack me a few times.

Recently someone asked me if I liked working out and without missing a beat I replied, ‘No.’ They were confused. I went on to explain: I don’t like working out. I will never be that person. But I like working out at Orangetheory Fitness and I love both the people who work there and those who participate in the workouts. We’re a team, all of us, and I have never felt more supported as I do when I’m there, ugly sweating all over the treadmill with the person to my left quietly cussing, the person to my right singing along with the music, and Mike dancing around behind us. It’s actually quite inspiring, all of it. So no, I don’t like working out, but damn it, I love working out with these people.

If you’re ever interested in hearing more about the studio, I definitely recommend you give ‘em a ring. If that feels intimidating, you can always drop me a line!

I was talking to my friend Kat, who runs regularly with a club of some sort. She’s been preparing for a death march half marathon and very kindly read my last post. She shared a thought with me that really stuck with me. Running isn’t anymore fun for her than it is for me--and she’s very fit. She described exercise as being kind of like brushing your teeth; it’s not something you enjoy, but it’s you’re supposed to do. After that I stopped exercising AND brushing my teeth. Kidding, kidding. But she makes a great point.

So I’m going to keep working hard. I’m going to keep putting on pants. I’m going to keep stretching. I’m going to keep moving. And I’m going to keep exercising--because like brushing my teeth, it’s what I’m supposed to do.

Let's Get Physical

This is part one of several posts regarding my size and what I'm doing about it. It is a pretty personal story, but I invite you to please follow along as I laugh, whine, complain, celebrate, swear, and sweat.


In case I haven’t made it abundantly clear, I am fat. And not like Mean Girls fat.

I’m actually fat. That doesn’t mean I don’t love myself or that I think I’m ugly. It doesn’t mean that I don’t think I’m deserving of a man who treats me right and thinks I’m beautiful or that I need to wear nothing by dark circus tent-like outfits to disguise my curves. But I do think that I ought to lose weight in order to live a nice long life that I can spend telling the world to go to hell.

Except it would be less fat.

I wanted to acknowledge my fatness from the get go, because for whatever reason, sometimes people feel the need to inform me. When I politely acknowledge that this is not a surprise to me and that I’m attempting to do something about it, frequently these very “well meaning” people will break into a lecture filled with concerned tones and helpful hints. It’s like they can’t help themselves--they’ve gone to the trouble of coming up with this lecture, and by God they’re going to get to say it, no matter what I say. It’s actually a bit of a Christmas tradition for some folks: As an evening holiday party winds down, someone pulls me aside and tells me with a look in their eyes as though I’m a breath away from dying all about how I have to get my life “under control.” Oh and “Merry Christmas and thank you for the lovely gift.” It’s inevitable, it happens every year, and there is nothing I can say to stop the awkward exchange.

It used to be that I’d list what I was doing in order to not be fat, but there’d be this doubtful look in their eyes and they’d continue with their personal appeal to my skinnier nature. This year I’m trying to get ahead of the concerned folks because I have this theory that if I lose enough weight by Christmas that they can tell that maybe I won’t have to have another lecture.

I know, that’s no reason to lose weight, but it’s enough motivation, in the short term. In the long term I don’t want to be dead by 35. I want to be able to shop in a store that isn’t Lane Bryant and not online. I would like to be able to walk into a restaurant without worrying that the geniuses who designed the place haven’t bolted the tables and booths to the walls so that I have to contemplate whether Miss Manners would equate stomach fat spillage on the table with putting my elbows on the surface.

To that end, I have recently enrolled with Orangetheory Fitness. It’s a gym with a philosophy that guides you through your workout. You’re given a monitor to wear under your clothes and it puts out a real time read out on your heartrate. The idea is to reach the “Orange Zone” and maintain it for a portion of your workout so you can maximize your after-burn (meaning you continue to burn calories after you’re done working out.) My friend Brooks is a partner with the place. He saw a post I made on Facebook, where I think I was expressing dismay at my size, the largest I’ve ever been, and a desire to do something about it. A few months later, once the gym was built, I was sweating to the dulcet tones of their trainers and my ragged breathing.

In my first class I lost my mind completely. You see, they have this pace setting thing called, ‘Base, Push, All Out,’ which works out to be, 'Ugh, this sucks.' 'OMG, no, THIS sucks!' and finally 'WHAT DID I DO SO WRONG IN MY LIFE TO DESERVE THIS?!' At least it feels that way or me. I gave into a little bit of perceived peer pressure and tried to keep up with people who consider 3 miles an hour on a treadmill to be a leisurely pace. Within about 10 minutes I was puking in the bathroom. Yep, I was that girl. Then I managed to get myself together and dove back in. And I made the mistake of looking in the mirror at some of the people working out. For whatever reason, there was one girl who kept locking eyes with me, but not in a friendly way, but more in what FELT like judgey. I felt so uncomfortable that I tried to run hard again, just to get her to stop scrutinizing my pace as she gave sidelong glances at my control panel. For all I know, the girl was thinking, ‘Wow! She is impressing me with her effort!’ But in my head I was thinking, ‘This skinny girl is judging me!!’ My face just got redder and redder, my coughing became more and more pronounced, and breathing was more than a little labored. The entire time though, the trainers kept checking in on me, giving recommendations, and correcting things like posture or my speed and incline. Eventually though, after only a half hour, I had to go sit down in the lobby while the rest of the class continued. It was around then that I realized my hands were shaking and my body was on the brink of becoming even more uncooperative.

Enter Brooks, with an icepack. He sat next to me and we talked about how I could I approach this differently--like, for example, acknowledging that my base speed wasn’t going to be as fast as everyone else’s. He also praised me, pointing out that I had gotten into the Orange Zone and maintained it for a 13 minutes--which is pretty good, considering I only worked out for a half hour. In any other situation I would have felt like a complete failure, and in fact, those first couple minutes I sat there, I did. I felt like such an idiot, that I had made a big mistake. But talking to Brooks and the other people who work there afterwards, I had a new attitude: I could do this, I just needed to do it on a level that worked for me. After the class concluded, I went back in and got a tutorial on the most intimidating piece of equipment: The Rower of Doom! Well, that’s what I call it. A trainer (Wes) showed me how to use it in a no pressure environment, (Read: With no one else around!) and I headed out to visit at my grandmother’s house, feeling optimistic, kind of proud (with a dollop of disappointment in myself), and a very red, sweaty face.

The takeaway from that night? Exercise is awful, hard, and sucks. But I'm told it gets easier and eventually can become enjoyable. I suspect that last bit is a skinny person lie, but we shall see. You know skinny people--they lie all about all sorts of things. 'Greek yogurt tastes great on a baked potato!' 'I love hiking!' and 'Nothing tastes as good as being thin.' Why must you lie to fat folks, skinny people?

That evening, a couple things happened.

1. I picked up a bunch of cat toys off the floor for my grandmother. My back suddenly began twinging, but I assumed that this was due to being fat and having exercised.
2. My car got broken into and my workout shoes stolen. Talk about irritating. I didn’t even like working out really, and now the thing that made it a little bit easier was gone. That’s not even mentioning the sudden feeling of vulnerability and having to clean out part of my car at 2 in the morning in the dark. (Meaning I was crouching, nearly upside down in the front seat, trying to get up pieces of glass.)

Would almost be pretty if it didn't cost me $300+.

And sometime around #1 and #2, I threw out my back.

Next post, coming on Monday: Bunny squats, my new fiance--the heating pad, and how I unexpectedly started to like going to a gym with a preoccupation with the color orange.