Here goes nothing. I can do anything for 20 minutes, right?
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Sunday, February 28, 2010
Jillian scares me
Saturday, February 27, 2010
Playing with posterous
Starbucks is not part of my healthy living plan. But it is helping my sanity.
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®
Sent on the Sprint® Now Network from my BlackBerry®
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
The Wagon
So I'm back in Chitown from a work/fun trip to Dallas. We stayed at a conference center where the rooms were pretty tiny (think cruise ship size) but the food was delicious and the buffet was open. Needless to say, I fell of the wagon. Hard. Into a pile of chocolate cake, pork tenderloin, margaritas and frozen yogurt. But I feel good--even if I piled on the calories, my body was ready to get back into the exercise groove. I went to yoga last night and felt rather smug about how deep I was sinking into my lunges and how very balanced I was. Not how you're supposed to feel in yoga, but whatever. I can save my centering and personal challenges for another day.
I promise to get one of those interviews up this week. Also, I'm having trouble commenting on your comments from my house, so I'll be doing that on lunchbreaks. Thanks for all your cheers and hellos! More soon.
I promise to get one of those interviews up this week. Also, I'm having trouble commenting on your comments from my house, so I'll be doing that on lunchbreaks. Thanks for all your cheers and hellos! More soon.
Wednesday, February 10, 2010
Chitty Chitty Bangin' Bod
Bangin’ Body
After procrastinating about my resolution to try one of the scary cardio, non-yoga classes, finally today I went through with it. Left work a little early because my workout pants had somehow escaped my giant zebra purse/gymbag, and though I contemplated what might happen if I showed up to workout in just tights and a t-shirt, decided against it.
Did you hear it snowed in Chicago? Well it did. Kind of a lot. Not like the snow they get in DC, but enough that I was burning calories hustling through the muck on the 20 minute walk to the gym. And I was still late to a class entitled Bangin’ Body. Because who doesn’t want that, right?
The room was packed with girls in ponytails and their yogamats and bosu balls (thos half orbs of bounciness, really why weren’t these around when I was a kid?). Right away I noticed the teacher—a six foot tall Barbie in a hot pink tank top, perfect makeup and a flawlessly thin body. As I gaped at her and realized there were none of the magical bosu balls left, and for a second thought I’d gotten out of this. “Is the class full?” I asked her. “It’s crowded but we’ll make room” she told me. A girl pointed to a sliver of a spot front and center. Awesome. Same nice girl suggested maybe I grab a regular exercise ball to do sit-ups. Ok. Ready.
Holy bounciness, people. I do the elliptical, I do yoga. Sometimes I run after the Damen bus. But this woman immediately had us kicking and leaping and doing all sorts of things and I immediately realized that I wasn’t, uh, getting enough support. In the girl region. I found myself half clutching my boobs half running while I followed along. Soon enough I’d hurt too much to care about this anymore.
Lots of reps. I only have a set of 2 lb weights and 5lb weights. I’m goldilocks without the right chair, it’s just not working. the 2s make me look wimpy and the 5s make me want to die. I start to feel nauseated. Just when things are getting terrifying, nice girl gets nicer. Barbie asks everyone to start stepping up and down on the bosu ball (which I don’t have(, and this friendly neighbor offers to share. So not only do I run the risk of knocking noggins with her or falling over…I have to keep up with her. She steps up, I step up. Whoa. Is that my heart exploding? No. It’s not going to explode.
I can’t do everything yet. For whatever reason ab moves are particularly excruciating. It’s clearly amature time up here. But I made it. And at the end of the class, the nice girl asks if this was my first time in the class. Claro que sî, lady. She smiles and tells me to come back, it gets easier. I tell her I will.
There’s a difference between being determined and being committed. I’m not feeling a ton of determination right now. But I’m committed to this. And it helps that I’ve lost at least 4 lbs already. A pound per blog post? You'll be hearing from me more.
So, to stop the navel-gazing here, I want to interview some friends about how they’re being healthy, and how they’re not, and tell their stories here. Stay tuned. And let me know if you're interested.
After procrastinating about my resolution to try one of the scary cardio, non-yoga classes, finally today I went through with it. Left work a little early because my workout pants had somehow escaped my giant zebra purse/gymbag, and though I contemplated what might happen if I showed up to workout in just tights and a t-shirt, decided against it.
Did you hear it snowed in Chicago? Well it did. Kind of a lot. Not like the snow they get in DC, but enough that I was burning calories hustling through the muck on the 20 minute walk to the gym. And I was still late to a class entitled Bangin’ Body. Because who doesn’t want that, right?
The room was packed with girls in ponytails and their yogamats and bosu balls (thos half orbs of bounciness, really why weren’t these around when I was a kid?). Right away I noticed the teacher—a six foot tall Barbie in a hot pink tank top, perfect makeup and a flawlessly thin body. As I gaped at her and realized there were none of the magical bosu balls left, and for a second thought I’d gotten out of this. “Is the class full?” I asked her. “It’s crowded but we’ll make room” she told me. A girl pointed to a sliver of a spot front and center. Awesome. Same nice girl suggested maybe I grab a regular exercise ball to do sit-ups. Ok. Ready.
Holy bounciness, people. I do the elliptical, I do yoga. Sometimes I run after the Damen bus. But this woman immediately had us kicking and leaping and doing all sorts of things and I immediately realized that I wasn’t, uh, getting enough support. In the girl region. I found myself half clutching my boobs half running while I followed along. Soon enough I’d hurt too much to care about this anymore.
Lots of reps. I only have a set of 2 lb weights and 5lb weights. I’m goldilocks without the right chair, it’s just not working. the 2s make me look wimpy and the 5s make me want to die. I start to feel nauseated. Just when things are getting terrifying, nice girl gets nicer. Barbie asks everyone to start stepping up and down on the bosu ball (which I don’t have(, and this friendly neighbor offers to share. So not only do I run the risk of knocking noggins with her or falling over…I have to keep up with her. She steps up, I step up. Whoa. Is that my heart exploding? No. It’s not going to explode.
I can’t do everything yet. For whatever reason ab moves are particularly excruciating. It’s clearly amature time up here. But I made it. And at the end of the class, the nice girl asks if this was my first time in the class. Claro que sî, lady. She smiles and tells me to come back, it gets easier. I tell her I will.
There’s a difference between being determined and being committed. I’m not feeling a ton of determination right now. But I’m committed to this. And it helps that I’ve lost at least 4 lbs already. A pound per blog post? You'll be hearing from me more.
So, to stop the navel-gazing here, I want to interview some friends about how they’re being healthy, and how they’re not, and tell their stories here. Stay tuned. And let me know if you're interested.
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Wheezy Whitney and the Search for a Routine
During a little dinner party while I made her stir the risotto in my kitchen tonight, my friend Em asked what I’m trying to accomplish with this little project—to lose weight, to be eat healthier, to exercise? Yes. I want to do all those things, and they go together, right? I don’t want to diet. My other amiga Kate and I discussed this in length this week: it’s about lifestyle or it’s not really about much at all. I do know one thing: the desire to fit into those hot Levis again is STRONG. And partially the basis for this mindful writing and exercising and eating approach is that I’ve never really TRIED to pay attention to these things. So here I am, trying in front of you. It’s going ok.
On the food front, I’ve sometimes been all about the veggie healthy wagon—eating a giant bowl of greens for lunch and including protein and all that; and then kind of falling off by having beer and ice cream and wine and Starbucks lattes. Is this what moderation is all about? Having veggies and exercise and lattes all in one week? Or is this just my bi-polar way of trying? One thing’s for sure: I need to do that wretchedly tedious food diary thing where you write down everything you eat. Because I’ve got to see what my attempts at eating well look like on paper, not just in my foggy memory of healthy successes and startling failures (have you ever eaten an entire bag of those honey twist pretzels in one sitting? Mmmmmm.) So, that diary starts tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m not going to put the whole thing up here. Maybe just a highlights reel.
But now to the happy news: In the past 7 days I’ve worked out three times. That’s a coup for me in a big, big way. I can’t remember the last time that many actual visits to the gym were all concentrated in one week because, well, it may have never happened before in my life. So, it’s really going to be a new thing for me to embrace exercise as part of a routine. A brief walk down exercise lane:
In grad school, I just walked a lot around Madrid and across SLU’s campus, and that fended off pounds. In undergrad I’d visit the rec center in spurts, but I think mostly my metabolism was just keeping it real for my ass. Same goes for high school; back then I liked to eat sleeves of Starburst for lunch. Our HS gym class was lightweight stuff like archery and pickle ball and rotated with Religion, which did not keep me skinny but certainly made me very afraid of sex.
Anyway, end of flashback. At the heart of this is the fact that I’ve had pretty bad asthma since I was a kid, which eventually made me afraid to exercise. It was horrible to run around and then feel like I was sucking for air, especially since I sucked at running anyway. (I always kind of flailed my arms like the episode of Friends when Phoebe runs FREE.) Thanks to fabulous new medications, I don’t worry about that any more. (The wheezing part. The sucking at running thing can’t be cured.) I can take my asthma meds in the morning and then push myself on the elliptical until I’m a sweaty mess, and I won’t wheeze even a note. But a little bit of that fear remains. I’m not a runner, not a player, not an athlete. And it’s taken me a long time to discover what I like about working out—yoga, feeling awesomely sore the next day, rocking the elliptical by seeing which songs make me go the fastest. I’m open to more—those classes with balls and steps and weights that I’m entitled to attend since I paid that giant gym membership fee—but I need to stop being scared of them. I’m healthy. I’m not wheezy. I can go to Butts and Guts and Core Strength Mega Hour, and I’m not going to end up in the nurse’s office. Though someone might have to bring me an ice pack when it’s over.
On the food front, I’ve sometimes been all about the veggie healthy wagon—eating a giant bowl of greens for lunch and including protein and all that; and then kind of falling off by having beer and ice cream and wine and Starbucks lattes. Is this what moderation is all about? Having veggies and exercise and lattes all in one week? Or is this just my bi-polar way of trying? One thing’s for sure: I need to do that wretchedly tedious food diary thing where you write down everything you eat. Because I’ve got to see what my attempts at eating well look like on paper, not just in my foggy memory of healthy successes and startling failures (have you ever eaten an entire bag of those honey twist pretzels in one sitting? Mmmmmm.) So, that diary starts tomorrow. Don’t worry, I’m not going to put the whole thing up here. Maybe just a highlights reel.
But now to the happy news: In the past 7 days I’ve worked out three times. That’s a coup for me in a big, big way. I can’t remember the last time that many actual visits to the gym were all concentrated in one week because, well, it may have never happened before in my life. So, it’s really going to be a new thing for me to embrace exercise as part of a routine. A brief walk down exercise lane:
In grad school, I just walked a lot around Madrid and across SLU’s campus, and that fended off pounds. In undergrad I’d visit the rec center in spurts, but I think mostly my metabolism was just keeping it real for my ass. Same goes for high school; back then I liked to eat sleeves of Starburst for lunch. Our HS gym class was lightweight stuff like archery and pickle ball and rotated with Religion, which did not keep me skinny but certainly made me very afraid of sex.
Anyway, end of flashback. At the heart of this is the fact that I’ve had pretty bad asthma since I was a kid, which eventually made me afraid to exercise. It was horrible to run around and then feel like I was sucking for air, especially since I sucked at running anyway. (I always kind of flailed my arms like the episode of Friends when Phoebe runs FREE.) Thanks to fabulous new medications, I don’t worry about that any more. (The wheezing part. The sucking at running thing can’t be cured.) I can take my asthma meds in the morning and then push myself on the elliptical until I’m a sweaty mess, and I won’t wheeze even a note. But a little bit of that fear remains. I’m not a runner, not a player, not an athlete. And it’s taken me a long time to discover what I like about working out—yoga, feeling awesomely sore the next day, rocking the elliptical by seeing which songs make me go the fastest. I’m open to more—those classes with balls and steps and weights that I’m entitled to attend since I paid that giant gym membership fee—but I need to stop being scared of them. I’m healthy. I’m not wheezy. I can go to Butts and Guts and Core Strength Mega Hour, and I’m not going to end up in the nurse’s office. Though someone might have to bring me an ice pack when it’s over.
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