So, my sister-in-law, who knows I "run" now, texted me, asking if I wanted to do something called a "warrior dash." Not entirely sure what it was, I checked it out online.
Holy shit.
It's 3.1 miles, which I'm comfortable with. It's the other stuff that scares me. Like the fire. And the barbed wire. And the fire.
I'm officially registered. Husband is too, along with some other friends, which makes it a little less scary and a lot more fun. In the meantime, I'm "training." So far this week, this has meant coming home from work and collapsing on the couch in a fit of exhaustion. I need motivation, I thought, snuggling a little deeper into the couch. I need to be held accountable...
And here we are again. Today was my first productive "training" day this week--I got on the elliptical and made what felt like a very unnatural movement with my legs for 45 minutes. It was actually my first experience with an elliptical, and I came dangerously close to falling off a couple different times (I let go of the bar to grab water). Am I just extremely uncoordinated, or are these things cleverly disguised machines that will bring an end to civilization? I've seen Transformers, people. I know what I know. Don't be fooled by their user-friendly Quick Start option...they want your blood.
Thursday, July 28, 2011
Friday, July 15, 2011
I'm 30!
Here's some webernet ambiance for you while you read.
Well, folks, I'm 30. It's pretty much the exact same thing as 29, except when I stepped on the scale this morning, I was 129.2!
That's right, scale! I beat you and your stupid scale mind games! Take that!
So, I did it. Not without some sweat, tears, lamenting, and nacho binges, but here we are. And I do want to offer sincere thanks to you guys, the few people I trusted with this blog. You guys really cheered me on, especially during those dark times when I thought nothing would ever happen. You really don't know just how much that means to me, unless you imagine me spreading out my arms very, very wide. There. That much. If you ever find yourself needing a cheerleader for any endeavor (unless it's, like, burning monkeys), let me know, and I'll bring the pompoms. I owe you one (but again, no monkey-burning).
Well, folks, I'm 30. It's pretty much the exact same thing as 29, except when I stepped on the scale this morning, I was 129.2!
That's right, scale! I beat you and your stupid scale mind games! Take that!
So, I did it. Not without some sweat, tears, lamenting, and nacho binges, but here we are. And I do want to offer sincere thanks to you guys, the few people I trusted with this blog. You guys really cheered me on, especially during those dark times when I thought nothing would ever happen. You really don't know just how much that means to me, unless you imagine me spreading out my arms very, very wide. There. That much. If you ever find yourself needing a cheerleader for any endeavor (unless it's, like, burning monkeys), let me know, and I'll bring the pompoms. I owe you one (but again, no monkey-burning).
Friday, July 8, 2011
Lament: One More Week
So, my birthday is a week today.
Shit.
I'm nervous, guys. Fo' realz. (I think using the apostrophe after the fo just cost me some street cred). Last time I weighed myself, I was exactly 131, only one more pound to go. Seems like that should be a good thing, right? But here's the thing--my weight never seems to have any rhyme or reason to it. It's my version of Russian Roulette. I get on the scale, close my eyes, and pull the trigger. Maybe I'll be 134, maybe 131. Who knows? I just hope I don't kill myself each and every time I do it.
I'm playing another round tomorrow morning, just so I know what I'm dealing with. If it's above 131, I plan on hurling my body at the couch at break-neck speed (which might happen if I miss the couch, come to think of it), and lamenting. And by "lamenting," I don't mean I will lay there and feel sorry for myself--this is something Husband came up with. It's somewhere between meditation and a game that an acting class for 8 year-olds would probably use. Here's how to play:
1.) Unless you live with someone like Husband, who will not question your weirdness (even though he probably should), check and make sure you're alone. Don't forget to check under the beds. I don't know why someone would be hiding under there, but seriously, if a murdering rapist broke into my apartment and heard me playing Lament, I'd be horrified, and probably apologize to him as he was murdering/raping me. It would be that embarrassing.
2.) Throw your body forcefully on a soft piece of furniture. This is not the time to half-ass it. Really put some effort into it.
3.) Ready? This is your big moment. Lift your head from wherever it landed, and make a ridiculously over-exaggerated Shirley Temple pout. If you have trouble with this, scrunch your eyebrows as low as you can (no using your hands, cheaters), and clothespin your lips together. Got it? Good.
4.) Now, take the clothespin off your lips and take a deep breathe. As you exhale, in your whiniest, most melodramatic voice, say, "LAMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNT!" Be sure to maintain your bitchface.
5.) Repeat Step 4 as long as needed. Just so you know, your first few "Laments" should be considered a warm-up. After you have a couple under your belt, your bitchface should be effortless, and your "Laments" should be building in intensity. Husband introduced me to this, and I've never had a bad day that it couldn't fix.
6.)***Optional*** This step is not for the weak. If you do happen to live with someone like Husband, or if you have amazing friends (I mean the kind you would trust with your secrets, hair, and money), you can have a group lament. In the right company, a group lament will do wonders for your psyche, and solve all your problems. But be careful--one shy, self-conscious eye-roller has the potential to kill it for everyone. And nothing good comes from a ruined lamentation. Do you think the Holocaust would have happened if Hitler had a solid group of friends to lament with after World War 1? Exactly.
If you happen to be around my apartment tomorrow, and hear a strange noise that resembles Fran Drescher singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," you'll know how the weigh-in went.
Shit.
I'm nervous, guys. Fo' realz. (I think using the apostrophe after the fo just cost me some street cred). Last time I weighed myself, I was exactly 131, only one more pound to go. Seems like that should be a good thing, right? But here's the thing--my weight never seems to have any rhyme or reason to it. It's my version of Russian Roulette. I get on the scale, close my eyes, and pull the trigger. Maybe I'll be 134, maybe 131. Who knows? I just hope I don't kill myself each and every time I do it.
I'm playing another round tomorrow morning, just so I know what I'm dealing with. If it's above 131, I plan on hurling my body at the couch at break-neck speed (which might happen if I miss the couch, come to think of it), and lamenting. And by "lamenting," I don't mean I will lay there and feel sorry for myself--this is something Husband came up with. It's somewhere between meditation and a game that an acting class for 8 year-olds would probably use. Here's how to play:
1.) Unless you live with someone like Husband, who will not question your weirdness (even though he probably should), check and make sure you're alone. Don't forget to check under the beds. I don't know why someone would be hiding under there, but seriously, if a murdering rapist broke into my apartment and heard me playing Lament, I'd be horrified, and probably apologize to him as he was murdering/raping me. It would be that embarrassing.
2.) Throw your body forcefully on a soft piece of furniture. This is not the time to half-ass it. Really put some effort into it.
3.) Ready? This is your big moment. Lift your head from wherever it landed, and make a ridiculously over-exaggerated Shirley Temple pout. If you have trouble with this, scrunch your eyebrows as low as you can (no using your hands, cheaters), and clothespin your lips together. Got it? Good.
4.) Now, take the clothespin off your lips and take a deep breathe. As you exhale, in your whiniest, most melodramatic voice, say, "LAMEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEENNNNNNT!" Be sure to maintain your bitchface.
5.) Repeat Step 4 as long as needed. Just so you know, your first few "Laments" should be considered a warm-up. After you have a couple under your belt, your bitchface should be effortless, and your "Laments" should be building in intensity. Husband introduced me to this, and I've never had a bad day that it couldn't fix.
6.)***Optional*** This step is not for the weak. If you do happen to live with someone like Husband, or if you have amazing friends (I mean the kind you would trust with your secrets, hair, and money), you can have a group lament. In the right company, a group lament will do wonders for your psyche, and solve all your problems. But be careful--one shy, self-conscious eye-roller has the potential to kill it for everyone. And nothing good comes from a ruined lamentation. Do you think the Holocaust would have happened if Hitler had a solid group of friends to lament with after World War 1? Exactly.
If you happen to be around my apartment tomorrow, and hear a strange noise that resembles Fran Drescher singing "Swing Low, Sweet Chariot," you'll know how the weigh-in went.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Crunch Time
It's officially one month until my 30th birthday (give or take a day...my birthday is actually July 15th). The pressure is on. I've definitely made progress, and I'm feeling good about myself, but the last time I stepped on a scale (last Friday), I wasn't 130. I was 134. I would be fine with that, except IT'S NOT 130, DAMMIT.
I mean, come on. I've been doing this for months now. I exercise regularly. I eat fruits and vegetables. I cut waaaaaayyy down on both fast food and nachos. Where's my big payoff?
Not to mention how embarrassed I'll be if I have to rename this blog 134 by 30. It just doesn't have the same ring, you know?
So I'm asking a favor from those of you who have been supporting me the past couple months: hold me accountable. Keep me in check. I only have one more month, and I need all the help I can get.
I mean, come on. I've been doing this for months now. I exercise regularly. I eat fruits and vegetables. I cut waaaaaayyy down on both fast food and nachos. Where's my big payoff?
Not to mention how embarrassed I'll be if I have to rename this blog 134 by 30. It just doesn't have the same ring, you know?
So I'm asking a favor from those of you who have been supporting me the past couple months: hold me accountable. Keep me in check. I only have one more month, and I need all the help I can get.
Tuesday, May 31, 2011
I want ALL the Moderation!
So, I've been doing pretty well with the whole Eat Like a Grown-Up thing. Plus, I've really been making an effort to not eat after 8:00 pm. The deliciousness of nachos increases exponentially as the day goes on*, so if I don't eat them after 8:00 pm, I generally** don't eat them. I went shopping with a friend last week, and actually fit into a small. I'm thrilled when I fit into a medium, so a small makes me question if I was actually shopping in the maternity wear by mistake. (This has happened before at Target. I'd rather not talk about it.) But a small! Maybe my 8 year-old mind was right! Maybe I can accomplish anything! Maybe I'll be 130 by 30! And an astronaut! Okay, maybe not that last one, but still!
And then came the holiday weekend.
I actually gave myself a pep talk. Out loud. While looking in the mirror.*** I told myself I didn't need to overeat just because it was a holiday; there would be plenty of fruits and veggies that I could partake in, and feel all proud of myself afterwards.
Needless to say, my actual life choice did not leave me feeling all proud of myself.
So, here I am, afraid to step on the scale and acknowledge the damage I've done with the three**** Memorial Day picnics I attended. Am I the only 29-going-on-30 year-old who still hasn't learned moderation? Where did everybody else my age get it? Where was I? These aren't rhetorical questions--I really want answers.
*It's science, people.
**This excludes holidays, social occasions, outings, and days where I just need nachos, dammit.
***I apparently wanted to channel a cliche from every movie where a character is facing a dilemma.
****Yes, three. And I overate at every single one.
And then came the holiday weekend.
I actually gave myself a pep talk. Out loud. While looking in the mirror.*** I told myself I didn't need to overeat just because it was a holiday; there would be plenty of fruits and veggies that I could partake in, and feel all proud of myself afterwards.
Needless to say, my actual life choice did not leave me feeling all proud of myself.
So, here I am, afraid to step on the scale and acknowledge the damage I've done with the three**** Memorial Day picnics I attended. Am I the only 29-going-on-30 year-old who still hasn't learned moderation? Where did everybody else my age get it? Where was I? These aren't rhetorical questions--I really want answers.
*It's science, people.
**This excludes holidays, social occasions, outings, and days where I just need nachos, dammit.
***I apparently wanted to channel a cliche from every movie where a character is facing a dilemma.
****Yes, three. And I overate at every single one.
Wednesday, May 18, 2011
Vermin, no. Deliciousness, yes!
Warning: This isn't really a full-blown post. I just feel the need to take a moment to celebrate the wonder that is ratatouille. To be completely honest, I never even knew what ratatouille was until Pixar enlightened me, and even then, it didn't exactly tickle my pickle. (Was anyone else disappointed that Remy made soup of all things for the critic? Access to all kinds of Parisian cuisine, and he makes soup???) It just wasn't terribly exciting.
Well, I was paging through my mom's copy of French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guilianno (which I permanently borrowed years ago), and came across a super easy looking recipe for ratatouille. What the hell, I thought. Why not?
It turns out that ratatouille is incredible. There's not much to it, but I was looking forward to lunch today because I knew we had leftovers. If you like eggplant, garlic, and tomatoes, give it a shot. The recipe I made used a crock pot, so all I had to do was chop up vegetables, and forget about them for four hours while I went and took a nap (seriously, that's what I did). If you know of an easier, healthy recipe that is actually good, let me know. In the meantime, I pledge my allegiance to ratatouille.
Well, I was paging through my mom's copy of French Women Don't Get Fat by Mireille Guilianno (which I permanently borrowed years ago), and came across a super easy looking recipe for ratatouille. What the hell, I thought. Why not?
It turns out that ratatouille is incredible. There's not much to it, but I was looking forward to lunch today because I knew we had leftovers. If you like eggplant, garlic, and tomatoes, give it a shot. The recipe I made used a crock pot, so all I had to do was chop up vegetables, and forget about them for four hours while I went and took a nap (seriously, that's what I did). If you know of an easier, healthy recipe that is actually good, let me know. In the meantime, I pledge my allegiance to ratatouille.
Monday, May 16, 2011
Fear and Loathing
I've gotten a bit cocky. I've been doing really well with the exercise part of the "diet and exercise" thing, and while I knew I needed to work on the eating part, I guess I didn't acknowledge how serious it was. I weighed myself for the first time in two weeks this morning.
138.
For those keeping score at home, yes, I gained 1 pound from when I first started this blog. All the work, all the running, all the stickers. All for not. As you may have guessed, I'm feeling less than motivated at the moment.
I can't say that it's a complete surprise--I've had my share of junk food in the past few weeks, and without getting on the scale, I wasn't feeling particularly 130-ish. Or 134-ish, for that matter. I guess I just hoped that the running would cover for the nachos (on a related note, I did find two different bar/restaurants that serve amazing nachos that are each perfect in completely different ways, like snowflakes). Alas, the running not only failed to cover for the nachos, but made me hungrier than usual. I'm told you're supposed to eat things like tuna and bananas to combat this, not pulled pork BBQ nachos (which are as awesome as they sound). I can practically hear my body laughing at me. ("You thought just because Left Knee stopped hurting that we'd cave in to your unreasonable demands? We've been planning our rebellion the whole time! And here's what we think about this 10k crap! VIVA LA COUCH!")
So now I'm fear and loathing on my couch. Fear that I might not be able to make 130 by 30, loathing that I can't control my addiction to junk food. Interestingly, my 8 year-old mind has come in handy during this dark time. The beauty of being 8 years old is that you haven't grasped the idea that maybe, just maybe, some things are a little out of reach. There was no doubt in my mind at 8 that I was going to be an actress when I grew up; in fact, I was pretty damn sure that I was going to be the youngest actress ever to win an Academy Award. Someone would; why not me? So 8 year-old mind is helping me out at the moment. I can still hit 130 by 30. I'm exercising, and now I know how close I am to 140, as opposed to 130. And as a wise man once said, knowing is half the battle.
138.
For those keeping score at home, yes, I gained 1 pound from when I first started this blog. All the work, all the running, all the stickers. All for not. As you may have guessed, I'm feeling less than motivated at the moment.
I can't say that it's a complete surprise--I've had my share of junk food in the past few weeks, and without getting on the scale, I wasn't feeling particularly 130-ish. Or 134-ish, for that matter. I guess I just hoped that the running would cover for the nachos (on a related note, I did find two different bar/restaurants that serve amazing nachos that are each perfect in completely different ways, like snowflakes). Alas, the running not only failed to cover for the nachos, but made me hungrier than usual. I'm told you're supposed to eat things like tuna and bananas to combat this, not pulled pork BBQ nachos (which are as awesome as they sound). I can practically hear my body laughing at me. ("You thought just because Left Knee stopped hurting that we'd cave in to your unreasonable demands? We've been planning our rebellion the whole time! And here's what we think about this 10k crap! VIVA LA COUCH!")
So now I'm fear and loathing on my couch. Fear that I might not be able to make 130 by 30, loathing that I can't control my addiction to junk food. Interestingly, my 8 year-old mind has come in handy during this dark time. The beauty of being 8 years old is that you haven't grasped the idea that maybe, just maybe, some things are a little out of reach. There was no doubt in my mind at 8 that I was going to be an actress when I grew up; in fact, I was pretty damn sure that I was going to be the youngest actress ever to win an Academy Award. Someone would; why not me? So 8 year-old mind is helping me out at the moment. I can still hit 130 by 30. I'm exercising, and now I know how close I am to 140, as opposed to 130. And as a wise man once said, knowing is half the battle.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)