Wow. How to come down from the emotional high that was losing 10 pounds last night? When I stepped off the scale, I was obviously quite jubilant, but I was unsure of exactly what to do next. Part of me wanted to work out right then and there (gotta take advantage of that early-morning exhaustion!). Part of me wanted to take the next week off. And for some reason, part of me wanted a Philly cheese steak.
I ultimately decide to stay the course, keep exercising just as hard, and watch what I eat. I was entering Week 2 of this program - which meant more veggies and water, yippee - and so I knew I couldn't throw in the towel now. 10 pounds was a sign that better things were to come, so as long as I didn't miss too many days at the gym, and as long as I didn't have an exorbitant amount of food in one sitting, I would be fine.
The following morning, Holls and I had been invited out to breakfast by her parents. I had passed this Restaurant Test two nights earlier, so I knew this would be a cinch. After perusing the expansive menu - while avoiding land mines like bacon and sausage (stomach grumbling) - I settled on a sensible and nutritious choice: a vegetarian omelet with toast. And since it was one of the less-expensive items available, I knew it couldn't have been that big, right?
Not right. Simply put, this was one of the biggest breakfasts I've had in two months. The omelet was thicker than a Trapper Keeper, flanked by four slices of iron man Texas toast, buried underneath the rubble of a home fries explosion. The plate was almost bigger than my head, not an insignificant accomplishment. I almost choked when I asked somebody to pass the butter. They were essentially musket balls from a Redcoat's bayonet, except edible. This is not what I had in mind when I placed my order.
But hey, as long as it's here....maybe one...little...bite?
MMMAHHHHMMMMLWLALKSDFJASODFJELELWOWIJLDKGJASGOIAJSG!!!!!!
When I regained consciousness, it was time for the workout. The one thing I could not allow myself to do this week was slack. I had finished strong last week, and I was bound and determined to keep up the pace. I rammed home the power circuit on Monday, ultimately realizing that if I wanted to live past 30, I would not be able to run 2 miles every day. I could still run my hard mile, though. And I'm proud to say that I finished each day with an extremely sweaty, extremely disgusting T-shirt on my back. When I catch the guy who threw it at me, his ass is grass.
*****
As this week began, I suspected the only thing that might change noticeably would be the amount of willpower I was willing to apply to my daily workouts. Much to my surprise, it didn't happen. In fact, I think once I noticed my workouts were a bit easier this week, I started to step up the pace and really throw some weight into the exercises. But something else did happen almost every day this week that could prove to be a great lesson or a great undoing.
After Monday's breakfast, I found myself in somewhat of a time crunch. See, I have been arriving at the gym around 12:15/12:30 every day. That allows me enough time to stretch properly, warm up, get my exercises in, run my mile, and shower, with some leisurely sit-around-and-breathlessly-watch-TV time thrown in for good measure, all before I punch in for work at 3. But with several errands demanding my attention before I got to the gym, I realized that I was being pushed inevitably toward either having to work out very quickly or not work out at all.
As many fitness routines as I've started in my life, I've always known exactly one thing that's beyond doubt: for the first week, I will rearrange my life around my workout routine because the energy and commitment is still fresh in my mind; for the second week, I will rearrange my workout routine around my life because I've lost any resolve to keep pushing forward. It pisses me off to no end, but that's the way I've always operated.
And I could tell that with the rest of my life starting to seep back in for some much-needed attention that I would have to find a steady balance between the two priorities. I really wanted to do my workout routine, but at some point, I know that life will need me other places, and I will not be able to do it sometimes. But at this early stage of the game, there was no way in hell I was going to make that compromise yet.
I arrived at the gym at 1 pm or later almost every day this week, knowing that to get the full slate in, I would have to book it. And let me tell you something: when it's not your first day and you're not ready to pass out after every strain on your muscles, speeding through a workout is actually not that hard. You just have to cut out that precious TV time, which is a little sad, I must say.
SIDEBAR: I walked in one day and somebody had left it on the Game Show Network. As I was finishing up my mile, this show called Catch 21 came on, hosted by none other than Carlton Banks, albeit a little heavier and without that rich person egotism. The only proper way to describe how he looked was to say he was dressed like the Head Keg Pumper at a fraternity homecoming party (sports coat on T-shirt: always a classy choice).
Needless to say, Tom Jones may be making his way into my workout mix in the near future.
*****
Finally, there was one more thing I noticed this week that I brushed upon earlier. The workouts are starting to get easier, which is not a great thing. It means I'm getting too comfortable. After I work hard, I get it in my head that I deserve a break. Apparently, I let the intensity of my workout be my break. No wonder I was breezing through these workouts! Perhaps that's overstating it, though. I wouldn't call a wheezy, hulking mass of sweat exactly "breezing through" anything. It's just the motions become easier to predict; I know what I'm in for. On Friday, I decided to remedy that and started upping the weight. My God, was it terrible. After working on autopilot for the entire week, it was almost like my first day all over again. I started getting that passing-out feeling toward the end of the workout, but I think I know why.
One of my exercises calls for a Weighted Knee Raise, which calls for me to position myself in a captain's chair and lift my legs up to my diaphragm. Unfortunately, having the balance and endurance of a baby giraffe means that while I'm struggling to lift my knees up to my gut - er, abdomen, my arms are doing all the work by trying to keep me upright. I haven't been getting the ab workout that I needed. So I subbed in 3 sets of incline sit-ups, which are, to paraphrase Charles Barkley, just turrible. But with that extra push in my twice-a-week power circuit, I felt the burn hardcore.
I also discovered the power of having somebody else around. On Tuesday, another person came in and started using the treadmill while I was exercising. I don't know what it is, but when somebody else is around, I shift into Impress Mode, and I feel my workout will not be complete until I beat that person at whatever it is they're doing. This time, it was the treadmill. So when I stepped up to do my mile, I cranked it out, and made sure that I didn't leave until I felt I had sufficiently impressed the crap out of this complete stranger.
And the story about my prideful self collapsing in a blubbering mass of exhausted pity in the shower immediately after the door closed is entirely unfounded.
TWO NEW COMPLIMENTS FOR THE WEEK:
"Hello there, Arnold Schwarzenegger, Jr.!" ~ coworker ~
(to which I immediately replied, "Actually, I'm more like a Lily Schwarzenegger...Jr...because I'm weak...I'll leave")
As I was taking my daily medication:
"Look at this guy! He's popping steroids!" and then my arm was immediately squeezed for good measure. Last time I trust that preacher.
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