I feel like I should stand up and address the group.
me: Hello. My name is Kim and it's been five days since I last ran.
group: Hi Kim
::sigh::
Yes, I will admit it. I have not been running very much lately. Despite the fact the Summerlin half marathon is creeping up quickly, I've been totally slacking on the mileage front.
In an effort to ascertain what the problem is, I reviewed the calendar from the last few months. This is what I came up with:
Dec 4: Vegas 1/2 marathon
Dec 5-10: recover from 1/2 marathon. Get quoted by local media about race chaos. Inexplicably use the word "bowels" when talking with reporter.
Dec 10: the start of the Illness that Destroyed Multiple Christmas Parties (it's okay, Scotty...I forgive you. Kind of).
Dec 19 -25: Week before Christmas. No boot camp. Who wants to run when there are Christmas cookies to eat?? nom-nom-nom.
Dec 26 - Jan 2: Half-ass it at the gym. So bored by the lack of boot camp I half-heartedly climbed on a treadmill. For like, 20 minutes. Barely broke a sweat. Didn't pick up a weight.
Jan 2-6: Boot camp starts on the 7th! Gonna sleep in now to prepare for the those early mornings
Jan 7: Brian informs me he has court early every day except Wednesday the 11th. I am on Bear-duty in the morning. No boot camp for Kim.
Jan 11: BOOT CAMP!!
Jan 12: Wake up with The Sinus Infection That Won't Die.
Jan 22: Run for the first time in ten days. Three miles.
Jan 22: Brian informs me he has court every day except Monday and Tuesday (23rd & 24th)
Jan 23: BOOT CAMP!
Jan 24: BOOT CAMP! Hill DAY! Happy KIM!!!!!!!!!!!
Jan 25: Run 4 miles. We're on track, baby!
Jan 28: Run 3 miles. Feeling great!
Jan 29: Exhausted
Jan 29: Brian tells me he has court everyday except Monday and
Tuesday. Sweet. More Boot Camp. Will push through.
Jan 30: Alarm doesn't go off; I sleep through Boot Camp
Jan 31: I just completely, intentionally, and willfully did not go to Hill Day. Stayed up too late watching "The Bachelor." Exhausted from all other parts of life. Tired. Grumpy.
Feb 1: Run 4 miles. Almost die. Catch Scotty's cold and am out for another four days.
There you have it, folks. The last two months of my life. I am shocked that it is already February. I am also shocked and scared at my complete and total lack of motivation. When I look back at September and October, I think to myself, "How the hell was I logging 8-12 mile runs? Where was that energy coming from?" Now, just a mere three miles is enough for me to break out into a cold, uncomfortable sweat. Not to mention, no one in our house can manage to stay healthy for more than a 10-day period of time. I should start dispensing antibiotics with the daily vitamin.
My diet has been horrible. As described last week, my go-to coping skill when stressed is to bake. I don't know why, perhaps it just part of my Midwestern genetics. But if there is a tray of brownies in the oven or cupcakes cooling on the counter, for whatever reason, life feels a bit more manageable. The problem is I'm not giving the sweets away as fast as I should; a Rice Krispie treat here, a brownie (or 12) there...and it's all adding up.
I'm up six pounds. This is on top of the post-Christmas five pound weight gain, putting me squarely a full 11 (gulp) pounds up from early December.
All I can think is, "Really? Really? Is the slope that slippery?"
The answer is yes.
I remember reading somewhere that in order to gain weight for the movie "Monster," Charlize Theron ate cheeseburgers, brownies, drank red wine and stopped exercising. She was like, "Yeah, the weight totally piled on." The only difference between Ms. Theron and myself is that I eat that diet with the expectation of losing weight.
Time to get a grip, Kim.
I spent a good portion of the weekend really, really mad. Mad at the Universe. Mad that I gain weight quickly. Mad that I don't have a lightening fast metabolism and mad that exercising is always a chore. Always. Mad that I have to fight for the chance to exercise. Mad that when the rubber hits the road, Brian's job wins over Boot Camp. (I never said I was being rational). Mad that I can't seem to find a good middle ground between my weight and my diet. And mad that I have to run freakin' 13.1 miles in less than three months, when my motivation is zero and I can't seem to shake this head cold.
I got myself so worked up about this unexplained weight gain I did what every thirty-something married woman does when she puts on more than five pounds: I decided I must be pregnant.
Three minutes and one little test later (and a lot of horrified looks from Brian), it was confirmed. I was, in fact, not with child.
I told Brian, "I guess I'm just fat with a head cold."
The look of fear in his eyes kept him from opening his mouth. He simply handed me a tissue and patted my leg sympathetically.
Wise man.
By last night, I pulled myself together. I laid out my workout clothes and promised myself I was going to get up at 5:30 to run. Brian has to be in early every morning this week except Thursday and Friday. Despite his schedule, I still can exercise; I just need to be done and out of the shower by 6:30am. If I was really motivated, I could do it.
And when the alarm went off this morning, the day still dark and everyone in our household silent, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.
And then I started swearing. Like, loudly.
I swore all the way to the closet. I swore with each piece of clothing I angrily shoved on my body: pants, tall socks, shirt, warmer shirt, both gloves, ear muffs. Shoes had a whole bunch of expletives attached to them as I tied my laces. Don't even get me started about what I said when I brushed my teeth and popped in the contacts. I swore all the way down the stairs, kicking, muttering, pouting.
I swore through the first two miles. And the last two miles.
But by the time I climbed back up the stairs, untied my shoes, and started the shower (as my darling husband snoozed on, blissfully warm in bed), I stopped cursing. Finally. And I accepted the fact that as long as I don't want to weigh 200 pounds, I have to - have to, have to, have to- do what I don't want to do. I have to put the Chardonnay and Cinnamon Bears down. I need to pick up the shoes.
I need to fight for this.
And with that, I'm restarting my re-start. I'm trying again. This morning's run proved that I can do it. Getting out of bed is 50% of the battle. Even if I can't get to boot camp, I still can do something for myself. I just need to go to bed really, really early the night before.
But it's worth it. Really.
The Summerlin Half-Marathon is 68 days away and I am desperately working on my bad attitude.
me: Hello. My name is Kim and it's been five days since I last ran.
group: Hi Kim
::sigh::
Yes, I will admit it. I have not been running very much lately. Despite the fact the Summerlin half marathon is creeping up quickly, I've been totally slacking on the mileage front.
In an effort to ascertain what the problem is, I reviewed the calendar from the last few months. This is what I came up with:
Dec 4: Vegas 1/2 marathon
Dec 5-10: recover from 1/2 marathon. Get quoted by local media about race chaos. Inexplicably use the word "bowels" when talking with reporter.
Dec 10: the start of the Illness that Destroyed Multiple Christmas Parties (it's okay, Scotty...I forgive you. Kind of).
Dec 19 -25: Week before Christmas. No boot camp. Who wants to run when there are Christmas cookies to eat?? nom-nom-nom.
Dec 26 - Jan 2: Half-ass it at the gym. So bored by the lack of boot camp I half-heartedly climbed on a treadmill. For like, 20 minutes. Barely broke a sweat. Didn't pick up a weight.
Jan 2-6: Boot camp starts on the 7th! Gonna sleep in now to prepare for the those early mornings
Jan 7: Brian informs me he has court early every day except Wednesday the 11th. I am on Bear-duty in the morning. No boot camp for Kim.
Jan 11: BOOT CAMP!!
Jan 12: Wake up with The Sinus Infection That Won't Die.
Jan 22: Run for the first time in ten days. Three miles.
Jan 22: Brian informs me he has court every day except Monday and Tuesday (23rd & 24th)
Jan 23: BOOT CAMP!
Jan 24: BOOT CAMP! Hill DAY! Happy KIM!!!!!!!!!!!
Jan 25: Run 4 miles. We're on track, baby!
Jan 28: Run 3 miles. Feeling great!
Jan 29: Exhausted
Jan 29: Brian tells me he has court everyday except Monday and
Tuesday. Sweet. More Boot Camp. Will push through.
Jan 30: Alarm doesn't go off; I sleep through Boot Camp
Jan 31: I just completely, intentionally, and willfully did not go to Hill Day. Stayed up too late watching "The Bachelor." Exhausted from all other parts of life. Tired. Grumpy.
Feb 1: Run 4 miles. Almost die. Catch Scotty's cold and am out for another four days.
There you have it, folks. The last two months of my life. I am shocked that it is already February. I am also shocked and scared at my complete and total lack of motivation. When I look back at September and October, I think to myself, "How the hell was I logging 8-12 mile runs? Where was that energy coming from?" Now, just a mere three miles is enough for me to break out into a cold, uncomfortable sweat. Not to mention, no one in our house can manage to stay healthy for more than a 10-day period of time. I should start dispensing antibiotics with the daily vitamin.
My diet has been horrible. As described last week, my go-to coping skill when stressed is to bake. I don't know why, perhaps it just part of my Midwestern genetics. But if there is a tray of brownies in the oven or cupcakes cooling on the counter, for whatever reason, life feels a bit more manageable. The problem is I'm not giving the sweets away as fast as I should; a Rice Krispie treat here, a brownie (or 12) there...and it's all adding up.
I'm up six pounds. This is on top of the post-Christmas five pound weight gain, putting me squarely a full 11 (gulp) pounds up from early December.
All I can think is, "Really? Really? Is the slope that slippery?"
The answer is yes.
I remember reading somewhere that in order to gain weight for the movie "Monster," Charlize Theron ate cheeseburgers, brownies, drank red wine and stopped exercising. She was like, "Yeah, the weight totally piled on." The only difference between Ms. Theron and myself is that I eat that diet with the expectation of losing weight.
Time to get a grip, Kim.
I spent a good portion of the weekend really, really mad. Mad at the Universe. Mad that I gain weight quickly. Mad that I don't have a lightening fast metabolism and mad that exercising is always a chore. Always. Mad that I have to fight for the chance to exercise. Mad that when the rubber hits the road, Brian's job wins over Boot Camp. (I never said I was being rational). Mad that I can't seem to find a good middle ground between my weight and my diet. And mad that I have to run freakin' 13.1 miles in less than three months, when my motivation is zero and I can't seem to shake this head cold.
I got myself so worked up about this unexplained weight gain I did what every thirty-something married woman does when she puts on more than five pounds: I decided I must be pregnant.
Three minutes and one little test later (and a lot of horrified looks from Brian), it was confirmed. I was, in fact, not with child.
I told Brian, "I guess I'm just fat with a head cold."
The look of fear in his eyes kept him from opening his mouth. He simply handed me a tissue and patted my leg sympathetically.
Wise man.
By last night, I pulled myself together. I laid out my workout clothes and promised myself I was going to get up at 5:30 to run. Brian has to be in early every morning this week except Thursday and Friday. Despite his schedule, I still can exercise; I just need to be done and out of the shower by 6:30am. If I was really motivated, I could do it.
And when the alarm went off this morning, the day still dark and everyone in our household silent, I rolled over and buried my face in the pillow.
And then I started swearing. Like, loudly.
I swore all the way to the closet. I swore with each piece of clothing I angrily shoved on my body: pants, tall socks, shirt, warmer shirt, both gloves, ear muffs. Shoes had a whole bunch of expletives attached to them as I tied my laces. Don't even get me started about what I said when I brushed my teeth and popped in the contacts. I swore all the way down the stairs, kicking, muttering, pouting.
I swore through the first two miles. And the last two miles.
But by the time I climbed back up the stairs, untied my shoes, and started the shower (as my darling husband snoozed on, blissfully warm in bed), I stopped cursing. Finally. And I accepted the fact that as long as I don't want to weigh 200 pounds, I have to - have to, have to, have to- do what I don't want to do. I have to put the Chardonnay and Cinnamon Bears down. I need to pick up the shoes.
I need to fight for this.
And with that, I'm restarting my re-start. I'm trying again. This morning's run proved that I can do it. Getting out of bed is 50% of the battle. Even if I can't get to boot camp, I still can do something for myself. I just need to go to bed really, really early the night before.
But it's worth it. Really.
The Summerlin Half-Marathon is 68 days away and I am desperately working on my bad attitude.
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