Oh, the gym.
The gym, the gym, the gym.
Gym gymminy, gym gymminy, gym gym gyree…
The fucking gym.
I realize I haven’t posted since last week. When I checked this afternoon to see when I posted last and try to figure out what week this is, I realized this is the end of week seven. Week SEVEN, y’all!
Week seven was pretty good. I worked out Monday through Thursday, each day. It was very mind/body at times. After the Muscle Milk incident last week, in which I let my stupid brain psych me out, I’ve tried to put my mental energy to good use by releasing it into my workout instead of letting it stay trapped in my head.
Oh, everyone in town who plays the lottery decided they had to buy their lottery tickets at exactly the same moment when I was behind them in line at the Tom Thumb? That’s cool. Imma just do some fuckin’ squats right now.
Oh, my efforts to meet deadlines are thwarted at every turn by people who have no interest at all in timeliness? Hm. Guess I’m gonna lunge that shit out.
Oh, my ex-boyfriend decided to unfriend me on Facebook? Ok. Excuse me while I power press the fuck out of this barbell.
Oh, that dude I met a couple weeks ago is engaged, something he failed to mention to me? Alrighty, then. BTW, I’ll just be over here doing some motherfucking bicep curls.
Speaking of bicep curls, those are probably my very least favorite thing right now. I totally wimp out on my weights for those. Hate. Them. But I did enjoy them one day this week when an instructor I hadn’t met before taught Body Pump and had us doing bicep curls to Pink’s “So What.” That is my jam, bitches. Had I the ability to focus on much more than curling my fucking biceps, I might have belted out the lyrics. “So what? I’m still a rock star. And you’re a tool.”
I got me one of those fancypants fitness trackers this week, a Fitbit. It records how many steps I take per day. Not surprisingly, it’s not that many. I haven’t made any special effort to walk more since I got the thing; right now I’m just interested to see how many steps I take in my typical course of existence. My best day was something like 5,100. Fitbit wants you to take 10,000. I work at a desk. You do the math.
I haven’t done RIPPED since I got the Fitbit. I wonder if it will count things like jumping jacks and kicky things as steps. That’ll be interesting to see this week.
I’m feeling some pressure to go ahead, get the fuck on with it, and start phase two of my master plan. The dieting phase. The pressure I feel is all from myself. Phase one was supposed to be getting into a fitness routine that became… well, routine for me. And it has. That’s part of why I haven’t written about it lately; working out has become something I just do. Not as noteworthy as it was. “Yeah, I went to Body Pump. I pumped my fucking body. We’ve been over this before.”
So clearly, phase one has been successful and has gone on for seven solid weeks. And weight loss has been almost nil. I therefore feel the pressure to stop eating so much fucking junk food and start dropping some poundage.
This thought fills me with resentment, just as going to the fucking gym did at the beginning. But it’s different. Maybe it’s about what the sacrifice would be. Going to the fucking gym represents a sacrifice of an hour or more each time I go (counting things like getting set up and then subjecting myself to the piss-poor showers). That’s no small sacrifice, to be sure, especially since I’m so busy doing things like watching American Horror Story on Netflix and playing Pet Rescue Saga on my phone. However, dieting is somehow a bigger sacrifice. It represents a sacrifice every single time I make choices about food. And I loves me my food.
I talked to someone this week about diet, and she mentioned in an offhanded way something about ordering a salad that doesn’t have cheese on it. I nodded with understanding. But wtf is the point of almost ANYTHING without cheese? Especially a salad. I mean, don’t coat the bitch with cheese, but there’s got to be something for your taste buds to look forward to, and it sure as shit isn’t the often-drippy lettuce or the ice-cold grape tomatoes.
I am considering doing some sort of time-limited challenge. Anyone can do something for 10 days or 30 days or 90 days or whatever. Maybe if I start some kind of plan that has a definite end in sight, that will jumpstart me.
This week could be a good opportunity to get things going, because my beloved children, whose meals mostly come out of my freezer or cans and boxes from my pantry, are visiting family out of town all week. Which means I don’t have to worry about cooking shit they won’t eat. Which, in reality, I realize I shouldn’t give a shit if they’ll eat what I cook or not. Who’s the boss around here? Me, bitches. It’s me. Don’t judge my parenting.
But I digress.
I’m not committing. Like a 30-something single guy with daddy issues. You’re not the boss of me.
Week eight should be a good week. Without my progeny to take to daycare in the morning, I should be able to hit as many asscrack of dawn workouts as I want to and cook as much frozen fish and vegetables as I can stomach. And I bought a new accessory this weekend to cart along with me this week. And I have some exciting new dietary supplements to try.
Maybe I’ll write about it. Maybe I won’t.
Gym week seven, days one through four
- Favorite part: releasing my aggression with punchy, kicky things and picking up heavy shit and putting it back down.
- Least favorite part: having any fucking aggressions to need to release. Believe it or not, I’m a fucking lover, not a fighter. Bitches.