Medicine Ball Of Death

It’s no joke that my anger goes into overdrive when my trainer says, ‘Warm up and I’ll meet you on the green!’.

The green is the area of the weight room that has the plyo box.  Enough said.  No, but it also has the sled, the battle ropes, hand weights, and kettle bells, amongst other things that are trying to murder me.   We call it the green because the ground looks like it’s fake grass.  It’s honestly my personal hell.

I absolutely, 100%, HATE when he tells me to ‘meet him on the green’.  It has come to my realization that I hate it because I know I am weak when I work out over there.  I know that I lose my breath faster, and my throat starts to burn worse, and I am just plain old fucking miserable, when I’m there.  I am much more comfortable and accustomed to working out on the weight machines.  I guess that’s why he makes me work out on the green.  He knows I need to challenge myself.  He’s doing for me.  But… really?  Fuck that business.

Anyways, it’s upper body murder day, and I am on ‘the green’.  It’s the end of my work out, and I have already spent the better part of my 30 minutes pushing my arms and shoulders to their limits.  I have lifted weights in all sorts of ways, and I have done a pretty good job of NOT complaining, the whole time.  In fact, I barely complained when I hurt.  I pushed through it.  I have goals, dammit.  I’m not going to get there by whining.

That thought process quickly went out the window when I saw that he had the Medicine Ball Of Death in his hands, on ‘the green’.  It was the last part of my work out.  I would be doing three sets each, of four different movements.  Ten reps of lifting my arms over my head with 15 pound weights in each hand.  Five reps of lifting the same weights like a bird flapping it’s wings (that’s the actual technical term for this move, I’m pretty sure). Ten push ups (because he’s an asshole).  And finally, ten catches of the medicine ball, then lifting it over my head, and slamming it to the ground.  I make it through the first set of the first three movements, and then I struggle my ass off with the medicine ball.  Like, between each and every lift and slam, I am dying.  My arms hurt.  I have sweat in my eyes.  I am weak.  I am tired.  …and apparently, I’m making those oh so famous, Dumb Workout Faces.

He couldn’t stop laughing at me.  Very single catch of that ball, and grunt when I tried to lift it, and apparent face I made- he laughed.

I made it through, and finished all three sets, and by the third set, I was chucking the ball down on the ground with ease (mostly because I was picturing it being his face).

While we were walking back to the front of the gym, he turned to me and said, ‘That medicine ball episode should never have aired on TV.  You laughed more than you threw the ball.’  Uhh, yes.  Because laughing is how I keep from crying, my friend. And we all know we don’t need a crying client ‘on the green’.

This One Is About A Wicked Nice Farmer I Know

I’ve posted about the hilariously shitty things that people have said to me, about my weight loss, but this time, I want to share a story about a really nice comment.

My town has a Farmer’s Market, and I’ve gone every Thursday, in the summer, for at least six years.  I go to the same vendor for fruits and vegetables, every single time.

Over the years, I’ve gotten to know the guy who runs this particular stand.  We have small chit chat, and he’s always very pleasant.  He’s really a very, very nice guy (also cute, but that has nothing to do with it. haha!).  Once upon a time, he told me his name, but I never remember names…because I suck.  I call him Farmer Brown, when I talk about him.  Judge me.

Yesterday, while paying for my pretty peaches and zucchini, Farmer Brown said, ‘Umm… I don’t know if this is ok to say; I mean, I don’t know if I’m allowed to say this, but you’ve lost a lot of weight!  Is that ok to say?  I hope it is!  You look great!’

I replied, ‘OF COURSE!’  I thanked him, and told him a few stories about the crazy shit people have said, and how this weird human race thinks it’s ok to say kind of, well,  slightly rude comments about people who lose weight (but not when they gain it, of course!).  He was shocked at the things I’ve heard, and we just laughed about it.

I will say, that sometimes it’s awkward when people say something, but deep down I actually really enjoy it.  I don’t enjoy it because I’m narcissistic.  I enjoy it because sometimes I don’t see the changes.  When other people haven’t seen me in a while, their reactions are always nice because that’s how I know I’ve changed.  My hard work, and dedication to this process, has all been worth it, when I get those reactions.

Anyways, I really wish that he knew that he absolutely made my day.

 

Super Muscle Chick

My trainer now knows exactly when he will be written about.  It has become a thing during my work outs, to let him know that whatever happened will turn into a blog.  In fact, he knows the moments so well, that sometimes even he calls it (‘This is going to be a blog, isn’t it’ shaking his head).  This is a story about one of those times.

There have been many times when I’m working out, that I am pulling on weights with all my might, and my trainer will say something like, ‘Damn, girl, look at those arms!  You’re so strong.  Seriously, look at those muscles poppin’!  Obviously I don’t look.  All I see is fat bat wings, anyways.  But sometimes, on rare occasion, I finally see what he sees.

This is an actual text conversation between my trainer, and myself:

Me: ‘I was putting my hair up in a bun, and I looked at my arms and I was like… (insert muscle arm emoji and wide eyes emoji)’

Him:  ‘It’s a bird.  It’s a plane.  It’s Super Muscle Chick!!’

Me: ‘Ha, ok.. but yeah, I just wasn’t expecting to see that’

Him: ‘I’ve been trying to show you that for a month’

Me: ‘I don’t take compliments very well.  Clearly.’

Him: ‘Alright, so now we’re on the same page.  You’re a diesel muscle bound woman who eats toddlers around for breakfast’

Me: ‘Well I carry them around while eating my breakfast, so…’

Him: ‘Just as good’

Me: ‘Thanks for putting up with me.  You know I appreciate it.’ (Remember how I said I apologize and tell him how much I love him, after threatening his life? Yup.)

Him: ‘You’re welcome.  Some idiot has to do it.  Let that idiot be me.’

If you really dig deep, you can feel the love we have for each other.  I know it’s mutual.  I mean, if he didn’t love me, he wouldn’t be able to put up with my complete shit attitude at the gym, multiple times a week.

Last week, as we were finishing up ‘Lower Body Murder Day’, we were headed back to the front of the gym, and we were fighting.  Naturally.  It’s really what we do best, next to making each other laugh at the dumbest crap.  Anyways, here we are, walking to the front desk where new gym members are strolling in, and I’m fighting with my trainer.  Another trainer (who knows us, well) walked up and said, ‘Do you guys ever stop fighting?’  And we laughed, and laughed, and laughed…. ok, I laughed.  Then he said something to prove that I am really the problem.

Today, as Murder Day ended, I plopped my ass on a chair at my trainers desk, to continue bothering him, naturally.  All of a sudden, with a very serious looking face, he says ‘Hey, so we’re having a pull up contest, and I think you’re a great competitor….’ His voiced trailed off, and a shit eating grin appeared across his face.  Because, he’s an asshole.  (If you aren’t understanding his funny funny ha ha, go read ‘Wait, You’re Stronger Now.  Try This.’)  I immediately, and openly, picked up my phone and made a note about the conversation, so I could blog about it later on.

In other news, I feel like I need a grand reveal for this guy.  He deserves it, at this point.

I’m All About The Numbers

Ok, so, some people reading this blog have known me for a very long time, and could probably attest to the fact that I am NOT good at math.  I never picked up anything in math class very easily, and when I couldn’t understand something, I usually just let my brain do its thing… and wander some where else.  Like, ‘oh, you can’t do this? Ok. Let’s go on a swirly whirly ride into a daydream’.  This is why I failed at all my math classes.

So, now knowing this about me, I bet you’d be surprised to know that I have become focused- err… obsessed with numbers.  ‘What numbers could she possibly be talking about?’ you may ask.  That would be a very good question!  Nutrition Facts.

I’m not here to bore you with how I carefully read each label, which I do.  I’m also not here to tell you about how I surprise myself with learning how bad the foods are that I previously thought were healthy, which I also do.  No, I’m here to tell you how I sit, sometimes for hours, adding nutrition labels, measuring portions, and analyzing meals that I make at home.

This all started with Turkey Chili.  I made a huge batch.  Enough to feed me probably 10 meals.  While I cooked, I kept a notebook to the side, and jotted down the N.F.’s (this is how we will refer to Nutrition Facts, from here on out) for each and every ingredient.  If I used the whole can of tomatoes, I figured out the facts for the whole can, and wrote that down.  Calories, Fat, Carbohydrates, Sugar, Protein.  Once I had the entire list of ingredients and their N.T.’s, I added them all up.  This gave me the total numbers for my massive batch of Turkey Chili.  When the chili was done cooking, I carefully measured it out by serving size, and then divided those totals by the number of servings that it made.

Since then, I have done this for every single meal I make.  Turkey Chili, Turkey Meatballs,  Bean Salad, Chocolate Protein Balls, Cloud Bread, Cauliflower Pizza, Cauliflower ‘Fried Rice’, Overnight Oats, etc. etc.

Here’s where the obsession begins.  When I figure out the N.F.’s, I immediately start thinking about how I can cut down the calories/fat/carbohydrates… or whatever, by using different ingredients.  That’s when research happens.  My  best example is Overnight Oats.

I thought Overnight Oats would be a good breakfast for me to have, and would be a nice change of pace from a protein shake or eggs.  I used a recipe, adjusted certain things (like not using sugar, and instead, using Truvia), and made the stuff.  When I was finished, I added up the N.P.’s, and realized that it was an INSANE amount of carbohydrates and calories for a 4oz. portion.  Like I didn’t want to waste my time eating this!  Thus began two hours of researching how I could adjust the recipe.  I was adding, scribbling, and crossing things out in my notebook, and ultimately purchasing new food products off of Amazon.

Two days later (what up, Amazon Prime!), I was making my Overnight Oats again.  This time, however, I had managed to cut the calories by half, and the carbohydrates by a third.  Proud of myself doesn’t do this justice.  I was like a kid in a tasty oatmeal shop!

Since then, after I have perfected my recipes, I write down ingredients, brand names of products, and then finally- N.F.’s for each serving on a small index card.  I store these in a little box, tucked away, and I can pull them out anytime, and make the meal, without worrying about doing my math.  Perfection.

So, I’d like to take a moment to give a big shout out to all my math teachers- from Kindergarten to Senior Year.  You did it.  I like my math…  just don’t ask me to start doing any algebra.

IMG_5796

This was my latest creation.  My take on Texas Caviar.  This is one of the neatest written logs I have EVER done.  And yes, that’s one of three, of my handy dandy notebooks.

 

 

 

I’m Not Actually Athletic

I think I’ve made that very clear.  I mean, I suck on my volleyball team, I pretend to be a runner, I think sports injuries include pulling my groin while walking, and of course, I can’t work out in the weight room by myself in fear of killing myself or someone else.

So basically, I’m not actually athletic, I’m just thinner.  Sometimes, people will get that confused.  Like my trainer for example.  Yes, back to talking about HIM.  During warm up on the treadmill, he thinks it’s necessary to put me on the highest incline possible, at a decent rate of speed.  It’s kind of like speed climbing Mount Everest (I think, I could be wrong though).  Someone might look at me and think, of COURSE she can do that!  No problem!  WRONG.  I was heave-hoeing my way along.  Heavy breathing, sweat dripping, legs burning, and of course I was telling him to ‘get the fuck away from my treadmill before I kill you’ while swatting his hands away.  I’m super pleasant. 🙂 BTW warm up is only five minutes.

Yesterday, while doing my upper body work out with my Trainer, he started to say these absolutely insane things.  I’m not quite sure what he was thinking. He would say things like, ‘I train you like this so that someday you can do it by yourself’, and ‘When you don’t train with me, you should come and do these routines on your own’.  WHAT?!? How does he not know me, by now?  I won’t try to lie to you… my reaction went something like this: I straight up looked at him and said, ‘I will always need a trainer.  I will never be alone.  I can’t be left alone.  You’re insane.’ and I followed it up with, ‘You do know this will become a blog, right?’ This was all happening while I was lifting an Olympic Training Bar (or something like that… honestly, he told me what it was called, and I didn’t listen) into my fucking crotch. He only responded to me by laughing.  I’m pretty sure he was laughing at a combination of my Dumb Workout Face, my complete honesty, and the fact that he knows I write about him.

So yeah, I’m definitely not athletic.  At least I try, though.  I honestly don’t give a fuck if I embarrass myself, or look like a complete asshole.  I’m doing it.  I have come a long way from when I first joined a gym, and was completely embarrassed about being drenched in sweat when I left.  I mean, isn’t that the point?

My how times have changed.

This is what 'Lower Body Murder' day looks like when I'm done.

This is what ‘Lower Body Murder’ day looks like, when I’m done.

Shirts With Sayings

I am all about gym clothes.  I always have been.  There is something to be said about lounging in a pair of yoga pants and a comfy top.  Did you see what I wrote?  Lounging around.

I’m going to take you on a wee journey through my experience buying a shirt, and then some self actualization.  The time frame for this story is prior to my recent weight loss; When I was still squishy, and padded, and could sit on my ass.

So, I’m in need of a new work out shirt.  I have some ideas of the shape that I want (something to hide the fat), and I know that I want it to be sleeveless.   Gotta show off them guns, am I right?!  I head to Old Navy (where you too can buy cheap shit and replace it next month), and walk straight to the work out section.  After perusing the many options, I end up picking a shirt with some dumb saying on it.  You know those shirts.  The ones that say stupid shit like, ‘Gym Hair, Don’t Care’, ‘Rest Later’, ‘Running Late Is My Cardio’.  You get the point.  It was stupid, like those.

I buy the shirt, and bring it home.  Now, fast forward to attempting to wear it.  It was a Monday, and I was getting ready for work.  I am a nanny, so I get the privilege of wearing gym clothes to work every day, so I pull on my yoga pants, and take my new shirt out of the drawer.  I put it on, and look in the mirror, and I think I am a fraud.  No, really.  I think the shirt said something like ‘Work It Out‘.  Now, I work for parents who are ridiculously healthy and athletic.  All I could think was, ‘I am going to walk into their house wearing a shirt that says ‘Work It Out’ in a size XXL, and look like a total fucking moron’.

So, I took the shirt off, and sold it online.  That was the end of it.

still don’t think I could wear a shirt that says anything like that, even though I really do work my ass off.  There IS however, ONE shirt that I found that would be absolutely perfect for me (and my trainer 100% agrees).  #buyitforme #amazonprime

I have actually said these words, many many times.

I have actually said these words, many many times.

 

In my search for the correct image of the shirt that I want, I came across a few with sayings that were just too ridiculous not to share.

  • I Work Out Because I’m Ugly
  • I Do It For The Pizza
  • Cardio Is Hardio
  • Exercise? I Thought You Said Extra Fries
  • I Work Out Because Punching People Is Frowned Upon (ok, I actually like, and secretly want, this one)

Redemption (Sort Of): The Volleyball Edition

Alrighty folks… we’re back to talking about volleyball, and this one just might surprise you.

For the first time in three seasons, my team (team Block Party in the house!!) might actually, possibly, hopefully, make it to the finals.  I mean, it’s definitely not due to anything that I have done.  Quite the contrary.  We have some serious players on our team.  Like for example, we have one player who just pops the ball into the air like a bullet.  He doesn’t even have to be looking at it.  He turns around, the ball is there, and BOOM! he has it over the net.  We have another player who is the shit at serving.  She seamlessly hits the ball over the net, every single time.  We have another player who just doesn’t give a fuck, and pops out of no where to open palm- slam the ball, sending it flying over the net.  She is also a badass server on our team, and has earned us plenty of pretty, pretty points. (what up Kirsi!)

Now, me on the other hand.. I can’t even look at the ball without it flying in the opposite direction.  Like, 4 times tonight, I hit the ball in a direction that I thought was towards the net, but instead went behind me and out of bounds.  Fuck me.  The ONLY thing I’m slightly good at is serving (and swearing).  I mean, I have to warm up a bit (During games, obviously.  Who actually practices?).  For example; The first ball I served tonight literally didn’t even make it to the first row of players on my own team.   Yup.  Warming up…

But then, the clouds parted and that miraculous light shined down on me (remember that light?? It’s when miracles and magic happen to me on the court).

Set the scene:  It’s game three out of four for the night.  We have won two (how?!), and we are on game point of this game.  Like, if we make a point- we fucking win.  It’s our turn to serve, and who’s in next?  That’s right, yours truly.  I walk out to the court, and hear my brother call behind me, ‘This is it, Ally! Game point! You got this!!’.  I’m honestly not quite sure where his confidence in me is coming from, because I have done everything to prove him otherwise.  Anyways, back to the game.  I’m standing on the back line.  I hold the ball in my hand.  I whack it with my fist, sending it soaring over the net and………… they drop it.

WE WON!  REDEMPTION!!  Fuck yeah!!

I still suck.

MVP, MVP, MVP…..