That Time I Ran

So, I decided I would actually attempt to run.  Not Wun… but run.  This takes a lot of courage for me to do, as you may know from previous posts, and attempts I’ve made.

I planned it out, so I would go to the local high school football field/track at night, and no one would have to watch me look like a moron.  Dark night sky=no one can see me.

Unfortunately for me, I guess I didn’t wait until it was late enough, and people were ALL over the track.  When I got there, there were runners, walkers, people strolling… and people pushing strollers.

I decided to just start out by walking.  The plan was to walk until I was comfortable enough to run.  I decided to take my ‘getting comfortable’ time to study the people who were running by me.

One man looked stiff.  I knew I felt stiff when I ran, so I watched him to see what NOT to do.  Another guy seemed to be gliding across the track, effortlessly.  I studied how his feet hit the ground, and how his body moved.

With all of this watching, studying, and observing, I felt like I was finally ready.  It only took FIVE laps around the track to get to this point.

I start out running, trying to pace myself to conserve my energy, so I can make it all the way around the track without stopping.  I get around the first turn, and I’m proud of myself, but I’m actually dying.  My lungs are already burning, and my legs feel stiff.  In fact, all I kept thinking was that my legs weren’t moving fast enough for my body, and at some point I would be falling on my face.  Never mind that, but I couldn’t help but think about how heavy my legs felt, slamming against the ground.

Second turn, and I’m half way there.  This is when I start talking to myself.
‘You can do this!’
‘You’re going to be so proud of yourself!!’
‘If you keep going, you can say that you did it without stopping!’
‘Don’t die!’
‘Keep moving your feet, and you won’t fall’
‘You don’t look as stupid as you think you do’
‘You are so damn athletic!  Look at you go!’

These words of affirmation for myself lasted a whole half of a side of the track.  I’m almost to the end.  I haven’t stopped.  I am pretty sure I’m actually dying.  I know that if I make it to the end, without stopping, I will have accomplished a serious victory in my world.

I near the end of the track, back to where I started running, in the first place.  I had made it. Some how, I made it.  I stop and grab my water.  I’m feeling successful, and incredibly athletic, I hobble to the benches and plop down.  I then proceeded to google what the distance is for one lap around a typical football field track… for science.

When I got home, I started explaining this entire adventure to Mike.  He just sat silently, and listened to me.  At one point, when I was talking about my observations of other runners, his face kind of twisted up, and if I’m not mistaken, I’m pretty sure he slightly rolled his eyes.

At the end of my story time, he looked at me and said, ‘You’re ridiculous.’

“Why?!” I asked
“Because you studied other runners…. what is wrong with you?” and then he laughed in my face.

*SIDE NOTE: The week after this running extravaganza, Mike and I were driving, and we saw a man running.  I made a comment about how he looked kind of uncomfortable.  Mike agreed, and mentioned that the man looked like he was landing hard on his feet all while aggressively kicking his legs back… and then proceeded to question if THAT’S what I look like, when I run.  Nope, I’m pretty sure I look like a toddler learning to walk for the first time.

So, I guess what I’m trying to say is, I’m not a runner.

img_2904
90% sure that I took this PRIOR to running… when I was
still full of life, and hope, and promise.

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Story Time.. And An Announcement

This is a story that has nothing to do with losing weight (kind of), Fat Girl Wunning, or training.  In the past, I’ve used this platform to tell stories, that were a little more serious, or had more meaning than my adventures while working out.  This is one of those stories.

This is a story about why I have been married for so long, and haven’t started a family yet.  A few years ago (beginning of 2015 to be exact), after months (years?) of going through doctors appointments, consultations, meetings, and having serious conversations with numerous people, my husband and I decided that having a child of our own would be a long, costly, emotional, and potentially dangerous (due to my health at the time) journey.  After our last appointment with a well renowned IVF doctor, who told me that they wouldn’t do implantation on me because my diabetes was so bad, we left defeated.  It was the weirdest feeling though.  We each knew that the other one was equally as upset as the other, but we didn’t say much.  I remember driving home, and we got on the high way, and he turned to me and said, ‘Ok, let’s do this’.  THIS was making an appointment with an adoption agency.  An agency that happened to be very special to me.  We were going to find out what it would take for us to adopt a child.  In the same short, quiet conversation, we also agreed that it was time for me to do whatever it took to get healthy.  It wasn’t a long conversation, it was one of those ‘we both just knew’ conversations.

The next month, we were sitting in a meeting room in the adoption agency office.  We were talking about the route we’d want to go in an adoption, what it looks like financially, what it looked like time wise, and what it would take paperwork wise.  If you have no clue… it was a lot. All around.

Over the next few months, I spent every extra moment in my life tracking down original documents, filling out paperwork, documenting our finances, and getting letters from work/bank/friends/family.  We did more background checks then any one could ever imagine.  We had our fingerprints taken multiple times, each.  We had several in office meetings with social workers, and nerve wracking meetings in our home to prove we were allowed and ‘good enough’ to be parents.  Finally, after a lot of work and time, and money, we were approved to adopt.

Next came making profiles to show potential birth moms how awesome we are.  Seriously… like online dating.  We had videos, pictures, and stories.  We had multiple websites, a hard cover copy of our story, and I even updated a blog with life events so that people could see how interesting we were… and maybe they’d pick us.  Again, after a lot of work, time, and money… we were live, online, and ready to be the chosen ones.
** Side note:  I saved ‘outtakes’ from our attempt at making the video profile.  The company needed just 3 minutes of us talking, and it took us about 2 hours to do because we can’t take anything seriously.  I will honestly keep those videos for the rest of my life… they just show how ridiculous, hilarious, and embarrassing we are together.

Over the next year we had just a handful of potential placements.  None were promising enough to move forward on, even though we tried.  There always seemed to be an obstacle in the way.  Each case had a new set of things to make us worry, or get us excited, or even make us jump the gun on buying things to ‘get ready’.  In fact, after one potential placement, to calm our nerves for the next one, we purchased furniture for a babies room.  All of a sudden I became that person.  The person who had an furnished nursery and no child to put in it in the foreseeable future.

After the first year passed, it was time to renew some paperwork, get fingerprinted again, do a couple more meetings, and oh… pay some more money.

In the meantime, we were starting to see that we were having issues with the agency.  They weren’t working with us the way we thought they should be.  They weren’t communicating.  They didn’t seem to care, to be honest.  At the same time, I had been working to become healthier.  I was doing it for my future.  My future family, and the future of my own health.  Parts of my life were going really well, and parts just seemed to be at a stand still.

At the end of 2017 I had had enough.  I decided that 2018 would be MY year.  OUR year.  I wasn’t waiting around for my own life to begin.  I wasn’t going to spend the rest of my life waiting, and taking care of other peoples children (which, btw, I love doing).  I had always wanted to foster children, so I contacted DCF to see what that would look like.  After a meeting with a social worker, it was made clear to me that I couldn’t work with both the adoption agency, and DCF, at the same time.  I had to make a choice.

I don’t tell you this because I want to bore you with details.  I am telling you because when people come up to me and say, ‘when are you going to have a family?’ or ‘you’d be a great mom!’ or ‘why don’t you just (fill in the blank)’, they don’t know what the fuck I’m going through or what the fuck I am thinking or feeling…  People have no filter, and the thing is, this whole process was so emotionally draining that I couldn’t even talk about it.  My own family would want to know what was going on, and I didn’t want to have conversations.  I just wanted to fast forward time, be able to say that I had adopted a child, and live a happy life.  I didn’t want any ones opinions, or ideas, or comments.

So let’s fast forward a bit.  We left the agency, walking away from a shit ton of time/money/emotions/hope, and started to work with DCF.  Over the last ten weeks, we have taken classes to become foster/adoptive parents.  We finally found a place with amazing social workers, a group of people who were like minded and looking to do the same things we were, and hope.  That whole ‘Things happen for a reason” saying, was very clear to us in many ways.  In fact, over time, we have slowly told some people that we were doing this.  Some of Mike’s customers would share their own stories about adoption or fostering.  The more we talked about it, the more we realized that so many people that we know, have been touched or affected by fostering or adoption in some way.

We slowly started to gather some things we would need for a child to live in our home.   We have some clothing for boys and girls from newborn to age 5… just a few things, but more than what they will have when they come to us.  Toys and books are starting to fill some shelves, and a rocking chair is waiting. People have been incredibly generous, and they fill our arms and cars (LITERALLY!) with stuff!  It’s been a pretty eye opening experience to see that there are still some really good, generous people in the world.  We are so grateful.

Last month, we finally finished our classes, and graduated as approved foster/adoptive parents.

So, here’s the announcement:  We are officially going to be fostering (and hopefully someday, adopting) children!  We are looking forward to being able to give a happy, and safe home to a child in need, for as long as it may be.  If we become a forever home, we will be forever happy and grateful… but knowing we will be a comfortable place for a child to land, during a time of incredible need for them, we know we will feel like we have made a difference.

Moral of the story:  You never know what someone is going through, so don’t assume anything, ever.  Years and years have gone by, and many people have had no clue what we have been going through.  We are incredibly excited, and scared, and nervous, and thankful, and grateful… and we know we are in for the ride of our lives.  On the same note, I have become a healthier ME, and I am no longer diabetic.  Yes, I could possibly carry a child on my own.  No, I’m not ready for that.  Please… don’t ask people things like that.  It’s an incredibly sensitive, and emotional topic for many people.  I shouldn’t ever have to explain, and basically prove, why I don’t want to carry a child right now.  This was our choice.  This was our path… and we couldn’t be more excited, for whatever it brings!  Everything Happens For A Reason…

 

Photo Cred goes to Cassandra Marcucci Photography!  Thanks, girl!  You’re the best!
www.cassandraphotography.com

Sassy Pants

*Writer’s note:  I started writing this over a month ago… and finally finished today.  You’re welcome.

Five minutes… I had been in the boxing gym for five minutes, before the blonde firecracker called me ‘Sassy Pants’.

Five minutes after that, she walked into my arm as it went down, while doing a jumping jack when warming up.

So far, things were going exactly how I thought they would, at Kickboxing.

It’s my 5th week, and I am starting to get used to the abuse that kickboxing has on my body.  I still dread going, and during my ride over to the boxing gym, I question why the fuck I ever signed up in the first place.  Although, when it’s over, I am proud of myself for surviving.

I have learned that if I show up maybe five minutes late, that I don’t have to do the entire grueling warm up session.  It literally kills me.  Fucking lunges, side running, jumping jacks, burpees… everything about it sucks, and if you can believe it, I let everyone know JUST HOW MUCH I HATE IT.  Anyways, I have shown up just a little late to the remainder of the classes, just so I have enough energy to make it through the actual kickboxing, and not die in the first 5 minutes with warm up.  Seems to be working for me.

Firecracker will show everyone how to do a combination of moves with the bag, and then she will go around to everyone to make sure they are doing it correctly.  She has picked up on my sick sense of humor, and when she gets to me, she usually says something like, ‘Kick him in the knees!  Elbow his face! Knee to the groin!’ followed by something like ‘Hurt the fucking bastard!’.  I like her.  I like her a lot.

(Fast Forward)

All twelve sessions of torture have been completed, and I found myself, asking about prices for a new session, during my last 5 minutes of my last class.  In my head, I wondered why I was asking.  Did I really want to pay to subject myself to this torture again?!  The answer was, ‘not really’, but in all honesty, this was a really great work out, and I know that I was helping myself by being there.

It’s been three weeks since Kickboxing ended, and I never did sign up for more torture.  In fact, I also haven’t done what I told everyone I would do instead, which was go to a yoga class on Thursday nights.  Instead, I have sat on my ass.  Literally, just sat on my couch giving myself every excuse as to why it was OK that I wasn’t working out.  This isn’t going well.

The truth is, I have to find something to do, because I ended my gym membership.  Relax… I didn’t quit the Franz, I quit the gym.  Really for no other reason than I was paying more than any other members there, and I had belonged for over seven years.  I only did cardio when I went there, because Franz kicked my ass, else where.  There really wasn’t a point to keeping the membership.  In my head, I had Franz two days a week, kickboxing one day a week, and I would walk or find some other movement to fill in the rest.  Yet, since Kickboxing ended, I haven’t done shit.

I went to my Massage therapist yesterday.  If you remember, he also owns a Yoga Studio, and graciously gave me a one-on-one lesson about 6 months ago.  That was the LAST time I told everyone that I would do yoga.   When I left my appointment with him, I told him to have a great weekend, and he responded with, ‘Oh no! I’ll see you on Thursday night for yoga… remember?’
…Right.  I remember.

So basically, what I am trying to say is, check in with me next week, and make sure that I made it to Yoga on Thursday night.  Ok?

P.S.  I miss my firecracker.
P.P.S.  I hate burpees.

 

 

 

Cha Cha Slide

Scene: Lower Body Murder Day at the gym.
Characters:
Me- Kicking, screaming, swearing, crying, complaining, and sweating like I’ve never sweat before.
Franz- Barking orders, rolling his eyes, visibly annoyed, laughing at me.

The whole time I was working out (and complaining), Franz was barking his orders.  “Left leg, come on!”  “Ok, right leg this time”.  It didn’t occur to me until I was doing my very last work out of the session, laying on the birthin’-baby-maker (leg press machine), and Franz has me using one foot at a time to push up the weight.  Ten reps, then I switch to the other leg.  Each time I switch legs, Franz barks his order. That’s when it hits me.  I realize that he sounds like he’s actually reciting the lyrics to the Cha-Cha-Slide.  I start laughing so hard, tell him, and from then on, everything he says just sounds like he’s about to break out in dance.  Pretty sure he finished off with “Cha Cha, real smooth…’. Always nice to have something to make us laugh through the pain, right?

I swear to God that when I go to the gym I have NO intention of complaining.  In fact, I try really hard to be positive, and tell myself that I can do it, and I know why I’m doing it, and taht I absolutely positively won’t complain, this time…. and then I do.  I really do appreciate Franz and his ability to just deal with my nonsense.  I wouldn’t do what I do, or be as strong and capable as I am, if it weren’t for him.

However, when I am there, I hate life.  I hate Franz.  I hate having to do what I’m doing.  I hate the pain.  I hate the sweat in my eyeballs.  I hate it all… but I ALWAYS come back for more.

I guess if every day could feel as fun as doing the Cha-Cha-Slide, then I would be alright.

For your viewing pleasure…. Cha Cha Slide

 

Cha-Cha and wun.

Can’t Make This Up

If you follow along with Fat Girl Wunning, you know that some how, some way, I can make any work out session into a complete shit show.  Between hitting Franz in the crotch, almost falling off of a treadmill, swearing with no care in the world, or almost kicking Franz in the face, there is always something utterly ridiculous that happens.

This week was no different.

Get your imagination pants on and picture this…  It’s Upper Body Murder day, and I am still in the first half of my work out.  Franz tells me to get down in a plank position, with my legs wide apart. This will help me keep my balance because while I’m planking, I will also be doing rows with a 30lb weight.  This is a new exercise for me, so I was focusing a lot on how I was keeping myself up, how many muscles hurt, and oh, lift that weight the right way so you don’t have to hear Franz yell at you.  That’s when it happened.  I hit myself directly in the boob with the weight.  Straight shot.  Thirty pounds.

I sat up, clutching my flapjack, and looked up at Franz who was laughing at me.  It hurt.  I made that known.  Franz just continued to laugh.  I got back in the plank position, to finish my sets.  I continue with the other arm, and then switch back.  Three reps in, I smack the flapjack again.  This time, some how, I managed to keep it quiet.  No need to egg Franz on, and give him something to make fun of.  But dammit… weights to the boobs hurt!

Next up on the WTF Happened At The Gym Today list is when my shirt strap broke.  Same day as my Flapjack incident, my brand new gym shirt decided to steal the show.  All of a sudden, the adjustable strap was loose.  I go to tighten it, and it completely opens up.  The itty bitty plastic piece that holds the straps in place, had broken.  Super convenient timing.  Lucky for me, the broken strap just made me look stupid in a shirt with one strap hanging off, and it didn’t effect the whole ‘coverage’ aspect.  You bet your ass I drove right to the store I bought it from, and returned it that night.  (I also bought two more… maybe that ONE was defective?? 😉 )

Oh you thought we were done?  We’re not.  The very next training night was Lower Body Murder day, and holy moly Franz had it out for me.  As I sit here now, writing about it two days later, my legs are STILL throbbing.  Anyways, I did the entire work out, and my legs are like jelly, and in true Franz style, he has me do the hardest thing last.  You know, like when he’d have me push his ass on the sled, down the green…  On this day, Franz puts me on the leg press machine (or what I call the Birthing Baby Maker).  He adds 250 pounds of weight and tells me to do four sets of 25 reps.   TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY POUNDS.  I’m pretty sure my life flashed before my eyes on multiple occasions.  I was dying.  Complaining and swearing the whole time.  Wanting to fast forward time to when I was done, and I could roll off the machine and lay on the floor… to die.  On my last set, I think I got to number 16, and I pushed my legs up, and locked them in place.  I couldn’t do it any more.  Franz was tired of saying, ‘one more’, ‘let’s go’, ‘don’t stop’, etc. Instead, he said, ‘Remember that time I poured water over you when you were on the floor?’  I started laughing… then it hit me.  Franz stood there with his water in his hand and said, ‘KEEP GOING’.  I unlocked my legs, did three more reps, and stopped to cry again.  That’s when the nice luke warm stream of water came down on my face, soaking my chest, and running down my back against the seat of the disgusting machine.  Water splattered all over the floor, and the only thing I could do was laugh.  I was holding the weight up with my sore feet, and wobbly legs, and laughing so hard while trying to wipe the mix of sweat and water out of my eyes.

Then I hear it.  ‘FINISH, ALLY!’  Ok, ok… I struggle to get going, but I push out the last few reps, lock up the machine, and roll out of it like an old lady.  I was finally done.  Done, but I couldn’t walk.

Listen, if I can do it, YOU can do it.

Wun.

The People At The Gym

Every time I start at a new gym, I kind of assess the people who are members.  It has nothing to do with their ability, weight, age, etc.  It mainly has to do with if they can handle me, and my mouth, being in their space, while I work out.  I’d be lying if I said that I thought I was a pleasure to work out around.  I know I’m not.  I swear, make a scene, complain, huff..puff… I’m a mess.  So, I assess the people around me.

This new gym has kind of a strange clientele, when I’m there.  Mostly older people, on the cardio machines, and a few people, usually a little younger, on the weights.  Oh, and there seems to be some sort of child gym training session going on at the same time I am there…which seems wildly inconvenient since I have the mouth of a trucker.

While getting to know the gym, and assessing the people, Franz tries to keep me on my best behavior.  It really isn’t something he can control….but he attempts to do it anyways.  During his latest attempt to control me, I met another staff member, when he was walking by us, and decided to stop for some comedic relief.  I don’t know his name, so we will call him Bob.  Everyone knows a Bob, right?

Bob has heard me tell Franz to shut up, and heard me complain, and heard me whine, and watched me lift, and watched me struggle.  Yesterday, Bob walked up to Franz to make a little ‘ha-ha’ about me, and Franz took it upon himself to tell a story.  A story about how he thinks that I look like the Hulk.  Not the Hulk when he is fully muscular, green, and scary big.  More like the Bruce Banner turning into the Hulk part of his identity, where he is basically moaning and groaning and making insanely ugly faces.   Bob agrees with Franz, that yes, I sound like the Hulk, and then turns to me and says that I’m much too pretty to be the Hulk, and instead, I must be Wonder Woman.  Well, how P.C. of you, Bob.  Oh, and thanks Franz.  If I didn’t think I was ugly when working out before, I know I am now.

Besides Bob, I seem to entertain many other people who are on the cardio machines, while I am lifting weights.  From begging for my life when struggling to lift over my head as my arms shake, to telling Franz that I dream about killing him, I’m sure they have no idea what to think about us.  Yesterday, I was switching between doing ten pull-ups, and then down to a bar, that was about 6″ from the ground, where I would do push-ups, and back again.  I was on my last set of pull-ups, and I was struggling.  I did the whole ‘kick your foot up as if that will help you lift yourself’ move, and I almost kicked Franz in the face.  Right on queue, we both start dying laughing at each other, and can’t really catch our breath.  Somehow, I finish the pull-ups, and turn around to head down to the bar.  As I hop down, an older woman gets off the treadmill, and walks past Franz.  As she passed, she says ‘Oh!  Is she your girlfriend?’

Nervous laughter, ‘No, I’m her trainer…’, Franz responds.

Then he looks at me with the death stare.

‘People think I am your WEAK boyfriend, because of how you talk to me!’, he says.  I start laughing, because she didn’t say anything to me…. It wasn’t like she said, Oh, be nice to your boyfriend.  No, she was making sure that I wasn’t hurting his feelings.  This much taller, bigger, and stronger man.  THAT’S whose feelings she was worried about!!  Amazing.

Ladies and Gentlemen… I have done my job.

 

Oh, besides making a scene when lifting, or when accidentally punching Franz in the baby maker, or crying for help when I feel like I’m truly dying… I also had the entire gym looking at me when I screamed because I almost fell off the treadmill.

And on that note, we’re done here.

 

#wun

RGF

RGF.  Resting Gym Face.

Franz actually requested that I call this entry “Resting Gym Bitch Face”, but it didn’t seem to roll off the old tongue as easily.

I make dumb faces in all aspects of my life.  When I take pictures of myself, I make dumb faces.  When I see people do dumb shit out in public, I make dumb faces.  When I am listening to my friends/family/Franz speak, I make dumb faces.

So, it’s no secret that I would make dumb faces when I am at the gym.  Oh god there are so many reasons as to why I would be making faces… One of which being- I’m listening to Franz.  Like, when he tells me over and over again to STARE at him while he demonstrates an exercise, even though I can see him in the mirror I am looking at.  That definitely calls for a ‘face’.  When I am struggling to lift weights, I make a face.  A very clear, ‘WHYYYYY MEEEEEE’ face.  And please, have no doubt in your mind when I tell you, that my best faces are when I am resting between sets.  When I am struggling to catch my breath, and not die.  Those are the best ‘faces’.  That’s when Franz will laugh at me.

Franz will not only laugh at me, but will follow up his deep belly laugh with a comment about my face.  His head will be back, while he laughs uncontrollably, and holds his stomach.  When he catches his breath, he will look at me and say, ‘You look so dumb.  You’re faces are stupid.’

Do you know what that is?  Love.

Yup!  That’s love.  He knows that I can’t be mad about what he says, because he knows that I know all about my dumb faces.  I know I look stupid.  Sometimes, I even catch my own face in the mirror, and I laugh at myself.  It’s hard not to.  I look ridiculous.

With that being said- I need this shirt.IMG_1277