Tag: work out

Moderation, right?

I’ve recently been following a lot of fitness stuff on Instagram because I am attempting to suck the energy and motivation from these happy, skinny people and use it to force myself to quit being such a miserable fat ass. It works sometimes. A lot of times it doesn’t work at all. I start my morning (after commuting to the garage), riding the bus to my office and scrolling through photo after photo of egg whites, protein powder, neon colored workout gear, and high ponytails. #mondaymotivation #eatclean #getafterit #notimelikethepresent #eattolive #bethechange #gogirl #thintastesbetter #fit #imhot– the hashtags are endless and one of my favorite parts. I’m pretty sure I could start a satirical workout gear line based on hashtags. Because I definitely need some lycra leggings with #squatbitch written all over them. (BRB, I obviously just found my calling.)

But I digress. My new favorite is stumbling upon insanely fit, chronic selfie takers (who apparently own NOTHING else but coordinating sports bras and shortie shorts) who answer questions of from their fans in their IG posts. “People are constantly asking me: do you eat cake? YES! Yes, ladies. I LOVE cake. I don’t deprive myself of ANYTHING. But I do LISTEN to my BODY and do what makes me FEEL good. Sometimes that’s REST. Sometimes that’s a crazy WORKOUT. AND SOMETIMES IT’S CAKE! #eatcake #nodeprivation #fitmom” …or something like that. Occasionally I’m tricked by these posts and I find myself spending a hot second being like, “OMG. She really is just like me. She eats cake and is thin and there’s hope for me.” And then one of two things happens…

  1. The thin, fit lady follows up her cake proclamation with some BULLSHIT recipe for her favorite cheat cake and it looks something like this: 

Piper’s Perfect Cheat Cake

Serves: 1/2 a person

1/2 cup exotic nut “flour” (sometimes I use Kuelalala flour from the highest peaks of Japan– but only if I have to!)

2 cups gluten-free, cruelty free, organic oats

1/2 cup pureed acai berries (organic or nothing!)

3 TBSP coconut oil

1 TBSP macadamia nut butter (you can make this the night before)

16 organic avocados (buy local; I pick mine from my avocado tree in the back garden)

9 TBSP chia seeds (I can’t seem to keep these in the house– no matter how much I buy!)

3 dates, pitted

1 cup pumpkin milk

2 tsp cinnamon (ground yourself)

1/8 tsp organic, local maple syrup

Instructions: It’s so easy, y’all! Glaze the avocados with the maple syrup and roast for 3 hours on 250 until they begin to chant Om Shanti from the oven. NOT A SECOND LONGER. Simmer the pumpkin milk with the cinnamon and dates until it smells like a vegan Christmas party. Throw everything except the chia seeds and acai berries into a Vitamix Pro series and puree until completely smooth. If you need to sneak some batter, I totally understand. (But remember, that’s one less bite you get later! SACRIFICES!) Pour into a loaf pan– don’t panic if the consistency is “brick-ish.” Bake for 26 seconds at 325 to allow the flavors to marry. Let it cool and then ice with acai berry puree and sprinkle with chia seeds.

There you have it! My all time FAVORITE cheat cake. So good. Reminds me of the cupcakes my mama used to make!

(Obviously her mother was a loveless hippie with the kitchen skills of a cockroach. But whatever.)

2. I remember that when these ladies cheat, they do so once every 6-7 days.

Six days of eating roughage and egg whites, working out twice a day, and freezing to death in those sports bra outfits,  and they earn a fiber cookie and a half glass of zinfandel.  We’re not talking about moderation. Moderation is knowing that you should never go for four glasses of red on a weeknight. (Because only people who really hate themselves allow for that to happen.) This is something else. If I make it through breakfast and lunch without eating something completely shitty, I feel like I’ve earned something by 3 PM. That feels moderate. And I’m warm and comfy in my modern muumuu.

Don’t get me wrong, I am not disparaging these amazing women (and men) who have iron self discipline and bodies like gods. It’s really something. But like all media, I have to be really, really careful not to confused their goals and outcomes with my own, and therefore not confuse their habits with my own. I’ll likely never be skipping around town in a bra and wind shorts. (And if I did, the husband would have me committed.) I haven’t done that since the late 90s and even then it wasn’t my best look. I’m 100% sure that my before and after photos will not look anything like 99% of these folks. Not because I couldn’t (I couldn’t, realistically, but physically it’s probably possible if I REALLY committed), but because I’m not in that place in my life. Plus I’ve yet to find the Instagram account of the crazy fit gal who works 50 hours a week, commutes 3 hours a day, has kids, and still has friends who like hanging out with her. Because, let’s be honest, no one likes a sober gal who eats fiber cookies and talks about deadlifts.

So for now I’ll keep riding the bus, liking the photos, drawing inspiration from these otherworldly humans, and collecting design ideas for my activewear line. Starting with the sports bra emblazoned with #lovemycookies.

 

 

 

 

 

welcome to kettle hell

rockyAfter the painful breakup with Lindsay, I was forced to find alternative ways to get slim. I started out by joining a more expensive gym because it stands to reason that the more expensive the gym, the thinner you get by being there. (Or if you can’t afford to eat, you can afford to get thin. Which reminds me, inappropriately, that I sometimes fantasize about getting dropped off in the depths of a third world country where I am forced to starve for 8-10 days because I wont eat mung. Of course when it’s all over, I magically wake up in the Back Bay. Left only with a new body and a deep, spiritual understanding of the horrifidy of the third world.) After joining the new gym, I immediately found a new gym BFF at my old gym, and now I feel like I’m marching towards doomsday. My membership is over in T minus 25 days and Nicole (my gym BFF) has given me new eyes for Equinox. With the help of her whimpering and somewhat self-sabotaging spirit, I am able to get my ass up at SIX IN THE MORNING to work out with George. The gym fairy. (Both because he loves him some Pussycat Dolls, and because he is light and springy like a wood nymph.)

On Tuesdays and Thursdays I don my finest lululemon headband and stretchy pants and spend one hour wishing whole heartedly that I were dead. Unlike yoga, true working out involves a delicate mixture of jiggly fat and mirrors that can cause a person to consider Ace bandaging their body ala a lesbian who can’t afford to have her tits cut off. As I cardio dance my way to anorexia, I am forced to look into the mirror at what is clearly not a severe case of anorexia. Instead, its pre-makeup, cant-afford-matching-gym-outfits, or wake-up-in-enough-time-to-get-the-cowlick-out-of-my-ponytail itis. It’s a painful, painful realization that there are more bad angles than good ones and if I cant stop eating fried scallops and oysters for dinner I am never going to look like a gym fairy.

These Tuesday/Thursday workouts are nearly indescribable. In addition to puffing an inhaler before, during, and after class (are you getting a good visual yet?), I sometimes step on my own shoelaces so that I can buy myself some time to kneel down and pray to Jesus that he doesn’t take me at the mainstudio. To die in that lighting would mean the blush was really, truly off the rose.

Tuesdays are all about weights and cardio. Dance, lift, dance, lift, and just when you think you might pass out, do a few jumping jacks. (I had to alter the jumping jacks to more of a Fonda workout move. I think I have a fat pocket behind my shoulder that keeps me from succeeding with that range of motion. I’ve also had to start dressing in layers. One fateful morning my shirt rolled over my midriff whilst jumping and I nearly passed out from the shock– not to mention I was wearing boxing gloves and couldnt pull it down. Now I’m a two t-shirt girl. No more of that shit.)

On Thursdays, George has crafted a kettle bell boxing routine that makes me hate pilgrims and immigrants. (Something about kettles makes me think of pilgrims, and you know how scrappy immigrants can be.) After thirty minutes of swinging a 15lb bell around, trying heartily not to embed it accidentally in someone’s skull, we put on our boxing gloves.

The gloves are a blog unto themselves. If you can imagine what it would smell like to rub the toe of a sockless, recreational-basketball-playing homeless man on your upper lip, then you can begin to understand what we are dealing with. When you get past the moisture of other peoples’ sweaty palms decaying inside a pleather wrapped piece of floam, you can enjoy an aroma like dead babies. Mid-workout my mind wandered to a very dark place, and I began to believe that when I removed the glove my hand would be nothing more than a shriveled black mass. Plus, because I have a smell compulsion, I treat myself to a deep whiff every few minutes. Just to make sure it still smells like Ghandi’s pits.

When the gloves are on, we commence to swinging at freestanding boxing bags like a bunch of pansies. If La Hoya saw what we’ve done to the sport of boxing, his balls would crawl back in his body cavity. And we listen to Britney and Leona.

This morning, after eating inappropriately last night, I was enduring the most painful hour in a long time. At a certain point I offered myself a break, and clung to the boxing bag for support. Looking at my gym BFF, her face turning ruddy and spirit failing, I thought about how depressing it was that we were doing this to ourselves. I was about to go all Norma Rae on her ass and tell her that we were leaving. Going to the Paramount for eggs. But then I caught a gander of myself in the mirror. Right then, as I was gasping for air, unsure that it was me (because in the past I have spent time being mortified by my own body, only to realize that I’m looking at someone else in the mirror…. clearly I get a little delirious while working out) George danced over and insisted we get our asses in gear.

I took a deep whiff of the cuff of my glove and continued.

There I was standing at the steps in Philadelphia, hands raised over my head, 12 raw eggs sloshing around in my belly, sweat dripping down my grey matching sweatsuit.

“You know what you are? You’re a tomato!”