Tag: workout

I’m working out, y’all.

*If you give zero fucks about learning about these damn Kayla Itsines guides, or you are in peak physical condition, this post will likely not entertain you. 

So I’ve been obnoxiously posting pictures to Instagram that chronicle my completed #bbg workouts. You’re welcome for that. (At least I’m not selling <insert thing people are selling all over my fucking Facebook feed>.) But here’s the thing…

Fitness people are crazy supportive of one another. I mean, I get it. They’re all hopped up on endorphins and being thin and strong and can’t help but love the shit out of one another, but it’s still a surprise. You post a picture of the human life you created and six people “like” it and one person comments. You post a picture of your fat, sweaty self after doing a terrible 28 minute workout and 26239 people come out of the woodwork to tell you what a badass you are. It’s motivating.  And, frankly, I need it.

I haven’t reported much on the weight loss journey since my ohholyfuckiamsofat post from last summer, but the journey does continue. Through various means I managed to knock about 17lbs off. No small feat, but also kind of a drop in the fat kid bucket. I’m out of Kirstie Alley territory, but I’m certainly not ordering new bikinis. (Let’s be honest, I’ll never be ordering new bikinis.)

It was actually back when I first reported about my Stage Five Fatitude that a friend mentioned Kayla Itsines and the #bbg (Bikini Body Guides). I dutifully paid my $60 or whatever and downloaded the workouts. I even read through them a couple of times while watching TV or making dinner. They certainly LOOKED effective, but I couldn’t speak to that directly, as I never actually DID any of them.

When the Sweat with Kayla app came out and I was offered another opportunity to do the exact same work outs I already paid for, but for additional money, I was like, “yes! sign me up!” I did the 7 day free trial, which didn’t deter me nearly as much as I imagined, and then started paying my $19.99/month. Because why not pay $20 a month to jump around like an asshole in your bedroom?

Here’s what you need to know, in no particular order:

  • There are three resistance workouts, three cardio, and two recovery a week. (Though that’s kind of a lie because the app has me repeat one workout a week.) Resistance workouts are broken up into Abs & Arms (single workout), Legs, and Full Body. In order:
    • Arms & Abs are the most manageable for me. I generally don’t feel like vomiting, I have some success, and feel appropriately tired after.
    • Full Body is the second most challenging, namely because there are always burpees, which are what Satan does when he wakes up in the morning.
    • Legs. Last time I did legs I went downstairs to get water after and fell down the stairs. So there you have it.
  • I am horribly and offensively out of shape. My physical appearance, as poor as it may be, is actually making it appear that I am MORE in shape that I am. It takes me approximately 11 seconds to get out of breath.
  • Even though paying for something you already paid for sounds like a really dumb idea, the PDF version of the workouts can’t force me to work out like the app can. The app basically says “you have to do this today” and then turns on a timer and I have no choice. The PDF was more like my friend who said she’d jog with me, but actually meant she’d smoke pot and each cheesy curls on the couch.
  • Because the workouts are by week and are the same across the program, you can “work out with your friends” (i.e. do a work out in EST and then text your friend in the PST about how terrible it is before she even wakes up).
  • There’s a nutrition guide that people really love, but that I basically ignore. Clearly this woman doesn’t live in New England. She eats kiwis and mangoes. Most New Englanders don’t even know those two words. But it seems to be a reasonable diet plan focused on nutrients and not calories.
  • You need minimal “gear.” I already had some weights, which are needed, and it appears that a medicine ball is in my future. (But you can also get creative… fill a milk jug with nails or something.)
  • Oh and a jump rope. Which may also mean a box of Depends…
  • Each work out is two circuits. You do the first circuit as many times as you can in seven minutes and then do the same with circuit two. And then repeat. All in it’s 28 (7×4) minutes of working out. It’s up to you to modify or slow your pace so you don’t die.
  • If at any point you feel angry and sad, you can hop on my friend Kayla’s Instagram account and look at all the people who are doing these workouts and look like fit little wood nymphs. (Including moms who look WRECKED in their before pictures. Which is double motivation.)
  • Overall the app is a mediocre user experience, but it performs its main function well: shows you the workout and times you.

The real reason I seem to be enduring these terrible workouts is because they make me feel really good. In less than two weeks I feel stronger and I think I look better. As bad as any one workout gets, it’s only seven minutes and then I can do something else. And while there have been times I’ve cursed everything in my presence, I didn’t quit. I kept going, just trying to make it to the buzzer. (There’s actually a buzzer on the app. It’s very exciting.) Plus it’s only 28 minutes. You can’t excuse yourself from 28 minutes. (Well you can. But then you’re just being lazy.)

It’s bad, but it’s not so bad. And I’m doing it. Which is more than I can say about anything else. Like I said, there’s a 7 day free trial on the app, so you can always give it a spin and decide whether it’s your cup of tea. If you do, be sure you tell me so I can bitch with you via text.

The Art of Jogging

I can walk forever. Even swiftly. I have no problem whatsoever with endless walking. However, the second walking breeches brisk and becomes even light jogging, everything goes to shit. Suddenly I can’t breathe. I’m sucking on air like it’s a blocked oxygen tube. I begin to turn a Care Bear shade of pink and red and purple and I lose control of my faculties. Rather than gazelling gracefully towards an unknown destination I start to claw at the air and throw my body forward in twitchy gestures of desperation. And that’s usually just the first 100 yards.

Unlike most exercise programs where “just getting there” is half the battle, running (or jogging if we want to be all specific) is a constant state of terrible suck. Just getting there is the easy part. I can lace up my sneakers and put on some Bieber and get all #gocarolinego with no problem at all. It’s when my legs begin to carry me forth and my thighs start trying to start a campfire that shit gets serious. There are stages to all fat kid jogs that are universal and well known, but for those who are in shape, I will document for you.

To begin: The initial leap. 

I can imagine that there are fit people who LOVE this moment. It’s no longer acceptable to casually walk along, it’s time to commence the jog. THE MOMENT HAS ARRIVED. I usually try to pick a point at which I have made a blood pact with myself that I will start jogging. If I don’t, I can happily meander along for miles listening to high-impact tunes that feel incredibly motivating but don’t keep very good tempo with my nature walk. For me, the issue is that I have never come to truly accept that there is nothing buoyant and light about me. I think that transition to jogging is going to feel empowering and freeing, but instead I feel like a hippo trying to get going on a trampoline. Everything heaves. I can feel every extra ounce rise up in solidarity and then come crashing down against the pavement. Never, ever have I thought “YES! HERE WE GO, SELF!” I immediately begin a subconscious mantra of “fuckthisfuckthisfuckthis.” Remember ATTITUDE IS EVERYTHING.

And then: Bartering.

I have been jogging long enough to know that you do have to “jog the kinks out.” I have not been jogging long enough to remember how that can sometimes take 2-3 miles. (Seriously. Sometimes you have to jog the first 2-3 miles just to get past the suck, then it gets easier. Or so I’ve heard.) Unfortunately, when I’ve gotten jogging tunnel vision I can’t think rationally, instead I begin to barter. Get to that tree, lard ass, and then you can walk for three steps. Get to that fence post and you can pick your underwear out from the clutches of your hungry labia. One more lap and then you can listen to As Long As You Love Me on repeat on the way home. What generally happens is that I can barter my way through the first mile and then when it doesn’t INSTANTLY become the most magical jog of my life, I begin to get angry.

The Anger Period. 

I recently started pepping myself with a chat about progress. This doesn’t happen all at once, Caroline! You’re doing great! This is only day two! You are such an inspiration to yourself! Your brain makes you beautiful! Unfortunately, in the moment, I believe approximately zero of this and instead of powering through with the knowledge that I am a warrior princess, I cruel argument ensues between my two selves.

Warrior Princess Caroline (WPC): You’re amazing! You’re out here doing this at night! In the rain! Against all odds! Phil Collins is singing TO YOU. 

Regular Caroline (RC): You’re an asshole.

WPC: You’ve got this. Just a little at a time. Make it to the tree and then reassess. Breathe in through your nose. YOu’ve got this!

RC: Get to the tree and you’re still an asshole. 

WPC: Getting here was half the battle and you’re here. Do this. You’ll feel so much better after you’re done. 

RC: You’ll feel better. But you’ll still be an asshole. 

WPC: Eye of the Tiger, Caroline. EYE OF THE MOTHER FUCKING TIGER.

RC: If you stop we can sit. All the pain will stop.

WPC: Just make it to the trashcan. You can make it to the trashcan. GO! 

RC: Or make it to that bench so we can sit. Asshole. 

The False Sense of Security

I cannot speak for real joggers, but for me there is usually about twenty feet in there (usually after about 6-8 minutes of jogging) where I become invincible. Suddenly I realize I am not going to run four laps, I am going to run six. And then I am going to do some arm dips on the park bench and then some high knees across the common to cool down. It’s usually in those twenty feel that I make a fatal error: I allow my hallucinogenic state to increase my speed. That is always the beginning of the end. Like a total asshole I increase my pace from fattitude appropriate faux running to ambitious prancing and within seconds I am panting, gasping for air, and telling myself that I have to stop due to legitimate medical concerns. I don’t want to stop, I have to stop. I need to listen to my body. 

The Wind Down

In the end I settle for trying to run between 1.5 and 3 miles, no matter how ugly. If I can’t do that, I at least sit on a bench for the equivalent amount of time so that Corey doesn’t get suspicious. Then I have to Carl Lewis the half block to my house so that I look good and exhausted when I walk in the door. (An all out sprint for 8-10 seconds can take me out of the game for 3-4 hours. I’d like to blame it on my age, but it’s actually because I’m disgustingly out of shape.) The real issue with jogging is the 2-3 hours after I get home where shit just isn’t right and what I think could make it better is cheese. Which, oddly, isn’t listed as a medically sound recovery tactic. My half ass attempts at stretching out are a disgrace to my yoga background. I mostly just writhe around on the floor and yell out to Corey about the cheese, which he refuses to bring me.

The Retrospective

When you have a baby, everyone tells you about this magic phenomenon where you forget about how terrible child birth is. I didn’t believe it because there was no way I was ever going to forget about awful that whole experience was. I actually did think I was going to die. Instead I shit all over some poor nurse and survived to tell the story. Turns out you really do forget. You convince yourself it really wasn’t that bad. The exact same thing happens with jogging. No matter how terrible, you begin to romanticize. The beautiful moonlight jog, a light, late summer rain, a breeze from the ocean. You’re an asshole, but it’s not your fault. You can’t remember that you looked like John Candy on a pizza run. So you sign yourself up to do it again. And, if you’re anything like me, you go online and spend a couple hundred dollars on some legit new gear to subsidize your efforts.

Because you’re an asshole.