I think I am psychic because last week I said this new workout regimen may break me first.
I am a little psycho because I agreed to and set myself up on this plan without any help from others. It was totally and completely self-inflicted.
Check!This is how all good plans go awry. I get all pumped up. I commit to serious goals. Then I begin and soon realize it’s so much harder actually doing what I said I would than when I sit on the sofa thinking about these things.
Then I get knee-deep in and reach the point of no return. The point where you have already invested too much. It’s like being halfway through a perm and deciding, no… I really like straight hair.
It’s just way too late.That’s me. I am half-permed, half in-shape, and fully nuts.But enough of the stuff you already knew.
Jason Koop, whose sage advice I have been painstakingly following for the last 9 days, says “you will get worse before you get better.”
I read that phrase earlier and it didn’t resonate all that much. While revisiting his book this weekend after getting several workouts in, it resonated quite a bit — or maybe that was the constant ache in my hamstrings that I am mistaking for resonance but we’ll go with it.
Since our last little chat, I have done 3 running interval sessions, 2 recovery runs (which aren’t as awesome as they sound), and a 2-hour endurance run. That last little gem had the appearance on paper like a helpless little kitten but it packed the power of a tiger, I assure you.
And with all of that, the burpee bandwagon continues. I am up to 17 today. I can say that I am getting stronger but I can’t say I like them any more than I did on December 1.
But the real camel back-breaking straw this week came in the form of an exercise that I loathe more than burpees. It’s something I, honestly, never do unless I am under extreme duress. I only do it when there are no options left and that moment arrived with the cold silence that can only be accompanied by stepping on the scale.
That’s right, folks, I am logging my food.
It’s a tedious, somewhat humiliating task, to have to log your weaknesses made manifest in food form. This darn little app chastises me for too much sodium or too much sugar when I haven’t had a chip or a piece of candy in days. I can sense it’s judging me and I think it’s somehow synced itself with Netflix because when it asks me if I am “still watching” I know it’s really My Fitness Pal app just snarking me for sitting too long. What kind of pal is that, I ask you?
The state of affairs at a mere 17 days in is that my legs feel like lead but look something more akin to JELL-O.
I may have a sixth sense, you know being psychic, and possibly a seventh if you count my psychosis.
My burpees continue to be the boss of me.
And lastly, I am tracking my food like a socialite on the hot trail of a vintage Givenchy gown.
Yep, it’s glamorous here but apparently now that it’s gotten worse it’s about to get better.