I didn't bother with pictures today

But I finally went back to the gym after a week and a half lapse.

I weighed myself today, too. On the first day I went to the gym in Peters Hall, it said I weighed 250. Now, the  little weight on top is gone so I can't tell you exactly how much I am down, but when I put the big weight up to 250, the arrow part hit the... bottom? Top? whichever side that indicates that I weight less than the weighted thing on top is indicating.

I know I've been losing a little, at least. Pants that were uncomfortably tight before are now just tight. I don't exactly push myself when working out (except when the wii fit fucked me over the other week) but I've been paying closer attention to what, when, and how much I eat. I've always been a second or more helpings person. This change did not come overnight, though.

When I first started working out, I figured I could still eat the same way because I was moving around a lot more. But over time (5 weeks) I have wanted to eat less in order to become satisfied and I definitely don't snack as much. I'm pretty sure I need to keep doing both (work out and eat decently) in order to get to my goal.

Here's the deal. I didn't start working out because of a resolution. I don't like resolutions, especially those of the new year's persuasion. I also don't work out because I want to be seen differently, I want to be sexier, I want to eat whatever I want, I have the desire (heh no) to, or anything like that. 

I work out because I want to fit into my old clothes. I don't want to buy a new wardrobe every so often to adjust with my expanding waistline. I also don't care if I'm a statistic-- 35% of Americans over 20 are obese. I'm a human; I'm a statistic no matter what I do. Am I self-conscious? Hell yes. Do I care? Yeah. Again, I'm human. But I'm not interested in being a fitness fanatic. 

My goal is to get back into a size 10 (female, American). I have no qualms telling the world that I am obese according to The Powers That Be, that I am on a good day an American size 18, that I get winded just shaving my legs, and that I have been over 250 lbs (I stopped looking at that point).

I wonder if my mother will read this. If so, I hope she forgives me for what I'm about to reveal.

When I was young, 6-7 or so, my mother told me how much she weighed. I can't remember if I caught her crying or she asked me to come into the bathroom, but I remember she was standing on the scale and made me swear I would never tell anyone what that shameful number was. I'm still not going to tell anyone, but let me be clear that I have surpassed that terrible number that devastated my mum back in the early 1990's.

You cannot fault my mother. She is and was a product of her generation. Also, she had 3 kids in 4 years, so I suppose that can take a toll on a woman's body. At any rate, within the past few years, I have been to the doctor and they weighed me with their (admittedly broken) machine that told me I was at or above that dreaded number. The first time I saw it, I was suddenly that little girl standing in my parents' bathroom staring at a number and thinking it was the worst fate available for a girl. it's still in the back of my mind, but I try not to think about it too much.

On one hand, I can see how someone could make the case for my mindset being "it's only a number." But it isn't only a number. It's actually nothing to me. A size 10 is an abstract goal because that's the size I was when I remember being the most satisfied with how I felt in my own body. It's also nothing to my in the way that I don't give a damn who knows how much I weigh, what my BMI is, or about any illness I may suffer from. I don't. I don't care. I don't mind. However you want to look at it.

Will being a size 10 make me happy? Fuck I don't know. I just thought it was a nice goal to set for myself. Will I award myself an ice cream sundae whenever I meet it? PROBABLY.

Anyway, I didn't bother taking pictures at the gym today. I was halfway through a random workout (that's how I've figured out the bikes work the best, if you let it choose the resistance and stuff for you) and accidentally hit the "reset" button instead of checking how much time in that particular interval I had left. I actually yelled out (GAH!) and startled some people around me. Whoops. I started over, but of course I had reset it and the random is truly random-- it resets to another random course when a workout is completed or aborted. At any rate, I biked 6-7 miles in 20 minutes. I figure that's okay. I sweated a little. Not a lot.

Two weeks ago, the news said that most people give up on their fitness-related new years resolutions on or by Feb. 7. I felt a little bad about that, because that was the week I fucked up my calves running in place because of that fucking wii fit. For the record, the pain lasted all damn week even after I took a hot bath with epsom salts and shit to ease the muscle tension.

I heard that teachers get a workout because they tend to stand most of the day. One of my classrooms (in which I teach two back to back 50 minute classes) is regularly over 90 degrees (no windows, I can't leave the door open, and maintenance doesn't believe I'm an instructor so they won't do anything about it) and I stand for 2 hours straight. Yesterday was one of those days. I was sweating like hell. It was so gross. I'm not a fan of sweating while I'm teaching.

So I burn calories (admittedly, it is only a few) just doing my job. If you think about it, I am holding up a 250+ lb body on my little feet. My calves are fucking massive. I can't wear boots because none will fit over my calves. Forget about tucking my pants into said boots. It takes a lot of muscle to hold me up.

I've feared that once I get my weight down a little that something bad would happen to my calves-- they would lose muscle mass, become atrophied, they would sag and get fatty... Because they aren't working as hard as they did before. However, something occurred to me today: My OCD.

I promise I'm going somewhere with this.

My OCD tic has always been that things needed to be even. Not in the numerical sense, but like pencils and books needed to be lined up right on the desk, curtains should hang exactly the same way on both sides of a window, and for me personally, if I did something (like pop a knuckle or bend a fingernail [just... don't ask]) on one hand, I had to do it on the other one to be even. At some point, I started to feel the need to flex every muscle I was able to consciously flex on my own at the same time, correspondingly on each side. I still do it. Now though it's mostly my legs. Maybe this has no scientific value, but I think another reason my legs are so fucking big is because I am constantly flexing the muscles in them. It's not necessarily an RLS thing, it's just how my brain works. I needed to tighten the muscles in my legs, and it had to be even so I had to do it on both legs.

That's my story for the day.