Athleticism Later in Life: Part Four

So now that I've had Ruby, not only am I fat but I am also crazy.  I don't feel the need to explain this part, as most of the people who read this blog have children and know that when you become a mother, you also become insane.  Case in point: only an insane person would put this picture of themselves up on the internet.  But there I am: a new, tired, fat, crazy mother.  And I do mean "mother," not "motha."

As the months wear on, the fat only compounds the craziness, so I try dieting.  It helps get rid of some of the bulk but makes me even more of a raving lunatic, so I decide to do the only thing there is left to do:  I am going to head back into the gym with the actual intention of sweating.  The night before turning over this new leaf, I take a look at an online class schedule and see what fits in between Ruby's nap times.  Spinning, which is indoor cycling.  Ok, spinning it is.

The next morning, I arrive 10 minutes early because I don't want to be that girl: the one who comes in late, acting sheepish and tip-toeing exaggeratedly.  But instead, I'm that other girl: the one that shows up 10 minutes early, which is almost worse.  The spin teacher that day, who is lean and muscular and is wearing 18 less

 layers of clothes than I am, teaches me how to set up my bike.  She informs me that I have abnormally short legs and short arms, which means we put all the bike's settings as if Webster was going to ride.  People start to trickle in, all types, which I like.  But I quickly calculate that I am the second fattest person in the room, something that when I find myself doing, I hate myself for.  The instructor turns on the music, which is mediocre.  The class is an hour.  I last 20 minutes.  I go home, sit on an ice pack and take a full course of Aleve.  But I go back the next week, readjust my bike to fit at least Rudy Huxtable and I last 10 minutes longer.  And then I come again the next week after that and I last 20 minutes longer until, before I know it, I have made it all the way through the class to be there for the cool down.  I continue to go and start losing the weight, which encourages me to keep going. I start spinning three times a week and what do you know?  I'm good at it.  To make a long story short, I get certified to teach it, which come to find out, I'm even better at.

What spin, especially teaching spin, did for me was way more valuable than just getting pesky baby-weight off, it gave me the confidence to use the body I was given and to push myself.   Working out has become one of my favorite things to do, not only spinning but yoga, kickboxing, hiphop, step - whatever it is, I just enjoy the challenge and have learned to block out the negative voices in my head that tell me to fear failing, to fear looking dumb, to fear being the second fattest person in the room.  There is something special about the confidence that comes with becoming good at something you didn't originally think you could do; it has a domino effect in all other aspects of your life, I've found.  You start to think "Hm.  Maybe I'm not the person I thought I was.  Maybe I'm much more than that." And that has made all the difference.

Athleticism Later in Life: Part Three

So a year after the Ballet Incident, I find someone who will actually marry me and he happens to be a work-out-aholic. While we are dating, he invites me on several occasions to come work out with him at the RB/Fieldhouse, to which I decline and make up excuses like "You know what?  I think I'm allergic to foot powder.  You wouldn't believe the amount of foot powder that is floating through the air ducts of those buildings. I don't want to risk another breakout like last time," and "Yah, I have this thing with tiled hallways.  I get vertigo."  I guess I always could have gone with "Well, you see, there was this one time I had to run all the way home from the RB in the snow without any pants on, so I'm kinda turned off to the place," and it would have sounded just as good.  

So somehow I trick the Work-Out-aholic into marrying me.  Isn't he pretty?  One of the first things we do after we move to downtown SLC, in typical Work-Out-aholic fashion, is join a gym.  For the next 9 months we live there, he pleads and begs everyday to come to the gym with him, to which I always give in into because we are newlyweds and at this tender, early stage in our marriage, I am still a nice wife. But to my surprise, as the weeks tick by, I start looking forward to kickboxing, yoga and aerobics.  This is a win-win situation.  He doesn't have to beg me anymore and I'm not getting fat.  

But of course, we have a one step forward, two steps back situation when we move to Iowa and a couple of months later, I am pregnant.  The Work-Out-aholic, now a busy med student, starts to plead and beg for me to come to the gym with him after school/work.  On most occasions I decline.  Why?  Because we've made it past the year mark and every day after that, I get potentially meaner.  That and I'm usually still digesting the cheesecake my co-workers have fed The Pregnant Girl at work. When I do actually give in and go, my time is usually spent sitting in the women's locker room reading trashy magazines.

Work-out-aholic: So how was your work out?

Pregnant Girl: Very educational.

Surprise!  I gain 50 pounds while pregnant with Ruby.  I can recall a conversation I have with my very sensitive, caring and warm OB.  

Pregnant, Fat Girl: I've gained so much weight!  What should I do?

Very Sensitive, Caring and Warm OB: Stop eating so much!  My gosh, stop putting food in your mouth, woman!  Wire your jaw shut!

Two days later I have Ruby.  This is her first picture.  See these cheeks?  They are made of cheesecake.  

I have 35 pounds to lose.

To be continued...  

Athleticism Later in Life: Part Two

I think it was because of the following two experiences that swore me off of going to the RB during my days at BYU, which resulted in my Freshman 15 that lingered and lingered:

RB Experience No.1

It is my freshman year at BYU on a wintery afternoon.  My roommate Elizabeth and I decide to go work out.  We go to the RB and change into our BYU issue, which is a horrible outfit BYU students are required to wear when using the school's gym facility at the Fieldhouse to undoubtedly thwart any unclean thoughts one might have about any fellow gym goer: a huge, baggy grey t-shirt and ill fitting navy blue drawstring sweat-shorts.  Their plight is undeniably successful.  Nary a date is ever made at the RB.  Clad in our most unflattering garb, we head to the Fieldhouse to work out but find the gym is being used by a grunting weight-lifting class and we are told to come back later.  We go back to the RB, retrieve our stuff from our lockers, and wear the icky issue back to our dorm with plans to return in an hour.  An

 hour turns into several hours.  I meet Elizabeth back at the Fieldhouse with about 40 minutes before it and the RB closes.  We work out and return to the RB to turn in our BYU issue with about 2 minutes to spare.  To my horror, I realize, unlike Elizabeth, I did not bring clothes to change back into.  If I do not give back the potato sack shirt and flub exposing shorts in 2 minutes, I will not get my ASB card back (which buys my food and gets me into my dorm building) and I will be slapped with a fatty fine, which at this point in the year, I cannot afford to pay.  We hear the RB worker jingle her keys.  Elizabeth hands me her sweatshirt.  It is not a big sweatshirt, but it is something.  I do the only thing I can do: I take off my BYU issue and put on the sweatshirt.  I pull it down as far is it will go, which barely covers my bottom and shuffle to the desk where I, red-faced, return the issue and receive my precious ASB card.  And then I book it all the way from the RB to Helaman Halls in the snow, wearing nothing but a sweatshirt and a smile, with a hysterical Elizabeth trailing behind.  I am too embarrassed to return to the RB after this.  Thus ends my days of working out my freshman year.

RB Experience No. 2

My sophomore year I decide to brave the RB and due to an identity crisis of sorts, I sign up for a ballet class, much to my friends and roommates' glee.  If you know me, and actually, you don't even have to know me well, really, to see where the humor in this lies.  I am not graceful.  I am not dainty.  I am not tall and skinny.  I am of average height and lean towards the "big-boned" side of the population.  I am boyish.  But this is something I want to do, as I believe it will help me become less of a tom-boy and more feminine, which means more dates, which as you might be able to tell, is my big focus at this point in my life.  So I buy my leotards, my tights and ballet shoes: requirements for this beginning ballet class.  I don't remember if I modeled them or just held them up their packages, but whatever happened, it brings several of my friends to their knees, clutching their stomachs, with giggle-induced tears streaming down their faces.  Merely the thought of me at a ballet bar gives them just enough juice to get them going.  Luckily for both them and me, I'm pretty thick-skinned.  I walk into the RB for my first class with my head held high, wearing my leotards and tights on underneath a pair of overalls.  I walk into the studio and find I am surrounded by stretching, slick haired x-ballerinas that just want "a refresher" and two fat guys who are taking the class as a joke, but wearing the leotards nonetheless, which definitely isn't worth it in their case.  The class begins and of course, I am horrible, but I stick with it.  I go to the second and the third and maybe the fourth class and it is when I realize that the two fat boys are better than me that I finally turn in my withdraw slip to the instructor, who doesn't look surprised at all.  I am shocked that a "What took you so long?" does not escape her pretty little ballerina lips.  But it is too late to simply withdraw.  If I drop out now, I risk having an "I" for incomplete on my transcript.  I don't care.  I take the "I", I walk out of the RB and never look back. 

To be continued...

Athleticism Later in Life: Part One

As I child I was not what you'd call "athletic."  This was something I developed much later, an arduous and embarrassing journey of sweat and tears.  Join me for a trot down memory lane.

I tried soccer for a season in fifth grade, a miserable several months in which I was to endure humiliation every Saturday, followed by a baggie of sliced oranges, a Kudos bar and a Squeeze-It.

Welcome to Phase 1 of  3 of My Awkward Stage.  Comfy?

Then there was swimming, which I was better at but still not fantastic, which I did the summers after the 6th and 7th grades.

Summer after 6th: Phase 2 of My Awkward Stage. 

 Summer after 7th: And now tapering off into Phase 3, the final stage. (That is, until I over-plucked my eyebrows my sophomore year and My Awkward Stage started over again.  But that's a whole different post.)

During high school, I took a big hiatus from all things athletic.  I was too busy being a hippy and kissing my boyfriend.

College rolled around the Freshman 15 hit.  I went to the RB (the workout room at BYU) a couple of times, but all I really did was half-heartedly do the StairMaster and pretend to read a magazine while I stared at boys. 

To be continued...