Keeping Up With The Boys

April 7, 2008 Muffintop

I’m over here today kicking punk’s butts.  xoxo

Next I’ll Be Popping ‘Roids Like Candy

April 1, 2008 Muffintop, Sugarpants Herself!

Daren and I signed up to be on a co-ed baseball team.

I haven’t played softball since before Thomas was born and I was um, well… pretty crappy at it back then.

I don’t know anyone else on the team except the woman I gave our money to.  I saw the ad at the gym for much needed beer-league softball teammates and figured, “What the hell?”  This was before I signed up for the marathon with Homie G.

What am I turning into?

Next thing you know I’m going to look like this:

You know, except for the mustache and the penis.

Throwing Out The Skinny

March 31, 2008 Muffintop, Sugarpants Herself!

Recently Starbucks changed their lingo on lattes (and other drinks) from “non-fat” to “skinny.  As in, I’ll have a Quad Venti sugar-Free Vanilla SKINNY Latte, rather than “Non-Fat” Latte.

I’m not sure what prompted the corporate change, but one barista sure had a huge vent about the situation which included the politically incorrectness of the new calling/marking system.

Now personally I could care less about politcal correctness when it comes to ordering a coffee, but I sure have a problem with the word skinny.

When I first signed up for a fitness trainer, my one and only goal was to lose weight.  To GET SKINNY.

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Before I Hit The Gym Today

March 24, 2008 Muffintop

I have kind of a big announcement to make. I’m now writing for Work It Mom! alongside the lovely and talented Karen from Lion and Magic Boy. Our column is called Catch Your Breath.

Together Karen and I bring you constant reminders to take time for yourself. “Karen M.” (I feel like I’m in Kindergarten - Karen M. and Karen R. *snort*) will be focusing on mind and spirit and I’ll be covering the physical stuff like nutrition and exercise, in a light hearted sort of way.

But that is not my big announcement. You’ll have to go over there to find out what the hell I just did that is going to transform my body from lazy, carb-eatin’ couch potato to sleek athlete in a matter of 49 Days.

I’m really excited to tell you. Jumping up and down. So go! Go see!

Running For My Life

March 19, 2008 Muffintop, Sugarpants Herself!

I started running last week. It took me a long time to work up to that, believe me. I’ve never been an athlete, not in the least. In high school, I was naturally skinny, weighing 68 pounds in grade 7 and less than 100 my graduation.

At 5′7″ and 118 pounds, I got pregnant with Dylan when I was 23, at which point I received my License To Eat. I ate fish and chips, ice cream, and Lipton Sidekicks with wild abandon. Nothing was safe from the gorge of my pregnant yap. Looking back, I remember loving the fact I could eat whatever I wanted, but I felt like total crap all the time. Pregnancy and gluttony did not agree with my tiny frame.

So here I am, 9 years and 2 kids later, looking down the barrel of the overweight shotgun, knowing it will kill me one day. My genes on my father’s side are ones that I will fight forever now that I have crossed the line into a BMI that is higher than my age.

Nearly 3 months ago, I had gotten myself down from 220 pounds to 195 by eating better (further by starving myself prior to that, but gained it back). Still, it isn’t enough. My goal is 130. I put these numbers out there with much trepidation, but hopefully those numbers will help me be proud of my accomplishments and accountable for any slips.

When I started with Master Homie G the fitness trainer, it was at that 195 pounds that I stood before her and nearly broke down crying. I felt ashamed. Sheer sadness came over me as she measured my arms, legs, calves, waist and chest.

The fact is, I had no one else to look to but myself. I’m the only one who can change this. I’m the only one who will haul this ass to the gym and get to work. I’m the only one who will ultimately make secret or public decisions as to what to put into my mouth. I’m the one who has to look after this body. For myself, my husband, my kids, for a life that is not about tugging shirts over a muffintop, a life that doesn’t include dressing in dark colours forever, for a life of action and freedom from excess weight.

This last paragraph is my mantra — I repeat this and similar things to myself when I’m feeling weak for M&M’s. I repeat this to myself when I want to call up Homie G and cancel.

Last Saturday Homie G called me into her tiny office and we weighed and measured me after the first 12 sessions were up. I’ve lost 7 pounds in those 12 sessions, which, honestly I thought would be more. I know muscle weighs more than fat and the weight lifting I had been doing had actually made me replace fat with muscle and the weight I had shed was fat - all fat.

So it looks something like this:
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Definition

March 5, 2008 Muffintop

No that isn’t me in that picture. I have no idea what Keith Richards (wearing a bra) is doing in my gym.

In keeping with a promise I made to Jenn (and myself), I’m here once again to share the fun side of working out regularly, with a trainer. My trainer, “G” read the entry about her being The Punisher and we’ve been laughing about it ever since. Last night I had to write her review so she would get that all-important title of “Master Homie G In Da House.”

She told me to be nice, and I was. I know, shocker!

Thing is, she’s got something looming over my head, and I’m terrified as to what’s next with her. Tomorrow night is session 11 of our original 12 and Sunday is the weigh-in.

That, I’m excited about - it’s the first time I’ve been excited about getting weighed. It isn’t so much the poundage, it’s the inches I’m expecting to see a difference. I can feel it in my clothes and see some definition finally!

So what’s got me worrying? The end of the first 12 sessions meant I had to sign up for more training. Much negotiation and $1000 bucks later, I have 24 hour-long sessions where G gets to tell me what to do. That is 24 hours of terrifying unknown. 1440 minutes of possible unbearable pain and suffering.

She’s told me that she jumps on the back of one of her clients and the clients does squats. She’s already tortured me beyond what I thought my body was capable of. I’m waiting for harsh cold mornings, where I trudge through snow and ice, into the gym, only to be strung up upside down and stretched on machines - forced to do 5,342 crunches or DIE.

I fear leaving the gym in my own bag.

As I left the gym one morning last week, I shopped for dinner inside the Superstore (where the gym is) and spotted chicken on sale. $1.99/lb is good I think - I don’t pay much attention but there’s this one endcap as you exit produce and enter meat (heh) where they always put the meat that’s is on sale so of course I stopped.

My mind is so obviously warped, because here was my thought process:

Oooo! chicken on sale! Chicken is healthy! Maybe I should stock up. Hmmm, there’s skin on it. I hate handling raw chicken. Maybe I can get Daren to cook it. (Glanced at the boneless skinless - at least double the price)

Nah, I’ll get the cheap chicken. (Imagining chicken in a skimpy outfit, standing on a street corner. Heh. Cheap chicken.)

Wait.

Why does it say “Made for Barrie Poultry Company?” I’m 4 hours from Barrie. How did it get here? And why? Special buy? Oh my God, what if it’s no good?

What day is it? Thursday. Okay, I have to be at Best Friend’s House on Saturday night and Sister-In-Law’s on Monday night. I’ll buy the chicken, make it tonight and if it’s no good, I’ll be sick for 24 hours max and still be okay to travel. Hey! If I get samonella, I might even lose a few pounds by barfing! Sweet!

See? MESSED IN THE HEAD.

Muffintop In Da House!

February 26, 2008 Muffintop

I’ve been cheating on you, dear readers. Averaging one post a week here for the last while is a direct result of my infidelity to this website, and I’m sorry.

I’ve been working on something bigger. Not necessarily better, just bigger.

My ass.

Rather than bore the living crap out of you with BMI (high), nutrition (meager), and cardio (pathetic), I thought I’d bring you the lighter side (pun intended) of getting into shape.

Welcome to a new category here at Sugarpants: Muffintop.

My personal trainer, G, is a young skinny bitch with the authority to kick my ass. I gave her that right when I signed on 8 sessions ago. I told her I wanted to “work out like an athlete, not a housewife.”

Little did I know she has been moonlighting as a torture expert for the CIA.

Punishing me is her favorite activity. My arms and legs have felt the hopeless defeat of “3 more” several times. My muscles have gotten to the point where I could not lift my arm or stand without feeling like my ass might fall off (one can only hope). She makes me laugh so hard when we do the ab work, I’m a useless Gumby by 15. Or um, 5.

During exercise, I hate her. I mean, I don’t hate her hate her, but Oh Em Gee she is tough. And she has no heart.

Last night she informed me we were getting to the end of our 12 sessions and I should purchase more sessions this week because her review is coming up so she will be more expensive after that because she’ll be a “Master.”

“Do I have to call you that? Master?” I asked.

She laughed, “No I’ll be a “Master Trainer.”

“Yes Master,” I teased. I made a few more Master jokes as we finished the weight machines and we went to the mats to do abs. Face up, I held her ankles and tried to kick her in the face do leglifts but she always won and pushed me down first.

Still making fun of her new title, we giggled like a couple of idiots through 45 32 21 8 leglifts before I asked her if I could call her Master Homie G In Da House.

She insisted. I’m totally going to buy her a giant clock to wear around her neck. Maybe it will weigh her head down low enough so I can kick her in the face.

Crossposted over at the Fabulous Mommybloggers Site!