Want change

"I need someone who will encourage me to go to the gym and show me what to do to get sexy."

"That's called a personal trainer."

"No...I don't think that's it. What I want doesn't exist."

"Um...what you described is exactly what a personal trainer does."

"Mmm...nope, don't think so. Guess I won't be able to go to the gym."

"I'm going to kill you."

My clothes are getting clingy and I hate it. All day no matter where I am, I hate that I can feel my shirt gripping me where it shouldn't be. That's right...it's my shirt's fault.

Yes, I stopped posting about my quest for fitness a while ago. This is for a very good reason: I gave up completely. You see, we didn't get spots for the death run, that made me stop feeling the pressure to train (my training was without any schedule or discipline, to be clear). Then, whenever I DID run, my knees would hurt so badly that I could barely make it up the stairs to my apartment.

I don't know what's making me a big arthritis-face but it could have something to do with the joint-devastating dress shoes that I insist on wearing.

Add that to the busy schedule of a house move, a nine-to-five job, evening contracts, and terrible weather, and I have enough excuses to justify an embargo on movement altogether. That was a bad choice. Whether I look different or not (my self-image has always been so far out of whack that I recognize I'm not the best judge of my own body type), I feel gross and it has to stop.

The newf must stop buying chips. I must stop drinking beer. I must start moving more. I must find a walking/running route through my new neighbourhood. I must force the newf to jog down to the tennis courts a few minutes away twice a week. I must stop shoving food in my mouth for no reason. I must make Kehoe force me into her fun-sounding exercise armada. I must actually listen to the advice a very kind reader sent me on working out.

It's time for a structured plan: no fast food, no chips, no fries, no pop, tennis twice a week and an hour-long dog walk every day.

I miss that summer where I came down with mono at the beginning of June, had to take a week off work that turned out to be sunny and gorgeous (although sun isn't that enjoyable when your throat is closing over), lost twelve pounds and got a killer tan.

New plan: I must get mono.

Frail is NOT HOT

Now, I've made it no secret that I'm trying to get fit again....Okay, fit for the first time.

I'm still blown away by Justin's story of losing 100lbs. I won't lie, I read through the whole thing hoping that at some point he'd mention some miracle drug that turns regular people into straight-up hotness. I would like that very much. Unfortunately, his self-discipline and exercise/diet combo was his secret to success. Ugh.

Most of my friends know that I'd rather deprive myself control my food intake rather than exercise on a regular basis. This is probably fueled by the memory of the summer that I lost thirty pounds just by graduating high school and no longer being tempted by nasty cafeteria garbage. That reminds me that under select circumstances, changes in diets can be very effective in dropping extra poundage. Unfortunately, this orange juice and wheat thins diet tactic is far from healthy and still does not give me Channing Tatum's physique and that makes me mad (perhaps just the hunger rage). Plus I've been painfully thin before and I'm not so interested in going back.

I've been trying very hard to keep up with my running but am slowly crumbling into a pile of muscles-on-strike. My knees are completely botched, making it very difficult to walk up and down stairs (thanks to years of working retail in fashion shoes this is not an exaggeration, I'm afraid) and I have severe dry spots in my armpits that make me cringe every time I have to move my arms (no one every told me about this. Do I have lupus?). Plus, the more toned I look from running, the less I want to eat. Otherwise I'm just wasting exercise, no? Terrible...

I'm thinking that I might have to put cardio on the back burner (which will make my commitment to the 10km Not Since Moses rather difficult) and get back on the Bowflex with my other skinny-and-unable-to-build-muscle-mass friend. That way, in theory anyway, I can just eat more protein and turn it into uber-sexiness rather than run more, eat less, and whither away until I am fit for the Dior runway.

Hey fit people, how do you find out what works for you? At what point do you say this is really not fun? I can help but feel that I'm making my body fall apart rather than getting the results I want.

Biology continues to piss me off.

Purging until further notice

Here is the nutritional value for the oh-so delicious veggie & feta burger that I happily scarfed down this evening at Montana's restaurant. Riddle me this, HOW IS THIS EVEN POSSIBLE IN A BURGER MADE OF VEGETABLES?

Nutrition Facts
Serving Size: 1 burger (455 g)

Amount per Serving
Calories 810 Calories from Fat 369
% Daily Value *
Total Fat 41g	63%
Saturated Fat 16g	80%
Trans Fat 0.1g
Cholesterol 25mg	8%
Sodium 2160mg	90%
Total Carbohydrate 78g	26%
Dietary Fiber 13g	52%
Sugars 15g
Protein 40g	80%

---

Est. Percent of Calories from:

Fat 45.6% Carbs 38.5%

Protein 19.8%

How many calories is a wiener dog?

Calvin has crapped out as my workout partner. The above picture is a daily scene of him burrowing under the bed, waiting until he thinks I've left, and then poking out his nose to make sure before rolling on his back and eating a bag of Ruffles by himself.

Someone must have told him that no one expects a puppy to have a ripped chest and that he will be loved and fawned over regardless. Apparently I'm not so lucky and insist on bringing everyone down with me. The newf hates my guts for pointing out every moment that he is not burning calories ("Nothing tastes as good as thin feels"). No one ever said being sexy is fun! NO ONE!

[Since when is it not good enough to be slim? Since when is David Beckham the standard for what guys have to look like? SCREW YOU, BECKHAM!]

Back to the pooch. He has been let off the hook for exercise for the past few days as the wind threatened to blow him into the harbour. That would make me sad. Today we were back at it and he did pretty well. He stopped once or twice to see if I'd let him turn around and go back home but no dice. He makes me clean up after his weekend of stomach-sickery...I make him run his ass off outdoors.

He has reverted back to his quiet, pleasant demeanor now that we're back at the apartment and he no longer gets to terrorize my poor brother by waiting outside of his room in case he should even think of moving....What's worse? A puppy keeping tabs on a 25-year-old man, or a 25-year-old man who gives in to the puppy's nazi regime?

On that note, visit this website for hilarious doggie dictator propaganda.

Run or die trying

My plan worked.

A week or two ago I posted about how the beautiful spring weather was encouraging me to get fit and active. By making this pledge to myself, I effectively banished the sun from the region. Because I am by no means hardcore, this also means that my exercise regime gets put on hold during days that are not ideal conditions (sunny but not too sunny, warm but not too warm, water and cheerleading stations set up for my benefit - you know, the standards).

In all fairness, I have been paying more attention to what I've been eating and have upgraded some of my walks with Calvin to runs along the Salt Marsh Trail in Cole Harbour (three times a week). It's a path that runs along an old railroad track across - you guessed it - salt marshes out by the ocean. The ocean that I will be much closer to when I'm in the new house. The beach is called Rainbow Haven. Hilarious? Definitely. ("Hey kids, let's go swimming out at the Gumdrop Sunnybear Lagoon!")

The park is beautiful, secluded (so that I can sweat, wheeze and pray for death without being passed by Bowflex models in the midst of their daily marathons), and all in one straight, flat path so that Calvin is not overwhelmed by directional choices, effectively ruining my pace and tripping me repeatedly.

I have also dug out the tennis rackets and will be dragging the newf to the courts weekly and will start peer-pressuring my brother into taking me to the rock-climbing gym. Lastly, I'm investigating the purchase of heavier martini glasses so that I'm doing curls on a regular basis.

Before I go on, let it be clear that I am not worried about my weight. I'm not going to be one of those people who gets a fitness disorder and works out for hours a day even though they look great. I'm far too lazy for Cardiorexia and would rather just deprive myself of nourishment than end up wasting my life away in a gym. Plus, being already rather wee (last year I had to buy a couple of shirts from Gap Kids), I'm really just hoping to be less squishy before summer since I plan on spending all of my time in my friend's pool.

Ideally, all of this activity will erupt in a massive showing of athleticism and rock-hard-abbery (I have the top two...it's the other four that are being aloof) in July when I run the Not-Since-Moses 10km race with my Dad (and maybe the newf and maybe the mom). Just so we're clear, my Dad ran three marathons the year he turned 50. THREE. FIFTY. Gah!

But moving on, the race is beyond cool. I wrote about it (instead of running it) last year but basically you take a boat out with the tide, then run back on the ocean floor before the tide comes in. I like the external motivation of not wanting to be swept out to sea.

Here's hoping I don't give up halfway through.

Uggggnnnnfghhhhh

We are now in our third consecutive week of sunshine and warm temperatures here in Halifax (the split personality city that is quite lovely except for when it is impossibly depression during the winter months). That means that the beautiful people are crawling out from underneath their rocks to become even more beautiful in time for summer.

Watch out commoners! You've had your chance to enjoy Point Pleasant Park all winter. If you want to stick around, you had better beef up that feigned self-confidence in order to watch people run by you showing off that elusive muscle that sort of points down into your nether regions. For reference, check out Abercrombie & Fitch...or Pink...

Actually, it's not so bad. I'm not out of shape - OKAY FINE (my Dad probably is choking on his coffee - ahem...scotch - wherever he's reading this)...I am. However, I'm still rather wee so you wouldn't know it unless you started poking me.

I go on 5km walks around the lake with the pooch every day and can generally power through it in about 40 minutes. I'm excited to get back to the rock climbing gym now that my brother is coming home (more on this later), and I love playing tennis during the summer months. Aside from that, I don't do much. This has never bothered me until now. My declining metabolism is staring me in the face while a generation of people six years younger than me look more my age than I do. Not to mention the pressure from YOU - you silly bloggers who still manage to find time to...oh, you know, run the Boston Marathon (that means you, J-money).

Even yesterday in a business meeting a client spoke about how working out to him is like brushing his teeth (it showed). I nodded in agreement although he totally knew that I hadn't worked out since the summer of 1977.

So lately I have been dreaming of being active and fit to the point where I have convinced myself that I can do it. Today I took the first step and went for a run with Calvin...Calvin who loves to run...Calvin who hates when I need to stop before my lungs explode and my heart gives out...Calvin who gives me disapproving looks when I groan and pray for death at the turn-around point...Calvin who has proven to be possibly the greatest work-out partner to date.