Roll your eyes, Miss Marilyn. It's that sort of post.Barre class last night. A tough class -- and I'm playing catch-up thanks to my two-week exercise freeze. It's amazing how fast muscles regress. I'm certainly paying for this nugget of knowledge.
I managed to stay fairly upright on the physio ball. But then a lunge sequence started. And within two moves, I fell flat on the floor. Luckily in the back of the room (and -- more luckily -- only my ego was bruised), but that moment brought me as close to a physical meltdown as I've ever had in public.
(I come from a family of cryers -- for happy and sad things. Different from my kin, however, is my personal challenge of crying at frustrating/anger-inducing things. I've come to accept this personal weakness and have coping mechanisms to keep the tears in check when they're not appropriate. But let me tell you, anger tears are the worst -- and absolutely the most difficult to control.)
You see, sustaining a lunge when your lower stomach gets in the way of a full stretch and balance -- even though you could do it if the physical barrier wasn't there -- is beyond difficult. Forget about knee and joint issues; we're talking actual inability to reach around, brace on the floor, and hold position.
People think overweight folks don't exercise because they are lazy. And sure, there may be truth in that -- but no more so than the regular lazy population. What gets me is not that workouts are challenging or sweaty or gasp-inducing (they should be), but the sheer ignorance of what is physically possible by many people.
Imagine going to any given workout knowing there will be a moment where you outright fail. That's what I have to overcome mentally. Every. Single. Time.
I've had instructors stare blankly in my face when I've asked for props or modifications to work around my stomach (yet they'll always help a pregnant woman -- I'm at a loss on this one). I've suffered through rashes and broken skin in places you don't want to consider. I'm motivated to make this work because I am ridiculously stubborn. But there are times you want to give in because the mental stress of it all is just too much.
My new buddy Karen reached out to me in the silliness of the last couple weeks to share a few links and ideas of why my body refuses to let go, despite eating lower-carb (30-40g/day) AND low calorie (1600-1800/day). Pick your nutritional theory -- I'm doing it.
Some of the ideas -- such as sleeping in a totally dark room (we do...until the sun comes up and then it's HELLO, SUNSHINE!) and eliminating dairy for possible autoimmune/inflammation issues -- seem test-worthy. But then she sent me this:
"We've seen people eating an anti-inflammatory paleo diet for upwards of a year with little change in scale weight. They feel better, but weight is slow to budge. Then suddenly, 'something' changes and weight loss is rapid and easy." (boldface mine)
And really, you have to ask yourself: When do you say "enough is enough?" When do you stop believing that it's all going to come together? And -- personal irritation here -- why in HELL is it always people who have never had a weight problem (or alternatively men who lost 80+ pounds in a month -- don't get me started on that) who are telling us to just keep going, trust in the system, it'll all be fine. There are many days where it doesn't feel fine. There's a LOT more mental anguish and -- for the first time in my life -- sheer body hatred going on over here.
You should know I'm doing this not because of vanity or fashion or any of the usual self-involved reasons, but to avoid my family's diabetic and cancer-riddled fate. And, hopefully, in order to reduce my chances of a complicated pregnancy sometime in the next year. These are my goals. This is why the number on the scale -- and its refusal to change -- is so devastating to me.
I'm not giving up. I do feel more alert, less sluggish, and have far less cravings eating the way I do now than I did before. But I don't know that I can give any more. I'm being asked to have faith where science should provide. And, try as I might to find what I'm doing wrong, I know (and The Brit has assured me) that I'm not doing anything wrong. I've been failed -- by the system, by biology, by experts, by expectations.
When do you wave the white flag? Because I'll tell you -- I've got a pile full of Kleenex sitting here that, though soggy, can be waved at any time.
