Recent evidence suggests that I am some kind of masochist. First of all, I ended up talking to the Colombian again, and I cannot even believe it. I know that I am lacking in the self-discipline department, but sheesh. I really thought that I could sever all ties. If for nothing else, at least for the principle of it. Oh well. I am not going to worry about it anymore, because he is going back to Colombia in a couple weeks. Then I won't have any choice but to not talk to or do other things with him. So that problem is solved.
My other problem is more immediate. I can't walk. As part of my ongoing battle to make myself a better me... blah, blah, blah... I have been seeing a wellness coach who I will call Lisa. I have been seeing Lisa for about four months now. For the first three, I met with her every week. Now I meet with her every two weeks. I feel for this woman. Every meeting starts out with Lisa asking me very cheerily to tell her something positive that has happened since we last met. At first this caused some confusion. Apparently, my social life and drunken escapades, while probably the highlights of my week, are not things she wishes to hear about. I am to restrict my comments to things that pertain to my wellness. I can see in her eyes that she wants to hear that I was able to say no to a really tempting dessert or that I came in and worked out an extra day. I hate to be a disappointment, but nothing like that ever happens to me, and if it did it would not be the highlight of my week...I would be lucky if I even remembered. After I figured out this whole routine I would try to rack my brains for anything remotely impressive, but on several occasions I had to resort to the stammered default.
She'd ask what went well for me that week.
"Uh, well, uh...my goals?"
"What about your goals was positive?" she'd ask.
Shit. Specifics. "I...mmmm.....well, I kind of did them."
One week she finally gave up and quit asking. Of course it was the week I had actually planned what I was going to say ahead of time. I think that was the week I got a cheeseburger, small fries and small Sprite at McDonald's instead of my usual value meal. After a little research I discovered that this meant consuming three-hundred and forty fewer calories. I thought that the effort of my calculations, and the numbers themselves were pretty impressive. I did end up telling her about it at the end. I almost wish I hadn't bothered because my theory is that she had made the decision to stop eating up time by asking, then she felt bad that I came through when she had given up on me. She has asked me at every session since.
After the standard opening routine, we buckle down and examine my progress. We go back and look at the goals that I made for the time between sessions and see if I did them. If I didn't we have to talk about what went wrong. It is kind of lame, but I guess if I can't have these conversations with myself I need someone on the outside to ask me the hard questions. For example, if I made the goal to come to the gym four times a week, and then I told her that I only came three, we have to strategize. This involves a lot of questions that I do not have answers for. If I knew a way to get my lazy ass to the gym every day I would be capitalizing on it. So we have to analyze the hell out of it, and try to make a plan that will get my goal accomplished. Manifestations of these brainstorms have included trying a group class, the thought of which nearly induced an anxiety attack. I did it up, though, and went to a god-awful spinning class twice and a kinesis demo. I have also discovered that it is easier for me to get to the gym when I go with other people, and if I go when there is something on TV that I want to watch. So I guess these analyses are helping a little.
Recently, Lisa and I have been focusing completely on diet and I have started seeing a trainer for my exercise needs. I will call him Greg. He is the anti-Christ. First, I met with him to do an assessment. I had to sit in this thing that measured my percentage of body fat. Then he took measurements of my arms, legs, waist and butt. I had to get on the treadmill and he measured how much oxygen was getting to my muscles, and then I had to do the sit-and-reach to test my flexibility. We determined that we have a lot of work to do. He then made me do the cardio workout that he wants me to be doing on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He stood next to my machine and worked the controls. I almost died. I came back the next day and actually did it again, much to my surprise. Then the following day I met with him to give me my strength training routine. It pretty much sucked, but the real kicker came the next day. It is an understatement to say that my movement was impeded. I had to work yesterday, and by the end of my thirteen hour shift I could barely walk. I took two ibuprofen and two Tylenol and they didn't even touch the pain. I didn't go to work today. I don't think that another thirteen hours on my feet is going to put me on the road to recovery. Plus, I am sick of feeling like a moron, and getting laughed at.
Call me old-fashioned, but I think it is counterproductive when my workout prevents me from doing my job. Not to mention sitting on the toilet, using stairs, bending over or the fact that I obviously cannot workout in this condition. At least I will have a good excuse this time when Lisa asks me why I haven't been getting in my workouts. I really don't think that she can find fault in the fact that I can't workout because of my workout.
My other problem is more immediate. I can't walk. As part of my ongoing battle to make myself a better me... blah, blah, blah... I have been seeing a wellness coach who I will call Lisa. I have been seeing Lisa for about four months now. For the first three, I met with her every week. Now I meet with her every two weeks. I feel for this woman. Every meeting starts out with Lisa asking me very cheerily to tell her something positive that has happened since we last met. At first this caused some confusion. Apparently, my social life and drunken escapades, while probably the highlights of my week, are not things she wishes to hear about. I am to restrict my comments to things that pertain to my wellness. I can see in her eyes that she wants to hear that I was able to say no to a really tempting dessert or that I came in and worked out an extra day. I hate to be a disappointment, but nothing like that ever happens to me, and if it did it would not be the highlight of my week...I would be lucky if I even remembered. After I figured out this whole routine I would try to rack my brains for anything remotely impressive, but on several occasions I had to resort to the stammered default.
She'd ask what went well for me that week.
"Uh, well, uh...my goals?"
"What about your goals was positive?" she'd ask.
Shit. Specifics. "I...mmmm.....well, I kind of did them."
One week she finally gave up and quit asking. Of course it was the week I had actually planned what I was going to say ahead of time. I think that was the week I got a cheeseburger, small fries and small Sprite at McDonald's instead of my usual value meal. After a little research I discovered that this meant consuming three-hundred and forty fewer calories. I thought that the effort of my calculations, and the numbers themselves were pretty impressive. I did end up telling her about it at the end. I almost wish I hadn't bothered because my theory is that she had made the decision to stop eating up time by asking, then she felt bad that I came through when she had given up on me. She has asked me at every session since.
After the standard opening routine, we buckle down and examine my progress. We go back and look at the goals that I made for the time between sessions and see if I did them. If I didn't we have to talk about what went wrong. It is kind of lame, but I guess if I can't have these conversations with myself I need someone on the outside to ask me the hard questions. For example, if I made the goal to come to the gym four times a week, and then I told her that I only came three, we have to strategize. This involves a lot of questions that I do not have answers for. If I knew a way to get my lazy ass to the gym every day I would be capitalizing on it. So we have to analyze the hell out of it, and try to make a plan that will get my goal accomplished. Manifestations of these brainstorms have included trying a group class, the thought of which nearly induced an anxiety attack. I did it up, though, and went to a god-awful spinning class twice and a kinesis demo. I have also discovered that it is easier for me to get to the gym when I go with other people, and if I go when there is something on TV that I want to watch. So I guess these analyses are helping a little.
Recently, Lisa and I have been focusing completely on diet and I have started seeing a trainer for my exercise needs. I will call him Greg. He is the anti-Christ. First, I met with him to do an assessment. I had to sit in this thing that measured my percentage of body fat. Then he took measurements of my arms, legs, waist and butt. I had to get on the treadmill and he measured how much oxygen was getting to my muscles, and then I had to do the sit-and-reach to test my flexibility. We determined that we have a lot of work to do. He then made me do the cardio workout that he wants me to be doing on Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays. He stood next to my machine and worked the controls. I almost died. I came back the next day and actually did it again, much to my surprise. Then the following day I met with him to give me my strength training routine. It pretty much sucked, but the real kicker came the next day. It is an understatement to say that my movement was impeded. I had to work yesterday, and by the end of my thirteen hour shift I could barely walk. I took two ibuprofen and two Tylenol and they didn't even touch the pain. I didn't go to work today. I don't think that another thirteen hours on my feet is going to put me on the road to recovery. Plus, I am sick of feeling like a moron, and getting laughed at.
Call me old-fashioned, but I think it is counterproductive when my workout prevents me from doing my job. Not to mention sitting on the toilet, using stairs, bending over or the fact that I obviously cannot workout in this condition. At least I will have a good excuse this time when Lisa asks me why I haven't been getting in my workouts. I really don't think that she can find fault in the fact that I can't workout because of my workout.
