Week Four: Ass Sweat and Other Related Humiliation

Is it week four already? Thank god. Time has gone by quickly, but I'm glad to know that I've actually stuck to this for a month. I don't stick to much for a month, as my dating history and shoe impulse purchases will illustrate.

I was thinking about being motivated, staying positive and all that rubbish the other day and I came to a realization about myself. I hate being motivated. I'm not motivated by motivation. I'm motivated by motives, certainly. Vanity, as previously discussed, is a major motive. Fear of cardiac arrest before turning 50 is another. Basic self-respect is in there somewhere. But the happy, sunshine-up-my-ass "staying motivated" isn't a me-thing.

The reality is I'd rather be sitting on a deck drinking beer or a bottle of Riesling, or stiletto shopping, or eating a barrel of potatoes, or dying my hair or really doing any of my normal hedonistic activities, but not working out. Not drinking another protein shake. Not swallowing another chicken breast. The brutal truth is this - I do it because there's no other option. There's no pill (trust me on this - I've looked into the pharma-angle) and I can't afford surgery or a regular cocaine habit.

As Bill Maher put it so succinctly, "Ask you doctor if getting off your ass is right for you." I'm off my ass because I have to be, not because I WANT to be. And yes, the endorphin and adrenaline surge helps make up for the grueling pain and panting and wheezing in the moment, but you must realize, lovelies, that all biological pleasure is for a reason. Procreation, for example. If sex was menial and even mildly painful, we'd have died off eons ago.

So, we get a little happy feeling after we almost have a heart attack. I am neither fooled nor impressed. Because it wears off. And left behind is PAIN. Like oh-crap-I-have-to-pee-but-that-means-getting-up-so-I-guess-I'll-get-a-bladder-infection-instead-pain. Costco-sized Ibuprofen-pain. Can't-wear-stilettos-pain.

Another non-motivator is sweat. I've never been a fan in general, but dripping from places that should not be dripping is out-right humiliating. Why does my ass need to sweat? Can't it be re-routed to a normal sweat place, please? Getting off one of the medieval contraptions I have to shove around, only to leave a wet impression of my butt on the seat is no way to make me think highly of this business. And there is no way, especially as a red-head, to sweat and look sexy. I go beet red from the neck up, and look like I'm either suffering from heat-stroke, or imitating a freshly cooked lobster. Combined with the beads of sweat, the lack of breath, and the muttered cursing, this is simply not a pretty picture. Oh, and the sweat stained ass crack on my yoga pants that are now sticking to me in places that cause yanking and twisting in a most unattractive manner. My mid-workout mannerisms make Elaine from Seinfeld's dancing look like a Janet Jackson routine.

But... the biggest cause of ill-will toward my trainer, the machines, and skinny people in general is plain old lack of results. Or evident results. Remember when I was excited about losing 6 pounds? Scale was off, it was only three. And I have since gained all three back. Trainer says "It's muscle, that's a good thing." Oh reaaalllly? A good thing? I almost threw the scale through the mirror (hoping for a Labyrinth-like dream sequence), but refrained. I mean, if I don't lose weight, what the sweaty &$@# am I doing this for?

My reaction? Thirty minutes of cardio, everyday, no exceptions. No booze Monday to Friday. No eating out during the week. No cheating.

Finally, I get it. I'm motivated by anger. Whatever works.

A small aside on workout wear

There is something uniquely humiliating about buying work out clothes. I've never done it before now, but it's comparable to swim suit shopping, though in some ways, even more degrading.

Step one is always admitting you have a problem, and buying clothes specifically for the purpose of absorbing sweat denotes you have something to fix. So even before the gun goes off, you feel like a twit.

Designers of these togs obviously have mastered schadenfreude. If I need to buy these things, I need to lose weight. So then why are all the designs skin tight and low waisted to sit right under the gut I'm trying to lose? And these wee jackets I can barely get one boob into? Come on now.

And, you'll forgive me for saying so, I hope, but if you are a size XS, what in sweet sweaty hell are you doing buying yoga pants? Go eat the poutine I can't have and screw off. Just seeing XS work out wear is demoralizing. They should have a separate section for small work out wear. Like they do for Plus size in regular wear. I'd be happy to be surrounded by women bigger than me, I'd love to pull a pair of capris off the rack and say, loudly, out loud, for all to hear "Oh these are WAAAAAY to big!" Throw the plus size workout wear in my section, keep the skinny bitches over there, next to the candy aisle, along with the small dog accessories and Hello Kitty purses.

Yes, I'm stereotyping. Get over it.

And no, Amber, I did not buy Lululemon yoga pants. I don't care how great they supposedly make my ass look, my ass is 35 pounds overweight, and I seriously doubt that a pair of pants, no matter how well marketed or designed they may be, can alter the fact that it is what it is - large.

And in the financial scope of reality - I'm not going to fit them for very long, so I'll just go to Army and Navy or Costco and buy the cheap stuff. Maybe once I thin out, I'll join the skinny bitches in the Thin People's Workout Wear Section at Lululemon. Right after I carry Peaches the Precious Pooch home in her Hello Kitty doggie-sac.

Working things out

So, I gained a whack of weight a few years ago. The cause is irrelevant at this point, but I will say it was a combination of a physical state and a mental state. It got worse, I got worse, I got fat.

Now, my friends, god bless you, will say "not fat, just a bit overweight", but I say, no, any 5'3" woman in good health should not weigh close to 200 lbs. This is where I maxed out.

(Thankfully, the only person I think who has pics of me at this weight is Joe, and I hope he's deleted them by now, because, well, he's married, and that's what you should do with old pics of old fat girlfriends.)

Life improved, and I dropped considerable pounds just by liking myself again. I got down to 160 and stayed there, seemingly forever. Well, it has been three years, at least. I've toyed with the idea of losing more weight. In my twenties, I weighed 115 lbs bloated, so I know what thin feels like. I like what thin feels like.

And before I go into a whole disclaimer on why women should feel good about themselves at any weight and why we're all lovable, let me explain something about myself that is base and true.

I'm vain. Vain as a fucking peacock. I like to look good, at all times, bar none. I like to stop traffic, make an entrance, take breaths away, you name it, I'm in. It's not an insecurity, either. I don't feel unattractive now - I walk into rooms and turn heads now, too. But not like I used to. I want that "Holy Shit" look to some back in the eyes of the beholders. And not just men. To get a dirty look from a woman is a stroke you can't replace. These days, I get comments about my shoes, my outfit, even my eyes, but not my smokin' hot bod.

This is because, my friends, my bod ain't smokin'. It's really not even steaming, and that a nasty thought anyway. The only assets I have, and largely due to the weight I've gained, are my darling breasts. They keep my vanity assuaged these days. I may not be my skinny bitch self, but I usually have the best rack in the room.

But I digress.

I want to lose weight for a plethora of very good, very healthy, very Oprah reasons. But really, let's be honest, I want to be thin, attractive and energized. Not passable, middle aged and tired all the time.

So I have embarked on a new journey. After denial and procrastination, I called a personal trainer and have started this horrible thing called working out. I have paid in advance, I'm committed for at least 8 weeks, and while I was excited and jubilant last week in my first two sessions, after sessions three and four, which just ended, I am sore, cranky and not thin yet.

I assume writing about this will serve me some purpose, if not for the exercise (hyuk hyuk) in itself, but to keep my wits about me as I torture myself with protein intake, epsom salts, work out wear and the like.

Welcome aboard the good ship Just One More Rep Then We'll Move On To Cardio.