Friday, May 8, 2009
BREAKING NEWS - Sean Exercises, Film at 11 . . .
Well, folks. I've gone ahead and done it. I have made sweet, sweet exercise to my wife('s treadmill) for three straight days.
That's right. Yes. Pin a rose on my sagging chest. Pat me on the back. Give me a ribbon or trophy. Smell my sneakers. Roll your eyes. Consider commenting that you know this is a fluke and the streak will die later today - this weekend for sure. No matter. For now - it is what it is. I am trying to get started on those last 30 pounds. On my own. No help from that surgery-thingy (you know, the "easy way out" I had two years and almost two months ago.
It seems daunting. That is why I've done nothing about it. I'll be honest. I'm scared. I could easily start gaining weight again at this point. My diet is a little more liberal than it was. My mind is clouded again with negativities I have not let really "brew" in years (weird to say) and my self assurance that I can/will get to 199 pounds (or less) is just not as steadfast and braggartish as it was when all this started. It seemed SO obvious at the time. So clear. So "a given." And it was. If I would have done the exercise I was supposed to do - I would weigh 160 right now. Have an eight pack. Have gotten some super classy tattoo (that is what skinny people do, right?) and probably started wearing cargo pants again (I'm kidding - I will never wear those again (no offense to those that do - but they add bulk and I don't need that help).
I didn't do it. Ship sailed. Mission changed. Challenge heightened. Direction clear. So - here I sit. Almost 33 years old. 30 pounds from my goal. 50 pounds from my ideal weight.
It starts all over again. Right here. Right now. I'm not kidding. I really am not. My brothers are coming this summer. We are going back to DC Labor Day weekend. I need to get "there." I am running a race in November. I'm jumping out of a plane, dammit.
And am "started". I have been moving my body. For an hour. Each night. While getting caught up on Fringe on the basement DVR.
I thought Wifey was crazy for buying that treadmill. Turns out she knew exactly what she was doing. I walk, mainly. I do 5 minutes at 3.0 miles per hour to get the heart going and the legs ready. Then 40 minutes going from 3.6 to 4.5 in .1 increments for the first 1o minutes and then doing an additional .5 incline from 0.0 to 5.0 for the next 10 minutes. At the end of the first 45 minutes, I put the sucker down flat and then - do the craziest thing I could ever think.
I crank the ol' speedometer thingy up to 6.0 and I RUN. For ten minutes. That is right. I have run two miles (I wimped out the first night) in the last two days. Something I could have NEVER thought about a few years ago (or ever in my life, frankly) and yet - here I am. Doing it. It is a very slow run. No one will ever cheer for me on the medal stand or break a sweat trying to catch me or even seem unsure of their description of where "The man that just ran by here" went, when asked by those chasing me. I don't care. I don't.
Here it is. I am exercising. I'm going to retighten my diet belt (and my actual belt itself, soon enough (I have been stuck on this hole for a few months now)) and I am going to do what I should have done all along . . . ignored the sprint. Ignored the HUGE weight drops. Focused on the slow, steady and methodical pace of just plugging away at weight loss. Two pounds a week (or more, ideally) at a time.
Tortoise. Not hare. Or - more importantly - tortoise for 45 minutes, hare for 10.