I noticed I was blogging on Tuesdays and I wanted to put a stop to that and since that time I've only ever thought about blogging on Tuesdays, so I figure if I just give in to Tuesdays I will somewhow self-regulate.
The food fight ended on 5/21. I didn't win. I did, however, lose 18% of my body fat. If you're making a little impressed face at that, then just take a moment to realize that that percentage doesn't mean anything. I did lose quite a few pounds and inches. Then I went into this bizarre sort of post-partum about it. I indulged in all sorts of evil foods and drinks all week and basically felt sick most of the time. I think I was trying to have some kind of backlash, but I really don't know wtf I think I have to rebel against. Living longer? Good habits?
The descent into madness started a couple of days before the food fight ended, when I realized I couldn't possibly win. The trainers had this side bet going about which of them could lose the highest percentage of body fat. The trainer who won lost 25% of her body fat. She was already rail thin. Then it occurred to me, if someone only has 10 pounds of body fat, then they would have only had to lose 2.5 pounds over the past 11 weeks to get to 25%. So then some little sparks flew around in my robot brain for a couple of days until I got dunked. I lost 18% of my body fat, plus 4 pounds of muscle. I won't say how many pounds I lost, but I will say that I lost more than 1.5 pounds per week, which is 'unhealthy'. Why? Because you lose muscle when you lose weight that quickly. The woman who won lost 27% of her body fat, which would have been damn near impossible for me to do in 11 weeks, and entirely unhealthy.
Nonetheless I was thrilled to have lost the fat. Additionally I had lost inches, my clothes fit better (or worse if they were too big), my mood had stabilized, my blood pressure was better, my sleep apnea was cured, and I was fine with not winning. I can't win everything.
Then came the photos. I had to have Kevs take pictures of me from the front, side, and back for my 'after' shots. I looked awful. I mean really. Awful. All I could thinks was wow, I worked my ass off for eleven weeks just to look slightly less disgusting. And it was depressing. And all the fatigue and discomfort and nausea and hunger that I had been grinning and bearing for the past eleven weeks came back to me and forced their way through my tear ducts.
I mean, I had so many positive changes in my health and my life and the way I felt over the past few weeks, I couldn't understand why my body didn't really reflect that. In fact, very few people have made any kind of 'Have you lost weight?' types of comments at all. It's barely noticeable.
It's because it's kind of a drop in the bucket. I'm a big fat whale of a woman, and I have a long way to go. And no one to blame but myself. I just get kind of freaked out when I think about continuing to do this over the next I-don't-know-how-long until I'm in good shape. It's overwhelming.
So I trudged back into fitwit this morning, and I'm eating my fucking fruit for lunch. I don't have any choice any more. Oh but yeah now I have the added joy of having to wake up early in the morning to go exercise because the fam can't really handle me being gone an extra hour 4 nights per week.
It's cool. I'm going to rock this shit if it kills me.