Any Publicity Is Good Publicity

Maybe you set fitness goals for yourself on New Year's Eve.  Maybe you set them when the bikinis appeared on the racks at Target, taunting you as you strolled past in your fanny-covering sweater, venti caramel macchiato in hand.  The important thing is that you promised yourself fitness would be a part of your life from that moment on (and I know you made that promise because I have declared it so).  The thing is, if you only whisper that intent to yourself and if you only tell yourself when you're feeling not-so-confident, the likelihood of you actually attaining those goals is not-so-high.  I bet now you're wondering, "What should I do?"  Well, sit down and listen, little Readers.  I'm about to blow your mind...

Tell everyone. 

Shocking!  Sharing personal information?  With everyone?  Who would do that...?  I know what you're thinking, but I am not the only one.  We all do it.  Every day.  Some of us, every other minute.  Facebook, Twitter, Instagram...Words are no longer enough, now we must post pictures regularly.  (Which is also a FABULOUS IDEA.  Nothing is quite so motivating as sharing your before photos with people you haven't talked to since you were sixteen.) 

If you're reading this, chances are you've seen my Facebook/Twitter/Instagram posts on a pretty regular basis.  Now, I am perfectly aware that the multitudes I imagine following my every workout move are, in reality, more equivalent to a handful.  However...I know that the handful is watchful and this keeps me pressin' on.  I can't just back out now; I made a PUBLIC STATEMENT.  Actually, I've made a lot of public statements.  Marathon, Spartan Race, P90X Doubles...these are just a few that come to mind.  So now I'm training for that marathon, that Spartan, and every day, I'm doing P90X and contemplating my next round of goals. 

I don't care if everyone is tired of seeing my workout-related status updates.  I don't care if you don't want to see sweaty photos of my smiling face.  I will continue to post my goals and my progress.  (If you think I'm overdoing it with my training updates, just wait until I actually COMPLETE my goals...)  And I urge you to do the same.  Let everyone in your universe know what you're doing.  Not just online.  Talk about it the same way you talk about your kids/pets/jobs.  Just this week, I blabbed about my marathon training to my eye doctor.  I just felt he would want to know.  Same as the other parents in my and Jack's You&Me class Tuesday nights.  Or the cashier at Wegmans.  I announce it more frequently than I say my own name. 

Chances are, if you put it out there, not only will you feel more accountable, people will give you real encouragement.  I love my inbox messages and getting approached when I'm out and about by those who have read about my progress online.  And guess what?  My eye doctor really was interested and suggested supplements to help my joints.  This public declaration stuff really works.

I may even get a tshirt made up just in case I forget to tell the kids' bus driver or the waitress at the diner down the street.  I wouldn't want anyone to feel left out...

Quit Is A Four Letter Word

Motivation has been discussed many times over, but it bears another once over.  Because, boy, did I fight to find it today.  Pink eye didn't help matters.  Not so much because of the irritation/puss/inflamation, but because I just don't feel quite so badass in my glasses.  Plus, I was tired.  I was sore from yesterday's double session.  I missed my morning run and my shower.  (Don't stand too close...)  Whine whine whine, moan moan moan.  (I would add "blah blah blah," but for various reasons, it has been deemed a curse word here at the M&M Estate, so I'd better not say it.)

ANYWAY - I just didn't feel it tonight.  Actually, I didn't feel it at any point today.  Nor could I rely on my E&E to get me goin' as it was so close to bedtime (and I'm pretty sure they have somehow put Tony Horton's energy into powder form with that stuff).  But, I am also fully aware that I cannot tout the benefits of commitment if I myself am not committed (to a program, people.  The institution can wait another couple of years).  I will not gain the biceps, abs, or buns of steel if I don't put the time in.  So, I finally sent the kiddos to bed halfway through American Idol with the promise of putting in their votes and finishing up tomorrow, changed into my workout gear, and pressed play.  I made it all the way through P90X Shoulders & Arms and most of the way through Ab Ripper X (my legs stopped me, weary from that Plyo workout yesterday).  I sweated.  I guzzled my water.  I sweated some more.  (Hubby may insist that I also make up for that missed shower.)  So, how do I feel now?

Still tired.  Still unmotivated.  But a hell of lot less guilty.  I know that when my head hits the pillow, the only thing on my mind will be Stephen Colbert for the five minutes I manage to watch before I zonk out.  I will not be rethinking the rest of the week's workout schedule to make up what I've missed or searching for justifications as to why I missed it when I know I was perfectly capable of just doing it.  It wasn't my most enjoyable workout moment, but I did it.  My arms are drooping far below the keyboard as I type this and I barely remember my point...but I do remember that I accomplished the goal set for today and that brings me closer to the goal I have set for next month and this summer. 

So...my point...My point is this: If your only excuse is you're tired, that's not an excuse.  That's a cop out.  If your only excuse is you're not motivated, that's not an excuse either.  Motivated doesn't mean following through only when you're so pumped to work out that you can't stand still.  Motivated is pushing play, going to class, heading out for that run even when you don't want to do it.  The only person that can talk you out of your goal is YOU.

Hoppin' Down the Candy Trail

It happens every holiday, be they big or small.  Sacks, baskets, buckets o' sugar are heaped upon the children (and by proxy me, whose willpower shrinks in fear in the face of anything chocolate covered or filled) to "celebrate."  No sooner has the Halloween candy disappeared (some into the overjoyed bellies and more into the trash) than we have candy canes and Christmas cookies filling our countertops.  There are the itty bitty candied hearts on Valentine's day (along with the larger chocolates...*sigh* and *cringe*) and gold foil-covered chocolate coins on St. Patrick's Day.  And then Easter.  Baskets overflowing with Reese's, Skittles, and those frighteningly neon Peeps.  A basket at home from the Bunny himself.  And baskets at each house visited, plus candy in the pretty plastic eggs planted in bushes and drainpipes.  My stomach heaves a little just looking at the mountains of peanut butter-filled, chocolate-covered, candy-coated poison.  Of course, that doesn't prohibit my greedy little hands from reaching out to sneak my fair share.

And it's not just the candy.  Nor is the candy the worst of it.  At least for me, those holiday meals suck me in worse than any sweet nosh.  The juicy ham, lumpy mashed potatoes, and homemade gravy.  The buttered corn and buttered biscuits and buttered anything-else-my-butter-knife-can-find.  The pies, cakes, and desserts of the no-bake variety with whipped cream and pudding-like substances!  I cannot stop myself.  It is as though my body moves of its own accord, racing away from all that hard work and discipline to shovel in mounds of starches, salts, and bad fats.  I suppose it is like any addiction...You can kick the habit, but one slip up and you're barrelling down the mountain at full speed.  Luckily, I am better at putting on the brakes and getting back on track than I used to be.  It just tends to happen one to two days later, after the initial food hangover has left and the second one has been worked through.  That old saying about "the hair of the dog?"  That, my friends, is CRAP. 

Who wants to roll around in bed all day, clutching aching bellies and moaning when you could be jumping, moving, and enjoying the just-as-tasty and so-much-better-for-you fruits and veggies?  We tell ourselves that the candy/ham/potatoes are a reward and that we deserve them.  I don't know about you, but feeling nauseous and exhausted doesn't seem so rewarding to me.  And I firmly believe that I (and my body that has been treating me so well) deserve much better.  Of course, this realization hit me after I ate my weight in biscuits and cracker candy, only to follow it up the next day with peanut butter cups and Twizzlers.  Turns out, healthy living has ruined binge eating for me.  I may as well have willfully given myself the flu.  I felt that awful.

Then I thought, I'm giving this stuff to my kids.  Awful, awful Mommy!  I wouldn't hand my kids cartons of cigarettes or cases of beer.  So why do I load baskets full of other toxins as a celebratory gift?  Well, I won't be anymore.  I laid down the law and told Hubby that from here on out, that Bunny brings gifts, not candy.  And we bring healthy fruit and veggie trays to graze on when we go elsewhere for dinners.  No more binging.  No more days of recovery for falling off the wagon. 

...I just hope I retain this feeling of superiority over Hershey and Mars when I next stare down their progeny during a moment of craving...

Get Into The Groove

I finally got my sixteen miles in this weekend.  To be more precise, 16.48.  I ran a new route through the National Park portion of the Delaware Water Gap and fell in love while listening to Sheryl Crow sing "Run, Baby, Run."  It was the moment of my run.  Every run or workout has the moment that keeps me coming back.  Some even have a series of them, and this run was one of those.  But this moment was the moment of the moments for this one.  I even did a little Leo and Kate on Titanic moment to soak it in.  My joints felt great, my muscles felt strong, my lungs felt full.  It was a good day to be alive and running.  And the song just made it more.

Any workout can be a better workout with the right playlist.  I favor anthemic feminist songs (and I'm not ashamed to include Fighter by Christina and  Stronger by Britney in that mix), but just about anything can get my heart pumping the way I need it to.  My only prerequisite for adding a tune to my list is that when I hear it, I immediately want to sing and sing LOUDLY.  I have everything from Neil Diamond to Indigo Girls to NWA blasting in my ears when I run.  Although I am always scouting new additions, these are a few of my all-time favorites to make my little feet move faster and farther.

Eminem, Lose Yourself.  Great beat.  Fantastic lyrics.  In-your-mother-f&#*in'-face attitude.  YES, please and THANK YOU.  No matter how beat I may feel before this comes on, I am always at the top of my game during and for miles after I hear "You only get one shot..."  And I swear, my ipod saves this for that exact moment I start to fade or pause to think about throwing in the towel, because every single run, this song gets me back on track. 

Ozzy, Crazy Train.  Love the song, sure.  But I love what it brings to mind even more.  My little werewolf listened to this song to get pumped up for his wrestling matches, and there were so many moments he could have given up (and gotten lots of non-embarasssing hugs and kisses from his mommy) but didn't.  I just picture him and that scary look of determination and know that I simply cannot fail.  Even if he is at home waiting with lots of completely wanted hugs and kisses for his mommy.

Zac Brown Band, Toes.  Simply because it takes me away from burning lungs and the twinges in my knees and/or shins and plants my tired fanny right where I want it, in warm sand under a blue and sunny sky (and preferably next to a very tan cabana boy holding a Skinny Girl margarita).  This song takes me out of my current location to a much more desirable one, if only for a few minutes and is closely followed by Where The Boat Leaves From on my favorites list.

Anything by the Beastie Boys.  Do I really need to expand on this?  Or can we all just agree that the three boys from Brooklyn, quite simply, rock?  (Strangely, I have the same to say about Prince and No Doubt.  It's just good music, people.)

Bruce Springsteen, Born To Run.  It's a tad obvious, but it works.  The raw emotion, the sweeping chorus.  Plus, I am running so close to New Jersey that I feel obligated to throw in some of the Boss and a smattering (or a hefty helping) of Bon Jovi. 

Joan Jett, Bad Reputation.  Because really, I don't give a damn about my bad reputation.  I've got more important things to worry about than others' fascination with my life (though, of course, it is completely understandable, seeing as how I'm AWESOME).  I'm runnin' over here, people!  I don't give a damn about anything other than my breathing and my pace.

These are just a few.  Name another great tune and I'm likely to say emphatically, "I LOVE that one! That's my favorite!"  In this way, I am much like the young werewolf, as his favorite song is whichever great song happens to be playing at the moment.  This month, most often, that is Eastbound and Down by Jerry Reed (and yes, I just confirmed with him that I had the correct artist name).  And guess what?  That's a pretty good running song for me, too.  I've got a long way to go, and a short time to get there...I'm gonna do what they said can't be done...

Maybe I ought to get a bandit mask to wear with my tiara...

Rah!Rah!Sis-Boom-Bah!

My biggest supporter...

So yesterday, I had to vent.  Get some stuff off my extra-strong chest.  I grumbled and made use of a small amount of sarcasm.  Today I'd like to balance that out.  You know, just like I do both weight training and cardio (and stretching...I'm getting better at adding in the stretching now, but that's an entirely other blog entry...hinthint...)

I have committed to training so much that I often feel I just ought to be committed.  Most days are two-a-days, with each session ranging anywhere from thirty minutes to over an hour.  That's a pretty big chunk of time with four monkeys, two dogs, two cats, and one engineer needing my everpresent guidance and ordering-around.  Yes, there's naptimes, school times, work times in which to wedge my sweaty alone times, but often enough, I have to create that space when all these creatures are actually home.  Which means I must depend on them to allow me to utilize that time.  Hubby must tend to monkey spats and tattles, doggy doody (hehe), and any random need the smaller creatures may find they have while I smile, wave, and run away.  Without Hubby, my long runs would be nonexistent.  And there would be no foot rubs while I describe them in great detail to what I am sure is his sincere interest.  (I'm sure his thoughts are more along the lines of "mmmm...beer" but I still like to pretend he's enthralled with my breathing ease at mile nine.)

Running away is the best.  I get to be all alone, no distractions.  Their little legs are just too short to catch up with me.  But (sigh) sometimes it is not to be...Sometimes, I must work out in the living room while the house is full up with others, just waiting for that moment when my breathing gets heavy...so they can ask me why the sky is blue, if I've seen the new commercial for that plastic toy that will break instantly upon being touched, or (my personal favorite) - "Hey, Mom...guess what?"  It can totally suck to exercise at home...but it can also be the most rewarding work out of my week.  It's not every day that people are amazed at what I lift or how high I jump.  Chalene Johnson does not peek out from the television screen to admire my pumps.  My favorite, though, is when they enter the room in sweats and sneakers, wristbands and tank tops, and ask if they can join in.  They tend to fade out when the steps get too fast, but they slide into a nearby chair and chat to me, compliment me, and encourage me in my sweaty endeavors. 

I'm aware that the naysayers I wrote about yesterday exist in greater numbers, but their power is minimal when compared to my own personal cheerleading squad.  And it extends beyond the M&M Estate.  When I ran my ten miles last month in my hometown, my finish line included sisters, children, nieces, parents...even my parents' neighbors.  At least three times a week, I find personal messages on Facebook or hotmail, thanking me for inspiration and offering congrats on just my training.  I haven't even finished my race yet, and the cheers are pouring in.  I wish I could get you all gold-plated megaphones or dollar-bill pompoms...but that will have to wait until my Beachbody business takes off just a tad bit more...All the same, I thank you from the bottom of my ever-fitter heart, because without you, I couldn't keep on keepin' on the way I do. 

*MWAH*

Listen, all y'all...

One of the curious side effects of living a Fit Life is the negativity from those not partaking in it.  I am very public with my love of fitness and my desire to share this lifestyle - and this has been deemed offensive by some who choose not to do so.  There are those who wish to sabotage progress, undermine confidence, and question intent.  To those naysayers, I simply say, "Pffft."

I mean, come on.  Why does my workout/healthy eating/event training offend you?  And if you find it so repulsive, why do you follow me?  I mean, other than the fact that I'm witty, gorgeous, and incredibly intelligent? 

I have been told that I am overtraining and am unaware of the correct training methods.  Uh huh.  Fortunately, I know better.  I am lucky to retain the knowledge I gleaned during my years as a CERTIFIED personal trainer and aerobics instructor.  I may not be an expert, but I have a very good grasp of appropriate training levels, and what I am unsure of, I research.  What I most enjoy is that these statements are often issued by people who have little or no knowledge themselves (nor do they have a desire to learn).  They seem to be of the opinion that if they want a statement to be true, it simply is.  Poor, poor other-people-who-know-little. 

Another popular method of undermining confidence of strong women?  The "you'll bulk up and look like a man" approach.  Of course (slapping my forehead and rolling my eyes)!  If you train rigorously and enthusastically, you will no longer be feminine!  You'd better back off...before whatever Napolean making this statement starts to feel threatened by his own lack of physical strength...Seriously.  As women, we DO NOT bulk up.  We lean out.  Please, strength train.  Do more push ups than that guy next to you.  If you're lucky like me, that guy will high five you for progress and compliment your newly ripped arms.  Because that's what real men do. 

I find myself amused as well by the "it's just a phase" routine.  Because, I'm guessing, we women don't have the stick-to-it-iveness to, well, stick with it.  Must be one hell of a phase.  Just as long as your know-everything-about-everything-without-really-knowing-anything phase?  Because I have a feeling that's not really a phase, either...Fitness has been a part of my life since my teen years.  It became a serious focus again over the past year as I decided to return to my prior career.  This "phase" is leading me back to college, a new business, and recertification.  (psst...I think your phase is leading you to social awkwardness and lonliness...)

And, no, I do not work out and eat "rabbit food" simply to fit into a certain size.  Looking fabulous is a very pleasant bonus, but not a reason.  I exercise for strength, health, and to train for specific events.  No, I am not running too far.  Those distances are building towards a marathon and are part of a plan designed by perhaps the most well known running guru ever (Jeff Galloway).  The cross training is not overly intense.  It will be the reason I can scale walls, crawl through mud, and leap obstacles during my Spartan Race.  The best reason of all?  I am a role model.  Four little pairs of eyes are watching how I live my life.  I prefer to not watch life from the sidelines.

So much negativity can be daunting if you allow it.  Lucky for me, I know better than to believe it.  Plus, I am blessed to have a bevy of cheerleaders rooting for me.  I love the surprise messages in my inbox telling me I have inspired someone else to get moving and do something healthful.  It spurs me on with a smile on my sweaty face.  Although, I must admit, those bashers can certainly push me through a workout, too.  Nothing adds to a good TurboFire punch or kick like imagining the face of someone who has told me I can't do it. 

"So, so, so, so listen up 'cause you can't say nothin'
You'll shut me down with a push of your button?
But you, I'm out and I'm gone
I'll tell you now, I keep it on and on"

Whiny Little Son of a Shin

It rained Saturday.  I had big plans - 16 miles.  And I don't mind a little cooling rain while I run.  So I waited until things faded to a light drizzle and started piling on my gear while Hubby mixed my E&E Formula and filled my water bottles.  I was genuinely excited to tackle my longest run to date, as that would provide me with my biggest bragging rights to date.  Plus, that marathon is getting closer and I still have little itty bitty nagging worries buzzing in the darker corners of my otherwise enthusiastic brain.  So, sixteen miles.  Or eight.  Eight's good, right?  Because that's what I eked out before I had to call in backup.

Maybe it was the cold.  Maybe it was the rain.  Maybe it was the two together.  Whatever the (f&*#ing) reason, my right shin was not in the mood for a good long run.  Apparently, it would rather have been home soaking in a warm bath and reading Abraham Lincoln, Vampire Hunter.  I tuned it out much the same way I tune out the incessant whining of children when we are trapped in the house for hours at a time in such weather.  (I mean, really, how many times must I pretend to care that she gave a mean look or he refuses to stop speaking like Yoda?)  My cardio was fabulous; my knees were showing solid improvement and no need to even take a break.  I had my intervals up to 4:1 and I really didn't feel like I even needed the 1 (but I was being responsible and knew I needed to keep it if I wanted to finish my sixteen).  So what if my shin was whining about my foot hitting the road?  It needed to buck up, buttercup!  I only have so much time available for this sort of training.

But my shin seems to be as bullheaded as my daughter.  When it was unable to garner enough attention through tiny tweaks and pulls, it gave an all-out shriek a try.  Guess what?  That worked.  I stopped.  I walked.  I did (or tried to do) shin taps to work it out.  And I eavesdropped on the debate between my Ego and my Sensibility.  Ego was all for working through it (no pain, no gain!), but Sensibility felt we should all stop acting like crazy women on the side of the road, muttering and walking in circles, and just call Hubby for a ride home.  I weighed the bragging rights of one training session vs. actually being able to finish training and actually running my race, and I decided one day was not nearly the equivalent of the whole shabang.  Hubby was phoned and arrived like a knight in shining minivan, replete with little people to do my bidding. 

So, my shin is fine.  I have rested for two days now and am ready to get back in the game.  Tomorrow, we have Plyometrics on the schedule and I will not be outdone by the one-legged man.  And this weekend, I will once again attempt my longest run ever.  If you'd rather not hear me go on and on about myself and how far I can go, might I suggest doing a little rain dance?