Walking, walking, walking. That's where I've been. I get up in the morning and am in a rush to get dressed in my gym clothes (a sorry pair of old shorts and a t-shirt) tie my hair in a hastily thrown-together ponytail complete with a sweat band, all so I can get in front of the TV and be on 'time' for my Walk at Home workouts with Leslie Sansone. Nothing like having Leslie in your living room to get you ready to exercise.
Teddy and Pudding dogs glance up from their comfy doggie beds to survey my wardrobe and sigh audibly as they turn around and face the other direction. They don't want to watch the spectacle. Gotta love Shih Tzus, they have relaxation down to a science. My frenzied flopping around in the living room doesn't interest them one iota. Twenty-five days have elapsed since I got on this exercise kick and I haven't missed a day yet. Ok, so I'm a bit OCD. I admit it.
We don't have a bathroom scale, I know, how silly. We used to have one, but I wore it out years back by:
A. Weighing myself too often
B. Weighing too much.
(If it was a one of those talking scales it would probably say, "Only one person at a time, please!")
So now the only scale we have is an antique freight scale out in the garage. Yes, a freight scale. How's that for irony? I hopped on it New Year's Eve when we weighed some meat we'd just brought home from the packing plant. Carl was there and read the number out loud for me.
I said, "Come again?"
He repeated the number.
I said, "Surely you jest." I kept looking to make sure the meat we were weighing wasn't on the scale with me, I couldn't believe what I was seeing. Oh, dear. That's not good. The old Polar Bear doctor was right. I have to do something.
He said no, no jesting. That was the number on the old scale.
Thankfully Carl didn't make anything of it, but see, he's been married to me for 33 years and he's a Smart Man. A Smart Man knows instinctively not to exclaim, "Wow! Isn't that an all-time high for you?" A Smart Man knows this is Dangerous Territory to be in. Especially if he wants me to cook for him again.
That was twenty five days ago and I have not been back out to the garage yet for a weigh-in. I don't want to become super-obsessed with the sheer poundage, I just want to work at getting fit. At this point, I could not handle the agony of seeing the numbers haven't gone down even a little or worst of all, have gone up! I do know my jeans are a tad looser, and I'm taking that as a sign all this work is helping. I keep a diligent food journal and write down the calories in the ketchup. Having hypothyroidism makes this all a bit more difficult, too, as my dosage is changed often.
My friend Nancy suggested I join a free exercise class at our church where I am the among the youngest participants. I go twice a week with a group of people who are in their 60's, 70's and 80's and believe me, they are in good shape. It's amazing and humbling to know I find the workout difficult at times. The leader of our group is in her 70's and can do pushups like a teenager. Since I cannot do pushups like that, I was simply stunned watching her drop to the floor and give me ten. I struggle through two and that's from my knees, not straight out. The lady is so fit; I can only wonder what she thinks of me. (I'm secretly glad she hasn't told me, it would hurt.)
Ironically, the fall down the basement stairs in December was the true catalyst for all this frenzied exercise since there was no way I could sit comfortably. My rump is getting better, but it's still far from happy about my being seated for any length of time. When it first happened the only thing that made the injury feel better was walking. Little, mincing, baby steps to be sure, but the walking made everything better. I wasn't able to walk much at first, but now am up to five and a half miles again most days, and today, up to eight. I'm aiming for at least sixty minutes of aerobic exercise (per my pedometer) every day. Leslie does much more than just walk, it's all low-impact, but it sure makes me sweat and I've found muscles I didn't know I owned when I do her floor exercise strength training routines, too.
So, am I any skinnier? Looking in the mirror, I'd say, nope, not yet. I always remember my mother saying when she was around 50 years old that she was glad she didn't live in a nudist colony. She said clothes cover up a multitude of problems and I wholeheartedly agree now that I'm 53, too. If I had to move to a Nudist Colony, I'd be the one living in the hosta bed fertilizing the 'Sum and Substance' hostas nonstop. Those big leaves would make a great cover up for anyone my size.
|Up by the woods in the Back Eight|
I sure do miss blogging and visiting all my friends, though. Hopefully, soon I'll be able to sit for more than five minutes at a time.
I'm more than a little behind in everything this winter!