The Name Is The Same, The Purpose Has Changed

I already have a website (www.wordwebbing.com) for my writing endeavors, which is why this little blog has never really quite taken off. I used to blog every single day for a period of about six years; a short while after my momma died, I stopped any kind of personal blogging for many reasons.

Recently, I have felt the urge to once again blog more personally and more frequently. This seems to be a good a place as any. I know at several points in the six years I was blogging I felt if I hadn't had that outlet, I very possibly would have ended up in a padded room somewhere with people in white jackets poking my psyche. Not that it still couldn't happen, but I'd rather take my chances here, tyvm.

There are two important journeys going on right now I feel the urge to blog about. Both are very personal; I've been making some changes to become a healthier person in mind and body -- and blogging is a lot cheaper than therapy -- and I have also learned some information about my family's past which has been fascinating, at least to me. I'd like to document both of them.

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The Fat Lady Sings


I am a freelance writer and editor. I spend a lot of time at the keyboard; as a matter of fact, I'm somewhat of a workaholic. This has lead to a fat ass, muscles like stretched out rubber bands, and an overall feeling of un-wellness. I knew I had to make some kind of change lest I become a news item of a fat lady who had to call 9-1-1 to be helped out of the bathtub or off the toilet. While I wouldn't mind a group of fine, handsome stud muffins in my home, that particular scenario did not at all appeal to me. So, I joined a local gym with some sessions with a professional trainer. I did this despite budgetary concerns because it was evident I couldn't do it on my own.

Unfortunately, what I failed to take into consideration was the fact I suffer from an anxiety disorder. Normally it's not a huge issue, because I'm an introvert and typically shy away from situations in which the anxiety is triggered. I went to the first training session thinking no big deal, no worries, I got this. The trainer is a very nice young man (although my opinion changes depending on how hard he pushes me, and sometimes I really hate the little fucker) and the first session went well. Until later on that night when I had a panic attack so bad I had to call my BFF and visit the emergency room. I hadn't had an attack that awful in years. I don't have insurance, so you can imagine how bad I felt in order to do this. And stupid. The bad thing about anxiety (well, there's more than one, but work with me here) is the feeling you should be able to control this. That there's nothing so bad you should feel this bad, you know? But anxiety doesn't work that way. And unless you've suffered a panic attack, you really can't understand. I wouldn't wish one on my ex, that's how bad they are. (And that's saying something, trust me.)

At any rate, the staff at the hospital were very kind, efficient, and expensive. What I wanted to figure out was the trigger, knowing it had to do with going to a strange gym, interacting with a strange person, over a very sensitive subject -- my weight.

During the first session, where all the questions are asked and measurements taken, the trainer informed me my problem was I wasn't getting enough exercise, and to my astonishment, that I wasn't eating enough. Or the right things. I couldn't argue with any of that, because it was all true. After the panic attack, I put off any further sessions for the time being, and asked my BFF (she is the BEST BFF in the history of BFFs) if she would come with me to at least walk on the treadmill a couple of times a week. (Again with the stupid thing. I just didn't feel like I could walk into the gym alone.) Then, I took the trainer's advice and changed the way I was (or wasn't) eating, changed the types of food, and started drinking more water. I kept track of the calories etc. on Livestrong.com, and set a timer to remind me to stop working and eat something.

(For the record, I HATE drinking water. Fish fuck in it. I'm not sure I will ever get over that notion. I'm a writer. I have a vivid imagination. Sometimes, that's not always a good thing.)

After about three weeks, the trainer texted me and said we needed to see each other again. At this point I felt like, what the hell. I might as well, since I paid for it. Plus, I was feeling a bit better.

When I first met my trainer, like I said, he's a nice guy. But I have trust issues, and I think deep down I didn't really trust him. Not his fault -- all mine. But the second session went really well. He listened to my concerns about exercise (my back is really weak and painful) and assured me he would never push me past my limit. Plus, he's a smart-assed Chicago guy, and took my innate sarcasm and own smart-assery in stride. He put me through my paces, I didn't die or fall over, although I did sweat a LOT. No one pointed at the fat lady and giggled, and best of all, no anxiety attack, thank the Great Flying Spaghetti Monster.

I scheduled the third session -- and it took me fifteen minutes to get out of the car to go in. But I did it. The trainer told me it was time to re-assess, since it had been a month to see what kind of progress I'd made. I didn't expect much, and I don't think he did, either. But I lost eight pounds and eight inches total, and decreased my BMI by four points. He was so thrilled he measured me again, because he couldn't believe all the inches I'd lost. THEN, he put me through a workout which inspired me to re-name him the Evil Trainer, and swear to make a voodoo doll of him and stick pins in it. I may have also told him I hate him. Several times.

Fitness Tip Number One: Never, EVER, tell your trainer his workout did not make you sore. Trust me on this.

We talked a little more, and I said, you know, losing weight is not just about the physical stuff. There are mental blocks which come into play and there's a reason I'm fat. Several reasons, in fact. I know I have to deal with those as well as all the changes I'm making. He seemed to understand exactly what I was saying without further personal revelations, and that was a huge relief.

Bottom line: I think I can do this. I also think blogging through it will help. I don't give a rat's ass what I look like, but I want to feel healthier, and stronger. Because I have a lot of books to write and edit; a grandbaby and daughters and friends to love and cherish for as long as I can. That's my goal.

Roll it up, shake it down, and run it over, bitches. I got this.