Weight Loss Endeavors No. 3
Okay, so the calorie counting thing? It isn’t working.
I find that instead of just eating like I normally would (or attempting to change said habits), I “race” the damn counter. “Aha! I still have 350 calories to use, and it isn’t midnight yet! I’m’a consume ’em all!”
This is most definitely a trait of alcoholic and/or addicted thinking. If you tell me that I must adhere to rules, I’m going to push those f*ckers as far as I can… just to find out where the breaking point is. And then?! Then, I’m going to crash through the barrier.
So, instead of obsessively logging the things I put in my mouth — and then discovering that I can keep eating — I’m just going to be more aware of my dietary habits.
Counting for a lil’ while gave me a good idea of how many calories are contained in my everyday choices, so I’m just going to try to be better about consuming only what I need… and it’s going to be an uphill battle, believe me.
Measuring, Sadly, Requires Numbers
It’s trite — and optimistically idealistic — to say that “numbers are just numbers” (something I’ve already written here on the blog 🤦🏻♀️); because in the end, that’s the only way to measure weight-loss success — step on the scale, and hope for the best.
In truth, I do care less about the numbers, and more about how I feel… but the numbers do factor into it (especially when Mitch is losing weight, and I’m not).
During my previous daily stint at the gym (the one before COVID intervened), my yoga pants were sliding on a bit easier; and I felt thinner… but I wasn’t using the scale.
This time around, I have vowed to weigh-in every Monday, and will share that report with you in Tuesday’s posts (and Christ, I hope the numbers start going down).
If Only I Had More Muscle… But, I’m Getting There
Mitch explained to me the particulars regarding why men tend to lose weight faster than women:
- They generally have higher metabolism rates.
- They have more muscle mass; and utilizing muscle burns more calories than tossing around my wobbly bits (i.e. fat).
As I’ve mentioned before, Mitchell is my weight-training coach and go-to guru for all things fitness related. He may be a bit chubby himself; but, he also reads and maintains information at a higher rate than most; and when we’re interested in doing something, he learns all he can about it before proceeding (where as I just jump in the pool, forgetting that I don’t know how to swim).
In this regard, I’ve had some success. I’ve stopped fighting him on the “Why the hell are we doing this this way?” and have started doing what he tells me to do a little more easily.
As a result, I have seen the weight that I am capable of lifting go up — slowly, but steadily; and since Mitch has said that muscle weighs more than fat (makes sense when you think about it, but I rarely do) I’m going to pretend that if the numbers go up a bit here and there it’s because of my growing muscle mass. (Yeah, I know, there’s a bit of denial in that approach; but I need my denial to fuel further action.)
All in all? I’m just going to keep moving forward, regardless of what the scale says.
People Suck… Well, Most People Suck
A few days ago — while lifting in the core room with my husband — another member of the gym (who was also working out with her spouse) broke down into tears and said that she felt weak, fat and useless. In response to this comment (and I don’t think the bastard realized I was behind him, collecting anti-bacterial wipes to clean the equipment), her husband pointed in Mitch’s direction and said, “Honey, it could be worse. We could look like them.”
What. The. F*ck.
I was immediately teleported into the past… into high school locker rooms where I was teased for being the chairman of the “Itty-Bitty Titty Committee”. (I will say that the one upside to being a heavier gal is that I now have fabulous tits. 😂)
I thought about Mitch’s childhood, and how he was always teased for being the “fat kid”… and all I wanted to do was punch the guy in the face. (You can talk sh*t about me all day long if you’d like, but you don’t talk sh*t about my family.)
But then? Just as I was revving up to say something to the guy who obviously never matured into adulthood, an older gentleman (who was also working out in the core room) put a hand on my arm and said, “I admire what you and your husband are doing. I think it’s incredibly brave.”
And you know what? He’s right.
It’s not easy to be the heaviest couple in the room (and believe me, we don’t need someone else to point that out to us… we know). It’s hard to squeeze our considerable selves into workout attire and step out into a world of muscled knuckle-heads donning tank-tops and women with beautiful figures prancing around in short-shorts and training bras… but we are doing it. (And how do people think fat people get thin? Perhaps they start out as the fattest people at the gym. Duh.)
And you know what? For me — for right now — that’s a win. I am proud of my husband’s efforts to be my partner in this. I think it’s sexy as hell when he gets on the chest press and uses the big, protective arms I fell in love with (I’m an arms and hands gal) to throw around 100 pounds; and I deeply admire his ability to ignore smaller-minded people who would use our difficulties to make themselves feel better.
I’m not so good at that last part. I’ve always been a fighter (literally, I love to fight); and I hate bullies. So my challenge is going to be not putting Mitch in a situation where he has to pull me off of someone for running their tiny-minded mouths.
I do love a good challenge…