As I posted in last month’s thread, I’ve lost around fifty pounds. Two sizes down, and I squeezed my ass into the size below that, though they’re still too tight to really be considered as fitting. I’ve been walking a lot–around the circles and cul-de-sacs of my neighborhood, up to the woods and back again. A mile and a half a day, and though that’s not a lot, I’m still a fatass, so it feels like a lot. Sometimes three miles in two sessions if I get bored later in the day.
Last week, I joined the city’s rec center. It was a fair bit of change, but I figured it was worth it, if only because I’m getting deathly sick of walking through my subdivision, which is boxed in by giant roads without sidewalks. Also, they have a pool, and I love swimming. I mean, I swim with all the grace of an electroshock-twitching lab rat, but I love it. I’ve done lap swimming three times now, and although I’m slow, I figure moving on the whole is better than not moving, so long as I keep up the same level of food intake regardless.
I also signed up for three sessions with a trainer, as my first instinct upon seeing all the various rack-like machines and clanging weights is to shout, “Nobody expects the Spanish Inquisition,” and then hide somewhere behind the rowing machine. I also got a free consultation and cardio test, which determined beyond the shadow of a doubt that I do posses both a circulatory system and a stunning amount of body fat. I meet with the actual trainer on Saturday, and I’m positively petrified.
On the whole, I’m happy that I’ve made progress, but dear God, exercise is work, isn’t it? Thirty minutes in the pool and my legs are jelly when I get out, and my muscles ache like I’ve been worked over by Jason Momoa masquerading as a bad massage therapist. And the progress itself sometimes seems painfully slow. Fifty pounds since the end of February is nothing to sneeze at, but, really, I can’t figure out where they must have come from.
Oh, right. At least five of 'em came from my chest, which is smaller than it was before. I’d rather lose the weight from my stomach or my arms or my thighs or my chins first, but, no, it wants to come from the girls. And Lord knows they had plenty to spare, but, really, I’d rather eliminate my chubby-ass forearms. Love, the Management.
Also, the consultant I spoke to at first recommended that I stop drinking Diet Coke, 'cause it’ll give me cancer. I think that I will go for a week without it, and then visit him. The resulting bitchiness will doubtless make him change his tune. Though that’s likely the chlorine fumes talking.
