I stopped having the cough that never dies.
I bought a combination lock.
I have a whole bunch of weeknights with nothing to do but make dinner and sit on the couch.
Other than my general sense of suck, I’ve got no excuses left.
It’s time to go back to the gym. Cue: howling, weeping, other sounds of woe.
I’m going to try the Couch to 5k Running Plan, which outlines 9 weeks of progressively more difficult 25 to 30 minute “runs.” The first week is 60 seconds on and 90 seconds off. I did it last night. And sadly, it was not easy.
Oh the shame.
Can I still look at myself in the mirror after experience burning in my shins because I ran at 5 mph pace for ONE MINUTE?
Ok, yes. I can still look at myself in the mirror. Because that’s not actually related to being horribly out of shape. Also, the shirt I’m wearing today, albeit somewhat too small across my ginormous bosom, exactly matches the color of my eyes and I’m being a little mesmerized by my own reflection.
Point is, though, that I’m sad I’ve fallen so far off the wagon. Like, I fell off the wagon, then rolled down the hill until settling firmly at the outskirts of Sloth City, where they’ve never even heard of wagons, because everyone there is too fat to actually fit in one.
This is my boot. Specifically, my right boot.
I’m not the first chubby girl to complain of such, but it’s hard to find boots that close over my calves; they’re just too fat. I still buy boots sometimes, though, and I muscle those zippers up with determination. I may squeeze my calves into oblivian and I may be left with horrible red indentations. And maybe I flounce around with muffin top calves. But whatever. Sometimes I engange in commerce and exchange money for boots.
These particular boots are causing me an awesome bit of pain that I’d like to document here. So there’s that boot up there. See the wrinkles around the ankle? See that crease? The dent pressing in? Well that little bitch is like a baseball bat that’s been whacking me in the ankle all day long, leaving me with a red evil welt just above my ankle. If only my calf were just a wee bit thinner, then the boot might be contented to stay up there where it should. Instead, it tries to be sly and slip down lower, to where the goods are a bit thinner – thus evil creases.
I like them, though, these boots of mine and chances are I will wear them again and the welt gremlin will reappear. Perhaps he and I should just try to be friends. I’m going to call him Curtis.
joined a new gym. In January. And I have not gone there once. Not a single time. I just can’t find a groove for it. And really, I can’t even find the gumption to even want to find that groove.
My work clock-in time is usually around 8 am. As early as 7:40, 7:45 most days. If I get in early enough, then there are still usually enough tickets that I can grab a bunch to do. If I don’t get this little morning collection, then maybe I find one or two tickets here and there throughout the day, and I probably do a sum total of 10. And this is how I end up being yelled at for doing shit at my job. Because I have done shit. But if I come in early, grab 15, maybe 20 tickets, and then cobble together another 5 to 10 the rest of the day, then I can sneak under the radar as having accomplished a bit of something.
Point being, early morning has become earlier than it used to be and I’m just not sure I can fit in a work out and still get into the office at 7:45.
And after work? I have SUCH good intentions for after work. Really. But it’s 3:52 pm right now. All I want to do is close my eyes on the couch in my apartment and get under a blanket. I don’t want to do anything right now. Not socialize. Not cook dinner. I don’t even want to walk the 3/4th of a mile to the bus terminal to get home. I just want complete and utter collapse. Working out at the gym, as far as I can tell, is too far away from “complete and utter collapse” and consequently, I just don’t want to do it.
Those are my excuses about why I’m not going to the gym. Because I’m stubborn and lazy and generally tired. Sooooo…. so far, the new gym plan has not been working out so great. Oh, Margaret. What am I going to do with you?
So, it turns out, I’ve gained about 50 pounds in the past year and a half. Literally 50. Like the size of a kindergartner.
The only glass-is-half-full factor about this is that at least it isn’t quite the fattest that I’ve ever been. But give me 10 more pounds.
Pitifully, I don’t feel supremely motivated to correct this. It was so much damn work to get there in the first place; it’s hard to imagine doing it all over again.
And yet, it was really nice fitting into size 8’s. I wasn’t slim, but I also wasn’t a fat girl.
What I feel the most is shame that my David met me when I was that other person, and then I turned back into the regular fat version. Feels a bit like I tricked him.
It was just so much easier to be self punishing when I was in the throes of a horrible relationship, hating him and hating myself. And Happy Maggie is a Lazy Maggie. Who likes cheese.
I love The Alley, my weird little neighborhood dive bar. It’s dark and decorated to look like an alley in between buildings. The furnishings are ramshackle (RAMSHACKLE! Why don’t I use this word more often?) testaments to instability. The walls are papered with business cards. So there are no walls. Just business cards.
And then there’s the piano, sing-along aspect of The Alley. Rod Dibble plays the piano and people sit around it and sing. But Rod only does songs from the 30’s to 50’s type era. He can not do Billy Joel’s Piano Man, for example. Instead, it’s a parade of vintage: Fever, I’ve Got the World on a String, Someone to Watch Over Me, The Girl from Ipanema…
Most people go there to belt their shit out. Although there is some supreme badness going on, most singers are giving it there 110% and they mostly sing solo. Old dusty men, middle aged ladies who still think acid wash jeans are ok, girls dolled up with fake eyelashes.
Not only is The Alley weird and fascinating, it’s about .15 miles away from my front door, so I am generally pro-The Alley. So when I had plans to hang out with an old friend from high school last night, this is where I decided to go. I should also mention that this friend is a singing fanatic. He was one of the “show choir people” in my highschool. They went to parties, and instead of talking to other people, they stood around in a circle and they sang. This means that not only was I dork because the cool kids would have naught to do with me, it also means that even the dorks who *would* hang out with me were too busy singing to ever talk to me. Sigh. High school is so weird.
The whole point of this post was that I needed to confess what I ate last night. And I am doing a very bad job.
I love The Alley Special dinner. It is so grandma kitch. But I did consume with relish (not pickles, but with gusto rather) some absurd number of calories for which I now feel remorseful.
The Alley Special dinner:
An iceberg lettuce “salad” – iceberg lettuce, one half cherry tomato on top, with oceans of blue cheese salad dressing. Comes in an old school wooden salad bowl
Medium-rare steak. Not the size of a deck of cards. Possibly the size of my head.
Baked potato. With a pat of butter and a generous blob of sour cream.
Vegetable medly: broccoli, carrots, zucchini. Prepared god only knows how.
Garlic bread. Overly crunchy. Made garlic flavored with some rank garlic.
Ok, that’s it.
I did go to spinning class this morning, but I’m not sure I counteracted even just the evil, evil so wonderful sour cream.
After being rather indulgent at last night’s super decadent dinner *and* eating a bit wantonly at Maker Faire, today was supposed to be paragon of perfection day. Instead, I’ve just had some rather abysmal noshing. Damn. Being tired will get me every time.