Tag Archives: fitness

My Cat’s an Asshole

23 Jan

Man, I’m in a sour mood.  Usually when I’m in a bad mood, I just eat something delicious.  Works every time.  Unfortunately, I’ve committed to a 365 Project where I work out for at least 20 minutes every day and as a result, I’m starting to kind of like not being fat and miserable and so I don’t have any junk food in the house anymore.  The idea is that if I want junk food, I have to go to the store and get some, which isn’t going to happen because I’m innately lazy.  I’ve outfoxed my fat self.

Even if I did want to solve my bad mood by going to get a pepperoni roll or a belgian waffle with ice cream or a pint of Ben and Jerry’s, it’s too darn cold outside.  I don’t know about you folks in warm, happy climates but I’m here on the three rivers in Pittsburgh and yesterday my walk to the bus stop was so tear-inducing that I genuinely wondered why people haven’t made ski masks more fashionable by now. Because I bloody well need one. It is face-shattering cold.

This cold has accumulated on the outside of my rear bedroom in the form of a colony of man-sized icicles that are melting and refreezing and saturating my crappily-crafted walls with water.  Thus, the wall is leaking.  It’s crying large tears of cold sadness along with me.  And though I called my landlord and two maintenance guys stopped by, I’ve been assured there’s nothing they can (read: want to) do. Since the ceiling in my bathroom fell on my head two years ago for similar wall-crying-related reasons, I’m going to go ahead and guess that the bedroom ceiling will also fall on my head shortly.

Also, a commercial offering litigation for problems related to vaginal mesh transplants just came on television and I’m not really a fan of the terms “vaginal” and “mesh” squished beside each other like that.  It’s uncomfortable.

So I’m a little grumpy.  And I’d like to take a moment to share my grump with you in the hopes that it will suck the devil out of me like The Exorcist and I will no longer crave happiness or cake.  You know, before the ceiling falls on my head and I die and I’ve missed my chance.  I’d hate to be lying in my grave, thinking about how I could have died happy if I would have only publicly ranted about my case of the grumples.

Actually, I feel significantly better already. Maybe I should just start blogging when I want junk food.

On second thought, that would get real spammy real fast.

So I guess I’m due for an update on the 365 Project.  As I’ve already mentioned in previous posts (and at the beginning of this one), I’m in the midst of a project I’ve lovingly dubbed Project Fat Ass 365, wherein I have resolved to do one health/exercise related activity every single day for at least twenty minutes.  I’ve begun with the Jillian Michaels 30 Day Shred and have already hit the 160’s.

To understand how monumental that is, you should know that I’ve only been in the 160’s two times in my life: when I was a vegetarian and when I had a terrible case of mono. Unfortunately, I’ve been unable to live my life without cheeseburgers or a balanced amount of white blood cells ever since and have been hovering in the 180’s forever.

Now, that’s not to say that I’ve gone from the 180’s to the 160’s since just the beginning of January.  As long time jackieblog subscribers know, I began trying to get super cereal about my health back in October of 2011 when my vagina doctor told me I needed to lose weight.  Apparently for the health of my vagina.  That’s right: my BMI was so high that my lady bits doctor told me to lose weight.  If that doesn’t get you moving, I don’t know what will.   I’ve been working to slowly improve my diet and exercise habits ever since.  So that 20 pounds has been a long and somewhat yo-yo-like journey. Luckily I’ve set myself for absolute success (or absolute embarrassment) this year by attempting this 365 and announcing that I’ll be running a 10K in the fall.

I only have to announce it, right?  I don’t actually have to do it.

Sometimes when I'm cold and grumpy and don't want to exercise, my cat (Hobbes) blatantly displays his comfortable state of fat in front of me. Like an asshole.

Sometimes when I’m cold and grumpy and don’t want to exercise, my cat (Hobbes) blatantly displays his comfortable state of fat in front of me. Like an asshole.

Just kidding. I’ve already invited my family to come heckle and loudly mock me from the sidelines to ensure I finish.  And they shall.  I was pretty tempted to invite my readers to form a team with me to help raise money for the dwindling populations of honeybees but as you all know by now, that’s a panic attack waiting to happen.  I can’t handle meeting that many new people.  I would stay in my apartment the morning of the race, perpetually projectile vomiting my anxiety into my toilet.

Which, on second thought, would probably help me shed as many pounds as a 10K.

At any rate, things are going quite well on the fat front, thanks for asking.  It’s still not too late to join in on a 365 (you can start any time, y’all).  All you have to do is think of the kind of person you would like to be in a year and then pick one thing related to that goal that you can do every single day that will get you closer to that person in a year. And then, you know, do it. Like I am.  Listen: if I can blog instead of eating when I’m grumpy and if I can exercise for 20 minutes every day instead of cracking jokes about how I’m not the kind of person who can exercise every day, you can do whatever it is that you’re actively avoiding as well.  And then in a year we can all celebrate our new, improved selves.

But not together in the same place, because that will make me projectile vomit.

All right, that’s my last plug for 365s.  I’ll stop badgering you for a while.  But only a while.

To our faces not cracking, our walls not weeping, and our fat mitts not reaching for cake. 

Puppies and Sprinkles,



Project 365, Round Two

2 Jan

Well, it appears that I’ve renewed my domain for another year, so here I am on the couch again on a Wednesday night wondering what I have in my head to share.

By now you all know the answer is absolutely nothing.  And I appreciate you sticking around to listen to it.

It’s been exactly 2 years since I wrote my very first post in my very first 365 Challenge: to fire up a blog I once adored and had let sit dormant for years. It was far more successful and fulfilling than I could have imagined and I’ve become an advocate for 365 Projects, much to the irritation of my friends and family.

So it’s a new year and I need a new 365.  I didn’t do one last year; I think I was right to have taken a break.  It was a big challenge and a big payoff.  And I really missed that sense of satisfaction when the ball dropped of knowing I’d spent 365 days working on making one very specific thing about myself better.  I mean, what a waste of a year, right? 

Well not a waste, but you get what I’m going at here.  Last year was good to me.  I got out of a corporate job that was sucking the life from my body and replacing my blood with black sludge.  Instead, I decided to go back to school to get a dual masters, not knowing how exactly that looked or how I would pull it off financially.  I lost twenty pounds and put ten back on (I’m choosing to celebrate the net -10), and I spent more time with my family and friends than I have in a long time.  All in all I’d say that’s a pretty darn good year.

But I’m a monster that can’t be satisfied with mere short-term human achievements.  And let’s face it: if you’re going to force me to keep writing by continuing to read, I’m going to need some subject matter besides awkward elevator conversations, how upset I get when old ladies cut me off when I’m shopping for produce, and my soon-to-be-famous million dollar ideas (if you have money to waste and want to sponsor me, please reference Exhibit A, Exhibit B, Exhibit C and then wire me the money directly so I can squander it on my inventions).

I was going to tell you something when this all started.  Oh, right.  I’m going to run a 10K.

Oh man I just wrote it.  It’s right there staring at me, all big and 10Kish.

Well I thought about how it felt to finish a 365 the first time and I thought about what thing I could spend 365 days working to improve that would best-affect me in the future.  And that answer is my fat ass.  I shall dub it the Fat Ass 365.  I will spend every single day of this year doing something fitness-related for at least 20 minutes and I will celebrate my success with a 10K.  I already looked up the race.  I have the race.  It’s a go.

I thought I’d invite you all to join me and we could get jackie blog t-shirts and make a team and conquer world hunger or cancer or the dwindling population of honeybees together, but then I realized that if I did that you might actually come and I might have to deal with the anxiety of meeting several completely foreign people and that I might die of a panic attack before I even get to achieve my resolution.

So no, you can’t know which race. You might find me and inadvertently cause my death. That would be a shame.

This is somewhat about the 10K and much more about the fact that I need to seriously incorporate movement into my daily life.  It is a simple fact that I am happiest when stuffing my face with junk food and watching television or playing video games.  This will never change about me.  I mean, I can do other things and try to replace it and even if I’m successful, I’m always going to wish deep down that I could just be in front of a screen stuffing my face and filling myself with disgusting self-deprecation that will breed in my mind and cause my own self-destruction over the course of several years. So this year, in order to help keep that natural adoration at bay, I’m enacting Operation Fat Ass 365.

I remember when I was just knee high to a grasshopper envisioning my 20’s.  Specifically, my late 20’s. I pictured what most lower middle class kids picture: a family and a nice house and great holidays and a job I don’t hate.  Of course then I grew up to be a member of the Boomerang Generation, a bunch of over-educated late bloomers with poor job prospects and an abnormally high sense of cynicism.  So I can’t really have any of those things little Jackie envisioned for herself at the moment (Sorry, little Jackie, but someday you’ll grow up and realize being a kid is all about being stupid and wrong all the time. Deal with it). 

There is, however, one thing I envisioned that I can absolutely do – and that’s be in the best shape of my life.

I mean it’s now or never, right?  I turn 27 this year.  That’s like, 3 years away from 30.  I have to imagine that someday in the near future, kids, self-loathing, and hips twice my size are coming my way and before I give up all hope of ever being the kind of person who can run for 6+miles and/or fit into single-digit clothing, I’d like to give myself a fair shot by forcing myself to face my fat every single day for 365 days.  And then of course running a 10K so I can be sure something tangible came out of it: a certificate and a t-shirt.

There’s no doubt in my mind I’m going to hate it.  But that’s okay because I’ll have lots to write about.  I love to write about things I hate. And eventually I’m going to get sick of running and I’m going to have to do things like take dance classes or go to Zumba (Lord, help me).  And those, my friends, count as Lollipop Tuesdays.

I’m already in the midst of my next one. Tune in Tuesday for the goods.

So that’s what my 2013 looks like: sweaty and disgusting. I hope yours looks fantastic too.  And in all sincerity I hope you consider a 365 Project (it’s not too late!) or at the very least, one single Lollipop Tuesday for yourself.  That way when I cross the finish line we can both celebrate.  

Happy New Year folks; thanks for reading – especially the seven of you who were with me from the start.  You’re all puddings.  Now tell me what your 2013 self challenge is. 

By The Power of Grayskull. ♣

Do These Olympics Make Me Look Fat?

9 Aug

It’s Thursday.  It’s not Wednesday.  Just in case you were wondering man, Jackie posted today – is it WEDNESDAY?! the answer is no.   Not it is not.  It is Thursday, and Jackie failed to post on Wednesday.

I spent the day telling myself I didn’t care.  But that was a big fat lie.  I totally care.  Because here I am on a Thursday, posting.  I just have this nagging feeling that missing a week will throw the entire rest of the year of weekly posting off balance and I shall never, ever recover.  Or maybe you won’t.  This is really about you.  And how much I love you.  Squishy hugs for everyone.  

Okay, now moving on to more pressing matters.

I think it’s really great that as a society we have begun to question the unrealistic body images that constantly affront us in magazines, in movies, and during the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show each year.  More and more often, I’m seeing links to entertaining pages that feature poorly photoshopped celebrities and supermodels.  I don’t know about you but when I come to and find my sausage fingers stuck inside another empty sleeve of Oreos, I like to nurse my wounds by clicking through pages images of accidentally airbrushed-away limbs and before-shot monsterpig faces.

And now I think it’s time to speak out against the unrealistic body images that have been bombarding us for almost two weeks.  You know what I’m talking about.

The Olympics.

My television has done nothing but hurl unrealistic expectations at me every day for the past two weeks with scantily clad men and women that are so perfectly chiseled that in the slow motion playback, the only things that jiggle are their cheeks It’s preposterous.  Not one single female athlete’s arms jiggle when they wave to the audience in celebration.    And have you seen the women sprinters? Not only are they perfectly sculpted examples of human perfection, but they even manage to have well-placed hair! Hair that stays put after rocketing down the track at alarming speeds. HOW DO THEY DO THAT?!  Even the freakish doll monsters that are synchronized swimmers have hair and makeup that sticks on through several minutes of exercising completely underwater.

I can’t get  mine to stay on after the sweat I break while brushing my teeth.

When’s the last time a candid shot of you emphasized your rock hard goddess abs?

The ultimate slap in my fat face was the ESPN body issue featuring naked Olympians and national athletes.  Some of them are in the midst of performing their sport.  Surfers from an underwater shot, rowers pinned on the side of the boat and mid-stroke, ball players gearing up to take a shot – and all of them are perfect. Your humiliation will know no bounds.

This is worse than supermodel fixation.  Much worse.  At least when I open a magazine and see fashion models glaring at me with their smokey eyes, I can coax my love handles into calming down by reminding myself that I could always look like that too if I stopped eating.  But when I’m faced with the chiseled abs and well-shaped thighs of an Olympian, I have no solace.  These people haven’t had dessert in two years.  They train 8 hours a day every day.  They eat the same things constantly.  They have someone whose job is solely to make sure that they’re beautiful, flawless, perfectly sculpted examples of human athletic achievement.

All I have is my cats.  And when I took them to the vet last week, I was scolded for their obesity. 

Even my cats are lard asses.  I would make a terrible trainer.

Hobbes’ inevitable future

Luckily it’s almost over.  In just a few short days, the Olympics will go into hiding for another four years.  Of course, we’ll have to deal with the winter Olympics in just two, but in the winter I can console myself with the improbability of my becoming a speed skater and vats of crock pot comfort foods. 

For now, I must stay strong; they’re almost done.   Maybe I should start with small steps.  Like looking up those outstanding waterproof hair and makeup products.

Or investing in a cat treadmill. ♣

Where’s My Fat Loss Hallelujah?

29 Feb

I really thought that when I reached my goal weight, it would be a little more like Jennifer Hudson with singing and magical fairies of fat loss and a little less oh, I don’t know – ordinary?

Mind you, I know not whether I’ve actually reached my goal weight.   It’s just that I’ve been jogging 2-3 times a week for about 5 months and I’m eating better and since I used to have macaroni and cheese and cheeseburgers twice a week and sat on my very cushioned tush every single day before that, logic dictates that I must have lost something. …Right?

The whole weighing-myself thing wasn’t going very well so I ditched it;  now I have The Naked System.  Instead of weighing myself, now I just stare at my pudge in the mirror every day.  I pinch it, I cradle it, I inspect it from all sides, and in the process determine my accomplishments.  If I’m overly soft, I get more motivated to eat and jog that day.  If I’m proud of myself, I decide it’s because I’ve been having pudgy naked time in the mirror every day and it’s working.  And if I stay the same, well, that’s because I check every single day and change is slow.

So I don’t have a number on the scale I’m looking for because I won’t let myself look.  I just know that 5 months ago I could take all the stomach fat in my hands and hold it in front of my body.  I was so married to it that I had considered a variety of Jackie Blog marketing tactics including a muppet, a voice, a variety show… But now the Pudge Muppet is gone.  I have forced my body to run against its will. It’s been months of jogging and eating better and having pudgy naked time and now when I wear my pants the second time after a wash, they scoot down my hips.

Photo borrowed from the magical fat fairy celebration parade.

I thought that was the sign.  I thought something epic like pants scooting down hips meant that  a fat version of me would burst out of the closet singing about the woman I used to be.  Then I could endorse a food establishment of my choosing and get a book deal and go on talk shows discussing the secret to how I changed my entire life and have nothing more important in my character than my ability to be fit.  Maybe I could even get my own google doodle.  (The o’s would obviously compose my former marshmallowy bottom).

But I even put on my skinny jeans the other day and there was no doppelganger bursting forth from the closet to sing a duet with me.  It was just me, singing in the mirror.  Naked.

It’s times like those that I’m glad my cats can’t talk.

I had sincerely hoped that by now people would start to notice, but the only one who’s said anything at all is the cleaning lady at work.  Either she’s  just trying to make me feel better or she’s the only one who I encounter in my daily life.  Neither is a preferable truth.

Maybe the change has to be more drastic.  Maybe I just need to get some better fitting clothes instead of walking around in my former fat suits.  Or maybe Angelina Jolie’s emaciated limbs at the Oscars made it impossible for anyone to look worthy of a fat loss hallelujah session.

I should probably just call JHud myself and see what it is that made her former fatty burst forth in vocal glory.   I want my nationally televised self-duet.

Until then, I’ll just keep rehearsing in the mirror. 

2012: The Year I’m (Almost) Not Always Right.

11 Jan

Image from A Paper Proposal - click to explore their site of wedding-inspired awesomeness

This past weekend marked the twentieth time I have locked myself out of my own vehicle.

Admittedly, that’s a rough estimate.  But it’s probably not all that rough.

I was going running (sixth week of Couch to 5K, by the way, thankyouverymuch), and decided that I would tuck the key to my car in a tiny zippered compartment right above my jiggly bum.  This tiny contraption is courtesy of the super awesome pants that Dave bought me for Christmas.    But since it’s so tiny and located directly above my rearend, I thought it best to cut down on bulk and take only the key to the ignition and not the little button pad that locks and unlocks the doors.

Mark: this was a conscious choice.

You know that fleeting moment when you wonder if something will pose a problem for you and that you might want to pursue it to ensure that you are wrong but you convince yourself that you’re being illogical and choose to ignore it?  I think it’s called laziness.  Or apathy.  At any rate, for a moment I wondered whether or not I needed the button thingamajig to get back in my car but told myself that was silly and that ignition keys always open doors as well.  I locked the button whats-it in my car, tucked the ignition key into the secret ass pocket, and took off. I ran, I succeeded, I got back to the car, and the key failed.

Failed hard.

It’s unfortunate because I was hot off the victory of my week 6 run and excited to get back in the car and go take a much-needed shower.  I’m not a natural-born exerciser.  You know, one of those dames who can fun 5 miles and have a soft, beautiful glisten? I was bred to sit on couches and play video games and eat potato chips.  When I perform a task any more strenuous than brushing my teeth, I immediately break out in a coating of sweat not unlike the look of a sloppily glazed donut. I needed that shower.  Instead, I was outside my car fumbling around at the keyholes in the cold.  I decided to conquer the situation with my mind.  I deemed it a logical impossibility that my ignition key would not also lock and unlock the doors, and prayed to sweet baby Jesus to please do some sort of automobile miracle for me on this 28 degree day.

That also failed.

I was visiting my hometown and only knew one person in the area that I still kept in touch with on a regular basis and was within walking distance.  Unfortunately, I hadn’t seen her in about a year and didn’t want her first impression of me to be fresh off a 2-mile, just-out-of-bed-and-now-a-glazed-human run. But I had no choice: I needed someone with AAA and someone in her house had to have it. I didn’t know that for a fact.  I just knew her family, and her family was chock full of folks who would really need something like AAA.

The sister was my winner.  In fact, I cashed in on her third and final lock out call of the year.  Score. 

I finally got in the car and got to my cell phone to call Dave and tell him about how incredibly stupid I am, which I am apt to do on an almost-weekly basis.  I like to remind him that I need him around because when without, I can’t really function easily like other human beings.  Without his assistance, I’d be wandering the streets of the city barefoot and coat-less with only a kittens and slices of leftover pizza in a knapsack to accompany me.

Actually, that doesn’t sound so bad.

As it turns out, David had told me only one month ago that my key pad was absolutely required to open the car and I said that was no problem and why would I ever not just use the key pad.  Though I pretended not to remember this conversation, I had a movie scene flashback to my exact location at the time of its happening.  I was flippant.  And I had just paid the price.

Sometimes I just don’t listen to Dave because I don’t feel like it.  I tell him I won’t take a coat outside because I don’t need it and then I ask to borrow his only a few hours after.  I tell him I don’t  need to wear sneakers because sneakers look stupid with my sweater and then I ask him to stop somewhere to buy flats because my feet look like they were attacked by badgers. 

And I also tell him to stop rambling on about using the key pad and then lock myself out of the car because I forget that I need it.

Therefore, I have deemed 2012 the year that Dave is always right.  I’m boldly going where no woman has gone before.  I’ve dedicated 2012 to blindly following wherever Dave will lead me.  I have a good feeling it will involve more jackets, better shoe choices, and fewer lockouts.  It’s a win-win.  Either I find he’s not right and I can carry on henceforth not heeding his advice, or I’ll find that he’s almost always right and become a more efficient, more put-together human being.

Here’s hoping the latter also means less lockouts. 

Run, Jackie, Run.

15 Dec

I’ve actually begun to kind of look forward to running.

I can’t believe I just wrote that.  But there it is.  Just, you know, sitting there.  

For those of you who don’t have a feeding tube inserted from my blog to your brain, 1) button’s on the right and 2) let’s debrief.  I started this program called Couch to 5K in an attempt to truly test the psychology that has (so far) successfully propelled me through posting each and every day in 2011.  The idea is that I take the same no-excuses attitude, publicize it so people hold me accountable, and try to tackle the thing I hate most in the entire world: running.

One of the things that drew me to Couch to 5K is that it advises you not to do any more than it calls for, even if you think you can.  Since it’s built for couch potatoes, it doesn’t want you to get burned out and quit.   But earlier this week, I was sincerely pondering breaking the rules.  I just wanted to feel good about the fact that I ran that day.  I wasn’t in the mood to run, per se… I just wanted to be proud of myself and imagine my kangaroo pouch shrinking while I was huffing and puffing.

I’m using it for some serious storage.

Perhaps some psychoevaluation is in order.  It appears to be a classic case of Stockholm Syndrome.  With no choice but to continue on in the program I’ve so widely publicized and rooted in an activity I so deeply despise, I’ve begun to accept my position as captive and am starting to empathize with my captor.

Never, ever, in my life did I think this would be true.  Of course, I’ve only almost finished week three of a nine-week program.  Next week I could be cursing and devising new and exciting ways to break my foot so I can cop out.  But what if I just keep…liking it? What if I turn into some kind of crazy running beast that can’t be stopped?

Well, the asthma will get me eventually.  But after near-death and a puff of that inhaler: BEAST.

I’m on to something here.  I’m going to unlock and entire world of psychoanalysis discovery.  I can hear the news anchors now: “Postadayer turned marathon runner? How this awkward hermit girl became the Forrest Gump of our time.”  I’ll write memoirs and I’ll get shoe endorsements and I’ll take the world by storm.

But first: week four. 

Cracking the Fit Club Code

9 Dec


I tried to make this image smaller but it was being rude. So I relented out of frustration. All hail the enormous stick figure runner. DIE IN A FIRE, PICTURE.

I’m having a hard time gathering enough stomach fat to hold it in my hands in front of me now.

That’s radical.

There were really only two times in my life that I’ve been able to say that.  The first is when I was a vegetarian (8 months, Thanksgiving turkey got me), and the second is when I had mono.  So unless I’m starving myself or my body is starving itself, I’ve been fat.

Don’t get me wrong – I’m still totally fat.  But yesterday I put on a pair of pants I haven’t worn in forever because I feel distinctly like I have two sausage link for legs when I’m in them.  And when I sat in my office chair, the waist of the pants didn’t even cut into my stomach and make me feel like I was being stabbed to death by a rubber knife.

I’ve only been running for two weeks, so I’m not really sure how I can lose so much in so little time but that’s pretty darn exciting.  I did three weeks of P90X and didn’t notice any change at all.  This seems strange to me – as if I’ve entered some sort of dimensional fold that is quickly rewarding me for doing something I absolutely hate.  How is it that working out for 1.5 hours 6 days a week got me nowhere fast and interval running for 30 minutes 3 days a week is beginning to make my body stop jiggling furiously while I brush my teeth?

That’s a serious fat girl problem, people.  No joke.

Now, I don’t want to go all life lesson preacher on you because it’s only been two weeks and I seriously can’t even imagine graduating to the 3rd, 4th, and 5th weeks of this program, let alone ever actually running a 5K.  That sounds like crazy talk to me.  But right now, at this point in time, I’m succeeding.  And I think I’m having an epiphany.  My entire life, I assumed that there were people who liked to work out and people who didn’t like to work out and I was one of the latter which is why it never stuck.  And while I’m sure there may be people in this world who like to work out, I think it’s only a very small percentage of humans.  I don’t think they’re doing it because they like it.  I think they’re doing it because they like it more than the alternative.  It feels better to wreck yourself for an hour or less than spend an entire day feeling like a fat turd.

I think I cracked the code.   Listen: I don’t like running.  I’ve been very honest about the fact that I’m doing this as an experiment on how far I can take this whole “no excuses” psychology by doing something I absolutely hate.  But what I do like is finally shaking that feeling that “I should really try to get healthy”.  I’m not walking around with this huge sack of shoulds on my shoulders and it’s awesome.  If I hate myself and what I’m doing for 30 minutes straight, I can spend the other 23.5 hours in the day not thinking about how out of shape I am, how bad my skin looks, or how I should make more of an effort.

Is this obvious? I don’t feel like it’s obvious.  I feel like things are presented to us in terms of people who enjoy working out and people who enjoy sitting on their pillowy bottoms, eating comfort food, and watching television.  You figure out which one you are, and you stay there.  Or you spend all your time trying to jump from one bowl to the other.  

Listen: it’s a myth.  No one likes exercising.  They just like it more than not exercising.  

Now: let’s hope that stays crystal clear when I’m halfway through Couch to 5K and I want to kill myself. 

My Plan for World Domination

5 Dec

My butt hurts.

And my thighs.  And my arms.  And my lack of abs.

Yeah, I didn’t think that a lack of something could hurt either, but that was until I started running.

For those of you not pumping my blog posts right into your veins every day, I should probably note here my most recent undertaking: Couch to 5K.  That’s a term for transforming one’s self from a sad, flabby couch potato into a lean, mean running machine.  This is an experiment for me in whether the psychology lesson I learned from blogging every day is applicable to other areas of life.  Areas I really hate that make me want to die.  Like exercising.  

Specifically, running.

The concept is simply no excuses.  I decided to do something, so I’m doing it.  One day at a time, without looking at the end product.  

I'm sorry but it was really hard to tell the search engine the difference between domination, and well, "domination". So you get the latter. Maybe it will inspire you to do Couch to 5K too. Or vomit. Sorry if it's just vomit.

This is the ultimate test of the postaday psychology because every time I think about running a 5K, I vomit in my mouth a little bit from fear.  So it’s important to focus on one day at a time.

I’m doing all right so far.  I mean, I’m only one week two.  But I’m still doing it-  I still run when the voice on my iPod tells me to run, and I (gladly and with much thanks to God in Heaven) walk when it tells me to walk.  But oh my good grief my fat does not take kindly to the flogging.  I went up a flight of stairs today and my thighs questioned me.  I had to talk them into it.  The sad part is that I’m not really even running yet. I’m just, like, jogging for a bit and then walking for a bit.  Interval stuff.  It’s just that I haven’t done anything active whatsoever with my body in so long that telling me to run for a minute and a half straight, giving me two minutes to question if I want to end my life or keep going, and then telling me to run for another minute and a half again is. so. hard. 

I’d like to mention here that I have asthma, so as to help the judging ease itself ever so slightly.  That’s right: I’m pulling the asthma card *pushes up glasses*.  Actually, I make Dave go with me so he can coach the breathing part.  Left to my own devices, I will haunch over and hyperventilate myself into an all out wheeze-fest.  It’s more like an exercise in breathing than an exercise in running.  

I’m hanging in there.  Ever so slightly.  I have to admit that the knowledge that in two weeks I will be expected to run for five minutes straight has me approaching paralysis.  I haven’t run for five minutes straight since I was in 9th grade soccer.  Even then it wasn’t pretty.

You know what I really can’t get over? That I do this crap at 6 in the morning.  SIX IN THE MORNING.  Because if I don’t get up and do it then, I’ll dread it all day.  It’s like knowing I have to get punched in the face eventually.  I can either spend my day working myself up to it and freaking out, or I can just take a slug right at the top of the morning. So far it’s been effective.

What if I unlock a whole key to psychology here? What if I begin to take on one unfathomable concept at a time until I have become a guru at life-changing and mind-altering? That’s my claim to fame, folks.  And you saw it all start here, on the Jackie Blog.

Now go share my Facebook page and Twitter with all your friends so you can be a cool hipster and say you read me when I was fat and unmotivated.

Flight of the Wildebeest

30 Nov

Disclaimer: These are not my legs.

I’ve begun to run.

This is huge, because I’m made of blubber and fat and mostly squishy things.

I’ve attempted to run before but it hasn’t gone well.  And actually, it wasn’t so much “running” as “jogging from one light post to another and then walking the rest of the way”.   But now my endeavor is far more epic.  I’m doing Couch to 5K.

For those of you unawares, I’m 1) happy to be a source of constant education for you and 2) happy to tell you that Couch to 5K is a running schedule that takes couch potatoes and whips them into being able to run for 30 minutes straight (or the distance of a 5K) in 9 weeks.  You don’t pay for it.  It’s just a program someone whipped up and decided to share.  And it turns out it’s been effective for lots of folks.

I absolutely hate running.  I hate it with the fire of a thousand suns.  But one cannot deny that I am startlingly out of shape and in need of emergency intervention.  After all, a child was just put into foster care by a state here in the good ol’ US of A for being morbidly obese.  If the nation is going to start sweeping up all the fatties and placing them into programs against their will, I’m going to have to get on the trim trolley.   And surprisingly enough, I kind of enjoy this.  All I have to do is download a podcast that has music that fits the interval I’m on, and a dude’s voice that tells me when to walk and when to run.  There’s something about it that’s really satisfying, aside from the feeling that I want to hurl and my loud pleas with God to please make it stop.

People tend to stare.

Dave has kindly decided to join me.  He’s in much better shape than me since he’s a black belt in ninja studies and he does me the favor of allowing me to set the pace.  But since that bores him, he side steps and twirls around me while I struggle.  It’s an interesting dance: ballerino meets wildebeest.

I’ve had this sort of revelation.  There are two different kinds of endeavors in my world.  There are the things I want to do and give a shot, not caring if I make it to the end and willing to stop at any point I please (P90X, biting my nails, general acts of adulthood) and then there are things that I make stick, regardless.  Like this blog.  This is a no-excuses sort of deal.  I do it every day regardless of whether I’m inspired, feeling entertaining, have had anything interesting happen for the past two weeks, am sleep deprived, grumpy, or have all my fingers chopped off.  It happens.  It’s a force beyond me and there is no negotiation.  I simply decided to do it and kept doing it.  This is a sort of… trial.  What if I apply that thinking to other areas of my life?  Just simply do it because I’ve decided to do it.  In a blogging way, not in a ho-hum-maybe-I’ll-stop-when-I-want-way.

This could be a powerful unlocking of the psyche.  It’s also a good excuse to don a Jackie Blog shirt at a 5K.

And so it commences: the flight of the wildebeest. 

I owe you an update.  Long ago in a land far away, I started the search for the best macaroni and cheese recipe ever.  I’m still cooking, and still eating.  I don’t have much father to go, but each recipe is about a pound of pasta and there are only two people in my apartment.  It’s taking a while.  That being said, the Martha Stewart recipe is the front runner at the moment – but I have a promising recipe yet to be carried out.  A $25 Visa Gift Card is on its way to a lucky reader in the month of December.  Here’s hoping it’s you!

The Best Diet Plan Ever

6 Nov

This plan replaces my former plan, which was staring at pictures of the morbidly obese.

I’ve found the best diet trick ever.

Really, like, the best.   I shouldn’t even tell you about it because it’s out-of-control effective and I could market it for millions and live off the money from your soon-to-be-skinny behinds for the rest of my life.

But you read my blog, and I believe that from time to time that should be rewarding for you in some way (speaking of which, yes, I’m still cooking macaroni and cheese from The Great Macaroni and Cheese Adventure; winner is to be announced after my belly is full of about 5 more pounds of pasta).  

I’ve been doing this thing called “watch absolutely disgusting food documentaries”.  For some strange reason I’ve become obsessed with learning more about the state of the food in our country and I’m allowing myself to be subjected to revealing, inside looks at the state of food made in a country based on capitalism, and let me tell ya: it’s totally gross.

Like, totally gross.

Anything that can make me put the cheeseburger I’m cooking as I watch the documentary back in the fridge when I’m done is a powerful potion indeed.

So it goes like this: just eat what you already eat, and do what you already do.  But every few days, sit down and give your undivided attention to a food documentary like Food, Inc. or Fast Food Nation or Fat, Sick, and Nearly Dead.   Settle in and watch where your food comes from and it will stick with you when you reach for your next meal.  Or when you consider what you had earlier that day.

At least, it’s totally working for me.  Unintentionally, but I’ll take it.  I really was just curious to watch and learn but in the past two weeks, I am finding it incredibly difficult to eat things that I know are super gross now that their super grossness has been revealed to me.

I could probably package this into some sort of viewing plan that best suits itself to the slow, terrifying realization that your food is disgusting and killing you. It’s the perfect plan for America: you can do everything the same, except you have to watch movies.  I could market it so easily; people love weight loss plans that don’t require them to do anything.  Doing that and adding more movie-watching time has got to be an enormous stroke of genius that will have me stockpiling gold bars for my wit.

Or I hope so anyway; I only have about 60 more days for this blog to pay off and that’s not shaping up to be a solid retirement plan anytime soon.

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