Halfway

The last couple of weeks have been discouraging. I climbed a mountain, worked out every day, and ate very well...and I lost exactly ZERO ounces to show for it. G. the Meanie almost seems to take my failure to lose weight personally, so today, we ran.

Two miles.

Non-stop.

No walking allowed, "or you have to do 25 Burpees for every time you stop." Funny, I had just mentioned moments earlier that I loathe Burpees with the fire of a thousand suns.

I knew beforehand that today was a Cardio day. I did my share of whining and over-the-top dramatics. I wrote, "Tell my parents I loved them" in my food journal. G. just looked at me and said, "You know, this isn't fun for me, either. I'm tired."

Somehow, I pulled those two miles out of myself. My legs were screaming, my back hurt, and I was dripping sweat, but I ran (slowly) for a whole two miles without stopping. The bitching was even minimal in the second mile--I was too busy concentrating on my breathing.

After we finished, G. said, "You're such a better runner. You kept up, you didn't stop, and you're recovering so much faster than you used to. You're going to start doing this--no walking. I'm tired of you not losing weight."

"DUDE! I'm tired of me not losing weight--I'm the one who has to carry it all around!"

Later, as I did some hamstring exercises, G. talked about me being a runner.

"See, there's a disconnect up here, G." I said, pointing to my head. "My brain says, 'You're a runner!' but the rest of my body says, 'No you're not. This is hell.'" I told him I'm working on changing this, but it's taking some time.

Then, "You're always telling me I'm an athelete. Well, I still have a hard time believing you. Honestly? I really think of myself as a fat girl who works out." G. just laughed.

"I'm working on that, too."

At the end of our appointment, G. wrote out a whole new cardio program for me to follow. It's not pretty--no more interval training on the treadmill, only running. No more walking. Stairs are going to be harder and harder, too. If I want to lose weight, I've got to move faster.

I was sitting there, pouting a little bit, when I started thinking I'd like to see what I weigh today. I weighed on Friday, so we were going to wait 'til this coming Friday for the next official weigh-in. I mentioned this to G. and he said, "Go weigh, then."

After two weeks stuck at 178, I was hoping to be at 176--my official half-way point in the 90 pounds I must lose to reach my goal weight of 130.

Imagine my surprise and squeal of delight when the scale read 174.6.

I skipped back to G.'s desk and said, "One-seventy-four! Ha!!"

"No! You're lying!"

"Do you want to see for yourself?"

"Yes, I do!"

"Come look, then. And hey! I wouldn't lie about my weight, dude."

A couple of weeks ago, I told G. of my plan to get a picture of myself holding a 45-pound weight just as soon as I reached that milestone in my weight loss. As I mentioned, the goal I set in February 2009 was to lose 90 pounds. Forty-five is the fifty-yard line. I can see the end zone, and I am going to reach it come hell or high water.

I got my camera (it's always in my purse; I'm a nerd like that) and we walked over to the weight machines. G. lifted the weight up and I laughed as I took it from him. How hard it was to hold that thing up long enough for him to get the shot--and I used to carry this much extra weight around on my body. My knees, my ankles...my heart.



I have forty-four pounds to go. I'm going to make it.