Day Fifty-Two: Role Model? or Rolls Model?

After my bath last night, I was getting dressed and I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I was in a new pair of skivvies and (sadly smaller) bra and I thought "Hey .... wait a second. I look ... trim!" Well, more trim. But there it was: muscle lines in my upper body, sleek calves, tightening thighs and ... what's this? Possible lines forming on the sides of my torso?!?!? Sure I still have a soft, gooey center, but ... it's smaller; the sides, narrower. NO WAY. See, I've always been a fairly modest person and typically Just Say No to Nudity kind of person (name that movie! anyone? anyone? Bueller? no, not Bueller! But guess! Great, great movie) especially since losing my eighth-grader body shape since the kid's arrival on the scene nearly six years ago.

Sure back then I traipsed along southwest Florida's beaches as a newly-minted 23-year-old vessel of human life in a two-piece, but I was comparative eye candy against octogenarians with breast implants. I was gonna win that swimsuit contest, hands down. But after the Great Birth, I felt deflated and my ego/body/self image never quite recovered. Which I am now reminded of every time I do planks (hello lower torso! I can see you waving to me as I stare down my own shirt! I'm waving, too! See?!?! See? My middle finger? Yep, that's for you, buddy!) *sigh* ... I also get this nifty little stabbing pain in my lower left abdomen that never goes away no matter how many ab exercises I do. I feel it every time with crunches, kung fu sit-ups, leg ups, side crunches. And I often feel sick to my stomach after these sets quivering on the floor. Will I ever feel or look good again?


This body image issue was doubly on my mind as I read this article today about Glamour featuring a photo of a "real woman" who is a plus-size model (ha, yea I know, right?) in this month's magazine. She's the person in the photo above. I was torn: I recognized some of myself in her, with her curves and lumps and dimply flesh yet there is joy and laughter and a messy ponytail. And then a small part of me was suspicious: is this just a ploy to get Fat America 'ok' with their curvy, lumpy, dimply selves? How does PCP fit into this movement of loving who you are physically, even with an unPCP body? Is this movement just breeding physical complacency and even laziness and gluttony? Is being unPCP acceptable if you make it popular? Argh too many questions ... brain freeze.

Day Forty-Eight: Hot Mess

I apparently needed a good cry tonight, which happen to bubble to the surface RIGHT in the middle of my jump ropes. Totally awesome, let me tell you. In addition to my sweat and bug spray, I was soon covered in my own hot blubbering tears. Like it was bad. But I kept jumping, which at first felt like I might drown in my own tears right there in the dark driveway with all the choking and gasping and blubbering ~ I mentioned the blubbering right? Have I no shame???? ~ and for a moment I was convinced that I would trip on the jump rope, knock myself unconscious and indeed die alone in the dark and no one would discover me until the next morning morning and when they did, they would see either a skunk or feral cat ate half my face. But by goddamnit I was gonna finish those exercises. So I did.

Off to shower and slumber ... and hopefully sanity.

Day Sixteen: Can I Get an Amen?

I drank the Kool-Aid.

No, not actual Kool-Aid (though it seems the perfect summertime non-boozy beverage; I prefer black cherry. You?) but the proverbial Kool-Aid. The PCP Kool-Aid. This is what I say in my head when people ask me about the PCP, and I try to explain with a simple statement: "Oh, it's this exercise/diet/blog thing I'm doing to get into shape." But then they ask more questions, and before you know it, I sound like a PCP apostle evangelizing about real food and exercising using your own body weight and that you can do it anywhere! No excuses! And that it's tough but I believe, I just have to keep the faith ... blah bla bla.

Then people seem to have this simultaneous look of admiration and fear in their eyes as they listen. I could never do that, they tell me. Or Good for you! That's inspiring! And as much as I'm telling them, I'm telling myself why I'm doing this, why I'm committed (or rather should be committed coz I know it might seem kooky) and why I can't ~ no, why I choose not to ~ eat the pizza or the scone or the brownie or the usual camping food for an upcoming trip, and why I choose to get up and crank out hundreds of jumpropes and other exercises and then blog about it for all seven of you to read the mental workings on someone hellbent on a higher calling. What I do choose is me. My best self. And I'll drink to that! (well, at least come late September. Kool-Aid, anyone?)

Day One: Fit to Print (let's rock)

I write. It's what I do.

So why am I nervous?

I wrote my first newspaper article when I was 17. Since then, I spent the last 12 or so years writing about other people. Sometimes it is hard, especially if it involves a tragedy or undue hardship or that occasional devil, writer's block. Most of the time, even when someone was griping at me about something that I may or may not have had any control over, it is fun. Writing, for me, has always been a worthwhile endeavor.

So why do I feel so nervous I could puke? (Which is too bad because I just made dinner.)

The hardest thing for me to write about: me. Which I'm feeling pretty vulnerable and nervous and excited about right now because not only am I beginning the path to my best self, I'm sharing this, all the trials and triumphs, on a blog (?!?!??) which can be read by all (six) of you. Yea, I get it: I'm NUTS. And I'm OK with that, as long as it gets me there.

When I told my inner circle the idea of the Peak Condition Project, they were skeptical. You don't need that, they encouraged me, you can do it on your own! And I loved them for believing in me so much. Sure I've always been fairly active: was a tomboy, played sports all through high school, and in my adult life, I rollerblade, play second base in the city summer league for the last four years, show up for cardio kickboxing every Saturday, even dabble in running (for fun apparently, or at least that's what I hear), yoga and am currently finishing my second session of a boot camp program where I wake up on purpose to exercise at 6:10a.m. three times a week and come home covered in bug spray, sweat and sometimes sprinkler system water.

But this year, the typical routine of "eating whatever as long as I exercise" no longer works; my winter weight, brought on by holiday baking and my usual break-up with exercise due to inclement weather vs warm bed, overcrowded gyms and asthmatic episodes, has stubbornly stuck with me through the end of June. Dang.

Once I signed onto the PCP, though, the support and interest has been so affirming (and provided a nice deterrent to, uh, backing out of this), and I thank you each for that. In the last few years, I've consciously worked harder to bring out the best mother, daughter, sister, employee, friend, neighbor, and heart within myself. Now I'd like a body to match. I know I can do it if you (yes, YOU) are willing to stick this out with me vicariously or otherwise.(seriously, thank you. please send good mojo, vibes and other well wishes my way)

I'm 29, a mother to a soon-to-be kindergartner, a new job as a communicator online and in print, I have amazing friends, co-workers and good role models, AND (and!) I live and work in the Boulder area, one of the fittest and most active communities in the nation. If it's not too selfish, I'd like one more thing: Health. Fitness. A body I can be proud of, instead of apologetic (I had a baby ... almost six years ago! I eat ice cream ... while watching The Biggest Loser! I hate fruit! And yogurt!). So, something's got to change, and I know it's me. And that's the goal. Cue the music ...