I may be forty-three, but my ego is still in seventh grade...

Three times this week I have been reminded that my body and mind are evolving, but my ego is still about twelve.

It began last Sunday. I'd been feeling invincible during a 5-mile run up Greenspot Road: my strides were strong, cadence in sync with my iPod...but suddenly, over the beat of the Spice Girls (oh, please, what do you have secretly loaded on your exercise playlist?), I heard the shout of a teenage boy, mouth wide open, head hanging out the back window of his friend's car as he passed me: FAT ASS! 

My immediate thought was: Still!? 

Was my rear still big enough to provoke insults from rotten mobs of teenagers?

I slowed my pace and looked behind me--I was the only person in the bike lane; there was no doubt--his shot was aimed at me. I stopped running for a moment, kicked angrily at a plastic bottle in the dirt, and then resumed my pace. But my legs felt heavier, and I found myself forwarding past that stupid Spice Girls song; the music had turned sour and so had my mood. 

Having taught public high school for many years, I am not unaccustomed to the rudeness of brazen kids and adults alike. But somehow, this insignificant punk with his two well-timed words had stolen my verve. Deep-seated beliefs about the connection of one's self-worth to one's physical being came flooding back, and I was a pudgy middle schooler in gym shorts waiting to be picked for a team.

My run was listless for a few hundred yards, until I shook it off and found my turbo power again. I am forty-three, not fourteen, and I would not be tackled by two words tossed into the air by a boy whose pants probably hung down under his butt cheeks. 

But the next blow came the very next day. 

In an attempt to incorporate cross-training into my routine, I found myself in my very first kick-boxing class, led by a wild-haired woman with double jointed hips. The class was a blast, but I had to really concentrate on the instructor's movements in order to keep up. About fifteen minutes into the class I broke my fixed stare at the instructor and caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. To my horror, I was not emulating the fluid movements of my well-lubricated leader. I was Elaine Benes in the Seinfeld episode when she dances--head jerking backward, thumbs out like an epileptic hitchhiker. I was Steve Martin in The Jerk. I was embarrassed. 

The smile I'd been wearing slipped off my face, and I lost track of the movements of the class. The mirror told me I was a jiggling, middle-aged woman with absolutely no rhythm. 

Then I looked around. Everyone in the class looked ridiculous too. I definitely took first place in lameness, but there were many gals in close second place--cousins to Elaine Benes-- and they weren't paralyzed by their lack of talent. So in my mind I yelled, TOWANDA! I let the grin return to my pink sweaty face and I jumped back into step. 

By the middle of the week I had one more, uh, incident. 

Wednesday's scheduled training was bookended by morning and afternoon insanity. To fit everything into the day, I was dressing, eating, and driving simultaneously. During my session with Tina, I was restless and negative, complaining, "I am gaining weight...no really, my pants are tighter, I am sure of it." 

Tina flashed a sideways glance at me, and I detected an exasperation in her eyes that said, I've spent way too much time with this chick. 

I tried to convince her it wasn't just in my head; I pointed at my hips and grabbed at my belly fat, but she wouldn't engage, so I let it drop, and finished my session. At the end of our workout, I thanked her, and hurried off to my next obligation. But I couldn't shake my discomfort, and as I travelled in and out of the rest of my day, I continued to tug at the rear end of my workout pants.

At the end of my frenetic day, I was unshowered, and frazzled. I sat down at my desk, clicked the mouse, and absentmindedly pulled at the waistband in my pants. The tag was in the front. For the last six hours, I had been wearing my pants backwards. No wonder I'd felt so uncomfortable.

Pretty hard to feel confidence in yourself when you're walking around in public with your pants on backwards.

And so I have learned a few things lessons in the last week I feel are necessary to pass on to anyone else with fragile ego syndrome:

1. Keep your iPod turned up, way up. Go deaf if you must, but let the Spice Girls, not ill-mannered adolescents, tell you how to feel when you are out there in the world being your bad self. 

2. If dancing like an idiot makes you feel young and vivacious, go with it. And don't look in the mirror.

3. Before you spread your bad mood to the world, check your tags. Sometimes your whole outlook can be salvaged just by checking that you put your clothes on correctly.

Lastly, and most important, when dealing with your childish ego, remember...

...it's all in your head.

Dear Diary, Today I ate...

I rallied this week. Skepticism is still alive and active, but my courage and attitude fell back into place. Oddly enough it came from having to do what I despise doing--keeping a food diary.

As May moves quietly closer, Tina is having me add to the rigor of my program. Monday I began charting caloric intake, including the breakdown of protein, sodium, sugar, and fat in my food choices. I have been keeping a clean diet since November, when all this silliness started, but recording my eating still turned up some surprises. I discovered I eat about 400 calories a day in walnuts alone. Passing by the bag and grabbing a handful of those suckers four times a day adds up quickly. 

I am usually the type of person who, when mandated to put a microscope on my consumption, will succumb to every temptation and then some, eventually blowing the whole experiment. It doesn't make me more honest; it makes me more obsessed with what I can't have. Trying hard to be good has always had a reverse effect on me, and I end up being bad(er). This applies to food, exercise, love, spending--you name it.

So being directed to record my food came with a dread that only a seasoned self-saboteur might understand.  

Monday came, and I squinted at the label on the oatmeal canister, shocked that 1/2 cup of plain oats--the days of brown sugar or even maple syrup are long gone--could have 150 calories. And the thin, grayish nonfat milk poured over the top has 12 grams of sugar. What a stinking crock!!

I tallied my intake on a chart, taking precious morning minutes when I might have been brushing my own hair and teeth, and I barked at my needy children that I needed to concentrate for a minute, and I offered gentle urgings like: for god's sake go find your shoes so we won't miss the bus again!  My two-year old, bewildered at my fixation with the oatmeal canister,  located her shoes, put them on the wrong feet and stood like a duck at the front door.

I loaded the kids in the car, turned over the engine, and...my stomach growled. I had already consumed a quarter of my calories for the day, and the dread of failure began to envelope me. 

In short, Monday was brutal.  

However, Tuesday was easier, and by Wednesday, I'd gotten into that groove where the mind accepts what you are asking of it, and it engages the heart. That is not to say that I have begun to enjoy recording every morsel of food that passes my lips, but I have accepted the task. It is fine for now. It has gotten easier, and I have time again to get my daughter's shoes on the right feet. 

So far the food diary has had the intended effect: I pass by the pantry, open it, stare at the bag of walnuts and most of the time decide not to grab a few. When I do grab a handful and eat them, my shoulders sag like a kid who let that grounder go right through his mitt, and I open my food log and write it down. My hope is that someday I might pass by the pantry and not even open the door, and if I have any luck at all, I might even pass by the pantry without thinking about the pantry, although I'd better just stay realistic. For now, I am writing it all down.

Fell off the horse for a spell. I've continued to train since my last post, but my writing ceased for a while. 

I think I'll blame the moon.

As that orb grew fuller, each day got more frenetic. Conflicts, accidents, missing keys, Elvis sightings--you name it. By the time biceps day came around (Thursday) my attitude was suffering and I was dreaming of throwing in that infamous towel, of giving in to a vision of napping on the couch in a pair of baggy sweats with the tv blaring and potato chip crumbs on my chest. I mean really. I already have a side job, oh, and another side job, plus a business that keeps running only because I clean the toilets, balance the books, and greet the customers myself. I've got a couple of cute girls who still like to see me walk in the front door, and a husband who still tolerates me too. Why do I need to become a bodybuilder too?

I am burned out--a soggy cigar butt floating in a rain-filled gutter. 

And I want cake--chocolate with buttercream frosting.

How flip and impulsive I was to sign up for this journey to May 9th. Even if I had one job, no kids, no one needing me, this is still a far-fetched goal--forty-three is forty-three. And I am not a seasoned athlete. What I am is tired. Make that tired and hungry.

So why stay in the game? First, Tina's time. She's invested in me. I have not revealed to her that I am burnt toast, and I owe her my effort in exchange for hers. And hope. I just think I will ride this defeated feeling out for a while and see if it passes, changes like the moon's phases. 

Might could happen.

Full Steam Ahead

The house is suddenly quiet and empty. Ribbons, wreaths, and glitz are packed away until next year, and the only trace of relatives is a forgotten sock that lays crumpled in the corner of one of the kid's rooms. It is all over. December came in fast and furious, and left before I could catch my breath, write those cards, make enough memories with the kids. 

On January 2nd, with the dishes tucked in the cupboard, the kids tucked in the bed, and the vacuum marks across the carpet, it is a finally time to reflect, to write a little and re-calibrate timelines and goals...except the phone keeps ringing...and my older daughter is calling from her bed for a glass of water...and I have hours left on a project I have neglected for the last several weeks...

Oh for the love of God!

Why is it so hard to stay on track and achieve our heart's desires? When I focus intently ahead on a goal, the universe constantly lobs interruptions at me in order to see if I will take my eyes off the ball. 

I choose to ignore the phone, get the water, and blow off the project for one more night, so I can look critically at December. I dodged a lot of bullets this past month, but I caught a few too. I over indulged, skipped a workout for one reason or another, but overall I managed to remain on the path to May 9th. No doubt this was the hardest month to navigate (although I may retract that statement in April, when I am at the hard core end of this training). 

In the eight weeks of focused training with Tina I have doubled the number of push ups per set, increased my max on the bench press by 20 pounds, and importantly, embraced the scale going up rather than down. I have discovered and felt the distinct difference between the medial and the lateral part of the calf muscles, and I continue to learn to trust that it will all fall into place.

Full steam ahead.