January 2018 – Sweat & Sparkle

Working Out Sucks

There is one absolute truth in life that all of us can agree upon: working out when you are fat SUCKS. Hell, just getting dressed to work out when you are overweight sucks. Spandex? On this body? What the hell were you thinking, clothing designers?

I am sure the day will come, in some foggy, distant future, when I actually like working out again. That day is not today. Or tomorrow. Not until a huge amount of this extra weight is gone, but I suppose the only way to do that is to work out, eh?

Ack. I dragged myself to the gym the past two evenings and got reacquainted with the treadmill. I’m still shocked at how badly being sick knocked me on my ass. My endurance and lung capacity are zilch, nada, none, non-existent. It’s scary how much damage it caused, and how long it’s taking to recover.

I’m just taking it easy and letting my body decide how long I run, and at what pace. I went a little longer last night than the day before, so that’s a good sign.

It’s been a long, busy week! I’m ready for the weekend. My three younger stepkids will be home for the weekend, so it’s going to be a full (and loud, and rambunctious) house for a few days.

Confession

I have a confession: I have been just a bit sketchy lately. First, I started skipping weigh-ins. Then I would weigh in but not post it on my weigh-in page. Then I threw a password onto my weigh-in page, so that the whole world couldn’t see it.

Then I wisely smacked myself in the head. What good does it do to hide the truth? Honestly, if I just lie about my weight gain, could I ever in a million years actually believe that it doesn’t show for everyone to see, anyway?

So no more bullshitting. No more stupid games or pretending. I have updated my weigh-in page, removed the password, and am baring all to the world. After reaching 157 pounds in July, I have blown up like a puffer fish back up to…*gulp*…200.6 pounds. God, that hurt to even type. Yep, I am back over 200 pounds, somewhere I said I would never be again.

I’m not going to pretend I have any excuses or reasons for this weight gain. It has been laziness and overeating, pure and simple. I’ve had a lot going on lately, burning the candle at both ends, but I didn’t gain this weight in the last few weeks. I’ve been hurting myself and destroying my body and my health since this summer.

I figured plastering my weight gain on my blog would make me feel more accountable to actually do something about it now. It’s embarrassing to admit I have done this to myself. AGAIN. But it’s there for everyone to see, on my blog and all over my body.

Time to do something about it. I feel a bit shell-shocked, putting this mess into black and white, announcing it to the world, but I knew I had to be honest about it to get a grip on it and turn this around.

One of my inspirations is still my oldest stepson. (Well, all of my stepchildren, but he is the one with us all the time now). Ever since he moved in with us, his dad and I have been encouraging him to try new things, to move forward, to be patient and keep working toward goals and what he wants in life. How much of a hypocrite would I be tell him that, then turn around and keep wallowing in bad habits and unhealthy choices, or turning my back on my goals and what I want in life?

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Protected: My New Endeavor

So Graceful!

The other morning, I was running late for work (what else is new?), and as I made a 50-yard dash across the house, I realized I forgot something, turned quickly…and SPLAT! Rather gracefully, I fell, practically face-planted on the kitchen floor, and managed to bang up a knee as well as my dignity.

My husband helped me up and didn’t even laugh, so gold star to him for that. He even texted me later to see how my knee was feeling.

Surprisingly, it didn’t hurt at all. At first. Later in the afternoon, I stood up from my desk and felt a twinge in my knee. It’s been mildly sore for a few days now. Nothing crazy, nothing making me limp or hunt down crutches, just enough to remind me of my klutzy escapade.

Earlier this week, injured knee and all, I went to the gym and hopped onto the treadmill for the first time since before I got sick, so roughly one million years ago (at least that’s how it feels). Sometime before December, anyway.

I huffed and puffed my way through 2 miles, very slowly, and probably could have just walked faster, but hey, I did it! It’s a start.

This weekend, it should warm up enough to finally kick out my poor potted plants that have been holed up in our workout room, taking refuge from the cold. The room looks like a jungle, and there’s no way I have any room to work out in there right now. So after tomorrow, my workout room should be back to normal, and it’s time to make my workouts a non-negotiable calendar item again!

Crazy

Just where the heck have I been lately? I can sum it up in one word: crazy!

First, a co-worker quit with no notice last week. Take a wild guess whose lap all of that extra work was dumped into. Next, my company, with impeccable timing, took on a consultant being trained by…you guessed it…ME! My work days now consist of frantically treading water, yet still drowning in my ever-growing to-do list.

Last but not least, my older stepson moved in with us recently.

Wait…what? Yep. He was injured at boot camp and sent home a few months ago, which was a crushing disappointment for him. But he had an even bigger disappointment waiting for him at his other home.

My stepchildren are lied to, pushed around, forced to live in upheaval, chaos, and insanity, all so their egg donor can hoard drama and attention at their expense. All of my stepkids are wounded. Living with a mentally-unbalanced mother has taken its toll, and it’s only getting worse. How do I possibly explain to young kids why their own mother lies to them, steals from them, screams insults about their father one minute and cries about missing him the next, demands to know what their stepmother wears to bed? How do I comfort them when they are painfully embarrassed by her?

They are all old enough to understand something is seriously wrong with their mother. They are dragged from home to home on her selfish whim, forced to listen to her screaming matches and threats, then ordered through grit teeth to put on an act and pretend to be a happy family, damn it. They want to escape, flee to the sanity, peace, and stability of our home, but are shouted at for wanting to be with their dad. They are ordered to pretend their mother is normal, when it is horrifically obvious she is not.

The kids were with us this past weekend, and when we dropped them off at their address-of-the-week, they made it clear they didn’t want to go. Why would they? At our home, we have structure, rules, stability, but also fun, laughter, love, affection. At their other home, they leave a bag packed for the next caterwauling fight, the next senseless argument, the next “I’m leaving and taking the kids with me”.

My older stepson committed the high crime of wanting to be with his sane parent. Psycho now childishly badmouths him.

She already badmouths me, because she is violently jealous. She badmouths my husband because he does not love her anymore, and she can’t make him.

And guess who is forced to hear her vomiting up venom and hate about people they love and care about?

The ones paying the ultimate price, the ones dealing with the full brunt of her crazy, the ones slung around with no regard for their feelings, are the kids. Again. Always.

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