So this morning I met with my new trainer at the completely reasonable hour of 7:30 a.m.

I have to tell you that now that I work downtown, my life is decidedly simpler. Like not having to get up at the crack of dawn to work out and make it to work on time rocks.

She was awesome. We had a solid workout together and we're very simpatico in terms of how we view weight training and the client/trainer relationship. Also she did not creep me out like the last trainer they hooked me up with, who made weird sexist comments about how "girls are" when working with trainers and who wanted me to report back to him every week with what I was eating.

The only caveat is that she made me promise to lift four times a week. I'm certainly better at lifting than I was - and let me tell you how much of a difference I could feel when she was putting me through the ringer this morning. Twenty push ups? No problem! Go me! - but Lord is that a lot of extra lifting. I'm going to do it, because I promised, and she said on the fifth day I do my cardio but I imagine I'll add some extra running in there. I just can't imagine not running every day again, now that the weather has shaped up.

Anyway, so we're going to meet every Monday morning now. A nice way to start out the week, I think.

I had a nice run with my dog on Saturday, even though it was still a bit too cold so I had to wear gloves. We're going running again tonight after work, though I suppose it'll be gloves again. Whatever. It's not freezing and it's not snowing so I'm not complaining.

****

It's only fair, I think that I share with you the moments where I totally lose my shit, where I fall apart into a pile of irrational goo, all made up of my insecurities and body image issues.

There were some decidedly unflattering pictures of me taken last week. The angle, the way I was sitting, the ten pounds of bloat on my face from the night before - which included much cheese and wine with my girlfriends as we celebrated an engagement - all contributed to these horrible shots. I about wanted to crawl into a hole and cry.

This reaction is so primal to me, so apart from my conscious thought. At the time, I felt really good about how I looked, and I know that the dress makes no cover up or excuses for my large stomach. It's a clingy, form-fitted wrap dress and I love it and it makes my tits look big and so I love wearing it. But those pictures seems to undo, or attempt to undo, all of the work that it's taken for me to be OK with not being perfect in a dress that asks nothing but, simply because I love it.

I took some deep breaths, quieted myself for a while, and realized that yes, I had gained some weight since January, but I was actively working on it - wine and cheese notwithstanding. Yes the medicine has done some damage, but this was a tough winter, too. I was sick a lot, tired ... I hibernated some.

Seeing myself in a picture that reminds me of my old life - when I didn't take care of myself and engaged in numerous bad habits of both the emotional and physical nature - shakes me up but it shouldn't. I am active. I work hard. I keep at it. I have faith in myself and trust myself enough that I'll continue to take care of my body so that I'm never that person again.

Not that "fat" person. Just that unhappy person.

I stepped on the scale Saturday morning to learn that nothing had changed since I'd last stepped on a scale, was captured in that picture, and that morning. 146. No ups or downs. Just 146 pounds. It's amazing, truly, what bloat, a night with no sleep and a bad camera angle can do.

My sister called me yesterday to tell me she found a picture of me from my 25th birthday party. "This doesn't even look like you," she said. My sister, you need to know, is not one to use this sort of language or point something like this out. "Your face was about three times bigger and your belly is actually hanging out."

The thing is, I remember these pictures. And that my bare belly ended up hanging out of most of them. Why no one told me is beyond me. Anyway, I remember these pictures and that I don't much resemble the person in those pictures anymore. And it's not solely because I'm older. Or because I'm thinner. Both are contributing factors, to be sure.

Mostly, though, those pictures don't much resemble me because I wasn't particularly self-aware in my twenties and certainly didn't value myself as I should have and it showed. I was, as I told my sister, a "hot mess."

Oy. I was a hot mess if ever there was one.

So anyway, it's still hard to see an image where I'm reminded of those days and not get upset. The difference now is that I've learned how to shake it off. It's hard, and it's still humbling, but it's better.

Posted by Erin at 02:09 PM | filed under: Training