Week Four: Weight, Weight Don't Tell Me!
Jul. 28th, 2010 04:32 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
captainsblogNot that much new on the exercise end of things. We made up a class which got moved from late last week after Sally took her idea of a "vacation"- flying to Puerto Rico for a ballroom dance competition which, surprise surprise, she won just about every category she competed in. She got home Sunday and was back to a full day of make-up classes, plus a regular schedule of them all the rest of the week.
Meanwhile, I've discovered a copy of the curriculum for our workouts left laid carelessly next to the cardio machines there:
Thus, when I go in for a rescheduled lower-body day on Friday (8 a.m. yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii), I'm fully expecting the Bill and Ted quote someone reminded me of: Drop and give me infinity!
----
Meanwhile, on the results end of things, I've gone out of my way not to obsess about The Numbers. I could easily do so; ask my wife about how painstakingly I track every penny of office and household receipts and expenses. I'm just trying to maintain an overall sense of whether things are improving, and I think they are. Some things seem to fit better (less so on ridiculously humid days in full-contact lawyer clothes); I'm sleeping a bit better, and longer if not awakened by alarmery; and Eleanor noticed that at least the shoulders, they of the prior weeks' pain, are showing a bit of progress.
Vanity prevailed on me, and I asked her to confirm whether she thought my general sense of overall weight was right: I still look fat, but at least I don't look pregnant.
Her reply: You still look pregnant, but not like you're about to deliver.
Hey. I was about 20 percent offput by that, 30 percent impressed by her comeback line, and most important, 50 percent encouraged that at least SOME progress has been made.
(Did I say I can obsess about numbers or what?)
----
Ah, but then there's the objective measure of that. The S-word that so many seem to take as the be-all and end-all of their fitness progress: The (duh-duh-DUNNNNNNN!) Scale.
It's always been a stressful moment for me, having everything judged by just that one three-digit number. It was that way in my 20s when it was in the low 200's, and hasn't gone down in stress any as the number has gone up. It's the first thing the doctor checks, even if you're in for something for your head and not your body, and when that 50-pounder starts to look more and more like it's going to slide in to the 300-slot and still need more help, you really get the feeling of failure.
At my last gym, it even became something of a deterrent. There must have been either a lawsuit or a denial of a warranty claim, because one day, all of the cardio machines suddenly sprouted a variety of weight limits. I was under all of them, but closer than I would've liked to be. The unfairness of it all was what struck me the most; it would be like banning the sale of bottled water in a desert snack bar because the refrigeration bill was getting too high.
My current cardio place doesn't even have one. Allegedly, somebody asked and they said they were afraid of somebody stealing it. Granted, a room full of hulking male bodybuilder types could probably pull that off, but I'd hope there'd be enough left to at least stand in the guy's way and grunt a few times. We do, however, have a digital one at home. It sits in the corner and, lately, has called its siren song to me, like the slot machine chasing the grumpy old man in that old Twilight Zone episode.
Finally, this afternoon, preparing for another cardio session and wearing what I always wore back when there was a scale in the locker room, I gave in. And the number is:
n.
If you really want to know what it is, I'll tell you. It is about 10 pounds below what I last remember it being, but whatever variables in clothes and overall condition there may have been between then and now make that a totally unreliable loss figure. The important thing, though, is the quantity of that number going +/- over the next several weeks and months, and the quality of the weight that makes it up. Muscle weighs more than fat and all that. I'm going to try not to get unrealistically encouraged by n-10 any more than a sudden n+5 will make me miserable.
I do need to be careful, though. The laws of physics require that the more I weigh, the faster I'll descend to the lowest circle of hell;)
Meanwhile, I've discovered a copy of the curriculum for our workouts left laid carelessly next to the cardio machines there:
Thus, when I go in for a rescheduled lower-body day on Friday (8 a.m. yiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii), I'm fully expecting the Bill and Ted quote someone reminded me of: Drop and give me infinity!
----
Meanwhile, on the results end of things, I've gone out of my way not to obsess about The Numbers. I could easily do so; ask my wife about how painstakingly I track every penny of office and household receipts and expenses. I'm just trying to maintain an overall sense of whether things are improving, and I think they are. Some things seem to fit better (less so on ridiculously humid days in full-contact lawyer clothes); I'm sleeping a bit better, and longer if not awakened by alarmery; and Eleanor noticed that at least the shoulders, they of the prior weeks' pain, are showing a bit of progress.
Vanity prevailed on me, and I asked her to confirm whether she thought my general sense of overall weight was right: I still look fat, but at least I don't look pregnant.
Her reply: You still look pregnant, but not like you're about to deliver.
Hey. I was about 20 percent offput by that, 30 percent impressed by her comeback line, and most important, 50 percent encouraged that at least SOME progress has been made.
(Did I say I can obsess about numbers or what?)
----
Ah, but then there's the objective measure of that. The S-word that so many seem to take as the be-all and end-all of their fitness progress: The (duh-duh-DUNNNNNNN!) Scale.
It's always been a stressful moment for me, having everything judged by just that one three-digit number. It was that way in my 20s when it was in the low 200's, and hasn't gone down in stress any as the number has gone up. It's the first thing the doctor checks, even if you're in for something for your head and not your body, and when that 50-pounder starts to look more and more like it's going to slide in to the 300-slot and still need more help, you really get the feeling of failure.
At my last gym, it even became something of a deterrent. There must have been either a lawsuit or a denial of a warranty claim, because one day, all of the cardio machines suddenly sprouted a variety of weight limits. I was under all of them, but closer than I would've liked to be. The unfairness of it all was what struck me the most; it would be like banning the sale of bottled water in a desert snack bar because the refrigeration bill was getting too high.
My current cardio place doesn't even have one. Allegedly, somebody asked and they said they were afraid of somebody stealing it. Granted, a room full of hulking male bodybuilder types could probably pull that off, but I'd hope there'd be enough left to at least stand in the guy's way and grunt a few times. We do, however, have a digital one at home. It sits in the corner and, lately, has called its siren song to me, like the slot machine chasing the grumpy old man in that old Twilight Zone episode.
Finally, this afternoon, preparing for another cardio session and wearing what I always wore back when there was a scale in the locker room, I gave in. And the number is:
n.
If you really want to know what it is, I'll tell you. It is about 10 pounds below what I last remember it being, but whatever variables in clothes and overall condition there may have been between then and now make that a totally unreliable loss figure. The important thing, though, is the quantity of that number going +/- over the next several weeks and months, and the quality of the weight that makes it up. Muscle weighs more than fat and all that. I'm going to try not to get unrealistically encouraged by n-10 any more than a sudden n+5 will make me miserable.
I do need to be careful, though. The laws of physics require that the more I weigh, the faster I'll descend to the lowest circle of hell;)