So, I’ve been trying hard (okay, pretty hard… most of the time) to adjust my eating and exercise habits since January 2nd. I didn’t win the Biggest Loser Contest at work. I came in second in my group. The woman who won weighed a bit less than I did and lost one pound more than I did, so she had a higher body weight lost percentage.
I was kind of disappointed, especially since I would have loved to use the $200 to pay for some personal training sessions with the Pilates instructor, while the woman who won said today that she’s not really motivated to stay on track anymore. Great…
However, I didn’t really lose the $25 I put up to enter in the competition. The company pitched in and gave each contestant a $25 gift certificate to his/her choice of a massage or a meal at the Olive Garden. I took the massage. I figure I’ve rewarded myself with food enough for this lifetime. Perhaps I should take a different approach.
I’ve lost 14.5 pounds since the beginning of the year, and I’m happy about that. At the beginning of February, I had to go for follow-up bloodwork so they could do an a1c hemoglobin test, which measures the amount of sugar that’s been in your blood for 2-3 months. My level had apparently dropped to 6.0, which is the cusp of normal. The doctor was pleased with that, although he did say he’d like to see it drop to 5.5 just for some cushion.
(For those of you who may have forgotten, last November, my doctor pretty much mandated that I lose weight because he felt that while I wasn’t pre-diabetic yet, he believed my pancreas was working at capacity. Sugar and glucose tests came back peaking just above normal, and unfortunately, the doctor just doesn’t believe that it’s my sweet disposition. What an ass…)
The main thing is I’ve been trying to keep up an exercise routine, which thanks to the city’s sports center, has been relatively easy to do. I’ve been going nearly every morning at 5:30 am and going 45 minutes on the treadmill, and on Tuesday and Thursday evenings after work, I go back and make the rounds on the weight machines — which, on the way home, always makes me want to do the Pacino “hoo-aahh” from Scent of a Woman. Then on Monday and Wednesday nights I take a power yoga class — which Kicks. My. Ass.
My previous experience with yoga has been a Yoga for Dummies DVD, one I totally recommend to anyone looking to do some easy poses at home. Let’s just say that this class is like that DVD on steroids. We do a series of sun salutations going from standing to bellies on the floor and back to a standing position, all while focusing on doing the inhales and exhales with the proper movements. I’m lucky if I’m not hyperventilating at the end of them.
During the second half of these classes, we do a series of poses designed to
torture work the abs. Some of these moves involve bringing your knees in to your chest — something that’s hard enough for me anyway because of The Gut — and it’s during these poses that I have my greatest fear… the fear of farting in class.
Fortunately for me (but unfortunately for another woman), I was not the person to break the silence (pardon the pun). Two weeks ago, an older woman was taking this class for the first time, and when the instructor told us to bring our knees in to our chest and slowly rock up to a seated position, this woman followed the instruction, and as she rose up, her gas went down… and out.
And I mean, it wasn’t just a short toot. It sounded like it came from as far up as her esophagus. My initial relief at the fact that I hadn’t been the first one to pass gas, however, was quickly replaced by feeling sorry for the woman as I saw her wipe a couple of tears away. At that point, I wanted to work one up, just so she wouldn’t have to feel alone.
The woman was there with a friend, and when class was over, the instructor proved her awesomeness by going over to the woman, putting a hand on her shoulder, and giving her some quiet words of encouragement.
If it ever happens me, I’ll probably just keep the embarrassment rolling by strolling through the men’s locker room naked once class is over with. Why stop with one mortifying moment when you can go ahead and get several more out of the way?