Bad Blogger; Big Biceps

I'll just start by saying I've been a bad blogger. Every Sunday for the past three weeks I've had grand plans to write an update, and every Sunday goes by without a post. To my humble readers: I apologize and will try to be better in the future. 


Josh and I are now 64 days into our P90X program and at the beginning of each month, we take our measurements. Biceps, stomach, chest, stomach, thighs and calves are all carefully wrapped with a pretty pink tape measure and recorded on a notecard that hangs on our fridge. I'll be honest: the numbers are misleading. In fact, the only change is a half-inch loss in my stomach. And I wasn't totally convinced this program was working until a week before Thanksgiving. 


My sister Brooke and her boyfriend, Jake, came into town to celebrate the holiday early. That Saturday, Brooke and I went out to do a little shopping when Brooke came across a cute crop jacket. One of the best things about having a twin is the ability to have the other one try on clothes to see how you look in them. Who needs a mirror when you have a lifesize replica of yourself? Anywho, I put on the jacket so Brooke could see what SHE would look like wearing it. As soon as I put it on, I said "chica, it's cute but it's too tight in the arms." Disappointed, my sister asked if she could try on the jacket to make sure I was telling the truth. 

After slipping her arms through the sleeves, Brooke laughs and says "it fits me just fine." 

The bottom line: even though my measurements haven't changed, I've definitely toned up in lots of places. I feel better when I run. My back pain has all but disappeared. AND I can carry in all the groceries in one trip (which, when you park near the back of the lot, is a HUGE bonus). 


So, Josh and I have every intention of continuing our workouts well past 90 days. It's been quite a ride so far and I can't wait to start my hardcore training in January!

Diversions in San Antonio

I'm waiting for my team in the lobby of this beautiful hotel overlooking the valleys near San Antonio. It's been 70 degrees everyday, sunny and by all measures, perfect. However, I've only been outside twice in the last five days and am sad to report that I did not see one square foot of Texas outside my resort. I've spent the last several days at a national sales meeting for Hormel Food Service. After working countless hours the past five months on various projects relating to the convention, it was extremely rewarding to see it all come together. In a person record, I managed to work 70+ hours from Tuesday to yesterday and, I'll be honest, I'm completely exhausted.

The great thing about foodservice people is that we LOVE food. Hence, we eat and drink the finest palate pleasers whenever we get together. Roasted salmon, mixed greens with goat cheese and fresh cranberries, pork wellington, molten lava chocolate cake and several glasses of chardonnay (yes, I actually drank the stuff I usually refer to as akin to "licking an oak barrel"). But this crazy schedule and non-stop food fest resulted in me completely ignoring my P90X workouts.

I could tell you that getting up at 5:30 every morning this week and working until 11:00pm prevented me from keeping to my schedule. I could tell you that my hotel room was too small to complete the workouts. But part of our conference this week stressed the importance of accountability; that providing excuses doesn't make us or our team better. So instead I'll tell you that I simply didn't make it a priority. That I chose to catch a quick power nap or relax instead of doing my routine.

My husband on the other hand has stuck to it like a champion. He worked out even while contractors are in our condo remodeling the bathroom. He worked out despite getting several phone calls in the middle of Yoga X. He worked out even though he had work to do later that night. So this post is mostly dedicated to how awesome my hubby is. His dedication is truly remarkable and I couldn't be more proud.

So as I head home today, Josh will pick me up from the airport and bring me to Cuppa Java as we do every weekend since we got married. He'll let me take a super long nap even though we haven't seen each other in almost a week. And then, he'll smile and get me right back into training tonight.

Day 30

Hard to believe but Josh and I have been doing P90X for 30 whole days! 

Sure, 30 days in the grand scheme of things doesn't seem like a lot, but there are some things to celebrate:

• I can do a crane pose for 2 seconds (this is a huge improvement over me falling on my ass repeatedly)
• I can ALMOST get through Ab Ripper X without wanting to puke
• I'm able to do more than one push-up (closer to 25 if I'm cheating on my knees)
• When I go running, I feel stronger
• And I lost a half an inch on my tummy!

Of course, 30 days isn't a miracle worker and even though we've been working hard, there is still a long road ahead of us. Things to look forward to:

• Losing weight. Yes, we've been working hard but our bodies are hanging onto those pounds like they're going out of style. Hopefully those pesky few will start to melt off between now and day 60
• Being able to finish the Ab Ripper workout and do ALL 340 reps
• Starting the new workout: biceps, triceps, shoulders this week

Overall, I'm really happy with where we're at. I know the things I'm proud of might seem silly to other people, but it's a huge accomplishment if you've ever done these workouts. I'm a little nervous about next week as I'll be in San Antonio for a conference and need to figure out how to get my workouts done in a teeny-tiny hotel room. It will also be the first time I have to do the routines by myself. I'll admit, at first I was a bit nervous to workout together considering my lack of upper body strength, but it has been a HUGE HELP. Josh is a great cheerleader (minus the short skirt and high pitched voice) during the routines and it's been (dare I say it?) fun to have dedicated time each day where we do something together. 

In other news, thank you to everyone who shared their thoughts about my mom. I was overwhelmed with how many people sent me a message about her and gave advice on things to try. She is doing pretty well the last few days (and wanted me to clarify that she CAN move, just not very well....apparently a few friends thought she was in early stages of rigor mortis). Again, thank you for all your thoughts and prayers, it means the world to me. 

Reality Check

Last night we did our Cardio workout, 45 minutes of some intense yoga, plyometics and kick-boxing. Josh and I laugh that it's the "shortest and easiest" workout of the entire program. The whole time I'm kicking and sword-jabbing in our living room, there is only one thing on my mind:


My mom. 

I won't go into all the details about how freakin' awesome my mom is, but she's pretty much the best person on the planet. I'm worried because she can't move. Things like bending over to get in the cupboard or pushing yourself off from the ground after kneeling is painful and almost impossible. She's been to a dozen doctors, had two thousand blood tests and the answer is always the same: normal. But it's not normal. She's 56 years old and can barely get out of bed because she is in so much pain. She stretches for an hour every morning trying to loosen things up but nothing helps.


And today she called me after another doctor told her all the tests came back negative. We've tried everything from Lyme's disease to Lupus and still, nothing shows up. So as I write about training and working my body to its limits, my mom can barely walk up and down the stairs. I'm to the point of tears because I can't do anything. I've searched WebMd, Mayo clinic and random internet chat sites hoping to stumble on a cure or something that would help her.


I don't want this post to be a huge downer for people. But I also want to be honest about what's going on, and life isn't always humorous. Today was a reality check for me. That our bodies are not guaranteed to work for an eternity. We need to take care of them now so they can take care of us later.


So if you believe in prayer, or meditation or throwing pennies into murky water at the mall to make a wish come true, one of those gestures for my mom would mean a lot to me. For now, I'm going to keep up my routine and (childishly) hope that some of my new strength finds its way to my mother. 

It's Over

Well, all good things must come to an end. It's been an incredible journey, one filled with laughter, love, headaches, mood swings and (towards the end) an inability to sleep. In the back of my mind, I knew it couldn't last forever but I'm amazed our partnership lasted as long as it did. 

Oh Mountain Dew, I will miss you.

After a 15 year love affair, I've decided to slowly separate myself from this scrumptious green fizzy drink. I'm actually having mild anxiety over this decision because, let's be honest, I still LOVE the stuff. I don't care that the target audience is pimple faced 17 year old males that watch the X-games and hate their parents. I don't care that it has so much sugar, dentists can quickly identify patients with "Mountain Dew Syndrome" because of all their tooth decay. And I don't care that most adults take one sip and tell me it tastes like pure corn syrup with a hint of citrus. 

But I do care that it's finally starting to make me sick. After years of chugging this delicious neon narcotic, I can no longer ignore the fact that I am getting headaches for no reason (I'm drinking so much water there is no way I'm dehydrated, but it was my first guess). I feel like puking around 4:30 almost everyday and yesterday, it all became clear that I couldn't continue on this path. 

Josh and I had to work out late (I had library duty until 8 and he had choir until 8:45). We were scheduled to do Ken Po X (my favorite!) but as soon as I started the jumping jacks, I knew I wouldn't make it. 20 jabs and a few downward dogs later, I'm sitting in the chair, watching Josh complete the workout without me (insert my super sad face). And I realized this wasn't the first time I've felt this way, and surely wouldn't be the last. As I crawled into bed with an icepack over my face, arranging myself in the fetal position, I knew I couldn't ignore it any longer. Mountain Dew and I needed to break up.

So today, as I type this, I'm saying good bye. I had a few "farewell" sips and chucked the rest into the garbage. Will this last? Will I have major caffeine withdrawal? Only time will tell. 

Attempting the Crane Pose

"Grab a pillow and try not to fall on your head."


There we are, once again attempting non human-like positions in our living room while watching Tony and the gang bend like flexi-straws. I'm looking at the television with equal parts fascination and self doubt. This life size Ken doll wants me to bend my elbows and balance the entire weight of my body on my hands???

We're nearing the end of our workout and I can't believe how difficult this is. I'm sweating, my hamstrings are jello and that thing called my "core" is on fire. And here I am, on my squishy purple mat ready to attempt a balancing act seals would bark at (I'm laughing at my own joke here). 


So I squat down and place my elbows up into my arm pits and try to steady the rest of my body. Josh is lying crumpled in a ball near the fan after one too many reverse half moon poses. Listening to the smooth jazz radio in the background, I prepare my chi and begin to raise my toes off the ground.


THUD.


I don't even get one foot to defy gravity before I come crashing down onto the floor. I sheepishly dig my face out from the carpet fibers and roll myself into the fetal position. I rock at the fetal position. It's like napping but with focused energy. 


So this is my new short term goal. I will be able to do a Crane Pose before competing in Tough Mudder. My balance and severe lack of upper body strength will be a challenge, but I'm going to do it. Hell, this pose is so awesome I will bust it out at cocktail parties and family reunions. But first, I need a way fluffier pillow....

The Discovery of Butt Bras (no, really)

I always get a kick out of browsing the top stories on Yahoo! before checking my email each day. There are a variety of story highlights to pique my interest: healthy foods I've never heard of, celebrities doing stuff "just like me" and travel facts on cities I may be lucky enough to visit sometime in the future. A while back, they had the headline "7 Cities About to Sink." Places like Bangkok, Venice and Shanghai are all on the list. But it's Houston's habit of extracting ground water and proximity to the Gulf of Mexico that is causing it to sink about two inches a year. 


Now, why is that random fact even worth mentioning here? Because my ass is experiencing the same phenomenon. Over the past decade, my butt cheeks have started their own descent. And their migratory pattern wasn't much of a concern until last week when I started doing jumping jacks for the first time in 17 years. 

There we are, Josh and I dressed in our sweats and lightly jogging place while Tony tells us why Core-metrics should be our favorite workout. After running in place and stretching our cold muscles so early in the morning, we begin one minute of jumping jacks. The sensation I feel as my legs go out and my hands shoot above my head is immediate horror. The first part of the move is easy, graceful as a swan. But as my feet come back together to begin another rep I feel an odd sensation.


GATHUNK. GATHUNK. GATHUNK.

Part of me wants to turn around, to confirm what I already know. It's my butt hitting the back of my thighs. It feels like a water soaked sponge attached to my lower back, and it's refusal to move upwards with the rest of my body is confusing me. I don't remember this physical sensation from my childhood. In fact, I was the fourth grade Jump Rope for Heart champion, jumping my tiny feet for nearly two hours straight and winning a bright blue windbreaker that would make MC Hammer jealous (and I mean super jealous, that jacket was righteous). It's like I need a butt bra or something to keep my bum up!!


So I went on Google and looked up "butt bra." Imagine my complete shock to find such this contraption actually exists (seriously, I'm not making this shit up). The company Bubbles Body Wear makes, not one, but SEVERAL versions of a butt bra. The one below is called the "Double O Bum Bra Brief" and enhances the shape and lift of your derriere and gives the illusion of a professional butt-lift (those are their words, not mine).

A bum bra. I'm laughing and disturbed all in the same moment. We've clearly reached another dimension of reality where a product like this can exist and make money. So as I'm scrolling through the Bubbles Body Wear online catalog, I decide that regardless of how ridiculous I feel doing jumping jacks in my living room, I'm going to stick with this crazy P90X program. No matter how many times I fall over doing Twisted Triangle during our Yoga-X workout, I'm going to get back up. And no matter how many times I want to reach through the screen and kill Tony when he announces yet another set of lunges, I will think of butt bras.  And keep right on going.

Before and After Photos

If you came here expecting to find a picture of me in some kind of spandex outfit with the words "DAY 1" photoshopped below my feet, I'm sorry to disappoint you. I had every intention of doing a before shot on Saturday morning while Josh was at choir. That's when the problems began....


What picture to use?


There are two competing philosophies here. The first encourages you to post one of your worst photos so the "after" shot is truly awe-inspiring. This photo typically involves a questionable use of spandex clothing, bare midriff, and old crappy sports bra and no makeup or hair styling (see exhibit A).

(exhibit A).

The second philosophy believes your current self esteem is more important than the end result, especially if other people are going to see this photo. This shot requires makeup application, a full hair blow out, spanx and a contorted angle to give you the appearance of an existing six-pack (see exhibit B).

(exhibit B)

I truly wish you could have witnessed the disaster that unfolded in my tiny 10 x 3 foot closet. It was one of the greatest meltdowns in human history. Tears were shed, curse words uttered and finally, I smiled and realized that this photo was not going to happen. So here's the truth: the only people that get to see me in my unflattering workout gear is my husband and our unfortunate neighbors across the street forced to witness our nightly P90X attempts.




We did take measurements of all those important body parts (abs, arms, waist, etc) to make sure we're making progress. But unless you want to stalk our condo in St. Louis Park, you'll have to wait for the "after" photos (that may or may not appear on this blog, I haven't decided).




Love,
NutterMudder

Hydration = Duct Tape of Health

"You're probably dehydrated." 

If my husband is reading this, I guarantee he is rolling his eyes and swearing under his breath. The number of times I've uttered this phrase in his presence during our (nearly) four years together is astronomical.  Its occurrence is right up there with "I love you" and "I'm reading."


In my world, hydration is the duct tape to any medical condition that ails you. Headache? You're dehydrated. Muscles sore? You're dehydrated. Gangrene? I'd say dehydration is part of the problem. Never mind there is no scientific evidence to back up most of my claims; I haughtily insist drinking a few glasses of nature's cocktail will cure everything.  


To demonstrate my allegiance to this credo, I bought the biggest water bottle I could find last week at the grocery store. I'll be honest: it looks like a mini-culigan water jug. In fact, it makes the same noise when I drink out of it because it's so damn big. How big is it you ask? 


A half gallon.


That's right. That half gallon of milk it takes us two weeks to polish off, I decided an H2O version PER DAY at work was a good idea. *glug, glug, glug* (that's me taking a swig from my pretty blue bottle). 

Are you mocking me yet? Yeah, I don't blame you.

Fitness Test Flashback

We're standing in our living room against a wall, trying to keep our knees from shaking as the man on the television shouts what is supposed to be positive reinforcement. I don't get how we're supposed to relate to these people. The blonde gymnast looks like a Russian martial arts expert with concave abs and biceps that could be used to club people to death. The host, wearing his official P90X branded tank top, has Don Draper hair and a smile orthodontists fantasize about at night. Meanwhile, Josh and I are red in the face, panting like smokers that got ambitious and tried to sprint 100 meters. With twenty seconds left on the last wall sit, we collapse on our oatmeal colored carpet, legs burning and all misconceptions about how "in shape" we are quickly melting away.

We attempted our first session of P90X on Sunday evening. And it wasn’t until the host told us to head over to the pull-up bar that I suddenly realized that I was in a fitness test flashback.  There I am, eight years old, wearing my purple floral leggings and matching top, waiting in line like I’m ready to be executed.

Not all parts of the Greenleaf Elementary School fitness test are created equal in my eyes. The walk across the balance beam and “sit and reach” components of that day are a cakewalk in my eyes. I have the grace and poise of a drunken ballerina: it’s not pretty, but I manage to stay upright and flexible with ease.  I can do 75 sit-ups in a minute with my best friend Lindsey holding my feet while our teacher yells at us to keep our butts on the mat. And despite my slight fear of heights and less than stellar coordination, I manage to hoist myself up and down the cargo net with only a few kids laughing when I look down and my humungous pink glasses slip off my nose and tumble to the floor.

But now I’m in line for my least favorite event. I always save this for last, letting other kids budge in line in hopes that the bell will ring before I reach the front of the queue. My palms are already sweating as I watch the boy in front of me try out for American Gladiators and complete 7 pull-ups before falling to the ground. He is cooler to us than Jean Claude Van Damme, eyeing the rest of our group up and down like the token jock in poorly written teen comedies.

It’s my turn and with a deep breath, a quick prayer to God for some subhuman strength I know doesn’t exist in my weak little arms, I make my way to the pull up bar. Stepping onto the plastic chair, my teacher gives me a wink and a nod, “Whenever you’re ready Ashley.” This is my moment. This time will be different. I can feel the muscles in my arms flex. My confidence soars and a smile creeps across my face. Placing my hands firmly on the metal rail, I look down at my purple sparkle shoelaces and know that I’m ready.

Hoisting myself off the chair, I feel elated. I’m bringing my chin towards the bar, reaching out like Adam to God in that super awesome painting in the Sistine Chapel. My eyes are wide. A laugh escapes my chest as I realize I’m going to make it.

“One, “ I hear my teacher whisper. “Keep it up.”

And with that voice of confidence, my arms drop like anchors. I’m hanging on for dear life, my Keds kicking lightly like somehow I can swim up to the bar again. My elbows begin to shake and I fall onto the mat below.

Yep. That’s my lifetime record. One unassisted pull-up. Go me.

According to the official training guide for Tough Mudder, contestants should be able to do 6 pull-ups easily before race day. So as we sit on our living room floor, cursing the inventor of P90X, I realize we have a long way to go. But the good news: we have time and despite the burning in my legs, a positive attitude that I can seriously do this. Sparkly purple shoelaces or not, I’m going to do this.

So we clean ourselves up, drink plenty of water, and look forward to our next trial run workout on Thursday.

What was I thinking?

Last night I sat in bed reading, enjoying another chapter of Anna Karenina when my husband, Josh, came into the bedroom. "What's this $106 charge on our credit card?" he asked, showing me his computer. 
"Oh, that's for Tough Mudder," I replied nonchalantly.
"Seriously?"
Our eyes met, his brows pointed like the alps in disbelief while mine narrowed in defense. 
"Yes," I snapped while licking my finger to turn the page.

I'll admit, this was an impulse decision. And usually the bigger decision, the less I think about it. For example, I woke up one day in 2007 and decided I was going to Africa for six weeks to teach HIV/AIDS education in the middle of nowhere. Nevermind the fact that I'd never camped more than two nights in a row, find most outdoor creatures disgusting and didn't have the $3,000 needed for the trip.  But I managed to raise money from bewildered co-workers and family, bought underwear you only needed to wash once every three weeks, and even got shots for typhoid and yellow fever.  A week before my trip, civil war broke out in Kenya and I decided that getting shot by some guy on the side of the road wearing a Nike shirt while wielding an AK-47 wasn't the best way to start the new year.


Other similar impulse decisions include:

• All 4 of my tattoos (average wait period: 6 hours)
• Deciding that 20 minutes into our first date, I was going to marry Josh (which I did)
• Quitting my job via post-it note (yes, this actually happened)

Which leads me to yesterday. Work was slow that afternoon and I decided to kill some time on Facebook. It was like a sign from God when I logged on:

1 event upcoming.

Ok, it wasn't a booming voice in some bush but God knows he needs to take unusual measures to get my attention, even if its through the evil troll Mark Zuckerburg. So I click on the event and see my PERSONAL INVITATION to join a team for Tough Mudders 2012.  Without reading about what Tough Mudder is or the physical fitness requirements, I sign up. I did a little dance at my desk (and was immediately out of breath) before grabbing my daily afternoon snack: a Mountain Dew. 

And that brings me to today. When I actually went on the official Tough Mudder website and read about this death defying obstacle course designed by the British military.  Here are some of the highlights:

WARNING: Tough Mudder is 3 - 4 times longer and much tougher than a typical mud run. On average, only 78% of participants finish the event. Only those in reasonably strong physical condition should enter. See our Training Page for training requirements. 



Training requirements? An average completion time of 3 hours? A mandatory signature on an accident policy in case of traumatic injury? Oops, maybe should have thought this through a bit more. 


So I started this blog. Because next week, I start training for what will likely be the worst physical experience of my entire life (besides childbirth, but I do get a free glass of beer if I cross the finish line. Last time I checked, hospitals don't dole out free booze for popping out a kid so I got that going for me). And I want to share my journey with others who can laugh at me, laugh at this ridiculously crazy task, and cheer me on as I become:


A tough mudder.