May the force be with you...

Long, long ago [ok, like 3 months ago...] 

in a galaxy far, far, away [or really, more like in my back computer/sewing/treadmill room]

an epic struggle was underway between the forces of good [that would be me]

and of evil [that would be the treadmill]

Last year our office had a "Biggest Loser" contest that was oh-so-originally inspired by the t.v. show of the same name.  (Our office manager is not what you would call super creative). However, unlike the beefy contestants on t.v. show, we office dwellers were not provided with personal trainers, dedicated chefs, or like 5 weeks of vacation from our daily grind and lives in which to transform ourselves from chubby little lawyers/paralegals/assistants into poster children for the healthy and fit lifestyle.  But, we did have to come in each week and meet with a "nutritionist" and weigh in so the "nutritionist" could chart our progress.  This pretty much did it for me..I am very competitive and if I am being graded/scored/charted then I am pretty much going to give it my all because I just came into this world naturally wanting the shiny gold start sticker on my paper. And, while I am sure the "nutritionist" is a love-ly person, it really did not help that the person that had to weigh me in each week (like I was some beached whale having her stats recorded by a sadistic marine biologist) was this little, teeny-tiny, lithe, petite blonde who honestly looked as if she had never lifted anything weighing much more than her 3 lb. can of hairspray, let alone had to work out to maintain her figure.   Bitch. 

Ok, so I join the competition and after the first week or so I see progress on the scales...of course, I am now living off of ricotta cheese, fruit, salads, and eggs...but still, the scale starts moving downwards.  Then it stops moving...that damn little needle just wouldn't budge no matter how many gallons of water I drank a day or how much arugula I consumed at every meal.   [sigh]  I had to face it...if I wanted to keep making progress towards the shiny gold star and be able to stick it to Twiggy, then I was going to have to....exercise.  Ugh.

I've never been an exerciser...partly because God only gave me enough coordination to make it up a flight of stairs on a good day...and partly (well mostly) because I'm just lazy.  So, taking on an exercise regimen was quite a daunting task for me.  But I did...I started a vigorous hiking program on the treadmill with multiple inclines, speeds, and heavy breathing.  At first it just sucked ass...there are no other words for it. Then, it got better.  I actually got to where I was looking forward to tackling the workout each day because I felt so much better afterwards. Me? Really? I also started mixing in some pilates and yoga (it's amazing how sore your body can get from just holding still...).  Pretty soon the scale was moving again, but more importantly I felt better and could see and feel the changes in my body.  The contest ended, and I still kept up my routine.

That is...until some time in October. I'm still not sure what happened, but around October the whole exercise thing just kind of vanished.  The treadmill became buried under a pile of summer weight comforters and blankets...my pilates mat returned to it's hiding place...and my cute little hiking shorts migrated to the back of the shelf.  I was still eating pretty healthy (not as strict as when I was in gold-star-mode) so the scale didn't really move much and I guess I just didn't think about it.

Until Christmas.  The family was all together and we had a GREAT Christmas with too much food, lots of presents, puppies galore, and time spent together.  At the end of all the festivities my dad plugs up his digital camera and we all it down to watch a slide show of the events.  And then it happened...a picture of me...on a slideshow...I almost cried.  When did I get all...soft...round...and Michelin-man-like?  Oh my God! 

On the way home with Matt I could hold it in no longer, "Well, after seeing this pictures at mom and dad's, I have realized that I let myself go and am fat...so the treadmill is coming back out and we are buying healthier stuff from now on."  Matt, of course, tells me I am being crazy, that I'm not "fat" and that women are "supposed to be soft and round."  Um....whatever.  He also tries to tell me that I do not resemble a stand in for the tire commercials.  Sure...

So, the treadmill is officially back in business. As of yesterday, I re-started my hiking routine and while it definitely was not a piece of cake after nearly 3 months of sitting on my ass and drinking wine, it didn't kick my ass like I thought it might (which basically means that Lola did not have to perform some Lassie-like heroics to entice a rescue squad to come find me after I had been flung off the contraption into a crumpled heap on the floor ).  It wasn't easy...and I realized just how much 3 months can set you back, but despite my oh-so-positive forecasts last night, I can actually walk today and it doesn't hurt...much.  

So, the epic saga has been reborn...the battle continues...and while on the treadmill I do kind of breathe like Vader.