Shame, shame I know your name!

Dear God, last week was a dis­as­ter. It start­ed out OK, real­ly, it did. Tues­day, I com­plet­ed W4D1 of C25K and was feel­ing good. Aside from the fact that I began to hal­lu­ci­nate toward the end of the run and found myself say­ing Hail Marys to get me through. At one point dur­ing my final run when the sim­ple prayer wasn’t work­ing, I broke out into a pant­i­ng ren­di­tion of Hail Mary, Gen­tle Wom­an in the hope that some­how the time would mirac­u­lous­ly count­down to noth­ing before I died. 

I was real­ly near death at this point
I head­ed into work on Thurs­day morn­ing not expect­ing much to hap­pen. The week had been good so far and I was feel­ing moti­vat­ed and hap­py. I began my work day as usu­al and start­ed drink­ing my 67 glass­es of water, which has become rou­tine. Because of the inor­di­nate amount of water that I have been con­sum­ing, mul­ti­ple trips to the bath­room have also become rou­tine. After wash­ing my hands dur­ing one such trip, I moved to the left to grab a paper tow­el and that is when I was swift­ly smacked in the face with the plas­tic cov­er on the paper tow­el hold­er. It hit me direct­ly between the eyes push­ing my new sexy specs up into my fore­head. The force was so strong that I began to have that feel­ing on my nose that sort of feels like a taran­tu­la crawl­ing on your face. Thank­ful­ly, this bath­room is a one stall won­der and I wasn’t putting on a live per­for­mance. I gath­ered my com­po­sure and made my way back to my desk. 
I am cer­tain that I must have expe­ri­enced some type of head injury because there is sim­ply no way that the events that were about to take place would have hap­pened oth­er­wise. Up until this moment, I had every inten­tion of con­tin­u­ing the rest of the week as planned. I had three amaz­ing weeks under my belt. But sud­den­ly and with­out warn­ing, temp­ta­tion reared its ugly head and instead of turn­ing in the oth­er direc­tion, I dove head first into the prover­bial Old Coun­try Buf­fet.
It start­ed out inno­cent enough. I made a mis­take on a project at work, no one’s fault but my own for not read­ing the direc­tions AT ALL! Instead of slough­ing it off like a nor­mal per­son and mov­ing on, I decid­ed that I most def­i­nite­ly need­ed a piece of choco­late. One of my offices is most con­ve­nient­ly locat­ed direct­ly next door to a dis­count retail­er that sells just about every­thing. Instead of grab­bing a sin­gle, low­er fat but large­ly deli­cious 3 Mus­ke­teers bar, I decid­ed to go for the 94 piece vari­ety pack. Yes, 94 pieces.  I know what you are think­ing, “Colleen you cer­tain­ly didn’t eat the whole bag, right?? No, of course not, after grab­bing about 15 pieces and shov­ing them in a desk draw­er, I sur­ren­dered the bag to a cowork­er and asked that they be locked up indef­i­nite­ly. That last­ed exact­ly one hour. I hand­ed them off thir­ty min­utes before leav­ing and had the bag back in my pos­ses­sion with­in the first half hour of the next day and they nev­er left my side from that point on. I con­sumed half of the bag!
Richard I am so ashamed!
My binge didn’t end with 55 pieces of choco­late. Heav­ens no, I was bound and deter­mined to be suc­cess­ful at some­thing, so overeat­ing and mak­ing myself feel like shit phys­i­cal­ly and emo­tion­al­ly was the win­ner! Through­out the next four days I ate in no par­tic­u­lar order, McDonald’s, St. Louis Bread Co., Favazza’s, Bai­leys Choco­late Bar, Piz­za, Pot Roast, Dairy Queen Ice Cream Cake and Peanut But­ter M&Ms. This was just dur­ing nor­mal meal times. I also took in a mati­nee on Sat­ur­day and 4500 calo­ries in pop­corn, twiz­zlers, junior mints and whop­pers. But don’t wor­ry, I wasn’t com­plete­ly crazy. I washed it all down with a 44 oz DIET coke! I cer­tain­ly can’t jus­ti­fy emp­ty calo­ries to drink!
If it weren’t for the­se two and the Smurfs.…
What hap­pened to the run­ning you ask? How often do you see a hip­popota­mus charg­ing through your neigh­bor­hood? All of this high calo­rie uber deli­cious food made me feel as if I weighed 1000 pounds and my moti­va­tion slipped right out the door. Unf­reak­ing­be­lie­ve­able. One week I am vow­ing not to look like “one of those rap guys’ girl­friends” and today I feel like Richard Sim­mons should be knock­ing on my door and drag­ging me to Mau­ry Povich! OK, so that is dra­mat­ic, but real­ly, how do the 1200 pounders get that way? By work­ing real­ly hard like I did last week! I am fin­ish­ing up the last of my deli­cious­ly salty sweet pret­zel M&Ms as I type and I will be back in the game tomor­row. I mean, real­ly, you can’t pos­si­ble expect me to not fin­ish the bag, right? 
Eat the Chunky or be the Chunky.….that is the ques­tion
Despite all of the crap that I con­sumed, I only gained 1/2 a pound this week. I am absolute­ly unsure of how that is at all pos­si­ble, but the scale doesn’t lie. I hope…….
I took my friends to Schnucks this after­noon to stock up on fresh pro­duce and to say hel­lo to our pals
***BLOG BONUS***
Idiot moment of the week, as if the afore men­tioned wasn’t enough. I was walk­ing into the back entrance of one of my office loca­tions this week when I unex­pect­ed­ly hit a pot hole and did a dis­mount that would have made Ker­ri Strug stare in awe. You see, in the mid­st of stick­ing my land­ing, I danced right in front of the O.A.T.S van that was drop­ping peo­ple off next door. I guar­an­tee you that despite and phys­i­cal com­pli­ca­tion that those poor peo­ple might have had, I most def­i­nite­ly took the gold medal for look­ing the most hand­i­capped!

Girl you looks good.….…..

One of the most basic neces­si­ties for a pos­i­tive work­out expe­ri­ence is the prop­er­ly moti­vat­ing sound­track. Since day one, I have found that artists such as Ke$ha (note the prop­er use of the dol­lar sign), Gnarls Barkley, Bil­ly Ocean and the occa­sion­al NKOTB song have kept me going. It is so sim­ple to get lost in the moment, “Hey, hey, you, you, get into my car. Who me?” I have been known to coy­ly look over at a pass­ing vehi­cle, only to find a 70-year-old man in a Buick not a hot Jheri curled Bil­ly Ocean in a con­vert­ible. Since I don’t live in Miami and it isn’t 1988, this past week, I found a whole new moti­va­tion.
The Sun was blar­ing even at 6 am
It seems like I go to Schnucks every day. I am not kid­ding, the check­ers, man­agers and deli employ­ees know my children’s names, birth­days and blood types, we are there that often. On one of last week’s first trips, I went to flip the sta­tion and acci­den­tal­ly hit the CD but­ton. The CD play­er in my car gets about as much use as the record play­er in my par­ents’ base­ment so you nev­er know what you might find. What began to blare from the speak­ers was pure col­lege and a col­lec­tion of the most vile, dis­re­spect­ful, vul­gar rap music that I had heard in years. I was THRILLED! The fact that my two babies were in the car meant that mom­ma wasn’t going to be able to enjoy her spoils until the next day. Upon return­ing from the friend­liest stores in town, I imme­di­ate­ly upload­ed the CD to iTunes and it was entered into my iPod for the next morning’s run.
I began with a quick warm up lis­ten­ing to the sweet words of Ice Cube and We be Club­bin’. I wasn’t over­ly inspired by the­se par­tic­u­lar lyrics. It cer­tain­ly has a nice beat, plen­ty of uses of the f word and is mild­ly degrad­ing to wom­en. It wasn’t until I start­ed the real meat of the work out that things began to get par­tic­u­lar­ly philo­soph­i­cal. You see, Ice Cube was quick­ly fol­lowed up by Juve­nile and the clas­sic, Back that Azz Up. This is where my work­out went from sweat­ing to a vow to reach my goal weight.
Hap­py to be fin­ished by hor­ri­fied by those roots
Back that Azz Up has always been a favorite of mine. I have great mem­o­ries of per­form­ing every word to this on my 21st birth­day and being quite proud. If you must know, I do remem­ber all of the lyrics and I most def­i­nite­ly was singing along as I made my way down Val­leyside Dr.  As I began to run a lit­tle faster and sweat a lit­tle hard­er, I began to get in the zone. I was focused. And sud­den­ly, it all became clear. “Girl you looks good won’t you back that Azz up. You’s a fine mutha f*&Ker won’t you back that Azz up.” Wow….no, I won’t. Would any­one? I mean real­ly? What kind of wom­an would find this an invi­ta­tion for a good time? While I am long out of the dat­ing game, I am quite cer­tain that had those pret­ty words been whis­pered to me in a dim­ly lit water­ing hole, that I would not have become star­ry eyed and jel­lo legged. I would have been more inclined to tell him what kind of mutha he was. 
I cer­tain­ly didn’t want to label myself a thir­ty-some­thing prude, so I decid­ed not to hit skip and allowed my iPod to work its mag­ic. I was soothed by Dr. Dre and Snoop and their clas­sic col­lab­o­ra­tion, Nuthin’ but a G Thang. I am not real­ly all that sure what a G is, but I am pret­ty sure that I am not one. Nev­er­the­less, it helped me to keep up my stride. I was mak­ing my way through the neigh­bor­hood wav­ing at oth­er jog­gers and look­ing at old ladies pick­ing up there news­pa­pers and could not help but won­der, “You nev­er know she could be earn­in’ her man, And learn­in’ her man, and at the same time burn­in’ her man.” They all look inno­cent…….
 
Sweat rolling down my face or a tear from the shear embar­rass­ment of those eye­brows
Next up was Hoochie Mama, anoth­er lyri­cal mas­ter­piece. “Big Booty Ho……..” It echoed in my brain and I felt the fat under my skin move up and down as if in a ridicu­lous hur­ry to dis­ap­pear. I began to envi­sion volup­tuous wom­en in string bikin­is wash­ing cars and mas­sag­ing dirt bag men with gold teeth, cig­ars and ridicu­lous smok­ing jack­ets and silk box­ers with large kiss­es on them. Faster, Colleen, faster, get that heart rate up and that sweat rolling. I real­ize that it is high­ly unlike­ly that I will ever be recruit­ed for a video by a rap giant, how­ev­er; my phys­i­cal appear­ance has begun to resem­ble what I con­sid­er to be the you-really-shouldn’t-be –in a bikini-because-you –have-had-two-chil­dren-but-if-you-toned-up-would look-great-in-a-one-piece type. The big booty hoes, well, they aren’t fol­low­ing my line of think­ing. They let it all hang out and the rest of the world suf­fers.  I know you know what I mean. You are laugh­ing, but won­der­ing if your yoga pants are just a bit too tight and some of that fluff is try­ing to escape like dough ris­ing in a bread pan. You just looked, didn’t you?
As I round­ed the cor­ner I was fur­ther inspired by the long-lost lyrics to Dazzey Duks. (Can any­one tell me what hap­pened to Duice?.…Didn’t think so.) “So if you get it, got it, good so dip the dugout
the­se damn dazzey dukes are turn­in’ out.” I have no idea what this means, but it sounds good. I am fair­ly cer­tain that I would much prefer to be able to fit into a pair of dazzey duks, fear not this will NEVER hap­pen, than to “Put em’ on the glass,” You bet, that came up next. But I digress; being able to fit into a pair of short shorts like the Nair girls would cer­tain­ly mean that I had reached some kind of fit­ness mile­stone. So thank you, Duice, for putting me right where I need­ed to be. You helped me to rec­og­nize that ‘a lit­tle junk in the trunk,’ is OK, but I would in fact need is, ‘a six pack and a hel­lu­va rump.’ You have given me a goal. 
This week’s weigh in was 162, which appears to be up a pound, but in fact my weight was unchanged. I pur­chased a new scale that made me one pound heav­ier than the scale that I had been pre­vi­ous­ly using. So, I weighed myself in both spots and I have come out to zero change. I am not dis­cour­aged; instead I am even more moti­vat­ed to keep eat­ing right and to keep mov­ing.
I mean real­ly, those roots?!?!?
On an unre­lat­ed note, I had a big idiot moment today. I went in for an eye exam this evening. I have not been to the eye doc­tor in many years because I have near­ly per­fect vision, or so I thought. Because it had been so long, I had to have my pupils dilat­ed. The doc­tor informed me that this would cause things to be a bit blur­ry and that he would be back in a few min­utes. Cer­tain that he didn’t know what he was talk­ing about, I decid­ed that I would check my FB and send a few texts. This is how well that worked out.
Upon fin­ish­ing my exam, I found that I need­ed a slight pre­scrip­tion for my right eye. This gave me an excuse to go out and by some hot new geek sheik specs. When I was leav­ing the office, they asked if I had sun­glass­es because my eyes would still be quite sen­si­tive. I assured them that I had a pair in my car and I would be just fine with­out the com­ple­men­tary Darth Vader shades that they were offer­ing. When I got to the car I did find sun­glass­es, unfor­tu­nate­ly they were a pair from the $1 bin and made to fit Finnegan…..
Idiot

Total­ly Geek Sheik, notice the hot new blonde do!

No Way Jose!

This past week was a bit of a mess. Mau­r­mi Day­care was closed, so Finnegan and Bren­nan  trav­eled all over town to spend time with fam­i­ly and friends. Because of the crazy sched­ule, my exer­cise rou­tine was a bit out of whack as well. After a fab­u­lous morn­ing at the Mag­ic House, I got in my C25K W2D1 Mon­day after­noon. The kids napped at Maurmi’s while I ran on the tread­mill. I ful­ly intend­ed to return on Wednes­day morn­ing, watch a rerun of Dance Moms and think hap­py thoughts lis­ten­ing to Chumbawamba…..yeah, not so much. I was too damn tired on Wednes­day to get up at the crack of down, so I skipped it. I fig­ured that I would get my run in on Thurs­day, nope, that didn’t hap­pen either.
Thank you Finnegan for this awe­some shot of my love­ly arched eye­brows
Over­come with guilt and the real­iza­tion that my lazi­ness would have to be in print the fol­low­ing Mon­day, I made a promise to myself that I would be in the base­ment on Dan­ton­aire on Fri­day come hell or high water. I went to bed rel­a­tive­ly ear­ly on Thurs­day morn­ing so that I could get to my par­ents’ by 7 and still make it to work on time. As I drift­ed to sleep and dreamt of char­i­ots of fire, I had no idea that my  grand plans were about to be rocked.
At 5:45 am, I began to hear bells, loud, con­tin­u­ous, mind-numb­ing bells. I jumped from bed and caught a quick glance of myself in the mir­ror. I looked a bit like a roost­er with rac­coon eyes. Appar­ent­ly I for­get to wipe my face with the knock off Oil of Olay cleans­ing cloth the night before and the Lan­come had trav­eled from my lids to my cheeks. Luck­i­ly, my cheap hook­er look was soft­ened by my Char­ter Club blue lamb night­gown.  Despite my knock­out look, I pro­ceed­ed to the front door to see who in the name of God decid­ed they want­ed to come for a cup of cof­fee at this hour. 
In front of me stood Jose, as the name on his shirt clear­ly iden­ti­fied him, one of the 47 peo­ple that showed up to put our new roof on. I knew that they were com­ing, but nev­er in a mil­lion years did I think that I would be see­ing them in my sexy attire. I gave him the A OK to head to the top of my house and then thought to myself, well DUMBY, what are you going to do know? Clear­ly I wasn’t going back to bed and it was way too ear­ly to head to my mom and dad’s. The YMCDilthey is pro­tect­ed by two fierce guard Mal­te­se whose bark is so deaf­en­ing, it would cer­tain­ly wake my father and scare the crap out of him, so I was stuck. Either I try to head back to sleep with what sound­ed like a bowl­ing game being played above my head, or I could get real­ly crazy and run out­side. 
The omi­nous sky was not a deter­rent
As you can imag­ine, run­ning out­side was a ter­ri­fy­ing prospect. I had nev­er done it and real­ly didn’t want any of my neigh­bors see­ing me, but I had no choice. I slipped into my clothes and out the door I went. As Jose and the crew were climb­ing the front of my house, I set my iPod to Bil­ly Ocean and off I went. I was quite sur­prised that I was enjoy­ing being out­side. I wasn’t watch­ing a clock, I was look­ing around. I walked, ran, lis­tened to my music and before I knew it I was halfway through my work­out, and my legs began to burn. Once again, I hat­ed the walks and couldn’t wait for the runs. 
Thrilled to have com­plet­ed the first out­door run
When I returned from my run, Jose and the crew were pack­ing it up and head­ing out. No, I hadn’t been gone eight hours, just thir­ty min­utes. Appar­ent­ly they just want­ed to wake us all up ear­ly because they didn’t do a damn thing. Nope, this was a tease. The real work would begin on Mon­day. One more week­end with our sad, hail-dam­aged roof. I thought noth­ing more of it and went on about my day. 
The offi­cial time when  I returned to my kitchen, way too ear­ly for this.…..
Because I blew it and didn’t get my work outs in on Mon­day, Wednes­day and Fri­day, I had to plan for anoth­er run on Sat­ur­day. I ful­ly intend­ed to head over to my mom and dad’s around mid morn­ing and fin­ish W2D3 on the tread­mill. Jose, he had oth­er plans.
Sat­ur­day morn­ing arrived with a bang, lit­er­al­ly. This time Jose chose not to ring the bell, instead he and the herd of ele­phants that he brought with him pro­ceed­ed to jump up and down right above the mas­ter bed­room at 6 am on Sat­ur­day. WTF? Who works on a roof on a Sat­ur­day? And at 6 am. I have the lux­u­ry of very good sleep­ers who prefer lay low until at least 8, so this was des­tined to kill me. What is a girl to do? I want­ed to go out and beat the hell out of him, but instead, I laced up and head­ed out­side.
The weath­er was pret­ty beau­ti­ful on Sat­ur­day morn­ing. The humid­i­ty was low and there was a nice dew on the grass. As I warmed up to the Spice Girls Wannabe, I casu­al­ly made my way up Crest­side Lane to the famil­iar loop that trav­eled the morn­ing before. I failed to remem­ber that it was Sat­ur­day and I briefly thought to call 911 when I saw the throngs of peo­ple run­ning down the street with high chairs, rock­ers, like-new home gym equip­ment and tools. And then I real­ized what I was wit­ness­es. The crazy Sat­ur­day morn­ing garage sale enthu­si­asts were in full force. I real­ly wished that I had been more aware of the signs because I would have felt much safer out of the hoard­ers’ way.
Too bad I noticed this after I was near­ly killed by a run­away sta­tion wag­on filled with trea­sures
The­se peo­ple were nuts. It was bare­ly past the crack of dawn and they were clad with fan­ny packs, shop­ping bags and $30 worth of nick­els! As I glid­ed past the four-fam­i­ly HUGE sale, I real­ized that as much as they were enter­tain­ment for me, I was like­ly enter­tain­ment for them. I could just hear the cack­ling…
 “Look at that fool. All dressed up and not one bit of grace or form.”
“Mmm hmm, girl­friend must have lost a bet.”
I dodged the cra­zies and con­tin­ued to make my way through the neigh­bor­hood. I real­ly start­ed to feel sore ear­ly. Two work­outs spaced a mere 24 hours apart was not the best idea. Instead, it was a long hard lesson.  Just as I was ready to give up, I was quick­ly inspired by the lyrics that were blast­ing in my ears, “Like a thief in the night, who can’t get enough. I am will­ing to fight, cause I’m a sol­dier of love.” Well, Don­ny, that has absolute­ly noth­ing to do with my quest, but I will take it and press on. “Nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, nah, when the going gets rough………….
I look I joined Jose and the crew upstairs!
Thir­ty quick min­utes lat­er, I was home and unscathed. My front lawn, well that is a whole oth­er sto­ry. Jose and the crowd had gone crazy and real­ly made a dent in the work. Lit­tle did we know they would be at it for a full 15 hours, but the new roof was com­plet­ed in one day. I would like to thank Jose and his amigos not only for a job well done, but for get­ting me up and mov­ing so ear­ly. I liked get­ting my work­out done ear­ly and I real­ly enjoyed run­ning out­side. I intend to keep it up, weath­er per­mit­ting.
30 min­utes lat­er
This week I weighed in at 161. I am a pound lighter for the week and down a total of 6. Life is good!
You can real­ly tell that I am los­ing weight in my face

G is for Goddess.….…

I have offi­cial­ly made it an entire week and I am not dead. I am not even real­ly sore. I have been stretch­ing my mus­cles prop­er­ly, warm­ing up and cool­ing down so I feel good. Well, all except for the area between my shoul­ders that feels like some­one has beat­en me over and over with a 2x4. In my quest to become phys­i­cal­ly fit, I bought all the right things. I got cute new shoes, fab­u­lous arch sup­ports, dar­ling lit­tle shorts and one of those built in bra run­ning tanks. It was all about look­ing great so that I could run in style in my par­ents’ base­ment on my mom’s tread­mill watch­ing reruns of NY Ink and blast­ing Gnarls Barkley with­out a soul in site. There was just one minor prob­lem with my new ensem­ble, those lit­tle run­ning tanks aren’t quite made for us ladies who bare more of a resem­blance to Dol­ly Par­ton than Jack­ie Joyn­er.

I com­plet­ed my first work­out on C25K and I felt great. I was sweat­ing, which is high­ly unusu­al. I mean, let’s be hon­est here. I may have been on all of the sports teams in grade school, but I was known more for the match­ing blue and gold bows in my hair and some fan­cy socks that my ath­let­ic abil­i­ties. But I digress. I made it through work­out one and I felt good. In an effort to stay on the up and up, I have tak­en post work­out pic­tures to prove that I am actu­al­ly doing this and not just typ­ing a bunch of bull­shit.

At this point, I am proud as a pea­cock.

Here is a lit­tle proof that I do sweat.

I pro­ceed­ed with C25K day two. I felt a lit­tle twinge in my left shoul­der but I kept going, I thought I just must have slept fun­ny. I am stretch­ing and exer­cis­ing and, well I look good, so it can’t pos­si­bly be any­thing that I am doing. Hmm, IDIOT, how about that super cute run­ning tank?!?!? You know the one that every time you move makes your breasts feel like they are try­ing to jump right out of your shirt and escape this tor­ture? Per­haps that is part of the prob­lem? I fig­ured that before work­out three, I might take a trip out to Ann’s Bra Shop and just get fit­ted. What could it hurt, right?

As you can see, work­out two was a bit more stren­u­ous

See that lit­tle bead of sweat? That fell from my head to my leg. Dis­gust­ing.….

No, I am not fast, but I am mov­ing.

I strolled into Ann’s with my chil­dren in tow to pick up a quick sport’s bra in a 38DD, because, well that is what size I need and that’s the end. When asked if I want­ed a fit­ting, I said, sure. I fig­ured I might as well let the wom­an earn her keep for the day. I dis­robed in front of she and my chil­dren, which start­ed a line of ques­tion­ing from Finnegan that would make any inter­ro­ga­tion­ist ner­vous, but that is for anoth­er day. Colleen, my bra fit­ter, quick­ly whipped her mea­sur­ing tape around me again and again and final­ly said, “Well you are a 34G.” Um, WTF did you just say. How is that even pos­si­ble? Do they make those? I fig­ured, what the hell. Let’s do this. Colleen pre­sent­ed me with a God­dess sports bra, that to my total shock, fit per­fect­ly. It was com­fort­able and I felt sup­port­ed. Holy moth­er of pearl! I will embrace my inner God­dess and wear my bra with pride. Twen­ty min­utes and $44 lat­er, we were off.

My third work­out was so much eas­ier. My back still hurt, but the throb­bing had sub­sid­ed. I found myself able to run and not look down at the clock as much because my neck was killing me and I was ready to quit. The sweat was pour­ing off of me. It was dis­gust­ing. I am so not used to that, but in a weird way, I liked it. I feel this intense sense of accom­plish­ment. At this point, I think that I will make it to the end.

I start­ed to lose my mind after work­out three.

My fit­ness rou­tine, cou­pled with health­ier choic­es. Lead to some suc­cess. I am quite cer­tain that I con­sumed an entire water­mel­on, a flat of straw­ber­ries and 1000 car­rots. I man­aged to eat a burg­er and fries and some to die for horse­rad­ish sauce, with­out a tremen­dous amount of guilt. I have also upped my water con­sump­tion from none, to close to eight glass­es a day. I have sur­vived on noth­ing but Diet Coke for years, so this is quite a change. I am not going total­ly tap here. I mean, I am not crazy, I am drink­ing peach fla­vored water which makes it tol­er­a­ble.

So after all of this, where am I? I am proud to say that I weighed in at 162 today. I lost five pounds in the first week. I am not expect­ing this again this week, but damn it feels good to start.

My favorite three-year-old friend joined my for a post work­out pho­to shoot

I will survive, I hope.….

Day one is done and I must say, I feel pret­ty good. I ate rea­son­ably and decid­ed not to kill myself on the tread­mill and nev­er go back. Instead, I am eas­ing myself into the C25K train­ing pro­gram. The first work­out was tough, I was sweat­ing a lot, but I did it. The whole thing. Nev­er in my life have a run that much, ever.…..Perhaps a cou­ple of times in my life my speed has accel­er­at­ed due to a meow that I can’t quite place and I am sure that my death is impend­ing, but beyond that, I have been lucky to walk briskly.

Do I think that I am on my way to America’s Next Top Mod­el mate­ri­al tomor­row, per­haps, but I won’t be get­ting my hopes up for see­ing Tyra any­time soon. Instead, I am going to take this in stride and see what hap­pens.

I must say, I was so bold as to take some mea­sure­ments. At this point, I am not sure how com­fort­able I real­ly am with writ­ing them down, but I sup­pose if I don’t then what is the point, right. So here we go.…

Start­ing Weight 167 lbs
Bust 42
Waist 34
Hips 40
Arms 12
Thighs 22

I real­ize that the­se num­bers aren’t par­tic­u­lar­ly huge or sick­en­ing sound­ing, but they aren’t ide­al either. I am look­ing to drop about 20 lbs. That would put me back to what I weighed when I got mar­ried. If I lose 15, I will be hov­er­ing around my weight when I got preg­nant with Finnegan.

As I am sure the three peo­ple that will read this will want to know, I intend to weigh in on Mon­days and I will mea­sure again in four weeks. I am not expect­ing a huge change before then, so you will just have to con­trol your­selves.

Pass the sequins and baby oil, Momma is gettin in shape.….

There is prob­a­bly noth­ing in the world that I loathe more than exer­cis­ing. I hate it. I real­ize that there is a bit of irony here being that I have a slight obses­sion with Richard Sim­mons.  But let’s be hon­est. I am much more apt to sit on the couch pok­ing fun of the dancers Sweat to the Oldies while enjoy­ing an ice cold Diet Coke (back in my younger years it was more like­ly a Bud­weis­er and a Salem Slim Light) than to actu­al­ly break a glis­ten with Richard. Exer­cise takes a cer­tain bit of ath­leti­cism, which any­one who knows me real­izes that I have none. It also requires rhythm. Again, I am seri­ous­ly lack­ing in that depart­ment. 
Why in the world would I ever sub­ject myself to this tor­ture if I do not pos­sess the basic human qual­i­ties need­ed to suc­ceed? Because I am scared shit­less of becom­ing that thir­ty-some­thing mom who looks like it, that’s why. I have a fear of one day sport­ing yards of elas­tic in my pants and cute cud­dly ani­mals on sweat­shirts. I don’t want to be known as the mom that wears the bright red lip­stick because it takes the focus off of the rest of her dumpy physique. Am I dra­mat­ic, absof­reakin­lute­ly, but I am also real­is­tic. I am not get­ting younger and I have birthed two beau­ti­ful babies, things just aren’t like they used to be. But before you start think­ing, but it is nat­u­ral and won­der­ful and beau­ti­ful. I am also not inter­est­ed in the badges of moth­er­hood crap. This isn’t girl scouts, this is real life. No one is gath­er­ing around the camp­fire to cel­e­brate stretch marks and sag­ging boobs. Instead, we all lift and sep­a­rate it as much as we can and move on with our days.  
In addi­tion to the exer­cise, I am also adopt­ing some bet­ter eat­ing habits. I am the Diet Coke queen of the bi-state area and quite frankly, I am cer­tain that my insid­es are like­ly melt­ing, so I will do my best to sub­sti­tute water for my usu­al nec­tar of the gods. I am also going to eat more fruits and veg­eta­bles and cut out the heav­en­ly french fries and grilled chick­en wraps from my beloved McDonald’s. I am in no way going to deprive myself of any­thing, that just wouldn’t be fair. I am sub­ject­ing myself to the equiv­a­lent of medieval tor­ture, so the food choic­es will be bet­ter and every­thing in mod­er­a­tion.
Alas, here I am. In an effort to regain some sem­blance of my younger life and body, I am start­ing a quest to get in shape. I don’t want to, but I am mak­ing myself. I have done this so many times before, but ulti­mate­ly quit one or two days in because no one knows, no one cares and it doesn’t mat­ter.  In a refresh­ing new twist, I am mak­ing myself account­able. Blog­ging makes it real and more chal­leng­ing. I am going to post it and be hon­est. If it doesn’t kill me, then, well let’s just hope at this point that it doesn’t kill me! Come on Colleen, let’s get it togeth­er………..

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