Progress

Just came off of my work­out, and I’m already a minute behind on math class.  I’m pretty happy with how work­ing out is going right now. I just fin­ished my pushups, which totalled 24 in all.  It has been hard to push myself and know I’m mak­ing progress; I get so pissed at myself for being a wee­nie.  Plus, I tend to have a cry­ing fit after the endor­phin rush passes, which feels awfully counter-productive.  It’s prob­a­bly needed, though.  Hold­ing on to my opti­mism and feel­ings of power is impor­tant to me right now, and work­ing out keeps that flow­ing through my veins.  So I need to look at the big pic­ture again.

This time last year I couldn’t do a SINGLE half-pushup.  And in 1999, I couldn’t even lift my left hand above shoul­der level because of the nice com­bi­na­tion of cer­vi­cal neu­ri­tis, frozen shoul­der, and whiplash I was diag­nosed with.  Oh, I think some­body said fibromyal­gia in there, too.  I was sup­posed to be pop­ping pain pills the rest of my life, take that suck­ers!!  And in 1989, I was cut­ting gym class and hid­ing in the band trailer.  I remem­ber specif­i­cally get­ting demer­its for rid­ing to a foot­ball game in a car with an unli­censed 15 year old, and not being able to do the pushups and laugh­ing at my Band Direc­tor.  So, that means that effec­tively I’m in bet­ter shape in some ways than I was at age 13.  Actu­ally, in almost all ways, really.  Prob­a­bly my body fat per­cent­age was bet­ter then, but oth­er­wise, I can go faster and longer and lift more stuff.

I’m scream­ing by the end of my pushups and situps now.  But I’ve quit hurt­ing for days after­wards, and ran­dom strangers keep telling me I’ve lost weight.  I haven’t lost much, maybe ten pounds. I should prob­a­bly get a new scale. My new jeans I bought that were skin tight two months ago are comfy and a bit baggy.   It’s tough.  Change is com­ing in tiny incre­ments.  And no one’s gonna stop me.