21 Day Fix

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I’m mighty proud of myself. I completed a 21 Day fitness program.

That’s right. I worked out for 21 straight days, even when I didn’t want to. Especially when I didn’t want to. During those three weeks, Wednesdays were two-a-days because I did the thirty-minute Beachbody.com 21 Day Fix Real Time workout in the morning and in the evening met my gym buddy at Blink Fitness to make nice with the row machine (my favorite!), treadmill and Stairmaster, which I named Newman.

I feel good. Exhausted, but good. Sore, but good. Proud and good. No one cheered me on or kept me motivated. It wasn’t a bet. It was sheer determination. Do I have a six-pack? No. My stomach is flatter. My booty rounder and higher. Unless I’m faithful with squatting, it’s non-existent. Embarrassing and shameful. My thighs are stronger. The definition in my arms and back are en route. My love handles shrank as have those rolls that appear under my armpit and back when I put on my sports bra. I didn’t measure or weigh before or after the twenty-one days. I have no idea how many inches or how much weight I’ve lost because that wasn’t the point.

The goal was to be consistent with working out. The goal was to be consistent with self-care. I’ve been in a funk for the past few months and I’m clawing my way out. Therapy is a process, and the allure of online shopping is a mother fucker. February was a good month. I found community at a writer’s retreat in Miami, read three books, sang and danced at a Raphael Saadiq concert followed by solo meal of eggs, hash browns and sausage at a diner, and attended a writer’s workshop. There were tumultuous times. My mother’s birthday. Yet another year I couldn’t hug and kiss my mother and tell her happy birthday and surprise her with a gift that proves I’ve been paying attention to what she wants or likes but won’t get on her own. There have been over 30 missed birthdays with my mother. Does it hurt any less? Nope. Kobe’s death last month flared my grief even before her February 19th birthday. I was barely getting better before the February 24th memorial service. Glutton for punishment that I am, I watched.

They say it takes 21 days to build a habit. I’m trying to get back in the habit of working out regularly. I want to get back to the space where my body craves working out on a missed or rest day. I want to get back in the habit of moving even without the reminder or stat report of a FitBit. (RIP to my FitBit that didn’t survive being submerged in pool water last August.)

 

wp-15831044622653774107677947755036.jpgI like the natural high of getting my body to do something physically that it previously couldn’t. Deeper squats, heavier weights, more push-ups, higher high-knee kicks. Secondary is the better body. I dress conservatively and I’m not getting naked with anyone until he returns from overseas, so there’s no chance of being fat-shamed. Needless to say, when I walk by a mirror dressed in just bra and panties, I zoom in on my belly and turn around to see what’s going on with my booty. Big it is not, but it is often flat. I wish it were round. My stomach is often round and I wish it were flat. It’s deceptively flat first thing in the morning when I get out of bed. Then I have breakfast…

Kudos to me for completing 21 straight days of cardio, weightlifting, yoga and Pilates. Most mornings I casted the workouts from my laptop to the TV. There were nights when I put the laptop on the TV stand so I could work out while I watched Wendy and The Real. That was the compromise when all I really wanted to do was watch TV but knew I should work out. There were times when my performance was trash. My tank was on E and these knees weren’t getting as high as they should, or I didn’t complete all the reps with weights. Something is better than nothing. The sweat and increased heart rate proved that.

Before 21 Day Fix, I did the Beachbody 3 Week Yoga Refresh. 21 days of yoga. Or at least it was supposed to be, but I slipped up at least twice and had to double up the next day. Not this time, I did all 21 on the allotted days. Yay, me! I won’t say that I’m “fixed.” I’m a work in progress, but on to the next challenge.

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