|Grumpy Cat's Mad Too!!!|
This class is super fun! The music is great: yes, I even find my musically snobbish self singing along to the Biebs while doing crunches (I know...crazy right!?!?!?) The teacher is awesome. She's like this real life version of Belle from Beauty and Beast, but with curly hair. Also, she makes Christoper Plummer references when talking about bar work. The Sound of Music in the gym?! Is this real life!!!???
I was rather proud of myself during last Tuesday's class. While I've never actually lost my turn out, getting the ab strength back to lift my legs higher is slower and steadily better. As we were cooling down and stretching while standing, I started to think how proud I was of myself, that everything was starting to get easier...my abs were getting stronger, my legs were getting higher, and I was less exhausted and sweat-tastic at the end of the class.
Now I should know by now that anytime I pat myself on the back like this, I'm pretty much guaranteeing myself that I am set up for a fall. Yep, expectations met. We went down on the floor to stretch...very "ballet style" (so, stretches I had been doing since I was very young) and Michelle Branche's Breathe starts playing (oh boy, emotional soundtrack). I realize that my body is ready to reach down to my leg, the floor...what-have-you completely... Damn it! There's something in the way! What is that!??! Oh, it's my fat! <insert a very lengthy string of unladylike f-bombs here>
At this point I'm just mad. Mad that one part of my body isn't catching up as fast as others, and is there by just f&cking pissing me off! What do I do when I can't yell when I'm pissed? (I mean, I COULD yell, but it isn't exactly socially acceptable in a group setting.) I cry. So there I am, in a full room....stretching...Michelle Brand playing...crying. I. AM. LAME!!! Luckily, I think I hid it pretty well... I think.
So I'm mad at my fat. I can't wish it, pound it, freeze-dry it, cut it without-blowing-a-years-worth-of-rent away. So there I stand: still mad at my fat. Why am I fat? Me. F#uck! There's a problem. Now I'm mad at myself. This is counterproductive. I spent my T ride home pretty much talking myself off of the ledge. Yes, I may have a lifetime of bad habits ingrained in my brain, and I could let myself get fixated on the problem and just tread water now, or I could not look back and just keep swimming, swimming, swimming. (Hey! There are a lot of good life lessons in "Finding Nemo"!) Eventually my torso WILL get down to that leg.