Miss Fathlete and the Christmas Cookies

This is pretty good considering what I've been eating. The tummy's getting defined, and the arms...Ok, I'll admit it. The arms are very cool.

The title is my homage to "Monk," which I'll miss.

You know what I will not miss? This last week in fitness and eating. The holidays are always a maze of mini quiche and champagne, which means I need to step up the workouts like a workout stepping-up banshee. Unfortunately, it was also the week where I aggravated an old injury from an excessive mix of running and P90x-ing (the plyo kept tweaking my heel, which I ignored because...cookies.) No running or P90x until at least Wednesday, says my doctor, Dr. Fox. And this is a man who is at all the races I run, so if I show up at one, he'll know. He's sneaky.

Also, my poor Victor the Trainer and I have been like two fitness ships passing in the night over the last two weeks. And now, he's recovering from a car accident (sob) and is out of commission. Get well, sweetie! I will not let you down! Hopefully!

I could just feel the extra cheese forming on my butt, so I gave in and joined Planet Fitness for $20 a month, their Black Card option, which lets me bring a guest and also allows me to go to all the other Planet Fitnesses for free. They don't have classes, but they do have all the weights and the cardio machines, so for the next two weeks, before I can run or P90x or Shred again, I am gonna do the elliptical for at least 45 minutes six days a week, plus weights and abs (the P90X Abs Ripper X).

I have a wedding in 6 months, a 39th birthday in 4, and a lot of cookies to brave. Wish me luck!

Fathlete and P90X Cardio X: Sweaty and Slightly Annoying!

So here's my second day of P90x workouts, following the Lean program. It's technically the third day, but I took my rest day yesterday (yeah, I know. But I worked 4:30 a.m.-5 p.m., so just eating soup was a workout at the end of that).

So this morning, to pay for punking out last night, I worked out twice today - did 2 and a half miles of a speedwork run this morning (owww, but awesome. owwsome?) and then did some work and caught up with Tony Horton and the P90X kids this afternoon. It was a good sweaty workout, but I have some complaints:

- It's not all cardio. I was hoping for a solid, kick-butt 43 minutes or whatever it was of pure moving, and instead got almost 20 minutes of power yoga, and then a mixture of kenpo, core and plyometrics. I can see why people hate on the Yoga X, if the whole 91 minute DVD is just constant downward dog/runners pose, like this routine was. It felt great after my run, though, and the kenpo was super fun.

- Tony Horton will not shut up. Seriously. If I'm gonna do 90 whole days with this joker, I'm gonna have to learn the routines so I can turn him down. He's all jokey and smug and smirky with the stupid nicknames. And today, after introducing two of the Cardio Kids as an engaged couple, he seemed to be hitting on the woman. Not only that, but he added some...emphatic sound effects to some of her punches that were at worst distracting and at worst faux-orgasmic.

Just...don't.

Again, I felt like I got a great workout, if not the one advertised in a DVD called "Cardio X." I just wish it was more movement. And less "O" noises.

The Fathlete Starts P90X for real, this time!

So, remember, last week, when I talked about being all psyched and stuff about doing P90x, and how this was gonna rawwwwk, and all that? And how I did Core Synergistics, and how it was tough but not brutal, but I was looking forward to having my butt kicked by Cardio X and Kenpo X, and all the other X's?

Well, still looking forward to them. Because I kind of never did them.

What had happened was that I did Core that one time, and then took a mental health day or something, and then ran a 4 mile race on Thanksgiving morning. Four miles! It was awesome! And cleared me for some eating! And that's what I did...eat. And then at 2 a.m., my fiancee and I got up and ate again. Pie. With our hands. Like foul beasts, as my soon-to-be cousin in law Kenny says.

This would, you think, inspire me to get up and work out. Didn't happen. My friend Nathaniel came down from Baltimore and we went eating. Twice. I got up Saturday morning, intending to run, and never did. Sunday...you see the pattern, no?

But this morning, I had no excuses. It was a Monday, a great day for starting something, or starting over. Nathaniel was in South Beach, visiting some other friends, so he wasn't sleeping on the couch, which meant there was nothing between me and P90X but my laziness.

So I started all over again this morning, with Core Synergistics, and it was as tough as I remember. Tony was still tough but...can I say this? Annoying. He laughs at his own jokes. He gives people nicknames. He uses the word 'taunt' when he means "taut." He sounds and looks like what late comedian Richard Jeni would have looked like if he'd created a character who was an annoying, full-of-himself fitness trainer.

But I'm willing to stick this out, because he's the real deal. Also, because there is an option where you can tune Tony out, and I might need this.

Tomorrow: Cardio X! For real this time!

P90X Day 1: Core Synergistics - My trainer's harder!

OK...so I know that I've only done one and a half days of P90x, and that the Kenpo X and Plyometrics DVDs, which I've yet to meet, are gonna kick my booty all up and down the street, yelling at me and slapping me about the head and feet with a Swiffer.

But I gotta tell you - as much as I sweat during "Core Synergistics," my first full-length workout in the series, that I've sweat even worse in sessions with Victor my trainer. Maybe it's because guru Tony Horton has only the space of a fitness set to work with, and Victor has an entire grass field. But where Tony has you jumping through imaginary tires, Victor has you carrying a tire over your head doing laps around that field. Because he's an evil genius.

Here's the other thing about Tony - some of his chatter is confusing. I mean, you can figure it out if you watch the thing closely, but it's still odd. To wit: Sometimes he says "Grab a weight," which I took to mean to grab one heavier weight. But when I looked up, he and the Fitness Buddies were holding a weight in each hand. It's ok if you catch yourself, but "a" weight is one, singular.

On the plus side, like I said, I worked up a great sweat and am gonna feel it tomorrow. But Victor packs more of a punch. Above is a photo of him making us do jumping jacks. In a stairwell. After doing laps in a parking garage holding a medicine ball. I can't afford to see him every day, so this will have to do.

Tomorrow - Cardio X. I am frightened. Hold me.

The Fathlete's P90X Adventure, Day .5

Disclaimer: I am not one of those people who is getting paid to blog about Beachbody's P90x. I am a runner and have a trainer and am not gonna promise to do it every single day. I also might just wimp out and fake an injury.

But for what it's worth, I have now begun P90X, the big fad in the fitness situation. One of my co-workers, whose body is completely different than mine, has been doing it with her husband and adores it. I am encouraged, but I will reserve judgement because I don't know the particulars of her fitness before this. I don't know if her knees are good, or if she has lower back issues (I have some, which are not major, and I'm slightly worried about doing this program because there's a disclaimer that seems more disclaimey than the usual disclaimers.)

Tomorrow, I start the main program, but today, I did the AB Ripper X DVD, after a three mile run (speed work. Delicious.) It was challenging. I've been to equally hard classes at my former gym, but it's the hardest ab DVD I've ever seen.

You know what's interesting? Most of the DVDs I have ever done have been targeted at women, and all of the fitness extras in the back are women. But this one is lead by a guy, with only one women in the cast, and in a weird way this makes me think that no punches will be pulled. I mean, Jillian Michaels doesn't pull any punches either, but her workouts in the Shred are 20 minutes. The abs DVD alone on P90X is 15 minutes. And I feel it right now as I drink this big glass of wine.

Don't judge me.

So tomorrow, like I said, I'll be starting the program in earnest. I plan to do the Lean program, which has more cardio, and keep running on days that I don't have cardio for P90x. We'll see how long this lasts. Tomorrow sometime I'll get the Official Fathlete Photographer to snap a picture of me. Something tells me I'ma look like Fitness Hagatha.

But what are you gonna do?

A Fathlete Meets Jillian's "Shred" and Doesn't Die!

OK, possums! I greet you on the second day of my journey with Jillian Michaels' 30 Day Shred. I haven't gotten p90x yet - waiting for that - but so far this is great! I was expecting it to be horrific, because I've heard people can't walk after it. But I guess I've been prepared by all of my workouts with the Notorious Victor, and by all those boot camps at my now-former gym, especially Trina's. Trina is no joke. At all.

Neither is Jillian - I did Level 1 on Wednesday night, and was worked out well but not murdered. On the advice of my bridesmaid and planner and soul sister Kiki, I did Levels 1 and 2 this morning, and I am not gonna be happy tomorrow morning, I can tell you that. It was very challenging - I think I need to get 5-pound hand weights, because some of the lateral moves are hard with the 8 pounders I have. But it was 40 minutes, and I wasn't destroyed. I hear that Level 3 is insane. Like, brutal and bad.

I am gonna run tomorrow, and do Jillian's 1 and 2 on Saturday, because I have Halloween shenanigans on Saturday and am not committing to running Sunday. At all.

Introducing: The Fathlete Bridal Blog! Celebrate!

This is not my wedding dress. But it could've been.

So, this blog is about me trying not to be a big fat girl. And my life, recently, became about being a bride. So now, this blog is going to be about being a bride, and not a big fat one.

And also about the difficulties of finding a tiara to go with a fro.

I should call it "Go With The Fro!"

Anyway, this is an interesting week for me, wedding and fitness wise. I am now officially divorced from my big gym, BiggestLoserFitness (ahem), and am maximizing my fitness dollar. I am still seeing Victor, the evil trainer (Hey, man!) and still running (I think I am doing at least two more half marathons before the wedding, because if I am always training, I am always focused.)

I also just purchased two home remedies - Jillian Michael's "The Shred" and the fearsome-looking P90X, along with a chin-up bar. I cannot do chin-ups now, but the P90x people swear I'll be able to do a thousand, plus bench press a bus and Jillian Michaels, when I'm done.

The cool thing is that my dress is beautiful as it is, although I'd love to lose about 10 pounds between now and June. Or just tighten up. Do the tighten up! I'm Archie Bell, and these here are the Drells! We got a new song called the 'Tighten Up!'

Sorry. Drell break.

The Fathlete Returneth to Present: BRIDAL SMACKDOWN!

It's been more than a month since I posted a Fathlete - I had my reasons, like not being able to find my camera cord, and then having my good computer sick in the Apple hospital for two weeks, and then kinda being lazy.

Fortunately, none of those involved having gained lots and lots of weight and having retreated to a cave. Made of mashed potatoes.

But here's the reason I'm back, besides the fact that this blog helped keep me on track and motivated and publically accountable - I'M GETTING MARRIED!!!!!!

Yes, on June 5, 2010, The Fathlete will be Mrs. Scott Mitchell Zervitz. She will be marrying the man of her dreams. And she doesn't want to look at the pictures and go "I should not have eaten that egg roll."

I am also in the last two weeks of my training for the half-marathon portion of the Baltimore Marathon, which I will be doing with my sister. This will not be the world's fastest half, but it's gonna be solid, and fun. Two days later, I'm going wedding dress shopping with my sister and my grandmother. All of this means I'm now accountable, and on the case, and working hard. I'm gonna be the most awesomest bride in the woooooorld.

Check it out!

A Triumphant Fathlete Bridesmaid Returns!

Hello, gentle readers! I have been out of touch for two weeks, because I was in the Northlands meeting parents and being a bridesmaid, all without the cord to my camera. However, I did manage to have photos taken of me by people who did have their camera-to-computer connections happening, so I can show you evidence of both my hard work, and of the bridesmaids' dress that started this great experiment. It is the Harriet Beecher Stowe of bridesmaid's dresses. (The attractive woman on the left is my friend Stephanie, who is skinny skinny skinny since she started grad school. Is that what it takes?)

I cannot lie and say that this vacation went perfectly, nutritionally, because there were at least two pieces of catfish, three hushpuppies and some fried okra, about a quarter cup. The fact that I can give you the measurements of my fat food is either evidence of my vigilance, my obsession, or my need for another vacation. But I worked out almost every day, and I learned the following thing. Are you ready for this?

IT'S OKAY.

It was okay to have fun, even with that two or three cups of cheese balls with the cheez flavor covering all the fat fried delicious fatness, or that strawberry shortcake that was made from fairy dust, heaven parts and butter. I had a little and then moved on. I did not lose any weight this week. But I didn't have to. The whole point was having a dress that I could not look fat in, and I didn't. I still see some pictures from that wedding where my boobs are weird and my butt is big, and you won't see them here because it's my blog and hell if I'm showing them to you. 

The point is that it's better and I'm keeping it going. And that's awesome. I hope to get awesomer.

Which is not a word. But then again...my blog.

No Fathlete Photo this week: But I can explain!

I have not gained 50 pounds and run off to hide in my guest bathroom with a tub of ice cream and some Cheez Whiz (yum, Cheez Whiz). Rather, I've been really stinking busy this week, and haven't had time to pose for the official Fathlete photographer. Also, we're both nearing 40, and every time I think about it, one of us falls asleep in front of the TV. So...sad....

Anyway, I had a great session with Victor The Trainer, if "great" means "Oow...quad...burning...wishing...for....death." That's what you need, because my body's getting hip to the fact that I'm trying to smack it around, and the plateau is around the corner. Sneaky bastard.

Not gonna get me!

Next week, I'm way on the case, because I am going to Arkansas to introduce the Man Friend to my folks, which might require cheese. I'll hit you back then!

Biggest Fathlete: Ten weeks down, six months to go?!?!

Here's your first side view. The booty is still taking over, but it's pretty cool, I think. And you can barely see the back fat. I still know it's there, though.

So yesterday, during a BRUTAL  workout with Mr. Victor The Pithy, he noticed that my triceps are getting a little definition, which triggered a story about how a fitness teacher at my gym, who I had never had before, mistook me for a beginner and tried to give me a 2.5 pound weight (which pissed me off, actually).

"Well," he said, "sometimes they have to exercise caution, if they don't know you. And maybe that means you just have more work to do. I think it's gonna take six months to get you where you want to be."

Oww. And word. And bring on more of them squats.

I knew that 10 weeks ago, I would not be standing here in late July looking like Angela Bassett. At first, I just wanted to get back in my jeans. I'm back in my jeans, but it's not enough. I have a few dresses I miss, and I still have teachers thinking I just walked into a gym for the first time, which makes me sad, and frustrated and mad. And I have some back fat to address. And I'm looking at pictures of ladies like Angie with the big ripped biceps and thinking "Why not give it a shot?"

So here's me saying that I have more work to do, and that I don't wanna just look OK. I'm gonna take a stab at smashing...I'm not expecting miracles. I just know that in six months, I will be nearing my 39th birthday. And I wanna be hot. Is that wrong to say? If I get annoying about it, you tell me. But I know that I love being fit, and being able to run and dance and bound up stairs, and that's the most important thing, right?

Being hot might not hurt, either.

The Fathlete Stops Listening To Haters, including Herself

I greet you at Week 9 of my little experiment. I have not been on the scale in a few weeks, because I got sort of freaked out by it after a little fluccuation in the opposite direction, if you get my drift. I believe it was normal bloating, and the pants that I was able to wear wonderfully well today, as well as the many people in the last two weeks who have said "Wow, you're getting skinnier" tell me it was a fluke.

But it scares me, even though my clothes say they're right. What if the next time I get on that thing it tells me it's all in my head, and everyone else's? I can tell I've regained so much of my fitness- I effortlessly caught up with a skinny male co-worker on his bike, who saw me a year ago when I bought this bike and wasn't nearly as fast or as steady on it. Amazing what a few less pounds can do for your balance.

Anyway, I said I was going to be mostly writing with full disclosure, except for the number on that scale, but I wanted to tell you that as much as things are going well - see the picture - I'm really scared of failing, for myself and in front of all of you. A reader on my blog at work called me a fat pig the other day, which made me both sad for a person who has to insult a stranger (I hope I'm a stranger to them, otherwise they're a coward as well), and completely depressed, because someone thought I was fat. Ever. And I was bigger. But what if they saw me last week and thought I was still fat? What was the point? Where was that cheese?

But then, I went to work, and three people, including one I don't well, told me "Wow, you're looking great." And then I went into the bathroom and made myself look at myself. And I decided this:

- I don't look like I did three years ago, which I don't like.

- I don't look like I did three months ago, which is wonderful,

- Screw some nasty cow who has to tear somebody else down to make their petty butt feel better. This person's an ass. Why should I give them the honor of being in my head?

So, I'm mostly over it. There will be times, like the next time I get on that scale, where I hear that voice over my shoulder. But screw that voice, both that cow's, the guy that invited me to Overeaters Anonymous and mine when I'm being a jerk to myself. Screw us all. I'm working really hard, and I have the comfortable pants to prove it.

Boo-ya.

A Fathlete finds her face in week...Eight?

You may notice that the Running Diva shirt is back, because I wanted to see if there was a difference in the first few weeks I wore it and now. And there is, particularly around the...chestical region. They're smaller, which is not what I was going for, actually, but I'll take it.

I also notice that my face is noticeably smaller and more defined, which is kinda cool. I didn't have the most stellar Fourth, nutritionally - I had rich Italian food Thursday and Friday, and on Saturday, Man Friend and I ate pretty much one meal. At a blues festival. Conch in fritter form met rum in runner form. Somewhere, Jillian and Bob from "The Biggest Loser" are crying. And trying to find me and beat me up.

But I worked out all but one day of the weekend, and I'm back on track. Tonight I have a fancy party on Miami Beach, in which the bar is open and the appetizers are kicking. But it's gonna be awesome. We're getting it done!

Remember the Fathlete...before she pigs out this weekend!

I love this picture, and will remember it fondly after tonight's fondue GNS (Girls Night Scarfing), and tomorrow's Italian food GNCM (Girls Night Caloric Massacre) and whatever The Manfriend and I get up to this weekend.

Viva la holiday!

I love working out, and I love healthy food. But the more weight I lose, the harder it is not to get cocky and eat what I are yesterday (the words "Spana" and "kopita" figure prominently.) Tomorrow, I plan to work out for like two hours and be a monster and tear it up and be fabulous. And I don't wanna screw it all up because the two people who read this blog will be upset with me.

I just love food so much. It makes me happy. Soooo happy. And sometimes it's hard not to focus on it and love it and eat it and call it George. But I'm gonna keep looking at this picture, and then looking at the one at the beginning of this journey, and decide which is closer to the one I wanna look like.

Yeah. I like this one too.

If only cheese wasn't so sexy.

The Biggest Fathlete Week 6: Wow. My stomach is flatish.

And here it is. It's not six-packy and might never be. And this is not the best quality photo, but there is actual muscle there. I show you this in the spirit of the actual "Biggest Loser" contestants, who have to wear sports bras when they're 80 pounds overweight. I am not done, and don't want you to think that I think this is perfect. But it's not bad. You didn't see what it used to look like.

I am now, unfortunately, paranoid that it's gonna all end. I am getting obsessed, and Leslie is a bore when she's weight obsessed. Ask anyone.

How do you guys stay focused without being crazy?

The Biggest Fathlete Week 5: Getting Out of My Head

So we're here at about the month mark of the Biggest Fathlete Weight Loss Challenge and Test of Iron Will Without The Dog Sled, and I'm happy to report that as of last Thursday, I had lost seven pounds! Whee-hoo! That was toward the end of Week Four, so I think I might start moving Fathlete Reveal Day to Thursdays, which is when I meet with Victor the Trainer for my weekly beating/weigh-in.

Yeah, it's settled. From now on, the official FathleteFoto (trademark pending) will come on Thursdays. Anyway, here's the new photo. You can see a tiny peek of tummy that doesn't make me want to hurl. And that's some progress, y'all!

Two better pictures of your Biggest Fathlete!

Yesterday's photos were sorta stinky, so here are two better photos to show the ol' progress, in which you can see my face. Which is sorta Buckwheat-Goes-To-College. But they're post-workout. What are you gonna do?

The Biggest Fathlete, Week 4: It's Working!

My head's sorta fuzzy at the top of this photo, but you can see the important part - the gradual lessening of the cheese in the middle of my body. This is one of the first photos where I can see the difference. This is the beginning of the fourth week of this here little experiment, and in the previous three weeks, I lost a pound a week.

This is healthy and normal, unless you watch "The Biggest Loser," where they lose 35 pounds a day or something. I know that's a TV show, and that they have more weight to lose than me. But you're like "Three pounds? Voting her lazy butt off the pink team!"

Oh well. You can't have everything.

The Biggest Fathlete, Week 3: Cruises Be Darned!

I'm back from Kiki's bachelorette cruise to the Bahamas, which wasn't nearly as crazy, food and drink-wise, as I'd suspected. I worked out Friday and Saturday, and left most of my desserts half-eaten. We also walked up a lot of steps from our cabin in the basement...er, Riveria deck.

All of this has resulted in my Fathlete accountability blog being  few days late. The results are not bad. I look pretty good actually - beginning to see some definition where there had not been, and a lack of cheese where there had been an abundance of such.

So, here it goes. Whaddya think, folkies? The waist is pretty good. I'm back on the case! I'm also training (get this) for a duathlon, where I run and bike, without the swimming, because I just don't feel like doing that. Stepping it up, y'all! Stepping it the hell up!

Welcome to "The Biggest Fathlete," Week Two!

Welcome to the second installment of "The Biggest Fathlete," starring your favorite aspiring hardbody, me. It's been a week since I announced my plan to be the hottest bridesmaid ever.

I have done this by:

— hiring Victor, the fabulous, Ahnold-quoting trainer who hosts the weekly Booty Camps I go to, as my once a week trainer. So far, this hurts. But in a good way.

— giving Kiki, the bride at the upcoming wedding, the password to my Livestrong.com account so that she can see what I am eating, in the spirit of accountability.

— worked out all but once this week.

— Kept crazy watch on my calories, and forgoing any sort of tempura roll, egg roll, fried rice or the foods that give my life meaning.

So, this is what I look like this week. I think it's not bad. What do you think? Besides the Buckwheat hair, of course.

The Fathlete Training Torture Begins!

This is not Victor, my new trainer. But he, like Maximus here, is about entertaining you with the pain. And the endless kickbox drills and the horrible flutter kicks. He is here to make me hot, and I just have to muddle through and suffer. And be hot. After I can feel my feet again.

Welcome to "The Biggest Fathlete"!

OK, here's the situation. My parents went away on a week's vacation and...they left the keys to the brand new Porche.

Sorry. Fresh Prince interlude. The real deal is that I declared in my last post that I have a bridesmaid dress to look hot in, and I've been sleeping on this here weight plateau for too long.

So we're stepping it up, with more workouts, less food and some accountability. And that's where you, gentle Fathlete reader, come in. I was inspired by my friend, Bride-To-Be-Kiki, and her astonishing weight loss, as well as the formerly rotund folks on "The Biggest Loser." Of course, those people were way obese and have been working out like it's their full-time job with a million dollars on the line.

All I have is my dignity and my vanity, and my health. So every week, I'm gonna take a picture of myself in this tank, that I bought when a sleeker and younger me finished the Baltimore Marathon in 2005, and some sort of running short/skort/skirt. I won't be telling you my weight, because I don't want to, and because nobody's giving me a million dollars to do so.

We're gonna do this together. Because what would we do, babies, without us? Sha-la-la-la!

A Fathlete Doesn't Want To Be The Fat Bridesmaid.

My close and dear almost-sister Kiki is getting married, which is why she flew me to Pennsylvania last weekend to do bridesmaid stuff, like meet her cake guy (fab!) see her wedding dress (I cried!) and get fitted for my beautiful bridesmaid dress, which is a lot prettier with me not in it.

Crappity.

I am trying to nudge myself off this plateau I'm on, but nevertheless felt pretty good about my weight going into the fitting at David's Bridal (and Lord, ain't that place a racket!), up until I actually put the dress on. I wasn't even phased, at first, by the presence of the two skinniest bridesmaids, because they're hot in their little skinny own way, and the Fathlete is hot in her own big-butted, muscle-woman, back-fatted way. Each to their own hotness, I say.

The problem was the size of the dress, which I knew would be bigger than my usual. And the bride, who now weighs about 12 pounds (and is gorgeous) warned me that she'd fit into the size I was about to try on, and Sister is much smaller than me. So when the smaller size, which is one up from what I usually wear, was too tight in the breasticles, I didn't mind. The next one up, a size I have not been since the late 90s, didn't fit either.

Uh-oh.

This meant that my dress, even though it's gonna be taken in, is in a size that I have never worn, even though I am not half the fat-ass I was in the late 90s. I know that it's my boobs, not everything else, and that I'm not really that size.

Bu I don't want to be at all. So I'm not gonna be. I promise you - and me - that when I get fitted for that dress in July, it will be a size smaller. At least. I know this is gonna hurt. But it's gotta happen.

A Fathlete Becomes Blackfunkel

...and like the frizz over troubled foreheads, it does weigh me down.

Thus it is as a runner in South Florida, where even before the sun comes up, the brain-frying humidity is out, ready and willing to smack you silly. Thank God my hair is pre-kinked, because otherwise I'd involuntarily look like Black Orphan Annie. Or Black Art Garfunkel (Blackfunkel?)

Anyway, me and Paul Simon...er, my friend Libby, who is training for a marathon, went for a quick and sticky 3 miles this morning by the Intracoastal. We were running pretty fast, considering the wind, and that I am just getting my speed back, while Libby is healthier, younger, faster and a speed-loving nutcase. And I say that in the most admirable way possible. Man, I love a crazy runner.

It's hard to remember, even if you've spent the majority of your life in places where there are seasons, not being able to run year round. I'll call my sister in Baltimore in January and she'll say "Man, I wish I could go out and run" and I'll say "Why not?" and she'll say "Because of the blizzard and the polar bear sitting on my car eating my tires."

The thing of it is that here, it's reversed. Just when it's becoming glorious running weather up north, it's getting to be gross here. If you're planning to run any more than four or five miles, you can't start any later than 7 and expect not to be disgusting hot. Hell, it was 5:15 when we started this morning, running by the water, and you still could have boiled a tea bag in all that moisture.

So, welcome to the Thunderdome, South Florida runners! Cause your hair's gonna look like Tina Turner's when you're done!

Fathlete and Friend do the Zumba!

Sadly, there are no pictures of my friend Lauren and I doing the Zumba class at my gym yesterday, but I can sort of describe the scene - tiny young girls with no rhythm fleeing for their water between every song, because they have no body fat and no endurance, and Lauren, an experienced salsa dancer, literally bopping up and down between songs like "Where's the music? Let me at 'em!"

Let this be a lesson to you, young ones. Just because you're young and tiny doesn't mean you have any sort of fitness level. And just because you're about 30 and curvy, like Lauren, or pushing 40 with a preponderance of back fat, like myself, doesn't mean you can't kick butt.

And we kicked that Zumba's butt all over the place!

Hells yeah!

A Fathlete Reclaims Her Former Glory...

...or at least gives it a good, flabby try.

On Friday, I finally picked up my new orthotics, which cost about eleventy-three dollars. However, they're my magic key to getting back on the road, to sort of being the runner I used to be, sorta kinda, and to maybe getting back the almost 38-year-old version of the body I had when I did my marathon in 2005.

Then again, this body, in its current flabbier state, danced me to a third-place victory in the not epic but insanely fun 2009 Dancing For The Stars competition last week at the Kravis Center here in bee-yoo-tiful West Palm Beach. When I watched the video, I was alarmed at the preponderance of back fat (and look for my upcoming autobiography - "Leslie Gray Streeter: A Preponderance of Back Fat") but thrilled at how much I looked like I knew what I was doing! It looked so effortless, particularly the steps that took me forever to get, like the sequence of fast kicks in the beginning.

I was rewarded a 10 by Hillie, one of the awesome judges, mostly because of my joy and because she saw me in one of my earlier rehearsals, when I looked like a manatee trying to audition for "A Chorus Line." I will hold onto that 10, and onto this awesome disco ball trophy, like Miss Havesham held onto her wedding cake.

Try and stop me.

A Fathelete Hopes She Dances...But Don't Try To Lift Her

...because she's too heavy to lift, apparently.

As Liz Lemon would say, Blurg.

 

I'm being melodramatic here, but when I started practicing my swing dancing for this upcoming "Dancing For The Stars" situation at the Kravis Center next month, I had hopes that I would lose tons of weight, like all those already skinny girls on "Dancing With The Stars." I was also hoping, as most little girls do, that I would make my dancing debut all girly and spinny, and get lifted up like a princess, or at least like Baby in "Dirty Dancing."

While I am not in the least bit skinny (nor do I want to be), I have knocked some inches off the old waist, making my big old butt stand out more, like a shorter, stouter JLo (I like this). But apparently, it's not enough inches or pounds to make me small enough for my partner, the fabulous Armando, to lift me without hurting his back.

I did not have the time of my life, I tell you that.

In all fairness, he's not a big guy, and we probably weigh the same.  The routine looks amazing, so far, even without the lift. It's just that no woman wants to hear that she's not tiny and graceful enough to be lifted like a figure skater. Everyone wants to be feminine, to be girly. And even though the physics bear this out - I am, at this point, about 160-something pounds of mostly muscle, plus a bunch of butt and chesticles, and Armando is about 5"8 and weighs about the same - it's still disappointing. Hilarious, in a morbid way, because I feel awesome. But no one wants to be the hippo in "Fantasia" flipping the skinny alligator around. No one wants to be the fat girl.

And yes, I am not fat. My friend Lauren has promised to give me a quarter every time I think this so I'll shut up about it.

But, you know...Hippos.

It's gonna look awesome, anyway. 

A Fathlete Fights The Orthotics...

...and so far, those suckers are winning.

I bought these Power Step thingees for the first time months ago, and every successive pair has been a disaster. The first pair worked beautifully - I pronate or, as we say on the streets, walk funny, so they lifted my arches and made me happy. But the last pair was too short, causing icky bumped toes hanging off the pad. My toes looked like they'd been in the woodchipper with Steve Buscemi after my relay portion of the Marathon of the Palm Beaches. 

Now the new pair I bought big and attempted to cut them down. They worked OK for the Race For The Cure, but badly hurt my arches in my next run. Dr. Chris Fox , my running guru, is gonna take a look at them tomorrow, and not a moment too soon. I have a race Saturday morning, and I would like an equal chance at sucking less.

A Fathlete Races For A Cure, and For Pat!

It has been my goal since returning to running last year to get my 5K times back under 30 minutes, or at least run faster than a 10 minute mile pace. I am happy to report that at Saturday's Race For The Cure in beautiful relatively freezing Downtown West Palm Beach, my official time was 31:01 minutes, which isn't under 30 minutes but is, and this is important to my petty record-keeping mind - a 29:57 pace.

Yes, that rounds up to 30. But not quite. And I'll take it.

Of course the most important thin was the thousands of people who rolled out in the relative freezing cold to run for their mothers, their sisters, their aunts and grandmothers. I ran for my cousin, the beautiful and talented Pat, who is having breast cancer surgery this week, and who I love very, very much. That's more important than a few tenths of a second. But I can't wait to show her the photo of me holding up her name. I look really bad in that picture. But that's really not the point.

A Fathlete Gets Her Vacation Exercise on the Dance Floor...

...and will not mention those crepes she just ate.

It's been a few weeks since I updated the Fathlete blog, as I was sick like a dog, or at least a weasel with a bad cough. And I wasn't doing much athletic stuff, other than some weightlifting and my swing lessons with the fabulous Armando. I wasn't setting any fitness records. But I can triple across heel toe like a mother.

I worked out right up until Thursday, several hours before I got on a plane and flew to Vegas for my beloved Kiki's birthday celebration. I packed the good running shoes and running bra and every intention of keeping up with the fitness on my vacay.

Weasel, please. This is Vegas, where mimosas are a clever way to get your vitamin C and wise investments are nickel slots. I have been dancing every night, won $30 gambling, and have been...umm...enjoying adult beverages and eating stuff. Shockingly my clothes still fit. Must be all that dancing with that cute little British boy I met Friday night at Prive. I believe his name was Paul. Not sure what he was saying half the time - stuff about football, gambling and being confused that every woman he met in Vegas appeared to be "a ho." But he was charming, and dancing with him provided cardio between Diet Coke and Malibus. 

So, no great strides for the "lete" part of this blog. More like the "Fat"part. We're just hardcore next week. Wee-hoo, babies!

A Fathlete Stops Coughing Like A Dying French Courtesan!

So today I returned to my semi-hard core life as a fake athlete, after a nasty cough that made me sound like Satine from "Moulin Rouge." And by the way, I never understood how that girl didn't k know she was dying, what with her passing out and falling out of swings and coughing up blood and whatnot. I can see her not knowing exactly what was wrong with her if the doctors wouldn't tell her. But wouldn't you, at least, be concerned if everytime you opened your eyes, you were somewhere different than you were the last time you were conscious, and everybody around you was trying not to look like "Dag, that girl's gonna die?"

Anyway, I am glad to report that I am neither dying of consumption nor a French courtesan. I got through an hour of Booty Camp, featuring the hilarious and brutal Victor and his love of walking lunges. I do not share that love. But I got through, and only erupted into Satine coughs a couple of times. Then it was off to my swing lesson with the even more hilarious Armando, who proposed some brutal spins that made me totter off my new high heeled dance shoes like a drunk debutante.

Or a coughing French courtesan. You be the judge.

Vacation's Over...Step Away From The Lazy!

I'm back in my apartment, about to head to the gym for the beginning of my New Year's resolution not to be a big fat pig. I also have a wicked bad cough that I'm blaming on the change in temperature between tropical Florida and the frozen hinterlands of yore. 

I am also back on the calorie counting...we'll see how that goes, because Vacation Leslie's still grooving on those mashed potatoes she ate around 11:30 PM at Howley's (thanks, Steph!) and is stalking the streets looking for carbs. And she knows where to find them.

A Fathelete Starts The New Year Mostly Right!

Quick note: As the first day of this hopefully smashing new year dawns, I am ending the vacation eating portion of my vacation early. This means I am not eating everything put in front of me (Hello pie, my secret lovah!) and pretending that it doesn't count. I can see a little extra pinchiness around certain areas (Hello, pie, my secret lovah!) but shockingly everything still fits, even though I've worked out once since I've been here.

Seriously.

So obviously, God either is sparing me from my laziness or waiting until I get back home to slap me with some delayed reaction blubber. Tomorrow, my sister and I are going to some class at her gym called Soul Grooves, which she says is a butt-kicker. I am working on my natural lack of coordination with Armando, my dance guru, so this might be fun. Hell, who am I kidding? It's still gonna hurt like a mofo...Hey, Steve Zahn is gonna be Monk's brother! I love Steve Zahn! He's the Seann William Scott of my generation, yet not so Seann William Scott-y! 

I'm sorry...where was I? Yes...umm...Soul Grooves. I'm a little scared of it but I have a soul and have been known to groove. So we'll see what's up.