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.