Dancing My Butt Off

I love to renovate things, and I’m pretty good at it.  So toward the fall of last year, I started thinking about how I would begin to renovate my life.  I knew what my first project would be: getting physically fit.  As I told Joey one day, you can only blame the dryer so long.

I’ve never been a skinny girl—even at my very thinnest (senior year of high school), I’ve never worn a single-digit size.  Luckily, I have a large frame, so I can carry a few extra pounds better than my tiny-framed friends can.   I grew up in a state famous for its good food, and in a family that loved to eat.

My step-father and I worked at the same hospital for several years.  Donald used to go to suppers with some of the other guys who worked there.  One day, I overheard one of them having a conversation in the cafeteria.

“Have you ever seen Berlin’s family eat?” he asked.

“No,” came the reply.

“That’s some eatin’ people!” he exclaimed incredulously.

I laughed, as did Donald when I recounted the story to him, but it was true.  My male cousins, particularly, were legendary for the amount of food they could put away.  I’ve had a step-brother and several cousins banned from all-you-can-eat buffets.  Out of a big extended family, my grandmothers and my mother were the only mediocre cooks. 

Still, I managed to maintain a healthy weight throughout my early 20s.  Bunny and I got married when we were 24, and were both fit on our wedding day.  Soon after we got married, though, we both gained a little weight.  Within a few years, we had both gained a lot of weight.  By the time I was in my late 30s, I could only buy clothes from the plus-sized departments, and Bunny had long since graduated to specialty stores.  How did this happen?  We were working long hours and our free time was fairly sedentary.  We both hated—HATED—to exercise.  It’s a familial trait. 

We started a low-fat diet, joined a gym and got a trainer.  For about three months, we trained together, and we both lost some weight.  Bunny dropped out shortly after that—he was tired of low-fat foods and of taking the time away from whatever his hobby at the time was.  I stuck with it a little longer—even though I was starving all the time—until my crazy work schedule made it impossible to be consistent with the trainer.  Plus, the trainer had long since begun to bore me with the lack of variety in my routines.

I hovered at the low end of the plus-size range for a while, until I changed jobs.  Early on in my new position, I periodically went to live in Houston for weeks or months at a time to help the office there with a crushing trial calendar.  One of the attorneys from the New Orleans office—Ros—also camped in Houston.  We were staying at the same apartment complex, and she had just read about the Atkins program: low carb, high protein.  We could eat meat, eggs, butter, cheese, and most salad-type vegetables.  Potatoes, bread, and pasta were forbidden.  We started Atkins together, driving our boss batty whenever we went to a restaurant with him.  

On any other diet I’d tried—and I’d tried them all—I always felt like I was starving to death.  Atkins was an adjustment, because I was suddenly doing without the foods that made me fat in the first place—potatoes, pasta and bread.  But once I got past the first two weeks, it was easy.  The weight started melting off.

Then I got one of the first Wiis that came out, chiefly for exercise.  I loved the Wii, because I could work out in the privacy of my own home.  Every day when I exercised, the cats would gather around to watch.  For some reason, it fascinates them to see me sweating.

During the last two years, I got less religious about exercising.  The thing that initially stopped me cold in my tracks was when I had a cervical spine fusion in April of 2010.  I had to wear neck braces for about six weeks, and by the time I was recovered, Bunny was starting to decline, health-wise.  I spent my spare time going with him to doctor’s appointments or hospitals, or just spending time with him.  

It’s not a good excuse for my not exercising, but those of us who don’t like to exercise don’t need much of an excuse.  Here’s the biggest lie that we tell ourselves: I don’t have the time.  I have friends who are addicted—addicted—to exercise!  If they don’t exercise every single day, they get antsy or out-of-sorts.  One has to swim for an hour.  One lifts weights.  The tri-athletes are the worst—they are like the vegans of exercise.

Other friends work out because they realize it’s a necessary evil.  I seem to know a lot of runners in this category.  Running has never appealed to me, for a variety of reasons.  As the saying goes, if you see me running, you’d better run, too, because something is chasing me.

Anyway, over the past two years, my weight was quietly sneaking upward.  At first, it was because Bunny would bring forbidden foods into the house.  Frosties, cake, ice cream—you name it; if it was unhealthy, he’d eat it.  A lot of it.   On the days when my resolve was strong, I’d stay away from it.  As time wore on, my resolve grew less strong.

I would chide him for bringing the forbidden food de jour into the house, and he’d protest that it was “only a little” and that I shouldn’t eat it if it was so bad.  Ha!  That’s like living with a crack addict and bringing ‘only a little’ crack home and telling her to stay away from it!

Once Bunny was gone, I didn’t have the desire to do much of anything in my spare time, particularly exercise.  By the fall of last year, I realized that I had to make some changes, and getting fit was top of the list.  There’s a relatively new gym about three miles from my house.  We actually joined when it first opened, but never went.  I got online and signed up, then visited on the next Monday.

There are some projects I won’t attempt by myself: auto repair comes to mind.  Getting into shape fell into auto repair territory—I wanted a trainer to help me efficiently get into shape and help me get motivated to keep it up.  Even though there were lots of classes at the gym, I didn’t join any.  There are some things I just don’t like doing in a group.

I was introduced to the personal trainer manager (or, as I like to call him, the personal trainer pimp (he prefers the term godfather)).  He oversees the personal trainers and their clients.  We met for about an hour, and he quizzed me on my health, my goals, and numerous other things.  We decided that my training program would be three times a week, for 25 minutes each time.  I could change trainers any time I wanted, and he encouraged me to change them every once in a while to work with a variety of styles.

He encouraged me to start out with Sarah (not her real name), who was good with people who hadn’t exercised in a while.  On November 1, 2012, I started training.  Sarah seemed nice enough, but she wasn’t exactly a ball of fire; she had less personality and enthusiasm than a damp dish cloth.   By the end of the first month, I was ready to change.  She convinced me to stick with her a little longer.  Every time I mentioned changing, because the pimp—er—godfather--had told me to change, she would give me a sad look, like I was abandoning her. 

Finally, I couldn’t stand her another minute.  I was very discouraged, because I wasn’t seeing the kind of results I’d expected after a month’s time. I was also bored out of my mind with her routines.  I went to see the pimp.  We discussed a number of trainers on the roster, and he described each one’s style to me.  When he got to Corey (which really is his name), he looked a bit doubtful.

“He’s got a different style all together.  He’ll push you hard.”

“Perfect! Sign me up!”

I met Corey Trainer (so as not to confuse him with Corey daughter-in-law) the next day.  I loved him immediately—he was efficient, knowledgeable and no-nonsense.  I could tell that a personality lurked beneath the drill sergeant-like exterior he presented at our first meeting.   

We focused on stretching exercises at the first session.  He told me I needed to stretch every day, no exceptions.  I questioned this requirement to myself, but I’ve since learned that stretching does make a huge difference.  Plus, it’s made me hella flexible! 

He asked about physical limitations.  I told him that, other than hyperextending my neck, the only limitations I had were because of my—ahem—ample bust.  I have what my mother used to call the “Chatelain Boobs.”   I come from a family of well-endowed women.

“Get some good sports bras.  Double or triple them up.  We’re going to be doing a lot of running.”    Hello!  How had the other trainer—a woman, no less—failed to mention this?  When the Chatelain Boobs had gotten in the way during her exercises, we moved to different exercises.

“How much cardio are you doing every week?” he asked. 

“Thirty minutes almost every day,” I answered.  It was true, and probably the only reason I’d lost any weight since November.

“Try doing an hour four times a week.  And you gotta sweat.”

Maybe at our first meeting, he thought he was stuck with some doughy grandmother who would quickly flame out.  I’ll have to ask the next time I see him.  If that was the case, it wasn’t long before he learned differently.

“I love your motivation.  And your focus.  You’re very driven,” he said at our third session, when I was on my third set of lifting a seemingly impossible amount of weight.  I never have forgotten my Lamaze techniques, 31 years on—focus, breathe—deliver an almost 10 pound baby without anesthesia or lift a gazillion pounds of weight.

Corey Trainer challenges me, pushes me, and motivates me.  He makes me feel like he’s actually invested in my outcome. He’s loosened up a lot since our first meeting, and he does have a playful side. Now—shock of all shocks—I actually look forward to going to the gym!  What new torture has he devised for me today? I’ll show him!  Every trip is like an adventure--a big, sweaty adventure. 

Based on his advice, I started dancing (Wii Just Dance 1-4, mostly) for an hour a night rather than 30 minutes.  I started out at four times a week, but love doing it so much that I do it nearly every night.  In fact, if I don’t dance, I start jonesing to do it.  Am I—gasp—addicted to the dance?  I think I am. 

Since November 1^st, I’ve lost a little over 20 pounds.  Most of that has come off since December 17^th, when I started working out with Corey Trainer.  I’ve got tone and definition in places that never had them before (hello, biceps!), even when I was at my lowest weight.   I’ve become one of those freaky exercise addicts, dancing my butt off—literally and figuratively.  Hey, at least it keeps the cats entertained.