Finally Returning

Dearest Rachel –

I suppose it was overly optimistic of me, but after fasting over the weekend (as I do when I’m working the booth – keeping busy keeps my mind off of food, although I generally allow myself a couple of coffees on Sunday, due to the early start of the day; and yes, I’m well aware you would consider that part of the punishment), I started Monday morning by finally tipping the scales at less than two-twenty without even putting in a workout, and I thought I had reached some kind of breakthrough. Oh, I knew that I was going to go back over that line with breakfast, but I concluded that I was going to be permanently under, say, the next-highest five pound level, and I no longer needed to concern myself with the fact that the home treadmill was broken. A few trips to the gym each week, and everything would be fine going forward.

I’m told that the kids have a new word for this sort of thinking: ‘delulu.’ It’s basically a shortening of the word ‘delusional,’ with a repetition of the second syllable to cutesify it, but I’m sure you could have figured that out in fairly short order.

After two evenings in a row of healthy, heaping portions – the first being our get-together on Tuesday, followed by yesterday night at the folks’ (because I’d have had to leave midway through the meal in order to get to rehearsal tonight) – I should have expected to have slipped back, but it was dismaying to see how far I had fallen in barely half a week. My morning weigh-in showed me to be nearly ten pounds heavier than I had been on Monday; not something I’m keen to admit to, but it is what it is.

Now, bear in mind, this isn’t a catastrophic fall from grace. It wasn’t all that long ago that reaching my license weight was a goal; these days, it would be very close to a calamity. And I’m not about to hit that mark, in fact; I didn’t even go so far as to cross the two-thirty threshold, let alone two thirty-five. But considering that I’d been under two-twenty only three days ago, you can understand my distress. This is not a place for me to be in.

And with the home treadmill out of commission for reasons unknown (Logan suggests that I look into whatever warranty it came with, but I think it’s been more than 90 days since I purchased it. Besides, it’d probably be more trouble than it was worth to ship it out. I get that he’s wanting the treadmill available for his own purposes, and I respect that, but I don’t think the option is available), but my gym membership card gathering dust in the laundry room within reach of the thing, I decided to fold up the machine, grab the card, and head out the door to get in an actual workout. At least in this case, I’d be in front of witnesses to hold me accountable, in theory.

Of course, that would require actually getting there, and in the chilly rain that confronted me upon stepping out of doors, I remembered why I’d gotten the home treadmill in the first place (that, and having the bathroom nearby if need be, as an extended period of walking tends to have both a diuretic and laxative effect – neither of which I really need, in my opinion). But for all that I may have felt compelled to head to the gym and work out, there was nothing in my self-imposed moral code that insisted that I walk there; I took the car, and didn’t even bother with parking in the office park lot behind the gym, but parked right up against the awning in front of the strip mall itself. No need to subject myself to that much more discomfort.

Since I was there, I thought I might also put in a few reps on the abdominal machine as well. And while the first set of thirty went smoothly enough, as I started in on the second set, I could feel myself straining to finish them, and stopped after twenty repetitions. It wasn’t that I hurt myself, as such, but I could tell that I was sorely (pun intended) out of practice when it came to doing these vertical sit-ups, and would need to wean my way back into doing them, slowly. But at least I’m back to doing these exercises at all.

It was much the same with the treadmill; to walk on a level path, or even at the slight angle afforded by the one I’d had at home seemed too easy – to say nothing of the fact that I wouldn’t be able to walk for more than an hour at a time without switching to ‘cooldown’ mode and eventually shutting off after five minutes of that. So I tried to run at the six-plus mile-an-hour rate for a bit, only to feel it in my ankle rather quickly. Even at five mph, the fifteen percent grade began to wear on me faster than I expected it to. So I finally settled on a practice I’d used when I first started; that of starting at four miles an hour, and adding a tenth of a mile in speed with each hundred calories burned. And, since I’d already covered a mile or so with previous attempts at getting back into the groove, I resolved to quit after reaching a thousand calories on this final effort. I’d been there for nearly an hour and a half, anyway.

And this good enough approach seemed to work; by the time I got home and washed up, I was back down under two twenty-five like I’m used to. Not by much, mind you, but enough to be satisfied with my efforts for now. Although I may have to put in that much more effort over the weekend to keep myself from ballooning up again in the near future.

To that end, I’d best ask as always for your eye to be upon me, and for you to wish me luck. I dare say I’m going to need it.