Tales from the Shark Tank

Not so very long ago, I talked about my glee at being able to get back into a dress I’d made but never worn.  That was mid-June.  I pulled the same dress out to wear to Yom Kippur services.  It’s only been a few months, but I need to take it in.  Side and back seams alone won’t do it, either; I’m going to have to take out the shoulders and redo them, because the neckline is too big now.  I’ll do it; as previously observed, it’s a really nice dress.  But it’s also sleeveless, which means I’m unlikely to wear it again before next spring.  So I’ve washed it, but I think the refitting will wait until the weather begins to be suitable to pull it out again.  I’m still getting smaller here, and if I do it now I foresee another iteration before it’s even worn.

It’s a good problem to have.

I’m going to be attending a dinner on Saturday evening.  I have a lovely yellow Indian cotton dress that was given to me, that I thought I should be able to wear again, and I intended to do so.  Fortunately, I had the sense to try it on before I packed it.

It doesn’t fit yet.  The skirt is fine, but the bodice is snug enough to be uncomfortable.  So I’ll have to figure out something else festive.  Hopefully it will be something already in my closet.

Last time I bought jeans, there was one pair that didn’t fit, printed size notwithstanding.  It didn’t even meet at the equator, so to speak.  But rather than take them back, I tucked them away with intent to work on getting into them.

Yesterday I bethought me of those jeans and pulled them out.  Not only do they now fit, they’re a little loose.   It’s nice to have such tangible evidence of change.

One of the things the gym does is weigh me weekly, and today was the day.  Last week I was pleased with the result, but didn’t trust it not to be in the range of normal fluctuation.  But now it has lasted, and so I can happily report that a bit over 10% of the total amount I’m trying to lose is now gone.

Yes, I’m unabashedly proud of that.  And best of all, I can feel the difference.

As part of the formal nutrition classes that come with the gym membership, I was asked to state a goal as to where I want to be physically three months from now. I told the nice folks that I wanted “to be in danger of a wardrobe malfunction in my current workout clothes.” After suitable explanation, that’s actually what they wrote down for me, laughing as they did it.

See, a couple of years ago the K-Mart nearest my mom was going out of business. I knew that and ignored it, being fairly certain nothing there would be of interest to me. Mom, however, had other ideas. Her intentions were good, but her execution less so. She neither told me she was going shopping for me (always dangerous), nor asked me what I wanted or needed nor what size I was at the time. The result was, shall we say, suboptimal. Worse, none of it could be returned, as it was a going-out-of-business sale. Among the things she got me were “knit pants”.

I don’t wear knit pants. I haven’t voluntarily worn knit pants since I’ve had primary control of my wardrobe, which I grant came late because it just wasn’t important enough to me to make a scene about it and it didn’t occur to Mom that I might want to choose my own clothes. (Don’t ask.) I never much cared what I wore, and was perfectly capable of climbing to the top of a 70 foot pine without damaging my slacks anyway. (Don’t ask me how I did it; I’ve no idea.) Worse yet, they were actually leggings. Spandex leggings. Half a dozen of them. I didn’t wear leggings voluntarily when I was thin, and by the time she was buying these things, I was far past the load limit on public appearances in spandex. I intended to give the lot to Goodwill, tags still on, but somehow they got put away and packed instead.

Spandex pants are grand for working out in, though, especially in the winter, so I’ve finally found a good use for the darned things, at least for now. But they’re a size I no longer want to be, and so that is my goal – to be in danger of suffering a wardrobe malfunction in spandex. Other people may put it in terms of pounds to lose, or inches. For me, shrinking out of spandex pants seems an appropriate measure. And then I will finally be able to get rid of them without either lying to my mother or hurting her feelings.

Yesterday I did my first formal workout, under the watchful eye and careful instruction of the trainer.  Given that she was showing me how to use the equipment and going slowly and carefully with me, neither one of us was terribly surprised when my heartrate stayed relentlessly low.

Today I seemed to seriously surprise her.  I had told her I’d been walking three miles most days, and that I’d begun a yoga routine in addition.  She had nodded, but I think she was looking at the admittedly soft body and thinking “Ok, she goes three miles, but it’s probably at a slow stroll.”  So she was a bit nonplussed at how much she had to add to the basic workout to get my heartrate up.  She said she sees that with people who’ve been working at it for a year or so, not people in their first week.  I will give her credit.  She promptly readjusted her expectations and found ways to increase the workout that still don’t over-stress the joints.  And I guess I’m not as woefully out of shape as I thought I was.

I went out this morning to check out one of the gyms – excuse me, health clubs – in the area.  My husband’s employer provides reduced rates to certain establishments, and I’d gone yesterday to check out the one nearest the house.  That did not turn out to be very near; it’s a 40 minute drive each way.  By the time I actually take time to work out and shower, that would eat up fully half my day.  Not good.  In addition, no one seemed to have a clue what one should be doing.  If I didn’t know how to use the multiple machines – and I don’t – then choosing things to do was pretty tough.  So when I got home, I made a few other calls, generally coming away with a “well, if I have to” feeling.

This morning I had an appointment to try out the one closest to home, which happens to be a Curves facility.  Now, that franchise has been popping up like mushrooms, and the whole gimicky-ness of it left me looking at it with rather a jaundiced eye.  What I found when I went in, though, was considerably different.

The trainer was running it.  More, she’s a physical therapist, who has some very clear ideas on how to adapt a workout for my funky joints.  It turns out that the company makes use of physical therapists regularly.  Even if an individual facility doesn’t have one, there will be one available to them.  They have a nutritionist available on the same basis, in this case going to the various facilities throughout the region.  It’s very small, and in the time I was there I watched the trainer stop, go adjust an elderly woman’s position so that she wouldn’t injure herself, and then stand and help a pregnant woman with her balance through the stretches.  I’ve not seen that anywhere I’ve visited before.  I was amazed, so much so that I’ve committed an actual act of joining.  I have an appointment with her tomorrow.  I’m looking forward to it.