They might call me an athena

I made a fairly stupid mistake this morning.  I try to avoid these kinds of mistakes as much as possible, but for some reason felt all to compelled to step my entire body mass onto a little innate object designed to torture the soul.  Yup, I weighed myself.  Despite knowing every single logical reason why this was a stupid idea, the urge was too strong and I did it.  I immediately regretted that decision. I regretted it wholeheartedly because I didn’t hate myself the moment before I got on the thing, and instantly upon seeing the number my brain did it’s per typical mental beat down and shaming. All because of a number. I hated the number.  The number is a reflection of nothing more than that moment in time and yet somehow it was the single most horrific thing I had ever seen. Why did I bring this upon myself?

I haven’t been on a scale in two months, seriously, and somehow curiosity got the better of me.  I knew I hadn’t lost weight or anything. I knew that all my clothes were maintaining strong. I knew that I pretty much looked exactly as I have for the past 6-12 months. In my magical little bubble of maintaining the current level of body/food/fitness ratio I have endured.  And realistically I knew I would not like the number. Realistically I must have “known” what the outcome would be.  There was no way I was going to be down. And yet there secretly was a part of me I guess that was hoping it was going to be better than I thought and it was that single driving force that propelled me onto the enemy this morning. 

I “knew” it wouldn’t be good, but I was hoping it would be better than I thought.  It wasn’t.  So my second thought was perhaps my body fat percentage had gone down and this stalling of numbers on the scale is a direct relation to my fabulously built new muscles.  It was not. Broke out the body fat scale machine and eagerly what was sure to be a fabulous ridiculous improvement from the last time I did this, which happened to coincide with the same day I weighed myself last. Alas, pretty much no difference at all.  Thud. That was the sound of my heart hitting the floor is pissy protest.  So let me get this straight, pretty much two months since I last weighed myself and in return my weight is essentially 1.5 pounds heavier than last time and my body fat percentage is almost identical.  Despite everything I have done the last 2 months.  SHIT!

I suppose I could look at it realistically like without stepping on a scale or trying for almost 2 months I have pretty solidly maintained my body and eaten whatever the fuck I wanted whenever I wanted it.  This is a dangerous thing though.  It would be nice to see improvement given the insane levels of fitness I put out.  I don’t so much care about the scale necessarily going down. Wait, that is a bold faced lie my friends.  It is that number on that scale that has guided me, driven my sanity for 11 plus years.  For whatever fucking reason it DOES matter to me.  Anyhow, I am mostly disappointed that I have not managed to reduce my body fat percentage because I do feel like the last two months I have excessively upped my weights and strength training game.  I need to start documenting I think the weights I am using for exercises because I swear I am able to easily lift heavier weights with more reps and surely that must be providing some improvements on my body.

I “feel” like I am more muscular and solid and am gaining muscle.  But alas, I also wonder if that is an excuse I tell myself to justify my lack of control over my food choices.  I think I lie to myself a lot to survive.  Some amounts of that is okay and justifiable. But at some point it’s not good either.  I think I tell myself that it’s okay that I eat pop tarts for dinner/dessert wait its dessert because I always eat a big old dinner first! HA HA.  I think I tell myself that’s okay because I am maintaining my lifestyle and I’m not gaining weight and therefore it’s perfectly acceptable.

Also, truthfully, I don’t want to restrict myself. I don’t want to deny myself cupcakes and pop tarts and the millions of other indulgences I seem to think I deserve.  I also should point out that I have regressed back to eating weekly treats of home baked French fries (not the good potato kind you make yourself but the kind you buy in a bag and heat up that are greasy and horrible for you) and of course dipping said fries in a concoction of mixed ketchup and mayonnaise.  Is there really much worse for you than a concoction of ketchup and mayonnaise, like a cup or more full of that crap?  Nope.  Pretty much write fat girl on my forehand as I shovel down the mayonnaise into my face.

Admitting this fact and the realities of my food situation I suppose I should be incredibly thankful that I am maintaining my weight/body fat so lovely without stepping on a scale or recording any food or trying in the least.  My jeans still fit me and my clothes are fine. I suppose I should be doing cartwheels because that is the still the case.

I guess seeing the number is a reminder that I haven’t really improved any and that unto itself makes me sad.  I am in the mid 150’s.  There is nothing wrong with this number. I have to keep telling myself that. There is nothing wrong with my weight living in the 150’s.  I try to tell myself all the excuses of I was born into a genetic fat wasteland.  I am big boned. I am pre-dispositioned to bulk up.  I am a former fat girl therefore I should just be happy and accept my place in the 150’s.  I think all of these are lies and excuses I try to use to make myself feel better. 

I am barely 5 foot 3 inches. I am a short girl and let’s be honest any amount of being in the 150’s is the high end of healthy for my frame. Like almost not healthy.  Like there are many many women who are 5’3 in the 120’s.  Sure, this is never ever going to be me.  I know I am a curvy girl. I much prefer a voluptuous body to a stick thin one.  But I’ve always ideally been happier about myself in the 140’s. And yet my body sticks firmly to the 150’s. 

Since this is my own personal blog and I can therefore be honest I have another beef to raise as a whole. I also think mentally this has fucked with me some from time to time.  There is this thing in the running community known as the “Athena/Clydesdale” category.  Some races have a special division you can sign up for to be lumped into which is a strictly weight related category.  It varies slightly upon race but general practice is you qualify as a Clydesdale as a man if you weigh around 200-220 lbs. and an Athena for a woman at between 145-160 pounds.  UGH… heart just hit the floor.

Basically this is the “fat category” or the category for what one considers a “handicap” for running. You are a handicapped runner if you weigh this much? This makes me sad. This makes me feel bad for weighing in the 150’s, like I shouldn’t be running or something. I think that while this category was probably designed to help people, ultimately it’s a wicked form of fat shaming.  Instead of the typical age categories, we now are going to lump you into what we consider runners and fat people running.  I traditionally would fall into the Athena category and yet I refuse to category myself as such.  I refuse to sign up for such a thing. In the world of running, the very thing that I love so much, I am considered fat.  It’s a hard pill to swallow.

Although admitingly, when I ran my fastest half, San Jose, at like 2:09, I weighed closer to 140 pounds.  So realistically that extra 10-15 pounds I am carrying did have a 6 minute time difference on my body. I am not oblivious to this fact.  I’m really not.  Which is why on some level I do want to “trim down” for my marathon in September.  I am not unaware of the reality that weighing 140 pounds running 26.2 miles would be preferable to 150 something. 

And that thought process is where everything gets messed up in my head.  Every societal clue is telling me being 150 something is not acceptable. That this somehow makes me less of a fit active healthy person.  Our society is so messed up! My brush with the scale this morning got me googling weight watchers this morning. Yes, I actually googled weight watchers meetings and locations and times.  Alas, did you know that weight watchers is actually $45 a freaking month.  That is absurd! Okay, there is a time and a place for it and yes I do think it is worth the money if you need it. But ultimately I don’t really need it.  I’m just knee jerk reacting to the situation.  I can and have done weight watchers all on my own without paying $45 a month if that is what I wanted to do.

Although I’m not entirely convinced weight watchers food plan is right for me at this point in my life.  Although I’m not sure it wouldn’t work either if I actually worked it properly.  Again, it’s the excuse I tell myself that I need more protein and I get hungry from all my workouts and therefore the amount of food weight watchers wants me to eat would not be enough.  This is the lie I’ve told myself a lot the past year.  I am fairly certain it is just a lie designed to keep me from having to be accountable for my food.

I should really work on that, some of it, any of it.  As in the words of my favorite icon, Pink, who has come under fire this past week from image bullying freaks for getting “fat”, although there is nothing fat about that woman, when her daughter poked her belly and asked her why her belly was so squishy she replied because I’m happy baby. Because I’m happy.  That about sums it up.  I think it would be easier for me to be militant with my food if I was unhappy with something but ultimately I am pretty happy with my life and I guess therefore it’s perfectly okay to be a little squishy in places.  Just another reason why I adore me some Pink.

I apparently am just having one of those days.  I am not crazy upset or freaked out by anything at the moment.  Sure, I am not happy with the number but deep down I knew it and I’ll get over it.  It’s hard to really truly hate myself today when just last night I was killing it at the gym. It’s really hard to be too mad. 

I ran 2 miles and then I tackled this insane leg day workout.

So ultimately this 150 pound something woman ran 2 miles, and then spent an hour 15 minutes killing her legs, dripping sweat all over that gym, and burned 625 calories doing it.  I felt strong and fierce last night so how can I be disappointed this morning? You know what I mean?

I guess I’ll just take my 150 pound something body and try and try and get over it.