Tag Archives: fitbit

Um, ?

12 Dec

‘Member when I was a Fitbit guru and pushed like 40,000 steps a day? ‘Member when I had that fresh-air kick for like two years? And, ‘member how I was still super depressed a lot of time because of life stuff, but you know — thinner?
…I think I miss that.

Dude, it’s been like eight weeks since I closed my last show and I’ve still yet to pull myself into gear, physically. Have been working my ass off on the good brain joojoo (or juju or, Hey…I did that DNA test thingy, so now I know I could even JewJew it)…anyway, I got the mental health crap all revved up to full gear and am trying my best (even on shitty days)  to focus on goodliness, and am sleeping like the dead most nights. So, its not like I’m totally slacking. It takes a hell of a lot of work, actually, to keep up with that book and all its many explorations. 

…Meantime, it’s cold out, and my pants from last season feel like I’m stuffing an elephant into pantyhose, and it’s not comfortable or cute.

I’ve got to get in gear back with the walking and dear God, pull back at least 50% on my volume of consumption. It’s like I’m panic-eating every time I sit down…what savage war is my body preparing for that it thinks could have been worse than what I’ve just gone through?

–Know what? Don’t answer that. Pretend I never brought it up. 

And if you love me, next time we meet you’ll bring veg and hummus instead of chips and those pillow crack-cookies slathered in iceing.

Enough!

The misery beyond even a weight scale, is that of your engorged now-gut, hula-hooped round it’s middle with a choke-hold attempting to breathe, while sitting at a desk 9 hours a day.

…And to that end. This is my absolute last eggnog anything.

…So help me god!

(slurp-slurp-gurgle)

…oh. I want to puke…

~D

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Mr. Jingles

29 Jun

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We have a mouse at work.

…We know this, not only because of tiny poop presents on our keyboards, and teeth marks through the package of every granola bar from the Costco box… we know this because we have seen him. At first, in darts and flashes of fur, and now in week two, the tiny asshole –bold as you please — just wanders from office to office via a sequence of holes in our crawlspace, meant to wire our Internet in.

… Traps have been laid, food stuffs have been sequestered, and we await his end-times. But thus far, he’s been too good at the game, and flaunts his wins daily. (Including his ultimate finger flip of shitting his tiny little shits, all over the place.)

Our Warehouse Chick has name him: Mr. Jingles.

He may or may not live up to the role.

Every day now starts with vigorous Lysol wiping of every surface and pen, no one so much as goes to lunch with a cough drop on their desk, and every sighting has become like an office drinking game (minus the booze and real fun.)

Someone: (yelled out) “Mr. Jingles!”
All Else: (answered, like a toast by all present) “Mr. Jingles!”

… Despite the disgustingness… we sorta all want him to win.

So it goes, in the totally classy establishment, I work in.

Next: My year of Fitbitting (and it’s erased blog) are the only current events I own. The blog (killed via Internet or some other technical burp during posting) was meant to celebrate my win of an every day constancy…my 365 days of ass-busting, my over 6.1 million steps, over 16,100 on average per day. But after it ceased the Web world, I thought: “Ain’t that a general F-you from the fates, who watched me work this hard all damn year…”

… So I didn’t rewrite it. That’s my finger, back at them. I did the thing, I know all it meant, I guess I don’t need the witnessing to own the full meaning of it.

Sometimes enough is enough.

(And somewhere, my shrink –prob’ly imbibing on an all-expense vacation I’ve helped pay for–just applauded.)

Meanwhile: It’s heat. And walking. And heat. And head cold ending.

… It’s finally regaining a sense of smell in time for 4th of July BBQ eating, setting friend dates, applying for jobs, watching the casting boards while salivating for just the right thing at just the right time… Hoping to be back into a happy and healthy head and life space, surrounded in higher pay, actual appreciation, and an artistic outlet to fully invest in.

… It could happen.

(And I wish it would fucking hurry up about it, already.)

~D

The 21 Pound Affect

3 Sep

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Today, 75 days after first affixing the Fitbit to my chubby wrist, I finally crossed the threshold I’ve been waiting for.

…Months (plural) of busting ass to melt fat, only to find the gained muscle would thumb it’s nose at me with every weigh-in, I at last saw the digits pass below a certain marker. It isn’t “The Goal,” but it had turned into the backbreaking illusive number I just COULD NOT pound into the ground.

This morning: I did.

….With a “spare,” even.

21 pounds.

Magically, this has seemed to take a little of my, “Oh-my-God-I-am-so-fucking-tired-of-all-this-healthy-shit” thoughts, and reinvigorate a little bit of mojo.

….Because this morning I didn’t just have the same cuppa black coffee and thing of oatmeal. This morning, I had, “21-pounds-down black coffee, and thing of 21-pounds-down oatmeal”

….Sure, it all tastes like burnt-oat-cardboard! Which I have been surviving off of, for 11 shitty weeks. But suddenly, it was the kinda burnt-oat-cardboard that helped me lose 21 effing pounds! So now, it’s part of a magic award-winning combo! Staid and true!

….Like putting Streep in a drama!

…Or Pixar, slapping their name on a cartoon!

…Suddenly, all the green foods, are less boring again. And it’s actually worth it, that I haven’t had a Coke in 75 days. (And 4 hours)

…With the 21 Pound Affect, the sodium-freeness is a little bit okay, I miss the potatoes sorely, but multi-grain pasta maybe isn’t totally the worst thing.

…Which doesn’t make it all hearts and flowers…and Christmas and New Years, by any means. It still sucks.

…(and whoever the hell thought up a “serving size” of cereal as 3/4 of a cup, is a delusional, unrealistic, asshole)…

…But, at least now…FINALLY…the numbers and mirror are starting to add up a little.

…Or rather, add down.

…Either way: declaring an At-Freakin-Last goal, makes it a little bit easier. And maybe a lot-bit cooler.

…Like a Fitness Superhero.

And now, I’m off to go chug some more 21-pounds-down water.

Like an effing Rock Star!

Boooyuh!

~D

Confessions Of A Fitbit Addict

13 Aug

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Eight weeks in, I’ve beat the shit outta my feet, every single day since the purchase of this fucking Fitbit. Averaging 13 miles per day, and topping badges out at 50k per day (that’s 24.28 miles, friends), this thing has become an addictive substitute for basically everything wrong in my life.  The angrier and more stressed I get, the more I pound my body, as if to seek absolution via fitness-penance, and get the hell outta here.  “Here” being this particular life-place in general in which I appear to be as stuck, as my current weight.

It has become a full-time, full-blown obsession.  I can clock in 10-20k before even leaving the office, by pacing during phone bookings, walking the warehouse in a circuit at lunch instead of sitting in the car, have adapted the desk so I can spend two to four hours printing contracts, while literally walking in place, and will hold every conversation, or wait for the coffee to brew, or copies to come out, or fill my water bottle even, whilst doing what the WHS Pimp has titled, “The Pee Pee Dance,” a sort of march perfected down to one arm swinging in-time, as the other proceeds with the actual job at hand.  At first I feared this would wonk-out my muscle balance, leaving me with a monster hulk right-arm, and a muppet-left…but so far, so good.

…Yet, even together with radical eating habit changes, instead of dumping pound-for-pound in equal to the amount of sweat I’m leaking daily, I’ve frustratingly instead seemed to fuel myself into mega muscle build –so: not great on the weight loss—however, my potato-mass is starting to regain actual shape…for BEHOLD: I have a waist again!  And that ol’ 4-pack is back.  As I mourn the loss of my boobs, at least I’ve regained the hitch under m’butt, so like…there IS one now, instead of the general sort of uni-booty I had accumulated.   Mid a laundry ER the other day, I even fit into some old size 8’s I had ferreted away…which was a “thing”…as I’d previously been beyond muffin-topping my 12’s before this crap all started.

…Meanwhile, as any woman under the circumstances would, I’ve spent quite a lot of naked study-time in the mirror lately, directly after weighing in to no-change-at-all on the scale. This is a scary enterprise.  It requires real bravery…as women (by and large) have the opposite of beer-goggles when viewing themselves in this condition.  We tend to find every single “flaw” and “fat-dimple” and focus on it to excessive length.  “If I could pull this up, it would be perfect,” “if I could shave that off, my hips would look so damn much better,” “if those were bigger, they’d at least balance out that,” “why did I have to get *this* family gene outta all the damn *good* ones?”   These shit-thoughts explode like mental puke, during the first-seconds I have attempted this exercise. Every time. Without fail.

…But here’s what I’ve found: if you brave out the first minute of this task…concentrate on the naked “you” facing back in a kind of point-by-point study, and start to take it in one body part at a time, you can eventually begin to see the work you have put in.  Muscle definition begins to poke out with a flex here, a turn there. You see that bone with less “padding,” jaw definition has emerged, the lower arms are slimmer by far.  Sure,  you have to work on that whole upper-arm flap deal…but look how the shoulder has a shape separate from the arm below it…less dimple at the elbow…less pooch at the belly…the “love handle” area is no longer a hot-mess-handful.

Trying to gauge the real changes taking place, has me at a strange ethical pull within myself.  We are NOT a number on a scale, or a pant-size…you can’t compute humanity to a “perfect presence”…it isn’t our point.  I have always believed that.  And I always will.  However, getting bigger, and then working my literal ass off  to regain some sense of self-satisfaction in my own appearance, has also reaffirmed the importance of taking care of our instrument as a performing artist…as athletes…as whatever it is we do that fulfills the inside part of us that DOES matter.   

…It’s important because it will allow me to do my job better and longer, it will open up and help dispel some of my physical hang-ups and self-conscious traits.  The more honest I can be to the reflection and WITH the reflection in the mirror, the more I can learn to use it to be honest and tell the stories I need to tell, to others.

…Which, if for nothing else…perhaps *that* is the point of what was needed in all of this after all. 

…It isn’t the weight.  It isn’t the exhaustion. It isn’t the size 8’s.  It’s that it has forced me to go outside, to breathe free, clean air…to not resolve stress in a bottle or a burger…to LOOK…actually physically take stock of what I’ve got…and make decisions on how to use and work with it.

The point I’m trying to own right now, is that my instrument is getting healthier and stronger, and because of how I’m choosing to do that, it’s making my brain and soul: likewise.  I will never be a “small” person.  It wouldn’t suit me, physically nor personally.  I have a healthy knowledge of the years my body served me best, and it is that “feeling” I am seeking, more than anything else. 

Truth is, maybe I’ve hit mid-life crisis a little earlier than most, but I can sit and fester my outrage at that and all life’s little injustices on a couch, or I can pull up Queen on Pandora, and pound the fuck out of the pavement, as another one bites the dust.

So happens: I choose the latter.

Cuz that’s how I mutherfucking roll!

…Also cuz, I mean: Freddie.

(Duh.)

~D

Fit My Bits

23 Jun

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Post-show bad-eating, booze-swilling, and couch-reading, has added another requirement to the Super-Awesome-Life-Plan-Reboot.

…In the end, it was cheaper to not buy an entire wardrobe in a fatter size, than to invest in a thing which can actually shrink me.

Up til now, I’ve always relied on free fitness apps to get my ass in gear,  my body watered, my eating reigned in, and my booze intake under the “daily alcoholic ” label. But with no theatre at night, no line-learning pacing by day, no show-specific in-shape requirement, and stacks and stacks of plays to read and break down for monologues, I’ve become such a sedentary blob, my body is literally oozing up and out of my clothing like I’m the Michelin Man.

Currently at the heavest weight-mass in my life…it’s really a lot not good.

…Obviously, I needed a new plan for that too.

…And so: welcome The Fitbit.

…A thing I must wear in punishment, to remind me constantly…like a voluntary self-branding. Because when thin people wear a Fitbit, it’s cuz they’re conscientious and, well… “fit.” When a chunky person wears it, it’s like a final plea for help. It means we know we cannot be trusted to moderate and motivate and follow thru on the other eight million free ways to keep in shape. We have to drop a chunk of change on a thing that sits on our person and lights up and buzzes and links to our phones and computers, so no matter where we go: it’s there. Watching us.

…Like that 80’s stalker song…

…Every move I make, every breath I take, he’ll be watching me…

…Which is exactly WHY he was necessary.

A wearing, staring object that cost money. I cannot afford to ignore it. I must live up to it’s requirements, or like a child, it will shit all over me…with terrible stats, bad sleep, an an embarrassing tan line if I take it off and pretend it never existed…just to escape the wearing-shame.

…Don’t think I haven’t thought about it, don’t think I haven’t planned. I understand the responsibility now before me, I get the motivational heft…I have already turned down sodas, Costco muffins, Hawaiian chips, and fast food of every archetype, and that is only at work…since Monday.

(…Im pretty sure it’s Tuesday now. So…that might explain a major source of how I got so goddamn fat to begin with…but anyway, I digress…)

Point is: I smell/see/hear the taunting foods, I look down at m’damn wrist, I whisper, “oh shut up,” or “effe you,” and take another swig of water.

It may be only day two, but it’s better than ground zero.

…15,847 steps…and counting…

~D

(* In all seriousness, this gadget is pretty freakin sweet. Glad I joined the fad on this one…accountability is tops!)

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