I am a goal-oriented kind of person. And I work best on a deadline. Oh sure, I bitch and piss and moan and stress to the point of screaming hissy fits when I am on deadline. But without one, I meander around aimlessly and never get much of anything done.
Sort of like I did today when I was in the kitchen and wondered where my gym bag was and thought it must be in the closet in our bedroom upstairs so I put another load of laundry in the washer and then headed upstairs to the bedroom and picked up some more laundry and all the coffee cups that were cluttered all over the place and headed back downstairs and totally forgot why I went upstairs in the first place.
And I still can’t remember and it doesn’t really matter. But I am counting that trip up stairs as part of my cardio today.
I set a goal and a deadline. Without those two components, this whole experiment with the blog/diet/food journey thing would be pretty useless. Not that I am above doing useless things – I am employed, after all – but I decided that I want this blog to be useful.
So the deadline is February 3. Four months from now. And the goal? A sexy-licious little black dress. One that makes my husband go “Aw damn, do we really have to go out tonight” BOING!
How many pounds does that translate to? What size does this instant-hard-on-inducing frock have to be? Well, I hate math so don’t ask. It’s a lot of pounds and at least four sizes fewer than I am wearing now. Good enough.
Goal set, deadline set. Go.
I go back to the gym today for the first time in almost two months since I damn near crippled myself in a yoga class. Shut up. Yoga can hurt. Especially since some doctor sucked all the cartilage out of my knee a few years ago and since I pulled my hamstring stepping in a hole last March.
Add that to the massive amount of fat I carry around – think about those Sumo suits they put on people at baseball parks to entertain the crowd between innings – and yoga just about cut this bitch.
So anyhoo, I went to the gym and put two miles in on the treadmill while reading a David Sedaris book on my Kindle and listening to my iPod and tweeting rambling thoughts on my BlackBerry. Too plugged in? Well yes I am. Don’t judge me unless you are Amish.
And if you are Amish why are you reading a blog on the InterWebz? Ye shall surely burn in hell.
After I walked my miles, I wanted to do a little more so I got on this new machine, a recumbent elliptical trainer. Perfect for my bad knee and stretchy hamstring and all my electronic gear.
I sit down, I put in all my settings – it wants me to tell it what I weigh and clearly that’s none of your business, you nosy piece of exercise equipment – and then I pedal away. After a while I move my Kindle and I’ve been on this machine for 15 minutes and racked up 1,400 steps. Sweet! I am kicking this machine’s ass!
Then I noticed that all that ass-kicking translated to 65 calories.
This demon machine clearly was engineered by the Taliban to break the souls of women.
Fuck you, machine. Fuck you.
Doesn’t matter. I am 65 calories closer to that dress on that date. Suck it, machine.
Sign me: Future Sex Goddess with a Goal.
