My Darling Clementine

They said stay at home boy, you gotta tend the farm.
Living in the city boy, is going to break your heart.
But how can you stay, when your heart says no?
How can you stop when your feet say go?
– Honky Cat, Elton John

“You ok?” The Marine was rubbing my back. “You getting up?”

“Five more minutes.” I mumbled.

Ten minutes later I wrenched myself out of bed having once again failed to get up at 6 a.m. which meant that once again, I had not eaten enough nor far enough in advance of my workout this morning.

I wolfed down two Clementine oranges on the way out the door.

Sabotage dude.

The only thing that’s felt thoroughly sabotaged this week is my heart.

I at least got to my workout in time this morning. I was five minutes late on Wednesday. I just couldn’t get going. I had a busy weekend, a working Monday then a Monday night of tax prep. Tuesday I worked, when to a launch party afterwards and then headed up to Brampton to see our accountant to pick up our tax returns. It wasn’t until after my Wednesday workout that things started getting back to normal but with my monthly visitor arriving soon it was too little too late.

Cardio on my off day yesterday was out of the question. Hell. It was all I could do to stay upright in my chair at the office. I didn’t even hit my target heart rate this morning. It was like I had nothing left. My trainer was very understanding. Debbie strikes a nice balance between pushing me, but not too much. She’s not some gun ho asshole who wants me to drop and give her twenty no matter what the cost.

Everything was hard this morning. Everything hurt.

I got to the change room, grabbed my items from my locker and when to one of the individual change rooms with a door. I do this every time because I don’t particularly want to get undressed in front of other women. This is for two reasons. One, I’m not that comfortable with my body. Two, I’m an unrepentant princess. I want my privacy dammit.

And this morning I needed it. I need five minutes of pure self indulgence. I sat down on the bench and cried.

Everything was hard this morning. Everything hurt.

I think it was Wednesday that set me off. I’d been feeling really good about my workouts. My clothes were feeling loser and I was feeling strong. I felt, of all things, “skinny”. And then I saw pictures of myself from the launch party. I’m still always shocked by this because frankly I don’t feel as fat as I look. I simply can’t make the mental connection to the person I see in the photos and the person I am in my body. I still don’t know whether this is a good or bad thing.

But it is what it is, and I can’t lie and say the pictures didn’t affect me, that I didn’t feel somewhat demoralized by the fact that I seem so far away from where I want to be. And what I find so disheartening is the sheer feeling of incompetence exercise imparts. I’ve yet to read a weight loss memoir that really talks about this, the sheer bloody, grunting difficulty of real and effectual exercise. Maybe the prospect of losing weight is so daunting that the authors don’t want to discourage anyone who may read their books.

I work really hard to be good at what I do no matter what it is. This is a strange experience. I’m working very hard, but I’m not very good. Not yet anyway. My trainer says that everyone, even the most seasoned atheletes have bad days, have weak days where their stamina just isn’t there the way it normally is. She said I did really well. She calls me her “little soldier” because she says I always give my best.

To be honest, right now I’m just focusing on showing up. I’ve been reminded the last couple of weeks of something an old boss of mine said when he was working about six years ago to get an internet channel on its feet. “If it was easy, everyone would do it.”

This isn’t easy and everyone is not at the club at 7:15 a.m. three times a week. I am. For right now, that needs to be enough.

My fives minutes were up. I used my club towel to wipe away my tears. Once I got it together I got ready and spritzed on some Chanel No. 5. If luxury has a scent, Chanel No. 5 is it. I always look forward to that first post exercise spritz. It’s my reward for working out.

I left the club, hobbled over to the coffee shop for my multigrain toast with tomato and cheddar. The radio was playing Honky Cat. Elton was singing “Oooooohhhhh change is gonna do me good.”

I have to believe that.

Workout Song Obsession: Cobrastyle, Robyn
15 min mile pace: 3.2
Jar Opening Propensity: Damn the vacuum seal to hell.