The Ripped Lady Sings! And Poses!

Patrick sent us a final email yesterday (say it ain't so! I'm tearing up here!). As usual, it was chock full of instructions and diagrams and motivational words - this time for maintaining our new selves. Four words from his message are now officially burned into my consciousness, and they will be my mantra when my mind spirals into the dark tunnel of body/weight/food anxiety: you are at last free.

Free from what, you ask? Vegetables? Pull-ups? Daily grocery store trips that make other shoppers wonder if you're preparing for a natural disaster? No way, dude (that shall continue).

I'm finally free from the vicious cyclone of yo-yo dieting, yo-yo exercising, and losing myself in the twisted matrix of nutrition myths and fitness distortions that have done little for my mind/body health over the last 15 years. Most importantly, I've been liberated from that part of me that doubted I had this kind of strength and discipline. Later on, self-doubt. See. You. Lay. Ter. Liberdade!


Over these last few days, along with soaking in the congrats and high-fives, I've been processing my PCP-induced mental makeover. This incredible 90-day learning, re-learning, trusting in the process process reminds me of another time my brain was rocked and my soul revolutionized (this is going to be a long one, INDULGE ME already)....

Awhile back I took an intensive fiction workshop with my favorite author, Junot Díaz. I came into the workshop with a very expensive degree from a "fine" institution, and a body of work I'd been struggling with for years. In the five days I spent with this storytelling master, I learned more than I had in my two years of graduate school. At the end of the class, I had a book full of notes and a sense that I’d emerged from a dark cave and seen sunshine for the first time in years. Finally, I possessed the tools to begin revising. I had instructions! I had diagrams! I had a coach!

Of course, the sense of empowerment that accompanied this newly acquired foundation came with an enormous resentment towards my former educational institution, which I was certain had failed me (for a pretty hefty ass price tag). I imagined what I could have accomplished HAD I ONLY KNOWN what Junot showed me earlier. I’d have like, 60 books by now. Okay, 6. Okay, at least one? The point is, my discoveries confirmed earlier suspicions that I'd been cheated. Bamboozled by my university.

This is how I felt at some points during PCP, and rather extremely. I started this project 100% confident that I'd get a new body (I'd done "programs" plenty of times!). I figured that PCP's structure and emphasis on accountability (two words: weekly photos. How can you cheat when the world is watching?) would be most responsible for getting me where I wanted to be.

I had no idea that I was going to be completely re-educated about how to eat, and that my thoughts would do much of the work to reshape me (and KEEP ME peaky). I didn't realize that meditation would play such a huge part in my success. When I first started noticing the benefits of PCP (loose pants, clearer skin, an end to PMS, reduced perspiration - I suffer from a super embarrassing condition called palmar hyperhidrosis which has made some exercises off-limits - I mean, it's hard to do handstands when you're sliding in your own sweat) I went a little wild with my discoveries; I was over-the-top zealous. Patrick is the shaman! Let's start a PCP cult! Die Crunch Gym!!

Now, rather than start a new religion or dwell on what I could have been doing, eating, spending money on, and thinking all these years when I thought I was being “healthy” here’s what I AM doing now that I'm finally on the righteous path…

1. Loving this body at any size.

2. Loving it enough to make the necessary changes to turn it into a frickin’ powerhouse when it needs a boost.

3. Eating bread (salt-free, mostly). And pasta. And rice. And bread.

4. Realizing that Grey Goose and Ben and Jerry will not make problems disappear. Self-discipline and caring for yourself can, in time...

5. Understanding that I can change decade-long habits and thought processes – I only have to look inside (and at our photostreams – dang!)

6. Accepting that I wasn't born peaky, and that having to work my ass off DOES make me stronger.

7. Sleeping 8 hours a day. Oh the glory! The glory!

8. Making time for the activities that keep me sane and happy: writing, dancing, boxing, yoga, capoeira

9. Moving on with a healthy mind when I make less than stellar food choices

10. Listing my accomplishments without feeling like an ego-inflated narcissist. Go on people, be PROUD!

And oh yeah, working on some new moves!




To all the ladies out there, forget all the time you’ve spent punishing yourself for what you ate or how many minutes you didn’t spend on the treadmill, or how unfair it is that your friend can eat XYZ without gaining an ounce. Don't waste another second. Instead, retrain your brain to crave self-love. Once you realize you're worthy of your best life, your best body, your best soul, you'll do pretty much anything to achieve it.

Finally, before the ripped lady sings, I must thank the academy; specifically, my sister. For cheering me on while I made the kitchen smell like a wharf and scattered vegetable bits to and fro. For, after finding me passed out on the couch, gently demanded, DID YOU JUMP YET? You could have eaten chips everyday, but you didn’t. You didn’t have to apologize for bringing ice cream home, but you did. I know it was hard to watch me throw tantrums (and egg shells) and I owe you big time (I’ll repay you with ab sets!!). You and Rumi are both right: "The cure for pain is in the pain."

Patrick! You are an amazing teacher who inspires me to show the same care and dedication to my own students. The greatest gift you gave us was teaching us to train ourselves. Thank you for the constant guidance, patience, and oh yeah, ass-kicking!

Chen! The Oz behind our meals! Thank you for the carbohydrates, for keeping me running on high-performance-fuel all day long, and for helping me realize that I love morning vegetables and the occasional splattering of animal protein in my omelet. Thanks to you I got to experience the happy meals I’ve been craving forever!

My team! You guys rocked it! Thanks for your honesty, inspiration, and encouragement! Good luck as you continue on this adventure.

Now that the smiley stuff is out of the way, those on their way to the Peak know that this journey is a killer. And lonely. The 90-day climb is both fast and painfully slow, mind-boggling and breezy. And while we're all up here thanking the academy, there were moments we considered (and exercised) reckless rebellion against it.

You will feel very, very isolated in this process. You will make people around you uncomfortable and skeptical and annoyed. But in these moments of solitude, you'll make your greatest discoveries, like Buddha under the Bodhi tree. So don't be afraid of finding out what you are underneath it all...because IT'S HELLA FUN TO SHOW OFF!!

I've talked enough, so I'll leave it to my girl to have the last words. The wait is OVA! PAR-TAY!!

-ella, -ella, eh eh eh...

Day 90 - Open Up Your BADASS CHAKRA

That's what I'm talking about. Day 90!!!!! I decided to do my badass/triumphant/queen of the world pose, though I'm not quite ready to impart "final" thoughts, just day 90 thoughts. Which means, lucky reader, that you can expect at least one more heart-wrenching, (Brazilian) poetic wax before this baby is officially complete...

But here's how I feel now...


On the brink of something. On the edge as opposed to the peak. Amazing, but emotional (what's with me and the beginnings and ends of things?).

This morning I woke up like it was Christmas - excited as hell and ready to see what was waiting for me (under my clothes, perhaps?). I roused my faithful photographer to take some pics, and weighed myself with a bit of trepidation. That was a bit of a shocker. According to the powers that be I've lost 10 LBS!! Hell yeah!

I happily ate up my PCP breakfast, lunch, and snacks, and reworked part of my oh-so neglected novel for the night's reading. As I re-visited this other enormous, life-changing project of mine, I tried to imagine what the rest of my world would be like if I applied PCP-esque discipline to the parts I'd like to make over.

I wonder if I can design and adhere to a strict program to accomplish my creative pursuits. Can't I be as disciplined with the way I write as I was with measuring grams and reps? Something I'll reflect on in the next few days. Like, maybe I'll start setting daily word quotas for myself. And pages. And restrict my intake of television.

As for today's workout, I chose Lucky Number 13. Yeah yeah yeah. It was as you expected - hella easy!! I will say that the shoulder raises were not effortless. And that I still love me some lunges...but what a frickin' hoot it was to see how far we've come. Patrick is a genius that way, raising things ever so slightly, until before you know it you're going beyond (and then WAY beyond) your imagined, self-imposed limits.

To celebrate this beginning/end, I had a bit of wine. I mean, a bit. Within just a few sips I was flushed and drowsy. I came home and ate what I will now and forever call the PCP smorgasbard mush - comprised of the excess remnants of the meals of PCPs past. I'm talking about those protein and carb grams that exceed a particular meal's allotment and thus get shoved off the scale and into tupperware or baggies or foil until you need them later. So, now you can see why I never took pics of my food (because most of the time, it looked like this):



Bfore I pass out, let's do a little retrospective...I'VE BEEN SO WAITING TO DO THIS.
Here's me on Day 1...


......and here's me now:


I'm thrilled, elated, proud, and suddenly, exhausted.

Before I pass out I want to say CONGRATULATIONS to my dope, killer, kickass team, and send some huge hugs to Patrick and Chen across the Pacific. Hi-five ya'll! More to come!

Day 89 - One day more....

...used to be my favorite song from Les Miserable. Remember when Jean Valjean gets on the stage and just BUSTS out? "One day more, another day, another destiny..." And then he announces that he's actually an ex-con, number (sing it with me now, people) "2-4-6-0-11111111111!!!" So cathartic.

So, I'm not an ex-convict, but I must confess that I've been on edge just thinking about numbers. Specifically, that dreaded one which will reveal the exact nature of my heaviness, or lightness.

Yes, we have to weigh ourselves tomorrow, and I'm not exactly thrilled about it. What if I only lost, like, three pounds? But maybe I need to stop giving the number so much weight, since weight ain't nothing but a number, right?

As for the workout today, let's just say I saw a bright white light in the fourth set of the bicep/tricep/shoulder combo. The shoulders were on fire. I told God I was ready, saw my life flash before the sweat droplets on the floor.

To make matters worse I think I'm fighting off a flu, so I had to pull the strength from...actually I don't know from where it came! Which one of you chakras is responsible? I mean, where do women get their mojo when they give birth? Some holy place deep inside? Is that what they call the "life force"? If that's the case, then I'm officially ready to have twins...

Afterwards, I was in so much pain that when I made my way to my yoga mat like a zombie, the ab sets felt like a relief. After a g-chat break with Patrick, I even had a bit of strength for 8 minute abs!

I'm so fribbin' excited for tomorrow, Day 90! What am I going to wear?

Day 88 - So Emotional

I feel you, Whitney-girl.

Today I broke down in the middle of my ab workout. I mean, I actually sobbed a little. My body felt like a seesaw as I tried to modify the v-sit (every time I write that, BTW, I write "V-shit"). And you know how I feel about the plank. My body was jerky and off-balance, and I felt the burn everywhere but my core: in my shoulders, neck, legs. Legs? Somewhere around set four I felt the frustration of not being able to do these right, and then I was frustrated with my frustration. I'm starting to see a pattern here.

In order to spread a little sunshine on my otherwise bleak day, I've decided to make a list of things I've accomplished over these last 88 days. To be honest, this feels a bit awkward because I was raised to be overly modest. I'm much more familiar with berating (as opposed to and boosting) myself.

But not today, folks! Here are the things I'm frickin' proud of:

1. I met this challenge during one of the busiest, coldest, craziest 90 days of my life.

2. I went down two jean sizes!

3. I can finally do this pose (pictures to come when my photographer comes home):



4. I bared my mid-drift to the world

5. I learned how to have fun sans alcohol

6. I learned how to relax sans alcohol

7. I learned how to be honest sans alcohol

8. I'm celebrating Day 90 SANS ALCOHOL (instead I'll be reading from my novel-in-progress at an art exhibition in Brooklyn)

9. I went from breathless at 400 jumps to 23 minutes of continuous, joyful, energetic jumping!

10. I can sit up straight without being told

I'm sure there's more, but I gotta save something for the finale!

Hope you're all feeling this accomplished!

Day 87 - Workout Loner

I was totally dreading this week's homework assignment, but finally I made it went to the gym today, for pilates. The bruise on my tailbone has made the v-sits and bicycles a bit painful (and hard to maneuver with the extra padding of a towel or mat), so I figured the lower abs needed some serious burning up before our 90 day "reveal," which is THREE DAYS away. I feel super nervous just writing that, the way I did 17 years ago, right before prom. I'd bought a super tight dress (and girdle) and remember doing plies all night long, til my thighs were on fire. The desperate last minute didn't work very well.

Anyway.

While I waited for pilates class to start, I ran on the treadmill next to a friend I hadn't seen since the start of the project. She asked about how things were winding down, and I admitted that I wished I could have accomplished more (a pull-up, for example, 5 sets of 1 minute 45 second planks). Being a capoeira instructor-gymnast-superwoman, she reassured me that these 90 days were only the start of a life-long project. Totally! I'm so geared up for more. There are so many things I want to accomplish now that this amazing foundation has been laid.

So, normally, pilates kills me. 90 days ago I would have left class with a stiff neck and aching lower back. But today I felt much stronger, much more controlled than I ever have. I didn't experience anything particularly negative at Crunch (mean trainer tried to make eye contact but I breezed past him and did some chest dips), though I did realize how much I love working out alone.

The noise of the gym (those treadmills! the whirring! How did I ever tolerate it?), the misogynistic tunes, having to wait for machines, the mean girls, the slimy dudes, the lack of space on the mats where I was itching to do my abs - it all annoyed me. I missed having control over my environment, down to the lighting and temperature (you gotta set the mood, dude!), blasting my playlist, and, most importantly, exercising my god-given right to wear stinky gym clothes three days in a row! Ok, not three days, but you know. Somedays I like to get my Olivia Newton John on, headband and all.


While sweating it out solo is definitely more convenient, I have to say that I do miss the opportunity to gab with my girlies at hot yoga or catch up with old friends (as we kick and attack each other!) at capoeira. Still, Patrick's email about being alone while we feel the burn made a lot of sense to me. Number one, being around people as I exercise can make me too self-conscious to perform my moves effectively. Secondly, the distractions (even friendly, soothing ones) really do divert attention away from what we're trying to accomplish with and for our bodies...

It's funny how "alone" so many of us have felt during this project, even while having access to an amazing community to share stories with everyday.

On that note, I'm using the power of the blog to send my group a huge, sweaty, muskley virtual hug! Can you feel it?

Day 86 - Saturday Night Nerd Out

I heart the master sets! Instead of repeating the same darn thing 5 times, this stuff is change I can believe in.

My workout felt faster and more effective today. Even the jumps. Just as I hit "Don't Stop the Music" on my playlist, the second 9-minute jumping set was over, and I was like hell no! I've started incorporating a little booty shake in my jump routine (makes me feel like I'm in da club) so I was definitely not ready to let go. Please don't stop the jumpin'. I kept going, not for very long, but I made it through two Lil' Kim songs. Wonder where she is now...

Other than that, I'm debating whether or not to venture out into the big bad world of Saturday night (Holyfield fight tonight! Cuba libres and chicken wings!) and dodge temptation, just to prove that I can. Or maybe we should just stay home, nerd out, make yogurt and watch The Cove. I don't think it gets more wholesome than that..

10 minutes later: I've abandoned Project Yogurt to Google the following:

1. breast shrinking weight loss
2. TMJ and diet
3. banana soup (actually, this stuff is pretty bomb)
4. women stress bellyfat

Still debating whether to put on the pajamas or the new skinny jeans...good night ya'll!

Day 84 - Bye, bye Joe.

This is what my hands feel like. My ring, which was sliding off my finger last week, won't budge now. My stomach is bloated, even in the morning, and my face looks puffy. I know my indulgence was a little out of control, but, come on now. Excess fluid be gone already!

I'm trying to narrow down the culprit.Maybe it was the boiled shrimp I bought at the market the other day for dinner. As I ate, I knew something was wrong, but this was the Cranky Starving Day From Hell so I kept going. Sure enough, after I checked the package I saw "salt" listed under the ingredients, along with some other weird chemicals. I threw the rest of the pack out and felt nasty all night. But that was two days ago.

So let's be real. It's probably the coffee. Right? I did some research and couldn't figure out if it's the caffeine or the actual coffee that leads to water retention...just as an experiment, I'm going to try and keep it to one cup a day, and replace the afternoon cups with green tea. The coffee addiction costs too much anyway, throws my milk grams off, and dries my mouth out. And most importantly, it doesn't alleviate the pain/misery of whatever I'm doing to crave it in the first place!

So, bye bye Afternoon Joe (Morning, you're still mine). We've had some good times. I'll always love you. Let's be friends, though, k? XOXO

Day 83 - 8 minute legs. Who knew?

I kind of love this video (where can I get that wrestling suit?) which I stumbled upon after 8 minute abs. It reminds me of a Buns of Steel videotape I had in college, way back in the 90's. Yeah, I said videotape. I might have played it on a Betamax in my dorm lounge, every week after watching Beverly Hills, 90210....the Shannen Doherty version.

I remember the episode in which Kelly Taylor gets addicted to diet pills. I'll admit, I tried those crazy things in the 8th grade. All they did was make me want to puke - though they did help me stay up to write a paper on The Glass Menagerie.

Which reminds me of how much I've always wanted to change my body, superficially. I might have told my group this, or blogged about this 86 times (sorry if this is turning into an episode of group therapy, but I've been flashing back to a lifetime of body issues for 83 days now, so hear a sister out!), but I think I've been hatin' on my shape since the age of 13. And yeah, I like my new stomach and the fact that I had to buy new jeans, and the affirmations that are coming from folks all around, but most importantly, I can't believe some of the changes that are going on inside.

If I shrink, swell, loosen, tighten, I'm quite sure I can handle it now. Without a stupid pack of caffeine pills and oh, that useless gym membership...which reminds me of our homework, which I'm putting off because of The Un-trained Trainers.

Since that lousy episode in which I was told I was basically an unfit lumplump, two more Crunch gym fitness "professionals" have tried to point out my various flaws and make useless conversation as I worked out at their establishment.

As per Crunch Laws, April is my final month, so I'll be back to complete Patrick's assignment. Untrained Trainer better recognized because this time, I'm fully armed!

Peace out!

Day 82 - Exorcise my Inner Ozzy, por favor

This pretty much illustrates how I felt when I got home today. I was running on empty. I was a starving, stark raving mad woman. As I peeled my pre-workout banana, my hands trembled.

I'd eaten breakfast at 6, consumed an egg white and 140 grams of pear around 1, and some coffee...then nothing until about 7 p.m. A nervous day at work left no time to nosh. I used to be able to pull off days like this, but no longer. I get dizzy, I lose motor skills. At school, I couldn't write the letter "b." I kept spelling "abrupt" ADRUPT. In class, I said "conventionable" instead of conventional about three times. It wasn't very funny, not with a senior faculty in the room, watching me fumble.

However, I feel super energized post workout. I think I've successfully failed the shoulders. My abs trembled through the v-sits, and I had to stop due to a bruise on my tailbone. So I threw in some pilates moves (in lieu of 8 minute abs). Here are some of my faves:

The corkscrew...




Scissors....



and this glute toning bad boy...

Day 81 - Repenting

The ressaca (hangover) lingers...

Last night I continued to be a wreck on the couch, struggling through the grading of 100 papers (not an exaggeration). The lethargy and depression just intensified as the day went on, so I decided to meditate.

As I sat in silent stillness, I listened to this stream of negative thoughts: "You suck! Why'd you have to get so sloppy?" and the justifications for why I felt I needed to drink: "Everyone else is drinking! You're a better dancer when you're drunk!"

Somewhere, in the quiet barrage, I found something positive. A few months ago I would have treated the deadbeat Sunday afternoon as any other, totally unconscious of the damage I'd just done to myself. So I suppose there is some light at the end of my hurting liver.

At around midnight, determined to fight off the nausea and guilt with a good sweat, I changed into shorts and put on my sneakers . But my rope only made it over me a handful of times. I kept tripping, and could barely keep my body in a straight line (the hangover is a total posture buster!). So I'll continue with day 80's sets today, and catch up with ya'll on Thursday.

I'm a bit bummed to have this kind of day so close to the end. I miss the clean, tight, refreshed feeling I normally have on a PCP morning.

I didn't expect to have this strong of a reaction to the indulgence, which I hope is sign that I have actually changed!

Day 80 - Indulgin'

The third and final indulgence started off well. With plans to eat out at my fave Mexican spot, I had intended to combine an outrageously rich meal with some killer cocktails. But then the restaurant plan was thwarted, and I decided to postpone the whole burrito fest.

Still, as I was getting my Saturday night swerve on, I was itching to indulge, just like the old days. So I had a drink, then another. The alcohol (in the form of what I used to consider the virtuous vodka soda) hit me like a ton o' bricks. It was fun though. It had been so long since I'd been out. I danced, I sang, I pretended I was 20, and had no regrets until I woke up this morning, looking and feeling like this guy:



Minus the sword. Seriously. My neck was stiff, my knee ached, my skin looked sallow and parched, and my throat felt scratchy, like I'd smoked 1000 cigarettes (though I'm pretty sure I was nowhere near a cigarette the entire night. One never knows). My hair smelled like smoke and yoga mat, a nice combo I'm sure my dancing partner enjoyed inhaling.

The hangover put me in the perfect mood to devour something rich and carby. I was dehydrated beyond belief, like a piece of jerky; yet, with no desire to drink water, I inhaled a few of these:
Onto the burrito. As maybe you've guessed, it wasn't as dope as I thought it would be. Number one, despite my intention to be calm and collected over the decision making process, I was a confused, thirsty mess as I tried to figure out which craving to satisfy. This time, it was my sister who bore the brunt of yet another endless morning of vacillation - brunch? Mexican? Pizza? Ice Cream? All of the above?.

The woman has been a pillar of patience, encouragement and strength these last 80 days - cheering me through planks, holding down rickety chairs so that I can do chest dips, tolerating the trembling floor as I jump rope...the PCP partners and family members out there know the deal. Gold stars for you all!

Since our grumbling, hungover bellies couldn't wait for my favorite burrito spot to open, we were forced into a bourgeois establishment called Lobo. The waiter was pretty awful (snooty service I do NOT miss) and though the chips were deliciously salty and fried, the burrito was anti-climactic. I finished most of the greens before digging into the bean-cheese-chicken monster, and left a bit of it on the plate. This was a first. Normally, I polish off burritos that weigh as much as a newborn.

The best part of the indulgence was hanging with my sister, and not having to wash or scrub or chop a damn thing. LIBERATION! I felt like screaming as I paid the bill. Released from the responsibilities of having to check ingredients or measure grams or clean up the kitchen, I could focus on the food, the flavors...it all seemed so exotic to me after 80 days of being away.


For dessert, we shared this fat-free frozen treat :


Again, the yogurt was meh - more akin to mashed up, swirled Fudgesicles than the ice cream impostor I used to revere it as. I can't believe I used to go ape-shit for this stuff!

The number one post-indulgence bummer is my energy level right now. It's a beautiful day, and all I want to do after that night out and fatty meal is SLEEP! My lids are leaden. Where is the energy to run and jump and pull things?? I hope it comes back tonight, because this week's workouts have been killer! Patick's right though - a lot can change in 10 days, and I'm excited to see where we will be next Thursday...only time and egg whites will tell...

Why are my feet on fire??

It's Spring here in da city. New Yorkers are cuckoo for cocoa puffs about coming out of hibernation. As soon as the barometer creeps past 60 they strip down to tank tops and linger on sidewalk wicker furniture at fancy French restaurants, eating mussels and downing Pinto Grigio and what not. Oh, and did I mention there's a bar with an outside patio directly under my apartment? And, that I have a tab there (free drinks if you're my bff!)?

Talk about resisting temptation.

So instead of heading downstairs for mojitos, I'm going to blog about my weird foot pain (and be super stoked about it!).

Seriously. Today I took advantage of the gorgeous weather by going on my Prospect Park run. I heart Prospect Park. I was in a bomb-ass mood. Super happy about the fact that I'd gotten some writing in today. There was no hint of the rage that overcame me the last time I was here.

The final leg of this run is uphill, and normally I struggle to sprint through the finish. Today it was easier, pleasant even. I kind of hoped the run would keep going. In my head, I heard Chariots of Fire. Actually it was Rihanna, but you know...



All of a sudden, this burning, stabbing, electric-shock like sensation erupted between my toes. It felt as though poppers were exploding in my New Balances. I had to pull over, thump my feet against the curb, and curse a bit. I kept going, but the pain continued. And now, hours later, after a bath, some stretching, and serious grilling of veggies (the grilled Okinawan sweet potato is the PCP french fry), my toes still tingle. Like they're about to go numb.

I'm going to resist WedMDing myself to death (last time I did that, I thought I had a ondontogenic cyst in my mouth). But I hope this needle-like drama will pass.

Anyone else having firey feet?

Workin' the plank: good things come to those who Google.

As I sprint to the "finish line" of this project (dude, I'm only getting started!), I'm taking a more serious approach to the exercises I still can't complete. Specifically, I'm talking about my personal favorite: the FIVE sets of 90-SECOND planks. For some of you lucky hardcore crazy people, this ab-rocking task is easy. You are all my heroes.

Literally, you are heroes. I did some research. Fire fighters who train at the Mississippi Fire Academy only perform the plank pose in 30-second intervals. Which means that we should all be climbing up and down poles on day 90. And rescuing people and cats from the flames. Like this hottie:


Yesterday I approached plank with a smile. I told myself this move was not going to conquer me. I did the slow breathing, I went to my happy place, which for me is this plank-like spot where I spent many a wonderful hour (a dock on the island of Itaparica, in Bahia, Brazil):



I counted some crumbs on my rug and tried to focus on the E! True Hollywood Story about NBA wives or something. During my third set, I felt pain in my shoulders and neck. I figured this was not where I should be feeling the burn (since my "core" wanted more). I slid backward and forward on my toes, trying to adjust, but that only caused my lower back to ache.

I took a break and Googled (that internet thing is so cool) and found this awesome article on how to plank.

Some of the author's many insightful tips about maintaining the correct posture during the pose include connecting the abs "in and up" (is that what the Pilates teacher means when she says "pull the belly button towards the spine"?), rotating the inner elbows forward, pulling the shoulders away from the ears, and softening the "creases in the ankles." It sounded a bit abstract at first, but I made the modifications and felt my lower abs fully engaged. Additionally, the tension in my neck, shoulders, and back eased up.

In other news, the indulgence is here and I'm going to try and not over think it this time. Though I would love it if my boyfriend cooked me a lavish organic-local- free-range-grass-fed meal. With ice cream. BABE. Are you listening?

Or maybe I'll just drink all 1000 calories and go sing karaoke. Kidding! I can't imagine what my tolerance for alcohol is like now (and how much cheaper it's going to be to get tipsy when this is over!).

Perfectly Imperfect

So, what the hell is perfection anyway?


Patrick sent us an email about how we might start developing unhealthy thoughts about our bodies at this point in our journey, despite the drastic changes. We start to get greedy for improvements. We want MORE MORE MORE! Um, hello. My name is Shivani, and I'm addicted to destructive self-criticism.

Whether I'm writing, teaching, loving, or cooking, I'll find something to berate myself about til the egg whites come home. So, it came as no surprise last week when I started grumbling at the lack of perfection in my arms, abs, and thighs. I'd grab at the bit of flesh on the side of my stomach or below the belly, or pinch that hint of a waddle under my arm, wishing it would all just melt away like this misunderstood evil one:



Today, I hit a new low in the self-loathing department. The hours of dissatisfaction (this is what happens when I start working, then take breaks to stare at myself in the mirror like a true narcissist and shake my waddle and blow out my stomach and ask god why I was born with dimply knees) made me want to overeat, which I did. I ate too much bread at lunch, and no, my stomach didn't rebel. It was happy and comforted and super self-righteous (you deserve the extra carb grams woman! You baked a pretty dope spelt and coconut flour loaf, after all!).

And now, rather than spiraling into a tunnel of self-hate, I'm trying to stay positive and remind myself that tomorrow is another day!

On the exercise front, today was much better. My workout felt longer because I did each movement a tad slower in order to work the right muscles. I finally paid more attention to the photo captions that indicate which muscles we're supposed to target (better late than never).

I felt re-inspired when I came across a quote from my favorite writer, Junot Díaz (the PEAKIEST of all writers). I think what he says about writing applies to what we're trying to do here (just substitute "writer" with "peaker"):

"..in my view a writer is a writer not because she writes well and easily, because she has amazing talent, because everything she does is golden. In my view a writer is a writer because even when there is no hope, even when nothing you do shows any sign of promise, you keep writing anyway."

Even in our darkest hour, we keep peaking! Go on team! We're almost there.

Setenta!

Yesterday marked Day 70. For once, I'm at a loss for words. I can't even be sarcastic or funny right now. I'm like, hella serious and hyperaware. I finally see and feel and BELIEVE the changes in my body (and we're not even done!). I've got little to say, though I feel reflective and illuminated with all we have learned, sort of like this "halo" tape I'll use next time I'm on the back of a motorcycle:


Patrick says I'm in the ZONE. Here's the closest I ever got to that elusive Bermuda triangle of serenity, strength, and habit:

For the first time, I believe that this body is really mine (as opposed to PCP's Frankenstein) and that these muscles aren't part of an art project that I'll take apart, recycle, or destroy at the end of 90 days.

For the first time, I can't wait to get home to my jump rope. Sometimes I don't want the jumping to end, and then I can't believe that I've gotten to that point. Will this feeling last long? Will I lose the eye of the tiger? And then I have to remind myself to calm down, stop spazzin'. Accept and enjoy this phase, and don't worry about if and when it's going to fade.

What I still need help with: the plank. I don't know how to get through this one without quivering and panicking. I find it hard to distract myself while staring at the floor. Does anyone have any special strategies for this MONSTER ab sculptor? Cuz' next time I go home, I've got to do this:

Gone in 60 Seconds: You Are How You Eat

So, foodwise I've been pretty much havin' a blast here on PCP (I know, Patrick, it's gonna get rough!). But so far, this beats any plan I've ever been on. Veggies? Sky's the limit! Carbs? Choose complexly! Fruit? Strawberries are the new bonbons, and a grilled banana now rivals the cookie in my heart.

However, the manner in which I consume my dainty, ladylike portions is pretty atrocious. I can blame it on my skull-crushing schedule, but it doesn't change the fact that I'm capable of scarfing down 180 grams of couscous in, say, 60 seconds. Faster than you can hold plank or finish one set of those ass-kicking bicycles!

I fling egg whites into my mouth while hacking up veggies and heating up the Foreman grill, and type emails with one hand and tear apart steamed broccoli stalks with the other. Last night I ate my yogurt "treat" straight out of the ml measuring cup while finishing up some reading for class. I know, I know. Can I get some ambiance people? Or, at the very least, a doily?



In honor of my indigestion and sleep-deprived insane brain, I have some new goals this week. Namely, to take time out and concentrate on the sensual experience of eating (egg whites need love, too). Heather's food always looks so elegant and gorgeous, and though my work schedule doesn't allow for candlelight, place mats, or even more than 20 minutes of lunch breakin', I'm going to try to make the best of my tupperware meals.




But anyway, good times ahead. Spring Break! I may not be going to Cancun but I'm really looking forward to a more restful last leg.

Hope the rest of you are going strong!

Anger Management

After my last post, Patrick suggested that I watch my thoughts. I'm watching, and they don't look very good.

I'm ashamed of the things that have been running through my mind, if only as lightening bolts of negativity, toxic flickers. Some of my cruel sentiments were directed at this kid who kept banging into my basket with a plastic sword at the co-op. Then he started hitting my leg with it (ok, not hitting, but aggressively tapping), while his mom watched the whole thing before finally deciding to try her hand at, I dunno, DISCIPLINE?

Then, last night as I did my exercises in front of the television (not a good idea when you're on a self-righteous, angry stint), I was shouting at the commercials, much to the dismay of my sister. I mean, does this country really need food commercials? Or drug commercials? Or diet plan/pill commercials?

My favorite ad of all time is the one in which the woman has an orgy with a piece of chocolate. Seriously Dove, Nestle, whoever you are. Thank you for sexualizing - and perhaps reinforcing the myth of - women's 'addiction' to chocolate. Would you ever show a man popping an M & M with his eyes closed, head thrown back, sighing in sugary ecstasy? Running silky fabric down his legs as one might a negligee?




Along with my rage against consumerism, the workout and I are not getting along like we used to. I seem to be getting weaker, or maybe I'm approaching the exercises with more trepidation. The scariest of all are the floor jumps. I get all nervous before I get to them (like now. Just the thought of having to perform these makes my knees ache).

So, I've decided to post some positive, inspiring images before I start jumping. Hopefully these will dilute the psycho-warrior tendencies brewing inside me...





This is what I plan to wear to the boxing gym on Day 90:

Day 62: You Know You're on PCP When...

1. Pepto-bismol tastes like butterscotch, a lollilop, an ice cream cone (pictured above, Pepto ice cream, I shit you not!)

2. Your late night binge includes a raw, unpeeled carrot. If you dream hard enough, that carrot turns into a french fry

3. Your loved ones don't want to live with you anymore because the house (and you, come to think of it) smell like fish

4. At the club, those people you used to think were so dope suddenly aren't as funny or lovable anymore (Sobriety: WAKE.UP.CALL)

Seriously, back to 1. The reason I needed the Pepto was because I had a major slip up last night, and my stomach naturally declared war on me today. Thank you, stomach, for keeping me in line (literally, at the lady's room).

It all happened so fast. The day was going well. I had a great chat with Patrick and he got me all psyched about working the iliopsoa.

Liliputian, you say?

No, iliopsoa!

The magic muscle that makes life better, brought to you by the Kung Fu sit-up and the bicycle:



I went to a yoga class because I needed a good stretch, but when I came home, the prospect of the egg white, the spinach, it killed me. Luckily my yogurt had miraculously frozen in the fridge and though it wasn't Haagen Daaz, it did the trick once I mixed in some Stevia, almond extract, and cinnamon.

Everything after that is a blur of complex carbohydrates. I think the dessertiness of the yogurt set me off and suddenly I was spooning out another frozen treat, and reaching for the leftover spelt flakes from breakfast, a sweet potato, some quinoa, two pieces of bread, and two whole wheat tortillas. I inhaled it all.

Of course, as I sabotaged myself with glucose poisoning, I envisioned all the ways I would remedy the situation the next day: a six mile run! Four days worth of exercises! Fasting!

But why punish myself? I figured a better challenge would be to start today fresh, without the castigation that would lead me to relive (and perhaps recreate?) last night's downfall. I took my mutiny in the kitchen as a sign that I have to make more of an effort to make my meals, um, edible? Some new veggies perhaps?

Funnily (or obviously), the burn in my stomach made it impossible to finish today's breakfast and lunch. So, it all worked out. I didn't have to hate on myself, just LISTEN to myself.



Later, I wondered if the binge was related to my totally irregular cycle, which has apparently turned me into Raging Bull. Today, while I was running in the park, a man riding his bike whistled and waved at me. I barked back, "I hope you fall off your bike!"

I mean, I have been known to snap when provoked but I'm surprising myself with these new bursts of aggression. So what the heck is wrong? Do I need Zen or a punching bag?

Day 60: Preemptive Postpartum Depression

I'm with you Lili, I'm anxious.

We only have 30 more days of this luxurious structure. 30 more days of rules, plans, planned cheating, sets, instructions, grams, scales, expert coaching, video chatting about our aches and whether Stevia is ok, whether a sweet potato is a carb or a vegetable, whether the avocado counts as a fruit or a veggie (and by the way, what does that mean for the coconut?) whether we're going to simply sniff the truffle or eat the truffle, and bloggin' it all out! All this round the clock attention and support from Patrick and each other (in lieu of salt, sugar, and oil) have really spoiled the hell out of me. So what's going to happen on Day 90, when the ripped lady sings??



I know, I know. Live in the now. Calm the monkey/mind down. I will, in five minutes. Now I'm going to let it run wild a bit, like a puppy on a leash.

I can say with confidence that on Day 91 I'm not going to bounce out of bed, toss the rope in the trash and inhale a kilo of chalupas from Taco Bell; it's really days 110 and beyond that concern me. It's a scary world out there, and without ya'll watching (I'm talking to you, oh dreaded Flickr account), will I just revert to my old bad habits: soy products, the treadmill, and self-loathing?

Yes, some of my cravings really are in the grave (a cupcake is now a cupcake, not something to fear), and I actually do love the burn brought on by the tricep dips, and I love the taste of steamed asparagus over brown rice, but...is this love or just infatuation? Will the honeymoon period, made yummier by all this reinforcement from strangers and the understanding that PCP is only temporary (a weekend getaway, a vacation fling), blossom into a full-blown marriage? Am I a Diet Player for Life, or do I have what it takes to be peaky on my own?



You've given me roots now grant me wings!

This is Why I Hate You, Gym

That's not fair. It's not the gym that's the enemy of the people, it's that arrogant, self-hating "professional" who specializes in manipulating the psychologies of innocent gym members, who works tirelessly to convince the average Joe-the-Plumber gym goer that she's an out of shape idiot in need of rescue (at the bargain price of $90 an hour!). Some of you might know him as The Rude Trainer.

Last night, the two of us were introduced.

One of the reasons I headed over to Park Slope Crunch (P.S. Crunch's motto is NO JUDGMENTS. We'll see about that) was to avail myself of its pull-up bars and chest dip thingies. Those exercises weren't on yesterday's schedule, but my flimsy bar stools and door frames have made it almost impossible to complete these moves to the fullest degree. So I was playing catch up.

When I saw the pull-up bar and its many buff users, I got shy. I circled it, made eye contact, played hard to get. Finally, I made my approach, and we were face to face. I was reading the directions when a young lady kindly demonstrated how to adjust the knee pads and weights. After she finished her reps, I climbed on and struggled through a set of eight. Still suspended, I sort of felt like I was getting the hang of things when a trainer came over and offered some "help."

Now, normally I interact with trainers as I would lions. Respect their place in the animal kingdom, but don't get too close. Whatever happens, do not make eye contact. Show no fear.


But over these last few weeks, I've been committed to learning as much as I can about my body; thus, I graciously accepted Rude Trainer's unsolicited advice.

His first bit of wisdom was the suggestion to roll my shoulders back. "Cool," I said. I suppose he took my friendly smile and further inquiries about the proper posture and grip to maintain while attempting an assisted push up as license to point out each and every one of my body's flaws, and of course, how He Alone could save me from a lifetime of bad posture, flabby arms, and saggy booty. Rude Trainer's barrage of "help" included the following comments:

1. "You're in okay shape, but your posture is disgusting."

2. "You have some definition in your arms, but it has to be better. You have to impress people when you have your book tour. We're an image conscious society, you know." REALLY, FOOL?

2. "And this, the booty... (he points to my now mini globes) is sagging. We need to get it back up."

3. "Are you Indian? You should have a beautiful body, like those Bollywood actresses!"

And here I had to wonder which Bollywood actresses he was referring to, because not all Bollywood bellies are created equal. Aficianados will notice a drastic difference between pre- and post-1999 Bollywood bodies. Here's one:



And here's another. Wonder if she does kung-fu sit-ups:



And the humiliation did not end there. Rude Trainer asked me to demonstrate some more moves so that he could give me some "tips" about posture. I know that I hunch. That my chin tends to jut forward, that my spine is curvy, and that my shoulders are a tight mess. However, even if I'd come into Crunch curled together like a shrimp, would that have given him the right to be such a douchebag?

Rude Trainer, as you might imagine, did not look like this (and no one says he has to, but let's just say he was FAR, FAR, FAR from Peaky):


But it does matter. Let he who is innocent cast the first frickin' stone! And doesn't he realize we live in an image conscious society? That children would rather play with kittens than turtles (this was his analogy, I sh**t you not!)?

His "help" continued to ooze of toxic snippets, and when I tried to assert all the progress I'd made on PCP (I had the workout printed out on a sheet of paper) he insisted that the exercises were "dangerous," that he wanted to "kill" my last trainer for not teaching me how to use the row machine correctly, and that yoga would not do anything for my posture.

Are you serious?

What pisses me off about that interaction the most was not what he said, but how I reacted. I wish I had excused myself from the lecture-attack and told him, politely, that his comments were degrading, unprofessional and entirely inappropriate. And that though I'm no businesswoman, I have the sneaking suspicion that INSULTING SOMEONE ISN'T THE BEST MARKETING PLAN.

Or is it?

Instead of actually interacting with his garbage, I fumed through my ab exercises and told the receptionist I wanted to cancel my membership.