Health, Fitness & Holiday Recipes

So in the spirit of fitness/health blogs and FB pages sharing different options for modified cookies, cakes, drinks, and treats, I wanted to chime in with this amazing version of "Holiday Egg Nog" for all of you! I know that we're all looking for recipes that make us feel good & are also delicious!

With this one, it's super simple:
1. Go to your local grocery store.
2. Buy some egg nog. Make sure it has lots of fat in it.
3. Return to your home & pour it into a glass.
4. You have the option of adding cinnamon and/or tasty alcohol.
5. Drink it.

And guess what? It'll taste like what it's supposed to taste like - egg nog...#merrychristmas

I Mustache You Some Questions

Sooooo this is a little different from my usual complaining/ranting/bragging/chirping approach! The lovely Robyn Baldwin threw this my way, in the spirit of all things blog - "I Mustache You Some Questions." Be prepared for some riveting info... #mindblown 

1. Four names that people call me, other than my real name:

• Kolida - token last name moniker
• Rink Dink - I literally don't know how to explain the origins of this one. Okay, yeah, I do. Serinki became Serink became Rink became Rink Dink (c/o a Darth & Kelsey O'Face, shocker)
• Bean - another intellectual evolution. Serena became Serene became Bean. Or something like that.
• SK - initials will get you every time. There is also the occasional SAK variation, usually from my padre.

2. Four jobs I have had: 

• Manager of a Panago #trythatonforsize #possiblywhyiendedupneedingatrainer
• GAP Sales Associate - I lasted maybe 2 months...
• Restaurant & Bar Business Manager - seriously, wayyyyyy more fun than it sounds
• Present-day Realtor Extraordinaire!!! (and basically a personal trainer, but you all knew that...)

3. Four movies I have watched more than once:

• The Switch
• Step Brothers
• Old School
• Talk To Her (foreign film, what's up now?!)

4. Two Books I recommend:

• The Quotable Douchebag
• Half The Sky

5. Four places I have lived: Brace yourselves for a slew of luxury destinations...

• Victoria, BC
• McBride, BC
• Duncan, BC
• Prince George, BC

6. Four Places I have been:

• Cambodia
• Mexico
• England
• Seattle (special in my heart because of Bieta)

7. Four places I would rather be right now:

• Back in Cambodia with the most amazing group of people, continuing the biggest laughs ever had
• Reading endless books on a big, comfy couch with endless pizza being served to me
• Shopping, eating & drinking in New York with my two besties
• Cooking dinner for my favourite people

8. Four things I don’t eat:

• Things that aren't meat
• Liver
• Hazelnuts
• Tripe (the fact that it's an option is just screwed up...) - I also just noticed that I have 2 technically meat items on my list but they're like the incestuous cousins of meat so they don't count.

9. Four of my favourite foods:

• Brazilian BBQ (newfound obsession that pinpoints my love of meat)
• Ice Cream
• Pizza
• Any combination of eggs & hollandaise sauce

10. Four TV Shows I watch:

• Scandal
• The Mindy Project
• How To Get Away With Murder
• Parks & Recreation #treatyoself

11. Four things I am looking forward to next year:

• Greece & Turkey with Kyla!!!
• Yvette & Nick's glorious wedding
• Selling all the houses
• Racking up some legit squats & deadlifts & bench presses

12. Four things I am always saying:

• Eat a dick
• Legitimately 
• Aggressive/ly
• Get fucked

13. Tag 4 people

Kyla Gagnon - Inside Out Fitness Victoria

Rebecca McKinty - Bliss Nutrition

Zeus - Zeke Cabell Personal Training

Darcy Turenne - Filmmaker Extraordinaire

Because this photo always makes me smile, and hopefully this post will make you smile...

Sibling Smash Sessions

Apart from the initial complaint about the weather that will follow this intro, this post is pretty much just a bunch of happy!

So I'm in Edmonton currently, where it is cold as fuck, and I'm visiting my baby brother. One of the things that has been kind of awesome about getting into the gym is that it's added to the dynamic of what my bro & I share with each other. We've always been pretty close, at least from the time he stopped being an annoying shit head, so basically 16 onwards, and I know that I'm lucky to call him my friend. That being said, he's always been an athlete and pretty much always been in shape. And for the most part, not just "in shape," but more so legit fit. Hmmm...legit fit. #legitfit - new hashtag!!! But yeah, Paul has had a longstanding relationship with the gym and weights and being impressively fit. And obviously that's a newer thing for me, so it's kind of fun to come here and incorporate the gym into our sibling bonding.

On that note, Paul brought me to his gym yesterday afternoon for us to train together. Just an aside, dressing for the gym is a giant fucking pain in the ass when it's -20 outside, in case you were wondering. The first thing that happened was that I gained a true appreciation for how much I enjoy my own gym at home - shout out to Quadra Fitness! Paul and his gf have memberships at GoodLife, mostly due to the location and their lifestyle needs, and it is essentially the breeding grounds for Douche Fest 2014. Granted, we are in Alberta, but holy shit, steroids abound! I'm surprised there wasn't an on-site needle exchange. There were a lot of dudes that I wanted to take pictures of, just to send them to my #fitfam and be like, "did you know people like this exist?!" I had two faves, one being the guy who had every inch of his body covered in Under Armour that was more than likely purchased in the petite children's section. C'mon, just a little bit tighter...squeeze in there, you can do it! Oh, so you wanna do shrugs? Over and over? Awesome. Pretty sure someone had sewn him into the outfit because I think it would have been physically impossible to put it on in a conventional fashion. My other source of entertainment/terror was this super tall guy who was actually kind of hot but had decided that a muscle tank with straps that were a centimetre thin and hung down so that the neckline of the tank began at his abs (dead serious, not an ounce of exaggeration). He was basically wearing a reverse crop top. And yeah, I know that I'm being super judgie, but I'm fine with it.

Aside from some laughs via the side show, going to this gym was also a mental challenge for me. As much as I can chirp certain people at the gym, the reality is I find other gyms to be pretty intimidating, and yeah, buddy was in the world's tightest outfit but he's also pretty jacked, and it's easy to worry about whether I look like I know what I'm doing, or if someone sees me and thinks my snatch looks like it needs tweaking (to be clear, my other snatch does NOT need tweaking, it's basically perfect). And in a gym like that, where people are mostly engaged in traditional body building or cardio, do I look super out of place doing snatches and cleans? Being painfully candid, it can be a serious struggle to train in a gym that isn't my own. Fortunately, my bro kind of took the lead with regard to setting us up, and that helped me feel less lost or out of place. He asked what we were doing (apparently we were partner training, which was pretty cool, since I'm so bad ass now), and got us set up where we needed to be.

Little Bro getting ready to crush...

Once things got going, it was pretty sweet. We worked in and out, squatting to warm up (aka: our "warmie," in hockey lingo - the bro is a hockey boy), and it was fun. Once we were into our squat sets, I ended up hitting a personal best for 3 reps, which was kind of awesome. And even more awesome because it can be such a mind-fuck for me being somewhere that I feel self-conscious or out of place. A while back, I honestly don't know if I could have even done my program in an environment like that, just because it's so different from what literally every other person was doing. At one point Paul asked if I knew how to spot him while he was squatting because he was getting all serious and show off-y...I looked at him and was like, "Fuck, no, have you met me?!" As if I know anything about spotting or whatever other shit you're supposed to know. I'm just happy I know what obliques are...yep, add another muscle to my impressive knowledge base! I'm basically a kinesiologist at this point.

I know this is basically just a lengthy story about a workout, but it was actually a pretty awesome session for me. It was really great to have my brother utilizing my program and giving me props for my own successes and improvements. It was also good to be reminded that I'm not reinventing the wheel, as much as I feel like I am sometimes, and that he's been at this a looooooong time, and cleans aren't a novel concept to him. On top of it all, I was stoked that my insecurity didn't push itself to the forefront and instead, took a backseat while I focused on getting sweaty AND smashing some personal bests, no big deal. Guess it's time for that proverbial pat on the back, hey?

I've got a few more days here in this hellish climate, so a few more workouts will ensue. But before I hit the gym again, I'm off to the Nike store to see if I can find myself a reverse crop top and the world's tightest pants. Afterall, when in Rome...

Meet The Fitness Village: Kyla Gagnon

So I've talked about my village and how much it keeps me on track. And since I'm going to be consistently referencing my #fitfam and all of the wonderful & pain-inducing ways they support me, I figured I should start by introducing them to you. There are a few of them, and my gratitude to every single one of these amazing people is overwhelming and often doesn't seem like enough. Making changes in the realm of exercise and diet has impacted me in a way that invigorates me, and has shown me a version of life that I genuinely have never been privy to, and without my village, none of it would be possible. There are two individuals have gone above and beyond what any person could expect, and we'll start with one of them today...Kyla Gagnon.

Me & Mayor Gagnon

I guess you could say that Kyla is the mayor of my village. I was originally introduced to her when my dearest friend Taylor (I always say Kyla is my wife and Taylor is my husband) bought me some personal training sessions with her as a gift, knowing that I needed some help when it came to the gym, and knowing that she was an incredible personal trainer. Trust me, if you think I'm a rookie now, you have no clue how little I knew back then. Fast-forward 7 years, and Kyla has become my other half. We've lived together for 6 of those years and to be honest, she is so much more to me than a personal trainer - she is pretty much my other half. I could literally gush about her forever, about how much fun we have together, how hard we laugh, how hilarious we know (think?) we are, buuuut you could probably just follow me on Instagram and you'd get the idea pretty quickly! Instead, I'd rather explain why she's the mayor of my village.

(Seriously, though, follow me on IG - @serenaastrid)

I don't really even know where to begin. I suppose what it really comes down to is that for 7 years, Kyla has never given up on me. She has watched me be super strict with diet and exercise, and watched me be lazy and eat junk food. She has listened to me pledge my dedication to getting fit, and then watched me not show up at the gym, regardless of my proclamations. She's been subjected to complaints about my body over and over again, even though she also knows I haven't been doing anything to make it better. And in spite of all of the inconsistency and the failures and the empty commitments, she has been my cheerleader. And when I actually made changes that stuck, she cheered even louder. She's been there to offer advice and resources. She's made my fucking breakfast for 6 years, just to make sure I have a healthy start to my day. And this might all sound like good ol' friendship, but it goes so far beyond that. It would have been so fair for her to have given up by now. I've been the queen of empty promises, and considering her line of work is helping people be stronger and healthier, I can't imagine how frustrating it's been watching me stop and start for so long. And yet, she's always been there, and has always seen the potential for me to be happier and healthier.

Kyla is there for the good and the bad. And trust me, when it comes to relearning how to live in a healthy way, there can be a lot of bad. The reason that so many people struggle with obesity and fitness is that it's really fucking hard to develop and sustain the right habits. I can personally attest to this, and Kyla is so incredible when it comes to having my back. She's also willing to call me on my shit, and while that might sound like not the hugest deal, it is. I'm stubborn and defiant. And it's not easy to tell someone to make the healthy choice with food, to remind them that each time DOES count, to be willing to bear the brunt of someone who feels weak and doesn't want to push through cravings. It's not fun being "the bad guy," and I can think of more than one occasion where Kyla hasn't let me rationalize eating shit "just this one time," and I cannot thank her enough for being brave enough and caring enough to step up, when she knows I'm going to be snarky and indignant, mostly because I know she's right. I owe her for all of the times she has pestered me about going to the gym when I'm feeling lazy, because she's right. She's right every single time. And it's often a thankless task, being in her shoes, and she still takes it on, and I don't know where I'd be without her.

She has trained me countless times, written out workouts for me countless times, usually with an Americano as the most compensation she gets. She also supports me when I make changes in my training, because she doesn't care if it's her programming or not, as long as it's working for me. Or maybe she does care, and just keeps it to herself. Either way, she puts my progress (note I did not say #gains) before everything else, because she's just that kind of person and trainer. She's constantly telling me how proud she is, and she makes me want to be better. Granted, it doesn't hurt that she's a smoke show who takes amazing care of her own body, and is constantly striving to be stronger and healthier herself. No big deal...

The Village Mayor is ALSO the Village Smoke Show

In all honesty, I haven't even scratched the surface. Kyla is there for all of it. She reminds me on a daily basis that effort is a necessity. We go on vacation, we train. We have a night out, we train the next day. We go out to eat, she orders protein and vegetables. Well, maybe not always. But usually. And it's impossible to not want to be like her, because she's inspiring and wonderful. There's so much more to her than her physical self, but that in and of itself is the product of her commitment and dedication to being a living example of discipline and ethic. And she tries so hard to do whatever she thinks might help me. If I'm craving something sweet at night, she'll make some random concoction that fits in with my diet but still does the trick. If I can't think of what to do at the gym, she'll text me a workout on the spot, even if she has a client. When I try types of training that differ from her own programming, she focuses solely on my excitement and the potential benefits. She never brings ego to the table but instead, does whatever she can to be there for me. She is always watching me out of the corner of her eye so that she can compliment me on my training, even when she has a client. I guess the best way to summarize it is that she makes me feel supported. All the time. In every way. And that's pretty much all a person needs.

So, yeah. Those reasons, and a million more, are why Kyla Gagnon is the mayor of my village. Like I said, there are some other key people and you'll hear about them soon enough, but Ky is the person who has led the pack. I could easily have become annoying or frustrating (which I likely am at times) but she has never, ever given up on me, and my desire to be better has been allowed to grow because of her. She somehow had the patience to wait for me to connect with whatever it is inside of me that wants more for myself, and I'm so grateful that she had the ability to see it within me, and to wait for me to catch up to her insight. I know I have a lot of work yet to do and knowing I have her on my side makes it much less daunting.

If you find yourself building your own fitness village, make sure you get the right mayor. Just stay the fuck away from mine - she's busy... (Well, not TOO busy - click here  if you need a little training help, whether it's boot camp, partner training, or online programs)

My Name is Serena & I'm a Soreness Proclaimer...

I've come to realize that I do something. What is it that I do, you ask? Make fun of people who do jazzercise? That's a given. Chirp people who use terms such as #fitfam and #gains and #swole on a regular basis? Yeah, I suppose I do that. Swear too often in these posts? Probably. Actually, I take that back. No such thing as swearing too much. Fuck, I probably don't swear enough! Well...maybe just the right amount. Anyway, it seems like there are a few things that I "do," so to speak, but these aren't the things that I'm referring to.

I'm referring to the fact that I'm guilty of being what I'm going to refer to as a Soreness Proclaimer. Yep, I'm an SPer, it seems, and of late, I've been called out hard.

First off, what is a Soreness Proclaimer? A Soreness Proclaimer is someone who never shuts up about how sore they are. You know what I'm talking about. You say hi to them at the gym and they mention that their legs are really sore. (And by "their" legs, I mean "my" legs, obviously). It's all good, greetings have been shared, you're into your workout. Partway through you cross paths again. Perhaps a little banter regarding your current session and what's proving to be difficult. And then the Soreness Proclaimer decides that they should also remind you that their legs are still really sore, like REALLY sore. Like, so sore that just bending down to grab some dumbbells is a real inconvenience. At this stage in the game, you've got a pretty good grasp of how they're feeling...they're sore. Specifically, their legs are sore. That should cover it, right?

Wrong.

You see them again as you're both exiting the gym, and the Soreness Proclaimer has a weird gait happening, walking a bit awkwardly. Before you can ask them why, even though you didn't really wonder, they offer up a brief comment about how their leg soreness is contributing to this seizure-like movement they're utilizing for transportation. And then later in the day as you're trolling Instagram, you see one of their posts, which includes a gym shot and hashtags such as, #legday #squatsfordays #sosore #cantmove #hurtssogood (In all seriousness, #squatsfordays and #legday are acceptable hashtags. Because I said so).

Everything I've just described sounds a bit ridiculous, I know. And while I may not be quite as bad as the hypothetical me that I've portrayed, I'm definitely guilty of a version of this. And to be fair, I don't mean to do it. The words just kind of jump out of my mouth, like I have no control over it. I go to move, the muscles are sore because I'm super bad-ass and smash weights like a pro, the sore muscles tell my brain that they're sore whilst impeding my movements, and the next thing you know, "fuck, I'm sore..." has escaped my ladylike mouth. It's basically science. Who am I to fuck with science?

Post #EMOTM & guess what, sore as fuck the next day...

The other day I was with Kyla and Tyra, two of my clutch #villagers and after probably the third soreness proclamation, both of the morons started chirping me about it. "Hey, do you think Serena's sore?" "Not too sure, maybe she trained legs yesterday." Well, guess what? I DID train legs, along with whatever other muscles are involved in squatting and push pressing and doing thrusters (no fucking way was I typing thrusting there...), and all of those things in copious amounts led to my legs being sore. And when I would go to move, my muscles would yell at me and call me mean names. And it just so happens that I'm a verbal person so when these things happen, words come out of my mouth. And those words often pertain to me being sore. So, yeah...I was sore and they got to hear about it. Repeatedly. And I don't even feel bad.

And if I want to think of it in a fashion that is solely designed to cater to my needs, I'll point out the fact that it's preferable for me to have become a Soreness Proclaimer than to be a Fatness Proclaimer or an Out-Of-Shape Proclaimer. I'd rather be bitching about how sore I am than be complaining about feeling super out of shape or about being fat. Granted, those complaints happen from time to time, but nowhere near as often as my Soreness Proclamations, and they come from a much less happy place. Being a Soreness Proclaimer, at least for me, has a hint of pride attached to it, knowing that I've done something that has genuinely impacted my body and because I'm 7 years old on the inside and want to play show-and-tell, I talk about it. It's a new kind of pride and I suppose there's novelty in anything shiny and new. And I think we all crave recognition and praise, in all shapes and sizes, and sometimes when we've worked really hard in the gym, we just want to make sure someone else knows about it.

So, yeah. My name is Serena & I'm a Soreness Proclaimer. And before you pass judgment, odds are pretty fucking good that you're one, too, if you're reading this blog, so shut it.

Adductors & The Journey

So I've been having a pretty bad run when it comes to productive and healthy habits, at least with regard to my fitness and diet. I'm not going to get into that, because I haven't written for a bit and I'd rather jump back in with a post that is happy and positive. Because when I start talking about what a gym-loser I've been for the past 2 weeks, it will be the opposite of happy and positive.

So. Happy and positive...

Monday was a day that went better than anticipated and I wanted to say thank you to my friend for that. I was feeling super lazy, impressively unmotivated, and it was proving to be a roadblock, as I had committed to myself that I was going to hit the gym. In spite of that commitment, it wasn't looking promising. I've been struggling a lot with my program and being consistent, and unfortunately, making a commitment to myself is rarely helpful. For me, I do much better when I'm accountable to someone else. I hate the notion of disappointing someone I care about, especially if they have shown that they care about me and my well-being, and it's an amazing motivator, at least for me. Yeah, yeah, I know I'm supposed to be doing it for myself but I'd rather be honest about what truly pushes me and get the results, even if it's not how it's "supposed to be."

With that established, as much as I was supposed to be ready to sweat for my own benefit, it didn't seem like it was going to happen. Fortunately, my oh-so-fit-and-gorgeous-and-strong-friend Nikki sent me a quick Thanksgiving text, checking if Kyla was hosting a little holiday boot camp action. And Kyla was. And Nikki wanted to go. And if Kyla and Nikki were BOTH going to be there, working and working out, it seemed like I should probably be there, too. No one wants to be the lazy third musketeer! Well, actually, I'd be pretty down to be the lazy musketeer but more so in a secretive way, with no one knowing. And since they'd both know if I wasn't there, I kind of had to go.

And so I went. And had my ass kicked. I love a good barbell but holy shit, it's easy to forget how much plyo and body weight can fuck you up! In a good way, of course. My adductors were sore as fuck the next day. Adductors, for the record, are pretty much the only muscle that I actually know the proper name for, so I like when I have real reason to mention it...

Boot Camp with Kyla! And a big Russian hat...

I'd like to say that a moment of true inner strength got me there, that I wanted to prioritize myself. But that would be bullshit. I didn't want my friend to think I was lazy. Not exactly Hallmark material. But guess what, it got me where I needed to be. Even better, working out next to Nikki pushed me even harder, knowing that she works super hard and that if nothing else, Kyla and the class deserved the respect that legit sweat is indicative of. So I got sweaty, tried not to let Nikki beat me TOO much, and had a better start to my week than I had anticipated.

I guess I feel like sometimes it's more about getting there, as opposed to how you get there. Don't get me wrong, the journey can be pretty important, too, but sometimes, no one gives a shit about the journey.

That Time I Was A Little Bitch...

If I recall, one of my posts talks about hitting that moment where you want to quit and then pushing past it. This touches on a similar notion but ends a little differently.

This time the story ends with me being a bit of a little bitch...

So, after enjoying some food-filled, booze-laden fun last week, I've been trying to hit the gym hard and eat healthy. The reason I don't say eat "healthier," as opposed to "healthy," is because eating Doritos for 3 meals a day would likely be "healthier" than what I was throwing back in Vancouver. So after returning home, I knew I needed to revisit my general lifestyle habits and try to counteract any actions that had potentially fattened me up in 4 short days.

The food side of thing wasn't too bad, because a lot of healthy food tastes really good. Funny how that works, but it's true. I enjoy most of the meals that also happen to be conducive to my goals, and as such, getting back on track, as opposed to eating truffle cream spaghetti and chocolate mousse (not even scratching the surface, you have no idea...), isn't too difficult. Chicken tastes good. Halibut tastes good. Tomatoes taste good...even when they're not served with bocconcini. So the food side of things is alright.

The gym, however? Welcome to my personal world of pain...

One day this week, I literally found myself saying out loud, "Don't be such a little bitch, finish it." I'd like everyone to take a moment and picture me, sweaty at the gym, barbell overhead, actually speaking out loud to myself about not being a "little bitch." Does it get better? And by better, I mean worse? Absolutely. The next phrase that I deemed appropriate to share with myself was, "quit acting like such a pussy and finish this." I'm a 30 year-old woman, telling herself not to act like a pussy. Actually? And guess what? I finished. Some. Most. Almost all. Okay, all, I finished it all, but it was pathetic. Or it felt pathetic, anyway. Now, that being said, I often find that after having a lacklustre workout, your next session feels great. You're motivated by having pushed through the tough parts, and revitalized for the new endeavour!

Not so much...

Next day, I slacked off and didn't train at all. Day after that? Such a struggle. Start to finish, I felt like I had regressed a year in my skill and strength, and would be lucky to walk out of the gym alive. And it's funny that I felt so bad about my workout, because I actually PR'd my bench press, which is pretty fun, but even with that, everything felt like such a battle. Movements were awkward and laboured. I was out of breath, yet not breaking my usual sweat. You know, the type that rivals a geyser - that kind of sweating is my specialty. Super enjoyable with my giant boobs, too. Everyone loves sweaty, giant boobs. Slash no one does. But whatever. No giant, sweaty boobs for this dumb ass, since I couldn't get myself to sweat if I tried. And I did try. It's just that trying looked like a limbless giraffe that had suffered a stroke. Whilst trying to smash weights. Because that's clearly what giraffes are into. Giraffes love to lift. They're all about #gains, right? (As if, a real giraffe would kick your head in for discussing #gains. I wish I was a giraffe so that I could kick people who say #gains. Except for when I say it. It's cute when I say it.) Okay, maybe a little giraffe overkill but whatever. I wasn't sweating, I could barely move my body in a fashion that resembled training, and I just felt like shit. And it sucked because it wasn't a one-off, I'd been in disaster mode for a few days.

The mouth is smiling but the eyes are crying, "Help! I'm being a total pansy ass!"

Turns out telling myself not to be a little bitch hadn't worked. I was, in fact, being a little bitch.

Keeping all of this in mind, I have taken measures to throw myself back into the game. I've got a session scheduled with Zeus for tomorrow morning, and he'll remind me what it feels like to sweat for real. And I know I'll care about impressing him and so being a pussy simply won't be an option. And I'm confident that after a week of struggling to push past this plateau, I'll be ready to go. Shit, I'll likely Instagram a bunch of gym pics, maybe hashtag #fitfam or #gymlife, perhaps a little gym mirror selfie? If you're lucky...

The reality is that I hate feeling like such a failure in the gym, and I hate that it lasted more than one day. However, I'm going to try to move away from dwelling on negative bullshit, and say that I'm glad I've employed mechanisms that will hold me accountable and force me to push past the lull. And it'll work. That's why I have my #fitnessvillage - they get me back on track when I struggle. Even when my struggles are taking a bit longer than planned to be over.

And yes, I understand that the way I felt was likely a bit over the top but the truth is, that sticking with these lifestyle changes sometimes requires being a bit harsh. I've mentioned the importance of self-love and forgiveness, and I stand by that, but some days self-love includes a little tough love, and what I need right now to refocus is to be firm and call myself out a bit. I can give myself a pat on the back this weekend... Slash pats on the back are for pussies.

So tomorrow I plan on getting my ass handed to me, in the best possible way. And I can assure you that tomorrow morning will be the time I ran the barbell's show (pretending we can talk about a barbell as if it's a human), not the time I was a little bitch. I mean, because that was the other time. You know, the time I just talked about? Right. I'll stop now...

It Takes A Village To Keep Me Healthy. Healthy-ish. Whatever.

I'm discovering more and more that it takes a village to keep me on track. Contrary to how I'd like to be, I am not a lone wolf. I know, I know, I seem super badass and as though I'd run my own show but the reality is, I do a whole lot better having my show ran...

I know everyone has theories about how many times you need to repeat an action to form a habit but I think it's all a load of shit. I've been training myself to develop this habit of working out like a machine and eating a balanced, nutritious diet for about a year and a half now, and there is still no habit involved. I suppose I should elaborate on what a habit is in my books, based on what people allude to when they discuss developing these oh-so-elusive behaviours. To me, a habit is something that you do regularly and as a result of instinct or inclination. That may seem simplistic, but that's where I'm at.

Now, I often do have the inclination to hit the gym. And I often have an instinct to eat a healthy meal. But I also have the inclination to sit on my ass and eat cake. Chocolate cake, to be specific. You know, a Duncan Hines special with store-bought cream cheese icing. Yesssss, that's the stuff my quasi-white-trash dreams are made of! Don't judge me...

So with this disaster of inclinations, how does one sort it all out? The village. My village happens to be a fitness village. I suppose it's the same as a #fitfam, a term that makes me gag...and yes, I know I've used it in other posts, but if you don't pick up on the intense sarcasm sitting behind it, then this is not the blog for you! Anyway, back to my #fitfam and everything it does for me...

My village is better than your village...

My village holds me accountable. My village leads by example. My village eats healthy food and works really fucking hard. My village is comprised of two personal trainers, a chiropractor, and a police officer. It's the best village on earth, because it supports me and inspires me and pushes me. I love going to the gym and seeing village members there, it makes me feel as though I have people watching me, not because they're creepy, but because they give a shit. And the thing is, my village is almost always around, at least in some capacity or quorum. But occasionally, the whole village is gone. And that's when it can be tough...

The reason this comes to mind is that last week, my village was MIA. Everyone had stuff on the go, scheduling that didn't align, workloads that were too much, crazy trips to Vegas to show everyone what a smoke-show they are (that would be a reference to one specific village member). The end result was me...on my own. And it went okay, more or less, but it reminded me of how much I prefer having the village around. You see, as I continue to go back and forth between my inclinations to smash weights vs. my inclinations to eat copious amounts of pizza, the village is there. I am continuously motivated by the village (are you sick of this metaphor yet, or what?!), and the way that they epitomize everything that has made my life better.

You know how when a really shitty minor hockey team plays a really strong team, they often tell a story about their crazy victory and how they played the best game of their lives and dominated like professionals, instead of the Duncan Tier II team that they really are? Well, my village kinda works like that. Being surrounded by committed, healthy, strong, fucking wicked people forces me to raise my game. And I'm oh-so-grateful for it. I'm humbled that these incredible people include me in their efforts and share their knowledge, when I don't bring much to the table, apart from comedic value (right, Zeus?!) and lacklustre punctuality (Tuna, this may sound familiar), or repetitive food complaints in spite of being cooked for (Kyla, please love me forever, even when I whine about stupid cravings), and never-ending yakking on the stair climber (Ty...I'm sorry I never shut up). You'll learn more about my village as time goes on but after having them gone or busy or whatever for the last bit, I just wanted to give them their first mention, because they are so integral to any success that I do achieve.

So, yeah. The village. It takes a village to keep me healthy. Or to help me while I try to get healthy. And I fucking love my village, and can only hope that they know it. Make sure you have your own village, because it helps a lot, even when you think you don't need a village. Or want a village. Because you do. And you will. And everything will be better because of it...

Sore Is Better Than Not Sore. And This Guy Is Pretty Hot...

So I'm pretty sore today. I woke up and my ass is killing me (the muscles...gluteus something...I don't know what things are called). My hamstrings are tight, and there are various other muscles that ache and pull. And I'm extraordinarily grateful for feeling sore...

First and foremost, I'm grateful that I've learned about the different types of "pain" and "sore." I've been lucky enough to learn that there's a palpable difference between hurting because you worked really hard, utilizing proper form and challenging movements, and hurting because you actually hurt yourself. It's an empowering shift to be able to read your own body and to understand what it's saying to you, because you now understand how you'll feel after squatting and deadlifting, rather than sitting on your ass and watching Netflix. Well, unless you're watching Netflix after you did the deadlifts. Anyway. Granted, I am the same chick who dubbed traps "neck shoulders," so I might not be the ultimate authority, but regardless, I've learned how to have an effective conversation with my body, and truly listen to what it has to say, and I happen to think such skills are beneficial to all of us. And I'm generally right about everything. So, yeah...

I'm also grateful for the ability to DO things that actually make me sore. Of late there have been a few happenings with neighbours, acquaintances, and friends of friends that make me realize that I'm so incredibly fortunate to be fully mobile and physically independent. Additionally, while I do have some pounds to shed still, my body is a weight that allows me to work it hard - I'm not hindered by an extra 100lbs., I don't have joints that are creaky or breaking down. I might have bigger thighs than I'm hoping for, but they still carry me up and down when I'm doing #squatsfordays. Because that's the only way to do it. #squatsfordays #squatsfordays #squatsfordayyyyyyyys

This is Steve Cook. He is what seems to be my first #fitness crush and I figured he's probably sore a lot of the time, so he'd be on board with this post. And you should probs follow him on IG (which is why I left his handle in the pic), because waking up sore AND seeing him sans shirt is an extra-awesome way to start your day...

It's funny, being some version of sore has become the norm, in an awesome way. The reality is, if I'm pushing each time I'm in the gym, I should be sore the next day, in some way, shape or form. I'm a big fan of having to use my arms to lower myself down to pee, due to having decimated my quads. Unfortunately that can be problematic if I've gassed my arms, and my legs are feeling the 2-day pain of gains. (Fuck, I hate that word, and yet it creeps in all the time. Worst. Anyway.) So what happens if I have to go to the washroom & none of my limbs work? I'll never tell...

Like I said, I'm grateful. I'm grateful for the privilege that I'm afforded, the privilege to live a life that allows me to make changes. Because that's really what being sore or tired is all about. It's a symptom of change, of what you're teaching your body, of what you're building with your muscle, of the fat you're getting rid of. And being sore is part of that evolution, whether you're an accomplished athlete pushing yourself to the next level, or someone struggling with obesity, walking a few blocks around your neighbourhood, because starting somewhere is better than standing still and remaining paralyzed.

So go get sore. Waking up sore is a great way to start your day. Take it from me, because while I'm not a personal trainer or a nutritionist or an Olympian (or am I...?), I'm a person who is sore almost every day, and I've started to smile a whole lot more than I used to.

Boobs, Chins & Gym Laughs

In the last two days, I have managed to grievously assault both my boobs and my chin whilst at the gym. Okay, maybe that's an exaggeration, but I don't give a shit. I work hard and I want some sort of credit for it. CrossFitters have incorporated the term "hero" into their branding and WODs, all because they jump rope with a fancy name (double-unders - fancy might be an overstatement, but you know what I mean) & walk on their hands, clearly the stuff that heroes do all the time, when they're not engaged in actual combat or rescuing people from burning buildings. As such, I feel it is only fair that I am bestowed with some sort of acknowledgement for my own heroic efforts that have resulted in the sacrifice of my body.

Just a quick deviation for the sake of clarity. I only chirp CrossFit because people seem to get so intensely offended by the mildest criticisms or jokes with regard to it, and I love a good reaction. At the end of the day, a lot of CrossFitters are legit at what they do, are in impressively good shape, and would likely make me look like an invalid if we ever went to head-to-head on anything involving a barbell, dumbbells, pull-up bars, cardio...anything at all, really. I'm putting this in here because at some point, someone who loves CrossFit more than their own children will read this and promptly mail me anthrax, which I'd prefer to avoid.

Okay, back to why I'm a hero. And by hero, I mean dumb ass who hurts themselves in a not-smooth fashion.

Yesterday I was doing cleans, one of the regular components of Program #2 designed by the aforementioned warlord, Zeus (aforementioned as in go back a few posts). I love a good clean. Who doesn't?! Basically anything with a barbell makes me feel like I'm stronger and cooler than I actually am. Well...I am pretty cool. The strength thing, that's a work in progress. Anyhow. Cleans involve keeping the barbell pretty close to your body, which in theory shouldn't be too difficult. Simple instructions, right? Yeah, maybe if your chest resembles that of a prepubescent boy. While my boobs are smaller than they used to be, as a result of doing things like cleans and eating in a clean fashion (I'm like Jerry Seinfeld incarnate today), they are still relatively big. Huge, depending on your perspective. And guess what? Big or huge boobs get in the way of a moving barbell that is sliding up your body at a relatively fast speed. And when said barbell hits said boobs, it hurts. Like a bitch. Upon writing this, I feel a bit like a nancy for complaining but whatever. Boob pain sucks. And it's not my fault that I'm clearly dedicated to the form of my cleans, so much so that I would injure my mammaries.

Wow. I've literally never used the word mammaries before, in any context.

Obvs had to keep Zeus in the loop upon hitting myself like a spastic monkey

How does my chin factor into all of this? What gym war wound could be worse than barbell-meets-boobs-barbell-wins? Well, it's not really worse. But it was pretty funny. I was doing a session with Zeus in person today, which usually means that I'll be comatose by the end, and I had to do push press. Upon having my form corrected, in a manner that helped improve the movement itself right away, I proceeded to instantaneously clip my chin on the way up. The form correction was so helpful that my face didn't anticipate the super-speed push press headed its way! I suppose the only reason I think this is funny is because my teeth are intact - the clicking sound they made upon being unexpectedly pushed together would likely be more upsetting if it had been accompanied by a chipping sound. I'm sporting a little mark under my chin, which really does me no good at all. No one will see it. Gym fails should have visible injuries that will prompt questions, so you can pump your own tires and act super bad ass. And if I'm not going to walk around jutting my chin out at an unnatural angle, you can sure as hell bet I'm not rolling around flashing my boobs and bruises (that aren't actually there), either.

I guess like any true hero, I'm just glad to have lived to tell the story. I actually can't handle even pretending to say that. There's nothing remotely cool or impressive about either - basically if my form had been better to begin with, I wouldn't be smoking myself with barbells like a moron. But both happenings were kind of funny, and everyone needs to laugh every now and then. And if you're a CrossFitter and you can't laugh at yourself, you can laugh at me for now...

When you're done laughing at me, laugh at these guys...

"Full House" & Fitness

I bet the mention of "Full House" got you stoked. I can't even blame you. How does it fit in? Realistically, it doesn't, but I felt like bringing it into the fold anyway...

I recently finished a 6 week program that was straight-up fucking awesome. (Note that this has absolutely nothing to do with "Full House.") For those of you wondering, I have essentially become an Olympian. I squat and deadlift like Kendrick Farris, no big deal. Not really. But since 99% of people reading this won't know who Kendrick Farris is (I don't know much about him myself, other than he's fucking strong - Google him), I can maybe get away with saying shit like that...

In all seriousness, though, I did just finish a program that incorporated some sweet weightlifting, predator conditioning (no, I'm not a rapist, go look it up), whilst tossing barbells around, and throughout the 6 weeks, I had a really good time. More than anything else, it was really, really hard. I don't know how else to describe it. I'd finish a workout and then say out loud, "That was so fucking hard." And that happened pretty much every single time. Sorry about the f-bombs today, but they're merited. Completing the program is one of the hardest things I've ever done. Every day was a genuine challenge. I feel like I can say that I legitimately worked my ass off (at least part of my ass...it looks a bit smaller). Having pointed all of this out & being a shameless braggart, this would normally be the part where I discuss my tangible gains.

Side note, every time I reference "gains," I feel like a massive tool. So if you're judging me a bit for saying it, don't worry, I'm judging myself...

About those gains. I found that my weights for certain movements increased, which is dope. I've been excited about getting stronger with my bench press, both barbell and dumb bell, and I was particularly looking forward to measuring inches at the end of the program. Everyone has different achievements that resonate with them. For some, it's weight loss, for others it's improvement when it comes to a specific movement, maybe finding that you can run 10km without stopping, when 5km used to be your max. That being said, I don't know why you'd focus on running, since it's the worst, but whatever. For me, it's improvement with strength, and inches lost. Inches are a big one for me. I've never been super fixated on weight loss, although it's an inevitable and necessary byproduct of getting healthier, but inches click with me. Throughout this program, I've noticed my body changing, and I've been looking forward to updating my measurements to see how many inches I've lost. Upon completing the program, it was time to measure!

Zero. I'm down zero inches. In the words of every fitness douche out there, myself included, "NO GAINS."

Except that's not entirely true. And this is where the moral of the story comes in. Like, if this was an episode of "Full House," (BOOM!) Uncle Jesse would be explaining why it's mean to exclude the gawky girl next door, and what lesson DJ should have learned. And then DJ would invite the neighbour girl to come hang out, and Joey would probably do something awkward, and everyone would laugh. I'm not sure if I'm DJ, Uncle Jesse, or Joey - I'm probably the gawky girl. Anyway. I should probably get back on point...I just wanted to make good on my promise to awkwardly incorporate "Full House" into this post. Moral of the story. Right.

This really has nothing to do with anything, but how awesome are those hairstyles?! And I think Uncle Jesse is the only one who lifted...I'm just guessing, but it is John Stamos we're talking about here...

Moral of the story, fuck losing inches. At least for this round. Granted, that was not my initial reaction. My initial reaction was to feel like shit and get super depressed, and eat some cookies. Because obviously eating shitty food will help with my goals. That being said, after chatting with a couple of members of my #fitfam (gains and #fitfam in this post - brutal), I realized what a moron I was being. Maybe I haven't lost inches (if you want to be exact, I was the same overall, apart from my legs, which were apparently a half inch bigger), but I know the look of my body has changed, that I look tighter and stronger. And I am stronger. I know I am. The weights I'm lifting are heavier, and the reps have increased throughout the program. Heavier weights + more reps = stronger = GAINS. Moving forward, I'm going to dial my diet in, and I have a new 6 week program that I'm super stoked about.

I guess I just wanted to share this because it reminded me of how easy it is to feel discouraged, when in reality there's a productive way to look at every outcome, even if it's not what you would stereotypically be opting for. I've been working really hard and I will continue to do so, and because my body is a human body, there will be some variety in terms of results. And that's okay. It's also important to evaluate why you're getting the results you're getting. For me, my diet has been pretty good quality, overall, but it could use some structure and purpose, so that's what will happen. And in 6 weeks, we'll see how these changes impact my body. And if I lose some inches. Maybe some weight.

No matter what the outcome is, the next time around I'll refrain from eating cookies like a pussy, and I'll celebrate before I critique. And then I'll watch some "Full House," and learn some life lessons. Because clearly "Full House" and fitness go hand-in-hand.

Not really...

Love Yourself For Real

I think I do a pretty good job at coming across as someone who likes themselves. And these days, that's accurate, at least some of the time. But it definitely used to be a lot less accurate, pretty consistently. I suppose learning to like and love myself more, the for-real kind of love, is why I'm writing this, because I know what both sides feel like. And look like. Literally...

Regardless of how fit I have or haven't been throughout my life, no matter the number on the scale, I've faced challenges with being kind to myself with regard to my physique. And in the face of that, I have often maintained that it's not a big deal. Because if it's not a big deal, no one can tell me to do something about it. If I express that I don't care if I'm a bit curvy (which is the word I would use to describe myself because "fat" felt awful...and true), that I have a connoisseur's palate and as such, would rather have a few extra pounds than eat lean protein and vegetables, then I didn't invite advice, no matter how helpful or legitimate. I was too busy having fun with my friends to be at the gym all the time. I was so in love with life, so fulfilled, that nothing needed to change, and I certainly didn't need to change the way I looked. Except I wasn't that fulfilled. Except I did need to change the way I looked. And this is why...

The way I looked was the direct result of lifestyle habits that were unhealthy. Period. I looked overweight (to whatever level you identify with, based on your personal standards). And I looked that way because I was that way. And I looked and was that way because I ate the wrong foods, often in portions that were excessive, and I avoided physical activity as much as possible. And yeah, I get that I'm not exactly a fitness model now and being frank, I still have weight to lose, and that's just fine with me. Because I'll lose whatever it is my body needs to lose (note that I'm focusing on what my body needs, not whatever societal esthetic I've been brain-washed into valuing). Because I am so much healthier than I used to be, and as a result, my body looks different. Am I shooting for a super specific look? Not overly. Am I striving to become skinny? Nope. I want to be healthy. I want to be my healthiest and strongest, and to know that no matter what "look" that produces, that my body is well cared for and prepared to dominate for years to come. Can you imagine if I'm around to write this blog for another 50 years?! You should be so lucky...

I happen to think the sweaty smile is the happiest one!

I personally don't think there is a right or wrong outcome, because individual bodies do not respond to exercise and diet in the exact same fashion. But they will have similar results. As an example, if you consistently squat, your ass will change. I don't know how it will change, but it will change. If you start eating broccoli instead of Doritos, you will have less fat on your body. I don't know where it'll drop from, but it'll drop. And that's kind of the point. Doing shit that's good for your health will make you healthier.

It's funny, there's a lot of discussion about self-love and acceptance of late. I've read a piece online about an overweight woman who has challenged a social media company because they wouldn't let her show her body in a less-than-fully-clothed fashion, even though skinny/jacked/whatever chicks can. And I think she's got a super valid point, in terms of morality and equality and acceptance. People love how much she loves herself, and if I recall, she's on her own fitness journey, as well. Hers, and various other stories, seem to be sparking a lot of conversation about ignoring critics when it comes to being overweight and embracing your body. And that's wicked. I love the idea of promoting self-acceptance and self-care and self-love. But the thing is, loving yourself to me means that you would want to ACTUALLY love yourself, and maybe I'm off-base here (probably not), but I think that would mean taking care of your physical health. If you love yourself for real, there's no way you'd actually want to fill your tank with bullshit food and let extra weight wear your joints down. What about your heart? Your heart is the metaphorical Mt. Everest of love - you can't let Mt. Everest down! Too much? I don't care...

Here's the other side of that coin, the other side of making healthy choices. Your body WILL change. Even if you don't want it to, even if you love every extra pound or inch you had before, your body won't care what you think and instead, will respond to this new expression of love. And it will change. And guess what? If you really-truly-with-a-cherry-on-top love yourself, you'll still love yourself. Because authentic self-love isn't tied to a specific look or size, it's tied to legitimate worth and that worth is inextricably linked to your health. And that's okay. It's okay to say fuck all the people who criticize you for being chubby, and it's also okay to take measures and make choices that impact that chubbiness. You are not caving to the bullshit or pandering to morons who have their own self-esteem issues to tackle, you are prioritizing yourself and letting the results be what they may. Losing weight or getting more fit or eating healthier foods doesn't validate those who criticize people who wear a size 4 or bigger, it validates YOU. It lets you love yourself, no matter what else or who else is out there.

It's good to be reminded that we're allowed to love ourselves where we're at today, at this moment, but to also acknowledge that this love is not lessened by the desire and the action for more. If you love yourself for real, you'll recognize that you also have to take care of yourself for real, and diet and exercise are a very real part of that. I know, lots of "real" in there. But guess what, that's why I'm writing this, because if it isn't real, it isn't worth it.

Push It. Push It Real Good.

Yep, you read that right. I'm quoting Salt-N-Pepa shamelessly. Because when it comes to the glorious space that is the gym, that's what you've gotta do. Yesterday I had a wicked workout. And the only reason it was wicked was because of the last 4 minutes and what they entailed. They entailed pushing it. And I pushed it real good...

(PS: I promise something amazing at the end of this post, so just read the whole stupid thing...)

The workout itself is a part of my program, something designed by one of my #fitfam members (I swear, every time I type #fitfam, I like myself less...but I can't stop. Won't stop. Nike. If you don't get that, too bad for you). It's a dope program & generally speaking, I'm always jacked at the end of a training session. Yesterday, however, nearing the end, I was struggling. It's a 4 round workout that likely has a specific name for how it's structured, but considering I barely know what my quads are, knowing what my workout style or structure or whatever is called isn't going to happen. See below to attempt to understand - translate at your discretion! I've been doing these workouts for 6 weeks and I still don't know what half the shit means...Zeus/Zeke, the program designer, has likely grown weary of my redundant questions.

Anyway, so I was halfway through the second round of the last 4 movements (you'll notice that there are 8 movements in total, divided into 2 sections), and I started having a little chat with myself. I had killed the first half, upped my weights for my bench presses & rows, and was pleased with myself. Unfortunately that dissipated rather quickly, as the second half involved dumbbell military press, which I suck at. Period. I was getting super tired, super quickly, and wanting an out badly. Hence the chat. 

I started explaining to myself that since I was pretty tired and had done a good job to start, I could likely just do 3 of the 4 rounds, and that would suffice. I mean, I was super sweaty and still had to do my finisher, which involved treadmill hill sprints (Zeus is a warlord, essentially). So that was that. I started the 3rd round, finished it up, panting like a rabid dog, looking as attractive as physically possible, and mentally preparing myself for the reward of quitting! Except it didn't really go that way...

As I went to rack the barbell I was using for my push press, literally holding it so it was already partially replaced, I stopped myself. I almost tripped on the bench (super smooth), and brought it back down, because I felt like such a loser quitting. And suddenly I needed to finish my workout. So I did. I pushed through it, and guess what? I lived. And I was stoked. It's almost comical how that little piece of pushing through fatigue/laziness/fear/discomfort is so very gratifying. Now to be clear, I don't advocate pushing to the point of injury or anything like that. There's a reason that I used the work "discomfort," rather than "pain," because for me, there's a difference and discomfort is acceptable. I don't want to hurt myself but I definitely need to feel uncomfortable. It's the only way to improve, in my humble (abrasive?) opinion. Pushing through that last round didn't hurt me...I was just that much more tired. And guess what, you should be tired when you leave the gym. That's the point.

Moral of the story, ignoring my inner dialogue that was offering me the opportunity to bitch out afforded me the opportunity to be oh-so-very stoked about a training session that could have been average, had I not pushed it. So I guess I'm just saying that it's worth keeping in mind, that pushing it could be the difference between feeling proud of your efforts, as opposed to knowing deep down that you had a bit more in you. Because it isn't just about trying, it's about how hard you try. Period. You won't be able to convince me that "almost all of it" is enough, because it's not. Your tank should be on empty, because it's the right way to do it.

I guess I could have entitled the post, "Try. Try Real Hard," but then I wouldn't have had a reason to share a sweet music video. And really, that's the only reason I write this stuff...

Eat Healthy Food. The End.

I've never been naturally thin. Or skinny, or slender, or however you'd like to characterize it. In fact, I'm more on the naturally chubby end of the spectrum. If I eat fatty foods, I get fatter. Pretty basic math when it comes to my body, diet & exercise.

It's funny how if this happens to be your body type or metabolism or whatever it is that differentiates people like me from people who could eat pizza and pasta 7 days a week and stay skinny, you fall into the trap of trying to trick your body. You start coming up with magic ways to eat shitty food and somehow not gain weight or poison your insides. But no matter the crafty method we come up with, whether it's fat-free or sugar-free or going to be the one time you eat the bad food, it never works. The magic is not magic. And moving past this need to make our bodies something that they aren't in relation to food is one of the most important steps in taking control of your health, taking it back from your cravings and excuses and the difficulty of eating what you should eat, instead of what you want to eat. At least it was an important step for me.

And once I took it, a funny thing happened...

I found a new kind of magic. The kind of magic that works. See, if you eat legitimately healthy foods in portions that are appropriate for your body & exercise program, you become legitimately healthier. Is it easy? Nope. Kind of sucks, especially at first. But once your body stops craving bread and cheese (well...it never fully stops, but it kinda lets you off the hook a bit...), it starts to crave the good stuff. The stuff that magic is made of. Food magic. I've taken this metaphor way too far... You'll also notice that I used the word "legitimately" here. Because when it comes to "healthy" or "clean" eating, the average person is stupid. Yep, straight up dummy. Trust me, I know firsthand about fake-healthy eating. I used to do it all the time. Like multi-grain toast with your scrambled eggs, bacon, and hash browns. What a responsible decision! Give yourself a pat on the back! As if. How about no toast. And bacon OR eggs, unless you're actually in need of that much protein, which the average person is not. And ditch the potatoes. Get some fruit in there, or some green vegetables. (Yeah, I said it - green veg for breakfast. Deal with it.) Or maybe have some oatmeal with your eggs. Oatmeal?! Amazing!!! Brown sugar & cream. I think not... Just the oatmeal. On its own. Yeahhhhh, now we're really talking magic!!! And all you elitist paleo morons who are going to harp on me about oatmeal, go read something else, there are plenty of paleo blogs that are perfectly designed to reinforce why you're right. According to you.

             Bad food vs. better food. Apparently it's all about the jaw line...that's what someone smart told me...

I guess what I'm getting at is how cutting the bullshit story about how it wasn't fair that I couldn't eat what I wanted was a good move. Because it's the truth, I can't eat what I want at times when it comes to maintaining and improving upon a healthy body. That's also a difference, focusing on a healthy body instead of a skinny body. Get healthy, and I feel pretty confident that you'll also get the body you never knew you wanted. But back to the unfair. Lots of things are unfair. No one cares. Get over it. And then work with what you have. Quit trying to fool the system. All I know is the only results I got from that were bigger clothes and lower self esteem. Once you accept what your body will do when you feed it what it truly wants, you can make it work for you in a way that is amazing and empowering.

Eat healthy food. Eat real food. And you'll end up real healthy. The End. Slash The Beginning...

Hand Calluses & Fake Nails

Kyla Gagnon (a.k.a. my platonic wife) is one of the amazing individuals who is a part of my own personal fitness squad, and she also happens to compete in fitness shows. In preparation for one of her shows, she opted to get some legit gel nails, with a whole lotta rhinestone action happening, to accent her teeny-tiny metallic stage bikini that she looked annoyingly good in. Granted, she trains with dedication and consistency, and eats with discipline and health in mind. But whatever...she looked good (visual below, to help you really grasp it all...her nails...my nails...her looking good). The moral of this story has nothing to do with her hard work and dedication, but instead serves as a segue to her nails inspiring me to get gel nails, too. Because we do everything together. Except fitness shows. I don't do those...

Anyhow, so I've become a nails girl. But I've also become a gym girl. Well, I've become the Anti-Fitness Fitness Chick, to be exact, but whatever. Turns out I like barbells. They're pretty fun to throw around. And they make you feel cooler than you are. At least they make me feel cooler than I am. I felt extra cool when I started putting plates on the barbell. See? You're already asking yourself how the hell I felt remotely cool when I wasn't even using plates. Well, that's the magic of the barbell. Anyway.

So I've been throwing barbells around. (I seriously hope you have a visual of me taking a barbell and going all Olympic-javelin on it. Right in the squat room. Aiming it specifically at those freak shows with the Shake Weights. That'll be another post. Barbells. Right...) So barbells, working in some dumbbells, bells everywhere! And in the midst of these bells, I've developed calluses on my midget hands. If you've ever met me you'll know that "midget hands" is literally the only appropriate way to describe my circus hands. Kyla calls them "midget mitts." Well, the midget mitts are callused! They peel and get kinda gross. And it's interesting, because along with my leper-like palms, I have these random, girly gel nails.

Why am I talking about these two seemingly-unrelated topics? Because I like the dichotomy that they represent to me. I like the notion that I can be over-the-top girly on one hand (or both hands hehehe), and under-the-barbell-jerk womanly, on the other. I like that I am not one or the other, but instead, I am both. My hands are soft and pretty on one side, and rough and dry on the other. I like that my hands have this new side to them, this side that compliments the other, this side that completes the picture. And I suppose because I like both sides of my hands, the fake nails and the calluses, I thought I'd write about them. So that it's understood that you don't have to choose between them. You can have both.

You just might break one of those fake nails every now and then. Or you might trip over the barbell. But don't worry, because if you do, your calluses will make the fall a little less rough...

Why Am I Writing This?

I feel like the "why" in everything is pretty important. The motivation behind most things is relatively helpful in determining both the outcome and the journey that will take you there. It's definitely worth exploring when it comes to health, fitness, and the role both play in your life. It would probably make more sense for me to write about my own "why" when it comes to the gym and eating kale but instead, I'm opting to quickly explain why I'm spamming cyberspace with my rantings...

It's pretty simple & not nearly as deep as one might hope. I like to write, I enjoy combining self-deprecation with bragging, and making fitness a priority has changed my life. No matter who you are or what you're doing, if something has come into your universe and made a profound impact, you should share. No ifs, ands or buts, you should share. Sharing is what life is all about. Human connection is sharing. Why do we go to the movies with friends, when the reality is no one will interact & our attention is hypothetically geared completely towards whatever Oscar contender is on the screen (as if, you're all hooked on stupid shit like "Frozen.")? Because sharing, even when we're not sharing, is the best. And when there's something good to be shared, it's better than the best. And this has been something good for me, better than good, better than the best.

So I'm going to share.

(I'll even share this photo...super fitness-oriented - love my bff)

You Look...

Strong. Strong is the appropriate fill-in-the-blank, at least the one that I've been enjoying of late.

Apparently when you drag your ass to the gym 5 or 6 days a week, and start replacing gouda with asparagus, your body undergoes some changes. And your urine smells. But I digress...

It's funny because when you don't have the greatest relationship with your body, the adjectives you use to describe goals are often specific to an aesthetic - you care about how you look and often assume how you look is what correlates with how you feel about yourself. And don't get me wrong, watching my body change has helped me feel more comfortable in my own skin, but it isn't tied to how I "look," as in how skinny I am (trust me, I'm not), or what size I'm wearing, but instead I'm finding that feeling and looking strong is what clicks. I've had two people in the past week tell me I look strong and it made my day on both occasions. I do want to point out that getting stronger has also meant shedding some body fat and my look has changed into something that is preferable, at least in my eyes, to my previous body, if you will, but I don't know if someone telling me I looked thin would feel like much of a compliment these days.

Don't get me wrong, I want to look & feel like a woman, or at least whatever that means to me. As an example, I can appreciate that the females who do Cross Fit have super strong looks to them but for myself, they often look a little masculine for my taste. I guess that right there shows that the aesthetic aspect is still alive & well, as I'm basically saying I want to look strong but not TOO strong. Either way, to each their own and as long as you feel good in your own skin, which is very much a work in progress for me, then keep doing whatever you're doing. Unless it's Belly Fit or jazzercise, in which case, stop what you're doing, and mix in some real exercise. (I told you this was an opinion-based blog...)

I guess for me, strong equates to healthy, and healthy feels good. It feels better than looking at a smaller size in my pants. Granted, I'm not opposed to a smaller size...my ass is huge, but it's not the measuring stick. I know there's the whole "strong is the new skinny" movement and honestly, I don't really care about that. I'm too much of a narcissist to concern myself with what other people are striving to look like. I mean, I never set out to look strong and I imagine to the masses, I probably don't look strong. Especially to one of those Cross Fit chicks, who now thinks I told her she looks like a dude and will likely chase me down, with a Prowler sled in front of her, while she plans on how to beat me up for time. (Too far?) I get distracted so easily...

Bottom line, call me strong and I'll smile at you, because I like how it sounds and I feel even better about what it means for my health, and where I've come so far...