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...