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...