I made a mistake yesterday.
No, it wasn’t the four hours of Sherlock that I watched. Sure, I could perhaps have put the time to better use, but watching Benedict Cumberbatch in action is never the wrong thing to do.
No, it wasn’t the mediocre writing session I had. That sharknado is gonna happen, I’m down with it. The only mistake would be giving up and giving in, and letting the Howler Monkey bite my throat out.
I stepped on a scale.
I’m not going to lie and say it was a great shock to me that I had put on weight. No, I’ve been on this expectant father trip before, I know what it entails. Diet and healthy eating kinda go out the window when the wife is eating for two, and well, we’ve made all this extra food anyway, something broken in me since childhood won’t let me waste food on a plate. Long story short, dear sprout #2 has left me about twenty pounds heavier than I was a year or so ago. I say a year ago because that’s when I stopped looking at scales in general, not because I was upset at what they had to say but because I’d achieved a level of weight loss I was happy with and didn’t see the need to confirm that I was maintaining. I was running around twenty miles a week, so I didn’t have anything to worry about.
Needless to say, not only have I fallen off the wagon, but the wagon circled around to pick me up and accidentally ran over my neck. It’s time to dust myself off and get back on the horse. (And I think I’m mixing up my metaphors again, goldfinger it.)
Running has been about self-improvement since day one for me. Somewhere along the way it turned into fun, as well, but that doesn’t let me off the hook for the reason for the season. I didn’t start running to have a good time, I started it to get my asgard in shape. And it worked. Trouble is, when you run a lot, and your metabolism kicks up, you start to feel like you can really eat just about anything and get away with it, which is true to a point, that point in my case being when I tore my foot up back in January and then got plantar fasciitis in my other foot just as the first foot was healing. So now I’m working on getting back into running like I was before, but I’m twenty pounds heavier and my feet are still a little gimpy.
But I’ve also had the wrong approach with my running of late, which is the running scared approach. I’ve been running scared of injury, running just to maintain, running to keep weight gain at bay. I haven’t been running to improve, which is why I haven’t been improving. I’ve been running most of my miles at just over ten-minute pace for the past couple months now. For me, for the level I was at before January, that’s kinda pitiful. So, no more ten-minute miles! If I’m not improving, I’m backsliding, and there has been quite enough backsliding for one year, thank you very much.
But that’s only part of the equation, a fact I was able to ignore two years ago. See, I was such an out-of-shape mess when I started running that the shock to my system when I started up was like turning loose a leaf blower in a ball pit. Total havoc, and I cleared out a lot of balls and lost a lot of weight. It wasn’t the whole picture, but I was happy enough with the results that I didn’t care about that. I had lost the equivalent of a big-asgard bag of dog food in weight, who was I to complain? More running won’t shock my system like that again, though. I know that because I’ve been ramping up my mileage a little at a time since March, but I’m still gaining weight and I’m not getting any faster.
Time to start focusing on the diet and even doing some exercise aside from running, which is really going to be a test for me. The only reason I’ve managed to stick with running so long is that at some point I tricked myself into thinking it was actually enjoyable and was therefore not really exercise. But I have some tools in my pocket, a lot of resources, and I’m frustrated enough with myself that I think I can finally get this fitness thing sorted, and sorted properly.
So, no more lazy running. No more getting down on myself about my writing. (Yeah, right.) If I’m not moving forward, I’m moving backward, and I’m too damn old to be moving backward anymore.
Speaking of moving forward, the novel is at 90%. Feet don’t fail me now. Except I don’t write with my… you know what I mean.
3 thoughts on “Enough Inertia”
Sometimes I swear my refrigerator and my scale are conspiring against me. I’m not to concerned about the numbers on the scale, but the fat gut I see when I look in the mirror. Damn, getting old sucks, huh?
Tell me about it.
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