Wrapping up my first week with some extra cardio, and petty observations.

            I should probably take some time to explain the chosen name of my blog. Well, I couldn’t think of anything better. I always feel like I’m running on empty. The Jackson Browne song speaks to me, but the fact that Forrest Gump runs to it does not. I also have a weakness for carbs. Most carbs that I ingest are the empty kind, the kind that make you feel full for a whole hour before you reach for more. Alcohol is also my biggest empty carb habit.

            Josh, the love of my life for nine years and husband for two, always gets embarrassed when I talk candidly for my love of alcohol. He shares my love of a good drink, but he thinks my honestly makes me sound like a “booze bag.” He’s probably right, he usually is. I am a heavy drinker, maybe even a binge drinker, but I am not an alcoholic. I do not believe that alcohol has interfered with me being a successful human being. But it does make me fat.

            It’s really a vicious cycle. I have a few drinks, which makes me get the munchies, then I go to bed. I wake up hungry, or hung over craving a fatty coke and something greasy. I spend the rest of the day laying around while it turns to cellulite and stretch marks.

            Thus the name of the blog. It’s a before and after pun, like on Wheel of Fortune. Think me of as a Vanna who eats.

            Tomorrow marks the first day of the second week of training. This program is supposed to last nine weeks, but if you are too large and in charge, such as myself, you might have to progress slower. I plan on putting on my big girl pants (pun intended) and getting it done in the nine weeks allotted.

            Speaking of pants, I went to Target and got some new ones today. Nothing exciting, just more pairs of workout capris I already own. I got the semi-fitted, since there was nothing that said “looser than hell.” Why would they ever make fitted spandex pants in my size? No one needs to see that. Semi-fitted is bad enough. I put them on and looked down with low expectations. They fit, but why does my hip look all weird. Oh, great. I have a muffin top from the sides of my underwear. Every man’s fantasy. Fuck.

            So, off to the gym for an extra cardio session. I want to try to fit these in because I do not believe 20 minutes of interval training three times a week is going to get me to a point where people don’t have to fight nausea when they see me in a swimsuit. Also, I did some heavy tailgating for a Cyclone victory this weekend.

            It’s a good thing I packed a long shirt to remedy this fat hip wedgie look I have going. It’s a Corona shirt I got for free at a bar crawl during senior year in college, a.k.a. when I gained weight and turned into a land monster. The Corona shirt does the trick, and I smirk at the irony. It’s laugh or cry at this point, and fat chicks don’t cry, we get hot wings and a beer. Or at least I do.

            The Sunday crowd is very different than any other crowd I have encountered at the gym before. Probably because it’s not a crowd at all. In that giant gym there were maybe ten people. My kind of crowd. I hope on an elliptical machine and start to assess my gym partners. As I do, I realize how petty and judgmental I am, just like the ladies of senior swim class. But, I want to be open and honest about this experience, and it would not be complete without my inner monologue. I realize people probably look at me and think some pretty unsavory things. That’s fine.

            To be honest, I don’t notice much. I’m jamming out to some tunes and watching the Redskins actually win a game. It was a rare weekend I could be proud of both my football teams. As the game winds down, this lady sashays in front of my machine. Clad in a perfectly coordinated spandex running outfit, her hair was down past her shoulders in a perfect hairdo with full fledged make-up. Yeah, your smoky eye shadow goes perfect with the sweat marks under your ass. Why do women do this? She looked like she got ready for a beauty pageant and then ran ten miles.

            I know what you’re thinking. Of course I’m jealous. Well, jealous of her perfect runner’s body and apparent abundance of time. But having a full blowout instead of putting your hair in a ponytail is ridiculous. I come to the gym looking like a homeless fucking train wreck so I can get in and get out. I look like crap there in order to look good elsewhere.

            Deep down, I wonder if I will ever look like her. Also, I’m worried about upping my game next week.