I guess that given the hectic pace of my life over the last few months, my immune system was due for a crash. This weight loss challenge has kept me focused on taking care of myself like never before. Free time has been spent at the gym or driving from place to place. Work has been killer lately, especially with the election. When I haven't been at work, I've spent much of my time doing homework. If that weren't enough, I took on Relay for Life, recruiting team members and hassling friends for donations (thanks again, all who helped). Plus, there's that small wedding manner that keeps coming closer week by week.
But the semester was wrapping up. The election was over, and Relay for Life came to a successful close. Surely, now was the best time to rededicate myself to exercise, helping out more at home, and taking a moment to catch my breath.
Enter the cold season. I should have expected this. Almost like clockwork, every November I seem to get sick. Not clutching myself into a ball, praying to deities for relief, and filling out a last will and testament sick, but ill enough to put me on the shelf for a couple of days. No, it's not the dreaded swine flu, just a seasonal cold, but nonetheless, I've spent many moments this week feeling sorry for anyone who's had to listen to me cough. (oh, there's my lung!)
My reaction to getting sick has been much different this year, however. Instead of worrying about having to take a sick day, whether I should call or doctor, or trying to protect loved ones from contracting whatever is ailing me, my biggest annoyance has been my inability to get to the gym. I've woken up in the morning feeling well enough to say, "alright, I'm not wheezing, if I still feel this good by the end of the day, it's to the stair machine!" Three hours later, as I eat my 34th cough drop of the day (how many points for mentholyptus? Is that even a word?), I'm still holding out hope for a brief workout. By the end of the work day, I'm too tired to think about anything but a nap, and it's only when I steer my car toward the route home and instead of toward the gym that I start to get mad.
I had intended for this to be a great week. I mean, fantastic progress, like another five-pound star and perhaps a contract to start training contestants on The Biggest Loser. It was set up perfectly, and with all the walking I did at Relay on Saturday, I would make sure my flat status of last week wouldn't happen again. But when you're body is too weak, you have to listen, and this I spent most of me free time in bed or being tended to by my beautiful live-in nurse.
I guess that's the thing about trying to lose weight. There are always going to be monkey wrenches thrown your way, factors you can't see in advance. This week, it was a cold. Maybe in a few weeks it'll be something else. You have to be able to improvise and take what comes at you. I'm learning that now. So, instead of busting my rear, I was anal retentive about counting my points and staying on plan.
My reward: a good week after all. Perhaps not interview with Oprah- worthy, but I still dropped a few pounds this week. And, with any luck and some more chicken soup, maybe this cold will pass and I'll be back amongst the gym rats within a few days.
At least chicken soup is low in calories. It's a good thing that New England Clam Chowder isn't considered a good cold remedy.
Weeks until wedding: 36
Week 11 pounds lost: 2.2
Total weight lost: 32.4
32.4 rounds to: 32
Famous athletes who wore #32: Karl Malone, Magic Johnson, Rip Hamilton, The Mailman, Sandy Koufax, Jim Brown, Karl the Mailman Malone, Shaq, Karl Malone, and Matt Engelhardt, during his summers at Fundamental Basketball Camp that he attended in elementary school. The name on the back of his shirt: the Mailman. Ya, I need help.
Average weight loss per week: 2.9
Percentage of overall 60-pound goal: 54 percent
Pounds remaining to lose: 27.6
Number of subscribers to this blog: 21
Number last week: 20. Still willing to accept dares.
Things that impede typing: cats in lap
Evidence that I should stop filling my pockets with tuna fish: frequency of cats in lap. Seriously. this freakin' cat won't leave me alone.
Pictures of progress: coming soon. I promise.
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