KendraKaptures via Flickr
We’re not talking about the Hunger Games…
I haven’t been chosen as a “tribute” by a post apocalyptic society to fight to the death as punishment for some rebellion I never joined, nor have I volunteered as said “tribute”. Quite frankly, I’m not quite sure I could run and shoot anything to save my arse under any circumstance, at least, not yet. I’m certainly not talking about those hunger games.
I’m talking about my new portion sizes.
It’s been three weeks of “ow,” of sweating my fluffy bits off, and of feeling like there are these eagle eyes…staring me down…encouraging (?) me to push on. I have energy, yes. I sleep better, yes. But when I sit down to dinner and load up my plate in the usual, customary fashion (which consists of two or three helpings of lasagna, always two helpings of green veggies, and bread…omg, bread! Homemade french bread dripping with garlic butters and herbs. I’m all sorts of hungry again…bugger), this is where I begin to question my hours spent thus far on the abdominal crunch machine, the tread mill, and all those other crazy contraptions designed to punish the living crap out of all those muscles I didn’t know I had.
I swear to you, my stomach is being restricted.
The Woodsman tells me it’s my muscles knitting back together. All that baby stretching and relaxed muscle (I thought I would never say this, but my dad may be right…it really is relaxed muscle!!) is being forced back into submission, or something of that sort. I can’t fit all the food on my plate into this restricted place anymore. Don’t get me wrong, this is wonderful news! My muscles are toning up, my fluffy bits are beginning to shrink up a tad, and my energy levels are crazy high. I’m just sad that I can’t have another helping of lasagna.
Bad news for my tummy is good news, overall.
Even though I’m all sorts of sorrowful that I can’t eat like I used to because of my restricted tummy, I am more excited that my hard work is looking like it just might pay off. It’s definitely going to keep the aging badly at bay, I can see this already. My skin is looking better (which is probably a side effect from drinking gallons of water after leaving the chamber of horrors gym because I’ve sweat almost 1/2 of my water reserves out of my wee little pores), I have confidence that I could make it half way up that flight of stairs with spring in my step (I was told there were cookies up top, but hey, whatever motivates that spring, right?), and my youngest minion is convinced my fluffy bits are shrinking (still haven’t told her how tight that workout shirt is yet).
All in all, I think I’m pretty pleased. I do wish I could have another helping of lasagna, but I suppose it will have to wait for lunch the next day.
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Oh you and your fluffy bits! I’m sure you’re coming along just fine in the Chamber of Horrors. Just watch out for that baslisk … wait. Wrong Chamber. Good luck. Keep it up and run a few miles for my wobbly bits too!