If You Build It, They Will WOD or "Cardboard Boxes Can Suck It"

I got up early this morning to hit the 515 WOD so I could be home this morning to take delivery of my long awaited Assault bike. By long awaited I mean 5 days. I ordered it at 0300 on 12/25.

Three in the morning is a wonderful, magical time of day when Amazon is open and your credit card is burning a hole in your semi-hallucinatory consciousness. I bought my squat rack at 0300. My rower? Might have been closer to 0400, but still in that witching hour. When 0300 arrived on 12/28 my Amazon cart was full of goodies. A Roman chair, flooring, a programmable clock, a plate/bar rack, and DB shelving. All of it bargain basement priced to feed on the pathos of a populace fat with Christmas cheer and swimming in self-loathing and regret.

Bargains made sweeter by free shipping. Gods, I love shipping heavy shit for free. My UPS man hates me.

Thursday I got a call from a shipping company, asking if we'd be home on Friday. I was initially confused, trying to remember what I'd ordered. (I did mention that sometimes I am semi-hallucinatory at 0300, yeah?). Then it hit me. ASSAAAAAAAAULLLLT BIIIKKKKEEEE. They are in Carol Stream, IL, so less than 5 days after ordering, she was on her way. I thought it would take two weeks. I was stoked.

Then they gave me a delivery window. 0900-1200. Fuck delivery windows, okay? Fuck them. 

Pulled up at 1135, then offloaded slooooowly.

So, I went to 515. For a WOD called Painstorm. I honestly don't recall if I've done it before. I may have blocked it out. It's a 40 minute AMRAP. Forty. Minutes. This is straight up crazy. I never count rounds during long AMRAPs. Partly because I don't care, and partly because I don't need my mediocrity pointed out to me. Not that you can really see well in the photo below, but my collarbones are bruised. Above my thumb and middle finger there are actually red lumps from catching cleans. 

Soon they will take on the same hue as my hair.

Also #nomakeup #nofilter and shit.

But, my workout was done and there should be plenty of time to take delivery before I needed to leave for yoga, right? I'm not gonna miss Hip Hop flow, right? 

I made breakfast. 

East colorful shit. Make it pretty.

And then I waited. 

And waited.

And waited some more.

Did I mention I fucking hate delivery windows? For fuck's sake it's like being held hostage in my house. Can't leave. Can't make a phone call. Can't hop in the shower. Can't take a shit. Because you know the second you sit down and settle in for a little quality toilet time, the fucking doorbell is going to ring and you won't make it downstairs in time to catch the driver before he speeds away.

So I had a snack.

I got them jumbo carrot sticks.

And waited some more. 

Dude barely made it in time for us to leave. Wanted to tell me his life story and wax poetic on the New Year. Motherfucker, drop that shit right here and get lost. I'M GONNA BE LATE FOR HIP HOP FLOW!

Fortunately, fantastic husband and I made class with a minute or two to spare. That meant we ended up in the middle and front of the room, respectively. I don't like being in the middle of the room. Makes me feel off balance. I like a wall to one side. That probably says something about my personality, but IDGAF. 

After sweating through an hour of surprisingly useful stretching (Jenstar reads the WODs and tailors that shit for me...I'm pretty sure that's what happens. Either that or she's a witch.) and an almost headstand (I freaked out, there was squeaking), we ran some errands and headed home.

TO BUILD MY NEW ASSAULT BIKE, BITCHES!

About a year ago, I started constructing a home gym. By constructing, I mean I fought out some space in our basement. Fantastic husband had made noises about converting this part of the basement into a bedroom. It never happened. Being spectacularly impatient and impulsive, I cleared a bunch of stuff out, bought some equipment and claimed the space as my own. Behold my Mom Cave. Affectionately known as SpareDoor CrossFit. **please note SDCF is not an actual CF affiliate and is not associated with CrossFit in any way, shape, or form. Please don't sue me, Greg Glassman, I'm just a middle aged mom of three who works hard helping others and only uses the name in a tongue-in-cheek way as a hashtag in a private profile on Instagram. 

See that mountain of shit back there?

I've been slowly perfecting it for months. Adding a 35# bar, a rower, rings, bands, a bench, a wallball, a KB, and (thanks to fantastic husband) more plates and a 20/24/30 box. This past week I decided that I wanted ALL THE SPACE. So I cleared it out.

Turns out all that shit was mostly empty boxes.

Today's delivery was the first stage of transformation. 

EEEEE! Assault bike! Permanent rower position!

Over the next couple of weeks more will arrive, in the form of plate and bar storage and DB storage. Currently my DBs are just in a haphazard pile on the floor. Ain't nobody got time for that. Today we mounted some hooks for my resistance bands so they can be out of the way instead of constantly dangling from my pull-up bar.

Behold, the Spare Door.

I got the WOD clock mostly because trying to use the timer on my phone was a huge pain in the ass. I listen to my music loud and trying to hear the app beeping over the music was irritating, forget about watching the clock. 

I CAN CONTROL TIME.

Here it is in it's 67% glory.

LOOK AT ALL THE ROOM FOR ACTIVITIES!

I can't describe how happy this makes me. It's probably idiotic (in fact, I know it is) but I can't wait to do actual walking lunges in my home gym. Stationary lunges make me want to ddddiiiiiiiieeeeeeee. There is so much more space now for whatever I want to do. That back corner will soon be inhabited by the aforementioned Roman chair (which will serve a similar function to a GHD, but less huge and expensive). 

I just gotta keep that spare door. It's my goddamn mascot. 

You may have noticed a lack of food pictures following my morning snack. That's because in all my excitement I may have forgotten to eat.

It's cool. We ordered pizza. Which I totally deserve so you can suck on your judgement. 

I need a new squat rack. A heftier one, with a sturdier pull-up bar. That can wait, though. 

It can wait until 0300...

A Solstice Letter or "Where Do They Keep the Sarcastic Cards?"

Happy One or More Arbitrarily Assigned Religious or Secular Holidays!

As 2016 draws to a close, we gird our loins for the onslaught of political cartoons decrying the "War on Christmas" while white people on Fox News explain to us that Santa and Jesus were absolutely also white people. This year we have the added joy of wondering if the expression "Feliz Navidad" should make us happy because Jesus (possibly Hay-zeus-do you know the guy?), or sad because Spanish (Build! A! Wall! or some shit).

We can all agree that 2016 was kind of a crap year, in that tons of celebrities kicked off and we had to endure one of the longest election cycles that ever cycled. Prince and Bowie? Not fair, Universe. At least Betty White and RBG are still with us. Dear little baby Hay-zeus, let them make the year.

Nevertheless, time ticks forward and our lives go on. This year Amy learned how to feed herself appropriately, picked up some new gym skillz, and passed her 9th anniversary with her current employer. She also heard the good news about our Lady and Savior Lululemon, even making a pilgrimage to one of their temples to offer her paycheck on the alter of high waisted leggings.

We are becoming concerned for her.

Amy also decided that growing her hair out was unbearable and required something to alleviate the associated disgust with her shitty brunette meth-addict-esque locks. The results have probably ruined the master bathroom shower forever, but her family humors these flights of colorful fancy because she works hard to keep them in the style to which they've become accustomed and also she gets mean when antagonized. 

All the colors. All of them.

Mr. Amy continues to be a worthy, steadfast partner and exemplary father. He looks the other way when another new shipment of leggings arrives, and appeases Amy with offerings of bumper plates and talk of pull-up bars and folding squat racks. He is the kindest, most loving, most wonderful husband who ever husbanded. He also cooks and has exceptional legs. Still no toilet scrubbing, but it's not like Amy does much of that either, and she's willing to overlook it as Mr. Amy has a number of other valuable skills.

2016 was The Zs 10th wedding anniversary, which they marked with a trip to a nude beach in St. Martin. Like you do.

10 years!

They also managed to ditch their children long enough to spend a week in Hawai'i. What a couple of lucky sons-of-bitches.

Don't you hate them?

The Z children continue to be extremely loud and irritating. As their bodies continue to grow, the volume level continues to increase until they drive their parents insane. Mostly their father as their mother can create a cone of silence so dense the children start to wonder if they still exist. 

L is now a whopping 9.5 years old and excels at eye rolling, sighing, and telling Amy that she knows, Mom. While simultaneously being unable to choose clothes without holes or remember where she left her shoes. She continues to eschew jeans in favor of leggings. Amy realized this year that her daughter may have been a genius all along. She also continues to half-heartedly participate in CrossFit Kids even though it makes her "very tired". Also this year L has acquired the ability to fold her own laundry and make jelly sandwiches, though not at the same time.

P&C have attained the ripe old age of 6.5 and are still unemployed. Amy has considered obtaining a second job in order to keep the family in milk and meat as both boys consume their weight in beef roughly every 2 weeks. This is a particularly amazing feat considering that everything placed in front of C has something objectionable in it. The boys have also mastered the art of laundry folding and sandwich making, and as soon as P is tall enough Amy will show him how to work the washing machine and she will be FREE AT LAST, MOTHERFUCKERS!!!! 

P retains his amazing hairstyle, in spite of taunts from classmates and pressure from his extended family. He has decided that his hair is awesome (he's right), the people who don't like it are just jealous (also right), and that when he's done with long hair he would like to donate it.  

What a sweet little badass.

C has decided to cut his fauxhawk because "fauxhawks are itchy". The different haircuts make it easy for friends and family alike to tell the boys apart at a glance. Which Amy finds funny because they don't look all that much alike even with the same haircut.

P&C continue to enthusiastically participate in CF Kids, excelling at skills that elude their mother like upright squats, strict toes-to-bar, and pull-ups. Both boys can be convinced to eat extra vegetables by invoking the phrase "Window of gains, brah". 

All three children have exceptional memories, especially as pertains to wrongs done to them, injuries minor and major, and every verbal slight every child they've ever met has subjected them to. Sadly this incredible recall power does not extend to the location of mittens, hats, scarves, brand new sweatshirts, or library books. It does, however, extend to Bruno Mars lyrics...much to the consternation of their mother.

Look at these angel babies. They're all heavily drugged. I kid. I don't.

In all, the Z family is grateful to remain car crash, cast, and surgery-free for one more revolution of the Earth around the Sun. May the lengthening days bring light to your mind and warmth to your heart.

Happy Whatever-the-Fuck-Holiday-You-Celebrate

The Zs

Sometimes Shit Feels Dark, but It Gets Brighter or "First World Problems, Bitch. First. World. Problems."

I'm not sure why I'm in such a dark place today. I love the Winter Solstice. Yes, it's the shortest day of the year, but that means each day after it is that much brighter. Only a minute or two at first, and then suddenly it's summer and there is all the time in the world.

It's likely I've been sliding toward today for some time. It was inevitable, really. Anyone who's ever lost weight or changed their appearance in any way knows this feeling. There's a pharmacy term that applies beautifully to this phenomenon. Ready to learn a new word?

WTF, you might ask.

You know how you lose weight, or change your hair color, or develop a new skill and it's all new and exciting and shiny and shit? And then how over time it becomes routine, or boring, or you simply stop seeing the progress you've made? That's where I'm at right now. It's happened to me many times before. You see, there is a clear picture in my head of what I look like. It has no bearing on my actual appearance. It is constant and unchanging. When I change something up and see results, even lasting results, there comes a point at which I stop seeing what I am and return to seeing what I was. 

Tachyphylaxis. I've developed tolerance to my "new" appearance and skills and they have begun to look precisely like my "old" appearance and skills, and even with increased frequency of stimulus the response is diminished. I am desensitized. 

Senior Portrait. Sexy, right?

See that girl? That's 17 year old me. Gods, I hated her. She was too tall, too fat, and so ugly. I know that because people told me that. To my face. Well, not people. Teenaged boys, who I'm convinced are a different species entirely. That girl weighed 142 pounds. Those jeans are a 29/36. She was 5'8" tall. Everything was wrong with her. Ask anyone with a Y-chromosome within 100 yards. He would've told you. 

Fast forward.

How about this girl? That's 21 year old me (I'm the blonde). I hated her, too. She was too tall, too fat, and so ugly. I know that because she bore the stretch marks of a 50+ pound weight gain during college, and nobody wanted to date her. Not one person her entire college career. That girl weighed 197 pounds. Those jeans are a size 14. She was 5'10" tall. Everything was wrong with her. She was stressed out, overworked, and barely holding it together.

A year later.

What a difference a year made. I'm on the left in this shot. Sixty-five pounds lighter, a college graduate with a job offer on the table. Suddenly people were interested in me. I was both grateful and infuriated. 

Ah, memories.

At 26 I met someone who didn't think I was too tall, or too fat, or so ugly. Well, at least not after getting to know me. I fit in this dress at 140 pounds and I commenced pressuring myself to stay that small so as not to be "false advertising" even though he made it very clear he would love me at any size. I could graft into the couch and become immobile and he'd still love me. We wouldn't have sex...but he'd still love me. 

On our honeymoon cruise.

Two fisting it.

I wore a bikini for like the second time in my life on this cruise, and I was self-conscious as fuck about it. I probably shouldn't have been. I was young, I was tan, and unmarred by the ravages of childbirth. Though I did have some wicked stretch marks from gaining a shitload of weight my freshman year of college. 

The ravages I spoke of.

Ironically, I've never felt better about my body than when I was heavily pregnant with twins. This woman is 36 weeks pregnant and weighs 247# and she doesn't give a shit. Suddenly people were telling me how I was "all baby" (I definitely was not) and exclaiming about how lucky I was to be so tall, and wasn't I just beautiful. 

After giving birth I struggled for a long time with the aftermath. I lost a hundred pounds over the course of the boys first year. My body was wrecked and I felt cheated. So much work, so much care, and I was left with an apron of skin and non-existent breasts. It was such a low time for me. I should've felt triumphant. I had done it, after all...I had won. I lost all the baby weight plus...but I wasn't happy with myself.

Work Xmas party, about 10 months after giving birth.

I wore a Spanx tank top every day to keep my flap from getting caught in my fly. Hot stuff. I couldn't run without something to bind the skin down so it wouldn't flap my pants off. I barely needed a sports bra. This was success? Not being able to be comfortable in clothes because the skin of your abdomen draped over and under your waistline? So I had surgery to remove the apron and regain my bust line (plus a little extra, since they were going in anyway). 10 inches of skin. Gone. It was like a miracle. I felt like I'd started over again, better this time. I made the most of it.  And then tachyphylaxis set in again.

My beautiful family.

I hated the way I looked in this dress. I hated that it was a size 12. That number felt like failure. So much work, and there I was again. Tachyphylactic and needing a change.  So I changed. I've gone through several incarnations over the past couple of years. What hasn't changed is that I keep working. What has changed is that I love myself more often now. 

Photo magic.

I didn't love myself going into the photoshoot above, but I loved myself coming out of it. It was literally the first time in my life that I was told I was photogenic. I've always felt I photograph particularly badly. My face is uneven and I look like a troll when I smile, which is why I don't do it for no reason. Having someone tell me I photograph well was a shock. But I think about that often, and I hide from cameras less. I have very few photos of myself throughout my life as a result of ducking cameras at every opportunity. I'm better about it now. Not great, but better. 

I wore this in public.

This was me last May. I was very proud of myself. I had worked hard, and I saw the results. Results that made me want to keep working. I wore shorts and felt good about it. It was a good time to be me.

You may not get it from the timbre of this blog, but I do love myself more often now. I like myself more days than I don't. I've always been at peace with who I am as a person...I embrace every awkward, introverted, socially inept, loud, profane, emotionless, robotic, boring, predictable facet of my personality. I'm better now at liking the candy shell surrounding it. Not perfect, certainly, and there are many days that I find myself stuck in a loop of negative self talk. I'm better at breaking out of it. I'll break out of today. Every day a brighter one here on in.

This was me this morning after CrossFit. I caught myself in the mirror and I admit that I saw the image of myself that I've carried around in my head since I was a teenager. Too tall, too fat, and so ugly. I took the photo mostly to force myself to look objectively. The camera doesn't lie. It sees what it sees, and this is what it saw. Not perfect, but in process. Progress. Always progress. It isn't linear, and there are bad days, but a bad day is not a bad life as the saying goes. Sometimes you feel a little ugly, and that's okay. 

Or a lot ugly, but that's okay too.

This is also me today. Trying something new, something I knew I wouldn't be entirely successful at. But that's how you grow. New stimulus, new growth...until it's time to change again.

They don't call them growing pains for nothing.

I'm not writing this to fish for compliments. Please don't go all "but you look great"...believe it or not, that doesn't help. It's not about what you might think of me, internet stranger. It's about what I think of me, the way I see myself. The way I talk to myself. The aim here is to point out that people wage internal wars you cannot see. The person you admire in the gym or on the street might be perfectly happy with themselves...or they might be tachyphylactic as hell and wondering how they got to that place. They might be backsliding, or in full on free fall. We all fight internal demons. Sometimes they win. Mine are winning today, but they won't win tomorrow. They can't win if I fight. I may be troubled, but I'm a formidable opponent.

Trust me, I know. I fight me all the time.

Day 2 on the Wagon or "Fuck You and the GHD You Rode In On"

I tried something new today! Egg whites in mah oatmeal. I've seen this all over the interwebs, but I've always been a little leery of microwaved eggs. Today I decided to give it a go, in order to check a protein box while simultaneously eating oatmeal.

So. Egg white oatmeal? Is motherfucking cake, y'all.

SO GOOD. OMNOMNOMNOM 

It is also ridiculously filling. Since you're going to ask, here's how I made it:

1/2c oats of your choice. Quick cooking, steel cut, Irish, whatever. I'm not your fucking mother.

1/2c milk of your choice. Dairy, soy, almond, hemp, goat, whatever. I used almond.

4 egg whites-ish. I suppose you could use more, but this was pretty cake-like. 

Place in microwave safe bowl (or don't, it's not my house...I don't care if you blow yourself to smithereens) and nuke for 3-5 minutes depending on what kind of oats you used and how many eggs you mixed in. Essentially cook it until it's done, you dig?

Mix in some shit you like. Pictured is about a cup of mixed berries and 15 almonds diced up pretty plus one packet of PureVia stevia. I hear PB and bananas is pretty great. 

You're welcome.

I wasn't going to go to the box this morning, but fantastic husband was going to go for the 915, there were squats programmed, and I was really sore. I love to squat when I'm sore. It's the only time I can actually feel my lazy glutes working. 6x2 starting at 70%. My last 2 were at 155#, and they were challenging but not soul sucking. Progress, bitches. I'm going to get that goddamn 200# squat in 2017. 

Then I came home to eat. 

And read. Also read.

I realize bacon sprouts don't really go with my "cut down on fat consumption" thing, but they were left over and you don't leave bacon sprouts. Unless you're a communist. And I'm not. A socialist, but not a communist.

This afternoon we got the *ahem* pleasure of watching two, count them TWO school Christmas pageants. We all know what a great mom I am, yeah? It shouldn't surprise you that sitting through these things is akin to pile driving a spike right into my brain. 

I know, I know. You love watching your speshul snoflayke sing and half ass dance for an hour twice a year. Great. You do you. In my opinion, elementary school programs should be classified as torture techniques by the Geneva Convention. In junior high, your kid joins band or choir and they care about that shit. They practice, they're proud. In elementary school? They have to participate. They have no choice. My youngest son spent his whole program stripping down to his t-shirt in a completely disinterested way. He was "bored" and "hot". HE was bored and hot? He was? This year there were recorders. Fucking recorders. 

Feel my pain, fuckers. FEEL IT.

I was dressed like Jem, so there was that. 

She was truly outrageous.

Once I had done my motherly duty, which included making faces at my youngest son for a good 20 minutes, we came home. I ate. Because that's what I do.

Highlighted by heaven, people.

Fantastic husband went to the grocery store and I settled down with my book while the smalls did homework. Babylon's Ashes...the 6th book in the Expanse series. Ye gods, I love this series. And the kids kept trying to talk at me. I'm reading. You're reading. Reading is a quiet recorder free activity. 

When fantastic husband got home, I got my Xmas present! I mean, I schlepped it in from the driveway where the UPS guy gave up, so I kind of knew what it was.

They are so beautiful. Black and shiny, like my heart.

We went down to my mom cave and talked about plate storage and space utilization. We spoke of folding Rogue racks for the garage, and he didn't roll his eyes at me. I'm making headway towards a full-on garage gym. I wonder if I could hide a GHD somewhere...

Speaking of GHDs, I did 50 yesterday thinking "I need to go back to doing GHDs every other day". Today's WOD? Fucking GHDs. My abdominal wall is crying. Yoga is going to be super-fun and special tonight. You know, if upward facing dog doesn't tear something free.

The pose for today in the 12 poses of Xmas was "Quiet Seat". Check this out.

It lasted for like 4 seconds. Four. Glorious. Seconds.

Dinner tonight was simple. Chicken chickpea salad with some apples and almonds. It was tasty. 

Easy. Plenty of leftovers.

I still have a protein and a dairy left for today. Maybe I'll mix some chocolate whey into a greek yogurt later. That sounds like an excellent idea, actually. Go me. Ooo...also a fruit. There's some strawberries yet. Yay.

Ah fuck it. Snacks now.

Every muscle in my body hurts. 

Can't wait to do it again tomorrow.

Pictures of Food or "I Have No Self-Control"

I've used blogging of and on to keep myself accountable to various things. Training programs, eating programs, knitting goals. For some reason dropping random shit into cyberspace keeps me from going down the rabbit hole. I go down the rabbit hole to self-destruction pretty easily. I fall prey to all-or-nothing thinking and once I'm off the rails, well, look out belooooooow. 

Over the past couple of months I've managed to regain about 4lbs. Maybe some of that is muscle, but Imma say probably not. I'm guessing it's more just lazy eating. Aside from an incident with a container of dark chocolate sea salt caramels in November, I haven't done badly from a food quantity perspective (in that I haven't overeaten the way only I can overeat) but I've slipped on the food quality front. Relying too much on protein bars and cafeteria salads with too much dressing, that kind of thing.

In anticipation of a BIA on 1/5 that will set my baseline for the year, I've been checking boxes for the last few days. Friday I pretty much had one kielbasa, two cookies, and a bottle of fizzy wine. Not the greatest showing, I grant you. Today I did well. Still have about 40oz of water to suck down, but I'm 100oz in and I still have a few hours to bedtime.

One of the things I probably need to get a handle on is my fat consumption. The fats I eat are all of the "good" variety...avocados, olive oil, coconut oil, that kind of thing. I do eat a shitload of it, though, and that runs into calories. I maybe don't need to cook my eggs in quite so much bacon fat, and maybe I could steam a vegetable from time to time instead of roasting them all in olive oil. I'll give it a go.

This morning was a clusterfuck around here. You know how it's so cold it'll freeze your balls off? Well, if you have balls, and I don't. About 15 minutes before we needed to leave for school I started in with the prodding. "Guys, finish up breakfast, you need all your gear this morning and it takes a while to get it all on"

"Yeah, mom, we know"

10 minutes before we need to leave for school. "Seriously, hurry the fuck up, you need to be getting dressed ASAP"

"Yeah, mom, we knoooooooooooow"

5 minutes before we need to leave. "All you little bastards better be 75% dressed or we're going to be late! What have I been saying for the past 10 minutes?!?"

"Mom, I can't find my mitten!"

It is at this point that I totally lose my shit and start screaming profanities at a 6 year old. A quick text to my husband locates the missing mitten, but we're still not all dressed and it's 7:35. So I'm stuffing kids into clothes and cramming them into the car, tossing backpacks in willy nilly so I can drive them the 400m to school while they finish dressing themselves.

What can I say? I am a great mom. 

Once they successfully tumbled out of the car and into the school, I hustled home to change clothes and make breakfast before heading to the gym. When I have a hot minute to cook, I make a nice morning meal for myself.

I don't really need the guac. That should probably go.

Today is day 6 of the 12 poses of Xmas at Jenstar yoga. I did it last year and it was fun and challenging. This year I've got my kids doing it, too (voluntarily, they ask all the time when they can go to yoga again). After breakfast this morning I figured I'd take my photo for IG and get it over with. The kids will have theirs done tonight before bed. 

Wild Thing. No, seriously, that's what the pose is called.

Looking at this picture is what made me realize I've let myself go a bit. Ain't no abs there no more. Hell of a lot of leg, but no abs. I liked the abs. So I'll be a little more diligent on the food front and remember to do my GHDs. My belly is the first place I put weight on, but it's also the first place it comes off, so there's that. 

Today's workout was an unexpected lung burner. It's been a long ass time since I've done wall balls in a WOD. Combined with weighted step ups and dead lifts after a bunch of tabata stuff...I was gassed. WTF happened to my engine. I need to run more, clearly, which I'll do after the first of the year. The 17.75k is in March after all, training begins 1/1. 

I wasn't going to squat afterward, but I figured if I didn't do it right then I wouldn't do it at all. So I did it. Pause squats to 125#. It wasn't as awful as I thought. And then those damn GHDs. 

I sat in the hole with 125#. It was a proud moment. Heaviest pause set ever.

After the WOD I mashed a pepper and some string cheese into my face. No picture. I'll be better about it. It was a red pepper and it was delicious.

Friday I started transitioning my hair to pink. I washed and Overtoned my hair again today, and it's definitely picking up the pink. The violet base is still there, but the pink shows through more than I anticipated. It's going to be fun to make this change. 

This paisley hat really compliments the crazy hair color.

I'm just gonna wear it forever.

My lunch was super fucking lazy. Basically it was a protein shake and this.

I was going to cut them into sticks, but why?

I'll do better. 

School pick up was fun. 85 layers and still cold. Only had to stand outside for 20 minutes, though, so there's that. Next year? These kids are walking themselves home. I'm too old for this shit.

WEAR ALL THE CLOTHES!

We did all the usual Monday shit and then came home for supper. I did well with supper today. I sat at the table and ate food like a goddamn adult. It's so easy to fall into just eating something standing up while finishing up whatever needs finishing. I do better when I plate my food in an attractive way and sit down and consider it vs. just shoveling it into my head. Snacks, sure. Cram 'em in there. Meals? No. Pretty. Fucking. Food. 

Leftovers.

After dinner I spent some funtastic time wrestling toys out of packages. Why is that shit bolted down with bands and ties and plastic stays? To make life a misery for parents? Kids bouncing up and down while you try not to dismember yourself, then realize you can't find the right size Phillips head screwdriver? But, you know, fun!

Since I was feeling stressed out and I'm trying to be a good child and not stress eat or booze myself into oblivion (because abs are not made of fizzy wine, bitches), I did some coloring. My SIL gave me a fantastic Giftmas present in the form of a coloring book and colored pencils. What do you think?

It's looking pretty boss so far.

In about an hour I'll treat myself to a bedtime snack. I fell out of the habit of doing this, too. I'm not sure why. It's nice to have a bedtime snack. I don't wake up so ravenous when I eat one.

Look at all those checked boxes?

As I suck down my 120th oz of water, I'm ready to tuck into my new book. After I pee. I've been waiting for this book for a year and I've only had time to get a few pages in and I'm already hooked. I should resurface in a couple of days. 

My two current favorite series. The Expanse, and Throne of Glass.

Now if only my final skein of yarn for my Zodiac afghan would arrive. I need a fire, some comfort knitting, and my book. That's pretty much my introvert trifecta right there. Warmth, something productive to do with my hands, and something distracting to do with my mind. Heaven. 

Well, there you have it. Another Day One. If you don't feel like looking at pictures of food for the next year or so, it's cool if you leave. I won't think any less of you, random internet stranger.

Preparing for 2017 or "Badass Is As Badass Does"

I'm going to be 40 in 260 days. Two hundred and sixty days. I have 260 days to get my "accomplish before 40" goals squared away.  Being as I already have a fair amount going for me in the life department, the majority of my goals are fitness focused.

Disclaimer: I'm pretty happy with my body. Yeah, I whine about my flat ass or my lack of abs, but I feel more than good about myself like 83% of the time. I don't think there was ever a point in my life that I was more body-confident than I am now...except possibly when I was pregnant with my boys. Because HELLO I am growing two humans simultaneously and I am LARGE and IN-CHARGE and can eat chilidogs whenever I damn well please. 

What I'm saying is my goals aren't really aesthetic, even if they may sound that way. Of course I wanna look hot in shorts. You do, too. You can say you don't, but you're lying. I'm headed full steam at 40. I have stretch marks (hoo-boy, do I have stretch marks) from being fat and being pregnant (I was pretty fat in my early 20s and pretty pregnant in my early 30s). I have cellulite. I have scars and bruises and spider veins and varicosities (I know, stop with the sexy talk). I don't care about all that shit. There are more important things to worry about (like the end of civilization #MAGA). Yes, I'd like to look a certain way...but that's the happy side effect, not the goal at this point.

I fail the "barbell test".

One of my running themes is irritation with the flatness of my ass. It's genetic. Wide and flat, that's my backside. I've been working really, really hard for the last year to counteract my flat-ass genes. Yes, this is an aesthetic thing. It's also a strength thing. My glutes are lazy AF. I'm trying to fix that. Strong glutes help so many things. Lifting, running, fuck even your posture is affected if your posterior chain is weak. I'm so much stronger now than I was a year ago, but there is more work to do.

By 40 my ass will not fit under this barbell. By the end of 2017 I will squat 200#. By the end of 2017 I will deadlift 250#. 

This is my barbell. I will make it my friend.

I've been doing some programming through Barbell Shrugged. It's had me doing tempo squats among other things. Tempo squats are kicking me in the teeth. Pause squats initially made me so panicky that I felt ill. Going on 3 weeks in it's astounding how much better everything feels. I did pause squats today and I felt...not comfortable...but not totally freaked out in the hole. That's progress. 

I had a moment the other day after doing a bunch of shoulder work. It was a good moment. Now, my body fat percentage is good. For a woman my age it's pretty fucking great, but it's not really low enough to see huge amounts of definition. However...

With a decent pump I can almost believe people can tell I work out. 

My shoulders and back have come a LONG way over the past year. It all started with chaturangas during the October challenge at Jenstar in 2015. Developing confidence in that movement and doing it often gave me the strength I lacked to get my chin up over the bar for my first pull-ups. Now I'm benching, barbell rowing, and changing up my push-up routine...and my back is strong enough that I think chest-to-bar pull-ups are close on the horizon (overhand grip, that is, I can do them underhand). 

That's another goal. Overhand grip C2B. I also really want to learn to butterfly my pull-ups. It'll be a while before I get there, I have other accessory work to do...but it seems possible now, and it didn't before. 

In 2017 I will also run my final marathon. Fantastic husband and I are running the Marine Corps 17.75k in March in order to guarantee entry into the Marine Corps Marathon in October. I wanted to end my distance running career with a bang, and this is it. I'm sure I'll still run a half marathon here or there, but the fire I used to have for running is gone. I still do it, because it's good for me, but I don't enjoy it like I used to. Maybe I'll find that again this year, but I doubt it. 

I'm back on the wagon with my eating as well. Not that I was really off the wagon, but I wasn't as consistent as I have been, and I wasn't getting enough water by half. So it's back to drinking water like it's my job and eating all the things every day, not just some days. Here's some shit I've eaten recently.

Spaghetti squash and sauce from scratch.

MY VERY FAVORITE SNACK!

Pomegranates. So fucking pretty. So fucking labor intensive.

Eggs, they're not just for breakfast anymore.

Fish at midnight.

Right now I'm so full of food and water I feel like someone inflated me.

I made this. It made me laugh. 

I'm actually really excited to work towards these goals this year. Strength takes time, and time I have in spades. I also have an endless well of self-discipline, as long as I let myself tap it. Self-sabotage is a looming specter. While I'm pretty damn great at carrying out a plan, I am equally as great at sneakily derailing myself, sometimes before I realize what is happening. 

It's in interesting place, the inside of my head. Abandon hope all ye who enter here. 

So here's the launch of a year long journey to do some shit 20 year old me would never have considered. I'm pretty excited to be 40 year old me, to tell you the truth. Saying "I'm 39" feels lame as fuck. 

Deep thoughts with stolen internet memes.

By way of recap, in 2017 I will:

1. Snatch 100# (I didn't mention that one, but it is A Thing)

2. Back squat 200#

3. Deadlift 250#

4. C2B overhand grip

5. Ring dips, no band (again, didn't mention it, but I'm working on it)

6. Hike the West Highland Way with my love (95 miles in 7 days-my birthday present)

7. Run the Marine Corps Marathon

8. Make my booty big enough to stop a barbell free-rolling across the floor. 

9. Prevent myself from hacking off my hair with a garden shears before June.

10. EPIC bounce house 'n booze adults only 40th birthday party. 

I have got to find this motherfucker.

Have you got a pack of goals for 2017? I'm not talking about resolutions, those are stupid. I'm talking about goals. Climb K2, swim the English channel, eat your weight in dark chocolate salted caramels (I may have done this), knit a sheep, punch a baby. Whatever. 

What are you working towards? What gets your motor running? Wanna come over and work out?