There are some signs that something unusual happened this past weekend: my back is a little stiff, I have a little blister on one toe that is healing.
My weight soared to 171 pounds on Tuesday as my body retained extra water in relatiation for Sunday's mistreatement.
But, on Wednsday, peeing. All day. Clear water. All the water is leaving.
My shins stopped aching. I did a light jog/walk around the track yesterday, and some gentle running drills.
"Hey, Mrs. P, how long are you going to wear your medal?"
" You got a problem with my medal?"
One of the other teachers asked me how my weekend went. "Didn't you have, like, a marathon or something" and I said, "Yeah, something like that."
"So how did you do?"
I said that I did do a marathon, but I had to do some other stuff before I was allowed to start it." When you put it like that, you get instant attention. Allowed to do a marathon? What kind of "stuff"? In a river? How many miles? OH, MY, GAWD. IN ONE DAY??
And that's when it hit me; I can't joke about being lazy with anyone other than triathletes any more. I've been kicked out of the lazy club.
I'd already been kicked out of the diet club. You know the one: everyone sits around, eating Lean Cuisine, swapping information on the latest internet diet but refusing to exercise other than a bi-monthly salsa class, and then you say, brightly, "I've had a lot of success with jogging and biking!" And then the excuses ensue.
- "I'm 'different'"
- "I can't run."
- "I don't have time to exercise."
- "I have bad knees."
- "I have to wait until I've lost weight before I start exercising."
So, what does all this Ironman stuff mean to me. Hmmmm.
I When I was in LooAville I was laying awake the night before mulling over the possibility of success, or failure, and what they'd mean to me. I imagined writing two notes to myself.
One would say, Open this if you made it to the finish line.
and the other one would say, Open this if you didn't make it to the finish line.
The other one would say, "Will you finally accept and love yourself as you are?"
So, what's sinking in? That I'm good enough. Not in a Stuart Smalley sort of way. But in a healthy body sort of way. When I started this part of me was hoping I would wind up being thin and, well, willowy, something I used to dream about being called.
As in, "That's her over there. See her? She's the willowy blonde on the left." (I'm not really blonde, but let's not go there...)
But no more. Barbie may be pretty, but I bet she can't do an Ironman.
So, I'm not tiny. I'm not petite, with a tiny ring in my tiny belly button on my tiny belly. I'm not shivering pre-race in my tiny size S or XS triathlon suits, trying to find a size 48 bike frame. (Not that there's anything wrong with that.)
So, I'm not twenty. I don't have a twenty-something body.
So, I'm not sub-140 pounds. My weight hasn't changed much in the past two years. I'm a few pounds on either side of 160.
So, I'm stocky. I'm broud-shouldered and wide-hipped and I'm definitely NOT aero. But my body is healthy. My doctor is thrilled with the changes I've made. He doesn't say a word about my weight, despite the fact that I'm officially overweight at 5'6". My resting heartrate has dropped nearly 20 beats.
I no longer say things like, "When I get skinny, I'm gonna...." or, "I'll do that when I get thin again."
I refuse to fit myself into someone else's idea of womanhood when I shop. I will not wish that I was skinnier so I can all the cutest triathlon clothes, or buy clothes that are too small hoping I'll lose enough weight to fit into them.
I'm healthy, dammit. If someone wants my business, they're going to have to cater to me. Kiss my zaftig ass, and don't you dare call it extra large.
I'm am not, as Bridget Jones says, "an American stick insect."
I may never even get to see all the new muscles I've been developing.
But now I know without a doubt that they're there.
So that's where I am right now.