After 19 years of smoking (less a year and a half and a couple of months-long stints) I finally quit smoking on January 3rd this year. I got pneumonia, which helped me quit since I couldn't inhale if I tried. Then a four month misdiagnosis of emphysema helped secure the not smoking. By the time I got the word in May that it was actually just asthma (nice one, doc), I had luckily jumped the smoking hurdle and didn't want to go back...okay, minus one cigarette on my 6-month anniversary that I hadn't planned, but I felt like crap and was glad I'd quit.
Now here I sit over six months later smoke free, pink-skinned, fresh smelling, and 25 pounds heavier than I was in January. Yes my friend, 25 pounds! I have yet to discuss it on my blog, as I'm terribly depressed and ashamed of this. I work out quite often, typically go for a hike every weekend with my friend, and have quite the lung endurance now. Unfortunately, to deal with every situation I would typically turn to cigarettes for, I have turned to binging on candy. I don't keep junk at home, but one of my coworkers has three giant canisters of M&M's, Skittles, and more M&M's. I have begged and pleaded for them to remove these so I won't eat them, and every time they tell me I need to have some willpower. I have fucking addictive behaviors, what do you expect? I have done the standard turn from one addiction to the next. I love most of my coworkers, but I hate they are so evil about this one thing. EVIL! EVIL YOU!
My friends all say that they can't tell on me, but I don't expect them to agree with me. Also, I have been blessed with what I call "below the joint skinny". My calves, ankles, forearms, and wrists are small. My face is narrow, though not as much as it used to be. All the weight has gathered in secret places. Now after 25 pounds, and doubling in jeans size I have had it! I've seriously fucking had it. I hate myself for this and have to change this or I will seriously start smoking because though I may get cancer, at least I would be thinner.
I only had one binge today, which is good compared to my typical binges at work. I was feeling too gross for the gym, so decided to work out at home. I got home and changed and did Tae Bo. I had not done Tae Bo in quite some time and almost immediately remembered why. I am the most uncoordinated person EVER! I do okay at some of the moves, but you ask me to kick to the side and I suck. I couldn't knock over a toddler with my kick. In fact, the kid could probably touch my ankle and it would knock my unstable fat ass, right over. But I trudge on.
I'm Tae Bo-ing away, throwing punches that are okay when using the right arm, but the left arm is like whipping a spaghetti noodle out from my shoulder. I laugh every time I do so. Punch to the right (yah)! Punch to the left (wet noodle, haha)! It's an ugly, vicious cycle. I'm laughing and punching and watching my left forearm do it's seizure dance that is supped to be a punch. But I continue.
I get to some of the non-sidekick leg work and I'm loving it and coordinated and kicking ass! Then he says it...the one thing that I know I'm in deep shit over. It's always the same and I doubt it will ever change...the punching bag. What this is, is you simply pretend you are hitting a punching bag. The uvula-looking punching bag. Sounds easy enough, right? No. This is like swimming in shark-infested waters for me while on the rag. It's flat out dangerous!
I get into position and try to lean my head back as far as possible, as I know what's coming. I lift my arms up to the invisible uvula punching bag and start rotating my forearms over each other. Hey! I'm doing it! I can do this! SMACK! I clock myself in the chin. Fuck! Ouch! I keep spinning my forearms and turn my head to the right and back to avoid my air space even more. Spin, spin, CRACK! I have somehow punched the knuckles of my left and right hand together and it hurts! I keep going though and two seconds later I somehow hit my cheekbone. SHIT!
This totally sucks and I am cursing Billy Blanks for making me see how foolish I look when I'm trying really hard not to. I finish it up sweaty, bruised and with half a chin left. Actually, this could be a good thing. If I keep this up, I could lose weight and possibly end up with a new nose from clocking myself over and over!
That's what that "optimism" thing is...right?
