Well, I’m a Londoner now!
I moved two weeks ago, to make another go of it with the boyfriend and to study for my MA in Creative Nonfiction. And while I thought I would drop the calorie-counting act the minute I landed, I’ve actually kept it up pretty well. And given how much I walk here (let me just say, my poor feet have been BEGGING me to drop 25 quid on a pedicure, but I’m too cheap), I’ve actually ended up well below my allowance most days. But I don’t have a scale, and I refuse to pay for a new one, and my boyfriend refuses to help me procure one, so I have no idea whether I’ve continued to lose weight or not.
And I can’t decide whether that’s healthy or not. Because I feel like I would be so happy to see that I am losing weight, and it would make me feel more comfortable putting down the calorie counter, but I know that if it turned out I had stopped losing, or worse, I was gaining, I would feel miserable. So I guess for now it’s good to be without. But I do feel bereft.
But not nearly as bereft as I feel without my routine. I miss the gym, the good hurt after a hard workout, the calorie surplus at the end of the hour, even the people I used to see on the elliptical next to me every other day. Mostly I miss the feeling of pride in myself, for my muscular development but also just for my determination and sticktoitiveness. Oh, and I really really miss the Trader Joes salads I used to eat after every workout. They’ve been replaced with ham and bread. Sigh.
Once we’ve moved into our new flat (it’s in the works), I’ll sort out a gym membership for myself– I’ve long since decided it’s worth the money– and the plan was to do my dvd workouts until then. I dutifully brought Billy Blanks and Mari Winsor with me, but the first day I tried to do anything my boyfriend’s roommate came home in the middle of it and I shrank into self-consciousness at the thudding of the thin floor beneath me and above him. Have you ever tried to kickbox on tiptoe? It’s not easy, and even though it made me super sore the next day (and I only made it through 15 minutes), I just couldn’t bring myself to try again after that. As for the pilates, if you saw the floor of my boyfriend’s bedroom I think you’d understand why I balk.
I know, I know: “excuses, excuses.” And you’re right. But right now the workout situation is just so much less than ideal. The good news is, my boyfriend has agreed to walk through the park with me at a good clip this weekend, workout wear and everything, and maybe next week I’ll get up the courage to go power-walking on my own, too.
I’ll keep you posted, and if any of you readers hail from London, please leave a comment with a gym suggestion; I’ll probably be living near Angel and I’m a poor student.
I moved two weeks ago, to make another go of it with the boyfriend and to study for my MA in Creative Nonfiction. And while I thought I would drop the calorie-counting act the minute I landed, I’ve actually kept it up pretty well. And given how much I walk here (let me just say, my poor feet have been BEGGING me to drop 25 quid on a pedicure, but I’m too cheap), I’ve actually ended up well below my allowance most days. But I don’t have a scale, and I refuse to pay for a new one, and my boyfriend refuses to help me procure one, so I have no idea whether I’ve continued to lose weight or not.
And I can’t decide whether that’s healthy or not. Because I feel like I would be so happy to see that I am losing weight, and it would make me feel more comfortable putting down the calorie counter, but I know that if it turned out I had stopped losing, or worse, I was gaining, I would feel miserable. So I guess for now it’s good to be without. But I do feel bereft.
But not nearly as bereft as I feel without my routine. I miss the gym, the good hurt after a hard workout, the calorie surplus at the end of the hour, even the people I used to see on the elliptical next to me every other day. Mostly I miss the feeling of pride in myself, for my muscular development but also just for my determination and sticktoitiveness. Oh, and I really really miss the Trader Joes salads I used to eat after every workout. They’ve been replaced with ham and bread. Sigh.
Once we’ve moved into our new flat (it’s in the works), I’ll sort out a gym membership for myself– I’ve long since decided it’s worth the money– and the plan was to do my dvd workouts until then. I dutifully brought Billy Blanks and Mari Winsor with me, but the first day I tried to do anything my boyfriend’s roommate came home in the middle of it and I shrank into self-consciousness at the thudding of the thin floor beneath me and above him. Have you ever tried to kickbox on tiptoe? It’s not easy, and even though it made me super sore the next day (and I only made it through 15 minutes), I just couldn’t bring myself to try again after that. As for the pilates, if you saw the floor of my boyfriend’s bedroom I think you’d understand why I balk.
I know, I know: “excuses, excuses.” And you’re right. But right now the workout situation is just so much less than ideal. The good news is, my boyfriend has agreed to walk through the park with me at a good clip this weekend, workout wear and everything, and maybe next week I’ll get up the courage to go power-walking on my own, too.
I’ll keep you posted, and if any of you readers hail from London, please leave a comment with a gym suggestion; I’ll probably be living near Angel and I’m a poor student.
Comments