Didn’t anticipate being sick for over a month.
Didn’t anticipate actually getting a job in this town.
Didn’t anticipate 12-hour shifts and 6-day work-weeks.
(This job, however, is a godsend in 2 and only 2 ways; the first being I get payed, the second being I get to eat as much fresh chicken, salmon and sallad as my heart desires. That alone weighs out the misery of working with the worst co-workers in the history of co-working.)
Change of Plans.
Jna and I will run, through town, in sports bras, on the 28th of August. That is happening, whether I like it or not. Guess if there’ll be any slip-ups, exceptions or excuses between right now and 3:30 on that particular Tuesday.
Ah, nope. I will not allow myself to truffle-shuffle through town, soaked in 1 part sweat and 2 parts tears, wishing I wouldn’t’ve spent the summer behind a laptop, inhaling dark chocolate and some three digits of Skippy jars.
I will grind my arse into shape and rock that sports bra like a spicy mo-fo and all da boys be like heeell yeah. Even the most articulate of gentlemen will be reduced to nothing more than drawn-out ‘damn.’
It’s going to happen.
It’ll be the best day of my life.
The Power of the Pinky-Promise, by ‘Al’ R.
-5’10” (I think)
-Everywhere between 80 and 90 kilos for the past 3-ish years
-UGW: 65 kilos
-Lately, managed to get my shit together and reach the lower 80s.
-Repeatedly veered off track
-over and over again
Then I realized there are only 34 days left until the Hultsfred Festival. (=THE CURE.) As if this weren’t enough motivation, the friend I’m going with is not only:
and 3. objectively gorgeous, (which my guy-friends continuously remind me without reserve)
4. extremely nice, which complicates the freedom one usually has to call people ‘bitch’ out of nothing other than jealousy. So as any insecure overweight mess would do, I devised a PLAN. (You can see this plan in detail 2 posts below.)
This plan, unlike all previous plans, was special… for one reason only.
>I simply cannot bring myself to break a pinky-promise.<
Being the sly bastard that I am, I decided to use this valuable information against myself. I made myself pinky-promise Monster that I would do everything on my chart, every single day with no exceptions, before Hultsfred.
So: Plan commences May 11th. 81 kilos.
Yesterday morning, that is- after 3 full days of following through with everything I had pinky-promised myself I would, I stepped on the scale.
And what did I see, but 79.9.
SEVENTY-NINE POINT NINE.
THERE’S NO 8 IN THE FRONT.
*And the crowd roars*
Be my guest; question the reliability of the bathroom scale to the ends of the earth… but the thing is- the thing is- the fact that my weight, for the first time since I started caring about it, started with a SEVEN and not an 8, means I’m getting there.
Time to relive this moment when I sweat my way down to the the 60s. Oh, 60s. Here I come. Who woulda thunk it… all of this success brought on by a tiny phalanx bone.
Please excuse me; Day 5 awaits. *Breakfast Club-fist in air*
I can’t wait.
When I pinky-promise things, I have no choice but to comply.
1. 30 Day Shred
3. 100 jumping jacks
4. 100 squats
5. 100 donkey kicks
6. 100 Russian twists
7. 4x1 minute plank
8. 20 push-ups
9. Shoulder & arm exercises
10. 1 serving only
11. No sugar
12. Fruits & vegetables
13. Green tea
14. 2 liters of water
2 days of this down. 32 to go. There are no exceptions. I pinky-promised.
30 Day Shredding
Forgetting to Make Posts on Tumblr.
Again, not sure if this is good or bad.
Another tournament over the weekend:
Must figure out how to handle being repeatedly put in situations where one is forced to work together with an egotistical phony. Goosfraba, Al. Goosfraahbaah.
New approach. Today, I will clean. I will devise a plan with new goals. I will pack for the 6km run. I will find the dumbbells which I have somehow managed to misplace in my one-room apartment. I will sign up for a laundry time. I will get rid of things I don’t need. I will organize. I will play guitar. I will sit on my balcony. I will read.
There. Now I have to, since it’s posted. I have to.
Disorder. Skutberget. Music. Monster. Mongolian grill. Mood swings. The Letter M. Dishes. So many dishes, not to mention laundry. Everywhere.
Time for some much needed structure.
1. Gold at the volleyball tournament in Stockholm.
2. Player of the year on my team.
3. Stupid girl time of the month soon.
4. So much chocolate.
5. Thus effing gained weight.
7. Need new goals, since I clearly didn’t foresee my numerous fuck-ups.
8. Might change domain name to suit these new goals.
9. 17 followers (SCHWEET)
in the catholic ghetto, born and raised
at the playground is where I bullied most of the gays
relaxin chillaxin communion all cool
oppressing some minorities outside the school
when a couple of gays who were up to no good started making out in my friendly white neighborhood
So I adjusted my sweater-vest, walked up to the pair
and said, “I’d like to get between you, if you’re willing to share.”
A charming blur of:
1. painting: still not finished,
2. shopping: I am now the proud owner of a pink sequin skirt. Pink. SEQUIN. No joke.
and 3. volleyball: of course I sprain my right thumb, again, a week before the tournament. Of course.
Exercise: Not enough.
Food: Too much.
This is just the very center. I gots me a long ways to go.
Monster is simply perfect. He bought a disposable grill, we biked to the lake despite the gray weather and sat on placemats around the small fire eating charred chorizos and making stupid jokes about birds. If that isn’t love, I’m not certain what is.
Exercise: Extremely Fun Volleyball Practice with the 2s.
Food: Overnight oats with banana and dark chocolate sprinkles, chorizo hot dogs, potato salad, grapefruit, raspberries, hard bread with laughing cow cheese, wadduh.