One Fifth of a Victory is Mine!

As of this afternoon, I weigh two hundred ten pounds. Ten down, forty to go, theoretically. I arrived at the goal weight of one seventy by finding out my body fat percentage (which was forty. Groaning noises here. Do not drink and drink, kids.) doing some maths to determine the actual weight of it all, determining that twenty percent sounds reasonable, and doing some more maths.

Also, the last time I remember NOT feeling like the Beluga Marshmallow Man was when I weighed around one seventy. Frankly, I do not give a damn how much I weigh if I can wear my old jeans, which are still hanging on the office wall.

The point is, one fifth of victory is mine. It is taking a little longer than I would have liked, but I fell slightly off the wagon last week on account of a fantastic sunburn on my shoulders and upper chest. It was not conducive to excessive movement. However, coming up this week, the Fittit group on Fitocracy is having a get-more-points-than-everyone-else challenge. I am presently evaluating my chances for doing well in the said challenge, but whether I have any chance of winning, I expect to find it highly motivating.

In other news, yesterday (this was meant to be posted last night, but I fell asleep) I was at the gym (surprise) doing my squats (another surprise), and this guy stops and looks at me for a second. I saw him out of the corner of my eye in the mirror, but pretty much shrugged it off. After I finish, he walked up to me and asked,

"Hey, how long have you been lifting?"

"You mean this time, or overall?" says I.

"I was just wondering because you have really good form. Most people can't get that low," says he.

"ohstopityou.jpg" says I.

Turns up he works for the gym. It was kind of awesome. I have actually been wondering about my squat form. He also noticed that I am tending toward doing good mornings when I get tired (which I had also noticed, hence my drastic, massive deload of wimpitude). I am going to have to do more core work, which probably means planks. Boo, planks.

In summary:

-- ten pounds down
-- squat form complemented
-- plank time now
-- need to redo my nails

This Gym Just Took a Turn for the Douche.

Picture it: the gym, half past three this morning.

I was minding my own, loading up the bar for my squats, when in came a dude who can only be summarized as a douchebro. This was an easy snap judgment for me to make, and it proved remarkably accurate. Play this song as a soundtrack for the remainder of the time it takes for you to read this post.

My first clue was that Douchebro was not wearing a shirt. This inevitably means trouble. It also means that he is going to sweat on everything -- which he proceeded to do in spectacular fashion, and he did not wipe the said sweat from anything. But I am getting ahead of myself.

Douchebro, while being shirtless, was wearing some camouflage shorts, high-topped beige combat boots, and one of those gold chains that scream Miami Vice. His hair was also spiked as fuck (similar, I suspect, to his girl's drinks). He is a couple of inches taller than me, and is that colour of sorority girl/Oompa Loompa orange.

So, he came down to where all the weights are and proceeded to set his coffee and keys on the cable row (which he never used the whole time I was there). He then set up the Smith machine with a couple of forty-fives. Then he went over to the cable apparatus and set it up for chest flyes, or some such. Then he went and adjusts the leg extension machine. Then he put a couple of plates on the curling bar. Then he disappeared behind some other equipment and rummaged around for a while before finally coming back to the Smith machine. I watched this activity between sets in the big mirrored wall.

After he finished pretty much taking over the whole damn gym, he came and laid down on the bench under the Smith bar and began "bench pressing." I feel it is important to point out at this time that the bar on a Smith machine may or may not weigh forty-five pounds. It in fact probably does not. So, this guy is "benching" anywhere between one hundred and one hundred thirty-five pounds. I say "benching" because he is pushing up some weight in a track. I feel confident that I could "bench" one thirty-five on a Smith machine (I actually bench around eighty pounds; tonight did five reps at eighty-five). Anyway, this is all important information due to the following:

I was in the bottom of the fifth rep of my third set of squats when suddenly, from my left, over the melodic sounds of Bach being piped at high volume DIRECTLY INTO MY EARS, I heard this caterwauling which combined the sounds of someone giving birth with the noise a train makes when going around a sharp corner, drunken karaoke (which, it would turn out, was exactly what he was doing), William Shatner shouting "KHAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAN!", the Wilhelm scream, that noise that Goofy makes when he skis over a cliff, and the voices of millions of men being suddenly racked. I nearly dropped my weight. I thought he had injured himself at first, but he kept doing it, and at the end of his set, he let out a lusty "FUCK YEAH!" At least, I think that's what he said. In retrospect, I probably could have gotten away with calling 911 and saying that there was a stroke victim at my gym.

It is my considered opinion that had he just shut the fuck up, he could have used the power rack next to me like a grownup.

He continued making this ungodly noise throughout his "workout," and, I dare say, got louder as I steadfastly ignored him. As time wore on, he proceeded to slam weights around (again, loud enough to hear over the Brandenburg Concertos) Throughout this performance, the cleaning lady and I were exchanging the occasional glances. I felt really badly about leaving her with him when I was finished working out.

This was my first experience with a true douchebro in the wild. I have heard tales of them on Fittit, but I thought they were not native to this region. Either they are migrating or they have become an invasive species.

Thrilling Escapades and Judgment

This morning, I changed up my routine a little. In a thrilling twist of plot, I did the elliptical BEFORE I hit the weights.

I know, right? Pick your jaws up off the floor and take a few breaths.

Though this event has about as much effect on the world as a microscopic butterfly flapping its tiny, tiny wings in a vacuum, it actually made a difference in my workout. I actually made it a full hour on the elliptical at a hundred and sixty-three beats per minute. This is fabulous for me as I suspect that more weight will be lost via cardio than by weights. So, there's that.

I have also determined that I am no longer going to allow Livestrong to determine my caloric intake in relation to my weight. Every time I lose some weight and I tell Livestrong, I lose a few more calories. Before I changed it, for example, I was meant to eat 1134 calories per day. Obviously, this does not apply to days on which I work out because the whole point is to just have a one thousand calorie deficit (a pound is 3500 calories; therefore to lose two pounds per week, I have to have a 7000 calorie deficit, which is one thousand per day. Maths, I have them).

Anyway, I decided that less than twelve hundred is just really pushing it, so I have permanently set my calorie goal to that. Another fascinating revelation!

I can report, however, that I am a judgmental gym bitch. While I was working out while ago, this girl comes in and proceeds to do her thing. Her thing, however, was primarily squatting TWENTY POUNDS. And she was not even hitting parallel. Now, you are thinking that I really am a horrible bitch, and perhaps she is a noob and cannot do more than that.

Lies.

She ran there and had less body fat than my goal. Also, I would not have judged the twenty pounds so much if she were actually breaking parallel. I have to say, that if my gimped out self can break parallel, Runny McSkinnyPants can totally break parallel.

I do not judge her nearly as much as I judged that orange guy who kept following me around and doing what I was doing BUT ONE HIGHER and with half-assed reps, and using machines instead of free weights.

Judge judge judge judge.

Pumped! Or, Why Do I Hurt All Over?

Wow, I had forgotten how much I love weightlifting. It is fantastic. I pick things up and I put them down again. I am both Hans AND Franz! I have a new answer to the "Why do I hurt all over?" prompt from Cards Against Humanity. That answer is:

Because I am lifting weights like it is my job. My job at which I only work for two hours a day and for which I pay. Nonetheless, I feel fantastic.

Throughout the spring semester, I could feel myself atrophying, melting into the chairs in which I was continually sitting, turning into the Marshmallow Man and/or Senator Kelly. No more! I am reversing the process, morphing into The Mighty Thor (slowly).

Of course, we cannot tell that I am The Mighty Thor yet because my winter layer of insulation has not yet receded. However, according to my spiffy new Star Trek scale, today I weigh two hundred fifteen pounds with forty percent (gasp) body fat and thirty-three percent muscle.

My short term goal is to get my body composition such that my muscle is equal to the fat.

One hitch in this whole plan is that since I started lifting the other day I AM HUNGRY ALL THE TIME. Invocation of sundry deities here. Over the last couple of years, I have gotten pretty good at ignoring being hungry, which I suspect has been a valuable skill; I do not even want to speculate on what would have happened this past semester if I had not acquired that skill.*

So now, my challenge is to get enough protein without eating all the calories because those pants are not going to fit into themselves. Or something. I have recently started consuming protein powder-based drinks (I can hear everyone groaning now. They are not that bad) and choosing my food based on how much protein per calorie it contains. I have also been eating so much spinach that my right arm, by now, should have turned into a giant  sledgehammer with which to smite my beady-eyed enemies. Alas, this has not yet occurred.

The upshot, however, is that I feel great, I am leveling up on Fitocracy with much greater speed than previously, and that I am maintaining my caloric deficit with only moderate pain. The proof will be in what my result is by the end of the month; I am shooting for two hundred five. I will accept a result close to that, but if I am too far off I am going to have to reevaluate my diet again.

However, until then, Hans and Franz have nothing on my, and my nails are sparkly and fabulous.

____________________
* I gained thirty pounds this semester. For reference, for the fall semester I only gained five, and much Taco Bell was eaten last fall. I think I drank exponentially more this semester, so despite having cut out all fast food ever, I gained vast quantities of weight. Thus my present program.