Crash Site

I fell off the wagon.

Well, I didn't so much fall off as I cannon-balled off, tangled myself in the wheel spokes and got dragged over the side of the proverbial dieting cliff. Now that the vultures have stopped circling and the dust has settled, I'm trying to piece together my broken pride and get back on this &$*%#^@! wagon ONCE AGAIN. When I mess up, I go big.

First of all, it probably goes without saying that I didn't finish the juice fast. I made it through Day Seven, which was last Monday, and then I literally could not stomach the thought of another drop of vegetable grossness passing over my lips. Big change in attitude from the way it was going in my last post! I don't know what happened but when I hit that wall, I just couldn't keep going. I ate sparingly and fearfully for the next two days, paranoid that the return to actually chewing food would result in immediate weight gain. Then the bomb went off, ignited by the simple consumption of two cookies from Subway last Thursday. In the past five days, I have become the ultimate cautionary tale for what can happen when you let a little sugar hit the system after having been deprived of it for about three weeks (counting my diet before The Great Juice Disaster of 2011). Throw in the added bonus of emotionally charged situations going on in my life recently and unending worry about things that are out of my control, and you have the ultimate environment for breeding fat cells at breakneck speed. Oh, and did I mention my complete omission of workouts during that whole time?

So now I'm aware that I have six weeks left in the 8-Week Challenge. My classic pattern of starting strong and then failing miserably has begun, but I really want to salvage what I can from the wreckage and still create something useful. Because right now what I feel I've created is a monster. A sugar-crazed, sad and nearly defeated monster.

Nearly defeated. Not entirely.

I confessed my transgressions to Bo today and yes, there were tears. Couldn't be helped. Unfortunately, I'm not a cute cryer, so I'm sure that was as painful for Bo as it was for me! I told him that I hoped being back in the gym after a three-day weekend would help shake me up and fumbled my way through my ten-millionth promise that I would do better. Man, I'm so exhausted from sounding like a broken record. On my lunch hour, I made my way to the spin room with my bright and shiny new spin shoes. I have now attempted to wear them in three different classes, and all three times there has been some sort of clip/pedal drama that resulted in me putting back on my tennis shoes for the remainder of class. I decided today that I would attempt to tame both the shoes and the monster. I lost myself in the rhythms of the bike and let go. Let go of all of it. Gave it up to the mural of the Colorado Monument ahead of me, tamed those shoes and forgave myself. I raced, I climbed, I flew.

I reminded myself: I can still fly.