“If you cannot measure it, you cannot change it![1]” For years, I just casually monitored my calorie intake, and did decently… until recently. Investing the time in learning how to work with numbers in spreadsheets, even rudimentarily like tracking calories, has paid off substantially for me. Seeing objective examples is helping me understand my subjective reality. Once I start rowing again, we’ll see more substantial changes, although these spreadsheets are also reminders to be careful.
“I’m an emotional eater, too.[1]” If I couldn’t find a good rowing option for the short-term, I needed to address my fitness from the weight loss perspective rather than purely the aerobic perspective. Ideally, I like rowing twice daily. Until then, I must eat under 2000 calories daily, because even after I find a rower quiet enough for my oddball hours, I will have to learn to restrict my diet to prevent long-term obesity-related health issues.
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Until recently, sugary snacks seduced me before doing any big task, even writing essays. After last week’s realization that I must moderate my caloric intake if I can’t exercise frequently, I started counting calories again, which is more useful for me keeping a rigorous structure to my eating habits than numbers-based metrics. Until I find a good way to quickly and accurately track my calories, I’m borrowing an accountability idea from my daily writing schedule.
I have many excuses that impede my ability to row. Some are excusable; most are not. An acceptable excuse is “I don’t have the time to row before going somewhere with a short timeframe.” “Not feeling like it” is not. Even on days when I have had abundant time, I have not been consistently going to the gym, so even though I enjoy rowing, I shouldn’t berate myself for not going. What can I control?
I have two ways of expressing my stress in positive ways: writing to deal with the subconscious feelings that weigh me down and rowing to deal with the physical sensations that weigh me down. Writing only helps so much. There is something amazing that happens during the rowing process where my mind clears, my empathy resets, and I am awoken to a profound sense of wonder and curiosity about the world. I am otherwise curmudgeonly.
I spent all day Saturday on my feet, running around, talking to people, without drinking my usual gallon of water per day, only eating a small breakfast and a small dinner, after a week of rowing 15-minute sets somewhat consistently, for the heaviest weigh-in I’ve had in nearly one year. It’s easy to critique myself, consider all my efforts to be wasted, and consider this whole thing to be a waste. Instead, let’s consider unexpecting.
I kept this mini-rower for one month more than its usefulness because I needed a viable option. The gym I found is an effective stop-gap, where, within its hours of operation, I can row well consistently, so I don’t need this squeaky rower. I still want a nice rower I can use at any reasonable hour for those days I’m anti-social, but at least I’ve been able to burn off some superfluous energy – mentally, anyways.
My mind constantly chatters. I’ve developed a tolerance for ignoring the negatives – and when the negatives scream out me, I’ll sit quietly, listen to it empathetically as that bratty side of my mind screams about not being able to get ice cream, until it tires and we can find a compromise on maybe some icy treat later on – but even without the negativity there’s still there’s a constant monologue of ideas. Except when I exercise.
I think we procrastinate when an activity is too difficult to imagine how to start. I’ve been procrastinating on deciding my fitness lifestyle for the better part of the past month, if not multiple months, and it’s been a mild irritant that’s just been permeating everything I do, but in minor ways. I can only express my stress so much through words. When others tell me about their gym memberships, I experience something weird: jealousy.
I haven’t had much energy lately. My health has declined since I stopped rowing twice daily in minor ways, but it’s in the inability to move things I once could or work as hard as I once could. After I moved, I stopped being able to row at all. The chains are too loud. Sure, the neighbor kids still scream in the complex, but I don’t want to be rude like that, so I’m stuck…
