the treadmill of life

Or something like that.

Ever feel like life is an endless series of two steps forward, one step back, one step forward, two steps back?  I've had a couple very positive life things happen recently--after a bit of stressful paperwork wrangling and one surprisingly painless phone call after it was initially screwed up, I got some money that I had coming to me, and then I got some very good news on my recent biopsy. Yay, me. I barely had time to process those things and think, huh, life's all rainbows and sunshine and kitten orgasms for once, when we had flash flooding that deposited water into my basement twice in one day and then last night my dryer just died just as I was putting a load of clothes into it. (The upshot of which is that I currently have a rack full of hanging laundry in my now-dry-as-a-bone basement. I feel like a hillbilly.*** At least it's not on my porch.) 

It's enough to make a person wish that things could just run smoothly and problem-free for a solid month JUST ONCE. I mean, spending one's day off shopvaccing puddles up or having to buy a new clothes dryer are infinitely better problems than, y'know, cancer or being completely broke, but is just one month without anything breaking in the house, no unexpected giant bills, no health problems, no work drama, no agita of any kind--is that too much to hope for? Apparently so!

And thus it is with fitness.  A step forward, a step back.  I was just--just--getting back to the point with my lifting where I was prior to my hip problem when I had my little surgical procedure last week. When the nice recovery room nurse was giving me my discharge instructions which included no heavy lifting for a few days, I inquired what "heavy" meant since I lift weights recreationally.  "We usually say nothing over ten pounds, " the nice recovery room nurse said. "What kind of weights are we talking about?" 

"Well, I deadlift like 200 pounds."

Blink. "Oh. Well, I wouldn't do THAT. You'd probably start bleeding again."  She told me to check with my gyn's office since "that's such a specific situation" she didn't know what to tell me.

Turns out my gyn's office did not want me lifting for 7-10 days. Seriously? For that little procedure? Whatever. I dutifully obeyed doctor's orders, though on day 6 I decided to try some bodyweight dips after cardio.  Oh, I regretfully had to admit they were right.  I could barely do 3 sets of 8 bodyweight dips when I had been doing them with a frigging 35lb plate hanging off me the week before. So on day 7, I went into the weight room and did a workout that was probably equivalent to one I'd have done 6 or 9 months before. Completely demoralizing. One little minor surgical procedure and a week off wipes out 6 months of hard work and progress?  Now, I know it will come back. Yesterday I had a session that while not good per se was at least not humiliatingly bad.  But it seems to point out that things get worse a whole shit ton easier than they get better. Especially at my age.

Add to that that my dieting since the end of May, while successful on one level (back down to 114 as of yesterday), has arguably made me look worse. I mean (and I'll sound like a complete douche saying this, I'm well aware), no false modesty, I look awesome in my clothes now.  BUT I look worse in my underwear/bathing suit/nekkid. One step forward, one step back.  I suppose that since a lot more people see my in my clothes than do in my underwear/bathing suit/neekid, I should err on the side of that. But, like a month of no problems, crises, or aggravation, it would be stellar to reach a point where I look good in and out of my clothes. Oh, yeah. I've had that. It was called being 20 years old. Duh.

xoxo

***credit to my friend P who used that descriptor in a post the other day and cracked me up; it fits here