Yesterday, still high on my commitment to TT05, I did near perfectly. AnnaRita may comment that I had a tad too much fruit or not enough protein or a half a cup of coffee that she's just gonna have to pry from my dead, cold hands, but I did not eat the following:
* A bag of Michelles' chocolate chip cookies
* A bag of Uncle Eddies Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Vegan cookies
* A large bar of Orange Zest Carob
* A bag of Hav A Chips
* Four pounds of malt-barley sweetened chocolate almonds
Not one morsel did I have of the above.
I drank lots of water.
And I took Wiggy Terri's Hip Hop class last night.
Today was my oldest daughter's playoff basketball game leaving me no time to get Day 2's workout in. On TT05, I have to workout every day for 10days. But Papi offered to be late to work and take the girls to school so I could take COC's 6am class. (Yes, she has a 6am class because she has scheduled classes before and after work with this whole "No Excuses" theory in mind - whatever, I have plenty more excuses than just time constraints.)
I got up at 5:30 this morning and hauled ass to a gym in Rancho Santa Margarita because this is where the Turbo Cult Headquarters is. But I was ready to get my turbo on, looking shitty, quite possibly smelly and probably mismatched. But there was no 6am class. There was no class because dumbass (me) didn't look at the schedule to confirm that 6am classes are given every day, which apparently they are not. COC is peppy but even Kelly Ripa needs a break or two. I practically yell FUCK at the counter scaring the early-morning towel boy . . .and I go workout anyway. But let me tell you how over the whole gym experience I am. . .
I'm sick of free weights and self motivation, of women in their 50's with hard-ass titties and micro outfits grinding against their trainers. I'm sick of trainers. I'm sick of brain-dead treadmilling and watching the brain-dead news while doing so. I'm sick of germ-infested benches because god knows when the last time they sanitized them from every single person in RSM's DNA. I'm sick of meat heads burning a hole in me with their very subtle stares as I try to do some squats. I'm really sick of said meat heads trying to talk to me as I huff and puff on the stairmaster -- though I never get sick of telling them, Beat it! I'm sick of watching every . . .single . . .second . . .click . . .by . . . on the treadmill/stairmaster/elliptical bringing me closer to the end of the mind-numbing work out. I am sick of talking myself through the entire cardio ride - "Ten more minutes, you can make that." "Ok, I lied, three more minutes until ten more minutes, but think of how good you'll feel when you get to five more minutes, or five minutes until five more minutes . . ." "Please machine, break down, please break down. I will thee to break down . . ."
I did work out though. For a fucking hour with no caffeine and no walkman and no COC just telling me what to do to some rad hip hop mix. All at 6am. After the workout, I felt good and relaxed -- until it took me a goddamn hour to get from Rancho Santa Margarita to Irvine because every SUV in world rests and hides out in RSM and Coto de Caza until they all awaken at 7:30am with a fury and clog all the streets of the OC. An hour, which I did not take well. I became a rag doll flopping forward hitting my head on the steering wheel and flopping back with slack jaw hitting the head rest. And I did a lot of yelling.
So, I can't really say that today's workout was stress relieving.
But there's only 5 days left of the Turbo Test - actually 3 more days until 5 days left, but I am in it to win it.