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When the Weight Comes Down
Dec. 5th, 2005 04:31 amBack to "Niemand", slowly slowly slowly. Last week was amazing in terms of a new—mutual! Steve actually started getting up early and working out on his own hook, very suddenly, with no apparent motivation except the fact that he glanced in the mirror one night and thought his face looked "puffy"—re-commitment to fitness; I worked out on Sunday, Monday, Tuesday, Wednesday and Friday, and the scales at Steve’s parents’ house imply I may have dropped upwards of five to seven pounds. I certainly feel a hell of a lot better, like my pants are fitting more loosely, etc.
Currently, I’m testing a theory floated by a diet book I found in the "library" downstairs, whose author claims that women’s bodies tend not to burn fat unless you put them through 45 minimum minutes of mid- rather than high-effort aerobic activity…essentially, convincing your body that it’s been subjected to hard work rather than a sudden trauma, like war or famine. So I’ve put together a cross-training circuit in which I do ten to fifteen minutes on three different machines (eliptical, treadmill, sitting bike) while consistently flipping back between different speeds and/or difficulty-levels every one to two minutes. As long as my pulse remains elevated and my breathing difficult but not impossible, I can do pretty much whatever I want—and just going but how red I am when I get back upstairs, this seems like a very good plan indeed. I also throw in weights here and there, if/whenever possible.
Yet this brave new pattern of Steve working out in the morning and me working out in the evening didn’t really help much in terms of me writing…um, anything. At all. I was still on my own with Cal for those three days in the middle of the week, during which I did most of our Christmas shopping; still had to work my ass off on Monday and Friday, though I did at least get yoga as a nice side-product. And neither of us did anything fitness-related over the weekend, mainly on account of shopping (Saturday) or visiting (today).
The week-long lack of real writing…notes, but no genuine wordage…was probably attributable (in general) to exhaustion and/or PMS, but when one thinks about the fact that my new schedule—starting early January—calls for me to work 24 hours a week instead of sixteen, Tuesday to Friday, I don’t think things are likely to improve much. Which means I need to fucking well make myself more time and impetus to write, by dint of sheer willpower. ‘Cause otherwise, I can kiss my creative ass goodbye along with my big, fat, jiggly one.
At any rate: I also need to start doing some sort of work on the![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
oz_magi piece, seeing how the deadline is December 22. Which means I won’t be commentating on anything soonish, so sorry on that. Here’s a different meme, to make up for it.
1. My username is ____ because ____.
2. My journal is titled ____ because ____.
3. My subtitle is ____ because ____.
4. My friends page is called ____ because ____.
5. My default userpic is ____ because ____.
1.handful_ofdust, mainly because I didn’t want Steve accessing this blog and thus couldn’t carry over my diaryland handle. See below for other implications.
2. "What a Fantastic Death-Abyss!", because my love for David Bowie’s "The Heart’s Filthy Lesson" knows no bounds. I first heard it over the credits of Se7en, and while the film itself fades in and out of my estimation (uberdarkness, kissing-cleverness, Millennial angst in a post-Millennial age, etc.), it’s still one of those starts-up-suddenly-in-the-back-of-my-mind-every-once-in-a-while classics. One day, I intend to title a novel after it.
3. "or: come in under the shadow of this red rock"…too bad that doesn’t seem to have translated, anywhere but my user-info page. Like my monnicker, it comes from T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. It’s creepy and hopefully cool, even if I’m not.
4. "oh ramona, if there was only something between us"—Bowie again. Something else that may have fed in here is the fact that "The Heart’s…" is from Outside, and Bowie forced The Hunger to build an entire episode around a variant of his Outside death-artist persona in exchange for agreeing to host the show’s second season, which I wrote two episodes for. Based on my own short stories, available right now in two handy-dandy collections (Kissing Carrion and The Worm in Every Heart), through Amazon, Indigo and Barnes & Noble. And thus my ritual plugging is done!
5. This icon reminds me of C.L. Moore’s "Shambleau", the short story which made me want to write SF, way back when; it sort of looks like Max Ernst, too. Or Medusa. Anything but baby-version of me, basically, which was my previous default icon.
Well, there we go. I’m up early tomorrow. ‘Night all.
Currently, I’m testing a theory floated by a diet book I found in the "library" downstairs, whose author claims that women’s bodies tend not to burn fat unless you put them through 45 minimum minutes of mid- rather than high-effort aerobic activity…essentially, convincing your body that it’s been subjected to hard work rather than a sudden trauma, like war or famine. So I’ve put together a cross-training circuit in which I do ten to fifteen minutes on three different machines (eliptical, treadmill, sitting bike) while consistently flipping back between different speeds and/or difficulty-levels every one to two minutes. As long as my pulse remains elevated and my breathing difficult but not impossible, I can do pretty much whatever I want—and just going but how red I am when I get back upstairs, this seems like a very good plan indeed. I also throw in weights here and there, if/whenever possible.
Yet this brave new pattern of Steve working out in the morning and me working out in the evening didn’t really help much in terms of me writing…um, anything. At all. I was still on my own with Cal for those three days in the middle of the week, during which I did most of our Christmas shopping; still had to work my ass off on Monday and Friday, though I did at least get yoga as a nice side-product. And neither of us did anything fitness-related over the weekend, mainly on account of shopping (Saturday) or visiting (today).
The week-long lack of real writing…notes, but no genuine wordage…was probably attributable (in general) to exhaustion and/or PMS, but when one thinks about the fact that my new schedule—starting early January—calls for me to work 24 hours a week instead of sixteen, Tuesday to Friday, I don’t think things are likely to improve much. Which means I need to fucking well make myself more time and impetus to write, by dint of sheer willpower. ‘Cause otherwise, I can kiss my creative ass goodbye along with my big, fat, jiggly one.
At any rate: I also need to start doing some sort of work on the
oz_magi piece, seeing how the deadline is December 22. Which means I won’t be commentating on anything soonish, so sorry on that. Here’s a different meme, to make up for it.1. My username is ____ because ____.
2. My journal is titled ____ because ____.
3. My subtitle is ____ because ____.
4. My friends page is called ____ because ____.
5. My default userpic is ____ because ____.
1.
handful_ofdust, mainly because I didn’t want Steve accessing this blog and thus couldn’t carry over my diaryland handle. See below for other implications.2. "What a Fantastic Death-Abyss!", because my love for David Bowie’s "The Heart’s Filthy Lesson" knows no bounds. I first heard it over the credits of Se7en, and while the film itself fades in and out of my estimation (uberdarkness, kissing-cleverness, Millennial angst in a post-Millennial age, etc.), it’s still one of those starts-up-suddenly-in-the-back-of-my-mind-every-once-in-a-while classics. One day, I intend to title a novel after it.
3. "or: come in under the shadow of this red rock"…too bad that doesn’t seem to have translated, anywhere but my user-info page. Like my monnicker, it comes from T.S. Eliot’s The Waste Land. It’s creepy and hopefully cool, even if I’m not.
4. "oh ramona, if there was only something between us"—Bowie again. Something else that may have fed in here is the fact that "The Heart’s…" is from Outside, and Bowie forced The Hunger to build an entire episode around a variant of his Outside death-artist persona in exchange for agreeing to host the show’s second season, which I wrote two episodes for. Based on my own short stories, available right now in two handy-dandy collections (Kissing Carrion and The Worm in Every Heart), through Amazon, Indigo and Barnes & Noble. And thus my ritual plugging is done!
5. This icon reminds me of C.L. Moore’s "Shambleau", the short story which made me want to write SF, way back when; it sort of looks like Max Ernst, too. Or Medusa. Anything but baby-version of me, basically, which was my previous default icon.
Well, there we go. I’m up early tomorrow. ‘Night all.
