My name is Loraine, and I'm going to be a Before and After.
I'm a particularly good choice for a before. I've always been overweight- puberty hit, and with it did a whole lotta me. My cats consider me an awesomely comfortable place to sleep. I've been on about 1200 different diets, pills and powders*, and not a one has made a dent in sizable me.
In come this stuff called Lipidsana. It's an omega 3 type shake that's meant to be the absolute shiznit, and although I'm the single most cynical person ever when it comes to miracle cures, they had me at "sponsored." I was to be put on a regime of the Lipidsana shakes and packed off to gym with a personal trainer and watched for imminent wait loss. Week to week, they'll measure my progress, and since I'm an attention-whore, I decided to keep a web log, or a "blog", if you will. Enjoy my sputterings.
So, day 1. I had been summonsed to meet with the personal trainer at the unlikely hour of 8ish in the morning, and since ye oldde gymme is about an hour away, I've valiantly set my alarm for 6 AM. Of course, having put myself to bed at nine last night to make sure I can wake up in time, I'm now wide awake at four.
I tell myself I need to get as much sleep as I can, so I try to lull myself with comforting thoughts of John Hannah, but I'm so distracted now he just ends up accompanying me to the gym and assuring me that no one shall ever be allowed to exact push-ups on me. He's a good guy.
So eventually, when I can no longer force myself to pretend there isn't a cat parking pointedly on my ribs, I swing myself out of bed and decide to fix my first official shake. I believe some orange slices and tea may have happened also, but I'll only deny it if asked. I was expecting the shake to be rather fishy-tasting, what with being so chock-full of fishy oil goodness, but I'm pleasantly surprised. It's vanilla, and not half bad, although it does coat the mouth in a rather strong willed manner. It's not a lot, so it goes down in a couple of swigs, so now I'm free to pursue tea and tea-like endeavours whilst I wait for a proper hour to roll around.
Not pictured: Cat helping.
Now here's the first bit of unexpectedness. As it goes down, there's the sudden and unshakable knowledge that it is going down. It doesn't burn or anysuch, but you are immediately taken by the thought that your stomach has become somehow worrying sentient and self aware in the last few seconds. The shake is seemingly encouraging existential revolution in what is usually my happy place, which should be an unsettling thought for anyone hoping to force Tropica on it again at some future point in time. Mercifully, this passes rather swiftly, and leaves me to contemplate my fate at the hands of a personal trainer named Jannie.
I have been asked to come in sweatpants and tekkies. I discover I have neither. What I do have is a pair of tights and some high tops. This is fine for me, I shall simply have to be content with being the bitchingest gymmer what ever there was.
I look like I'm smuggling sour dough.
Foreshortening is a bitch, idn't it? I promise it looked much cooler in person. Less... stubby.
Anyway, so I make my way up to the gymming area. There is a wealth of pretty people barely sweating on various pieces of foreign looking machinery. No, I do not know of this treadmill you speak of, what is its nature? I'm popped unceremoniously onto one of these "treadmills", which takes me aback slightly as I was steeling my nerves first for the ordeal of being weighed, measured and found wanting by a man who calls to mind Gaston from Beauty and the Beast.
Ten minutes on a low setting (5, if that means anything to you), and I got off with that feeling like you're still being pulled forward by the spirits of the destination-less walk, but surprisingly un-murdered. I could, you know, breath and all those important things. Of course, I'm feeling massively impressed with myself for walking what I'm told amounted to 0.7 kms on a treadmill for a whole ten minutes. Then I'm directed to what I actually recognize as an eliptical machine thing. This one may have conquered me a little more, and I can neither confirm nor deny rumours that I awarded myself a break halfway through before finishing. All in all, I only wobbled slightly back down the stairs to retreat to a passionate round of air-drums after my first gym session, waiting for Gaston to come tell me I'm 87.2% fat.
Bait and switch. Gaston has been supplemented by Bald Earringed man, whom I shall affectionately refer to from here on in as Ross Kemp. I am to be transferred to his care, which I'm perfectly passive about by now. Hot damn, I've done a whole twenty minutes of walking in high tops, I can not be stopped. On Monday, my eating plan and workout will be devised, and as Ross Kemp has casually informed me that he is a martial arts expert also, I intend to be mightily disappointed if I can't Kill Bill my way across a room by September.
So, first day over. Stats measured (eventually), walk walked, and I've even managed some more tea since then. I'm fairly sure my future posts won't be so long winded, so perhaps someone other than my dad might actually come back.
If I'm still un-murdered by then, that is.
Weight Lost: 0.0 kg
Blood Pressure: 127/63
Amount of Fat on Person: 45.6%
Minutes Exercised: 20