8 Week Challenge

When you get bullied into doing an 8 week challenge with your gym, a number of things scream at the forefront of your brain that you are not allowed to let filter out of your mouth.  You won’t be able to drink!  You have to eat rocket for 8 whole weeks!  You can’t not eat out for that long!  How on earth are you supposed to see your friends without eating or drinking?  Your whole life will be over for 8 ENTIRE WEEKS!  Those thoughts and more screamed in my head the 100 metres to the ATM and back to they gym door.  I handed over cash that could have been shoes, a night out, drinking money, a concert ticket or a  handbag in another country and smiled while I did it.  Why did I do it?  Because my PT wanted me to.  Because my gym friends wanted me to.  I’m still reeling from the fact that I even have a gym membership, what on Earth makes me think that this is a good idea?  But in the end it was the fact that I didn’t think I could that made me say “I have to.”

8 weeks later, tomorrow morning is my final weigh in.  I will row for 500m, do a beep test, squat and burpee for a minute and let the PTs take my photo, weigh me and pinch my fat for the third and final time in 8 weeks and I have to stare at my results and be able to answer how am I different?  How am I different?  Am I different?  It’s not the easiest question to answer and we all know that I am no stranger to self examination.  So what have I learned?  How has my life changed and is that reflected in the numbers in the front of the booklet?  The short answer to that last question is No.  The numbers don’t differ all that greatly from the original figures 8 weeks ago.  Yes the measurements are slightly smaller and I can tell that I am fitter and stronger but the big numbers that flash on the scales haven’t moved all that far.  While that part is more than disappointing, there is absolutely no doubt that I have learned something and that my life has changed.

So I learned something.  I learned that exercise is better with friends.  I learned that by believing you belong at the gym makes the rest of the gym believe it to.  I learned that if I put one foot after another and just keep going, it’s called running.  I learned that it’s still called running even when the wobbly bits move ahead of you all by themselves.  I learned that when I stuff up on a food choice I get a chance to make a better one in three hours time.  I learned that if I leave the lid on my protein shaker for too long it can only be described as rancid.  I learned that when my body hurts I should listen to it and go and see someone who knows more about it.  I learned that there’s a whole world that exists before 10am on a Saturday morning that I never knew about.

My life changed.  For eight weeks I lived differently.  I exercised at least five times a week and wrote down every piece of food that passed my lips.  I said no to wine, cake, chocolate, hot chips, cheese and a magnitude of things I’ve never wanted to say no to before.  At the end of eight weeks it feels like I’ve always made those choices.  I try and remember a time when I wanted hot chips followed by a chocolate bar and cheese spread.  And the good news is I can’t.  The thought now makes me slightly ill thinking about it and I am consciously deciding whether you can add rocket to that.  While I will go back to wine (God, I’ve missed you wine)  making decisions about food is no longer a challenge.  It just is.  I eat eggs for breakfast.  I eat salad and veges for dinner.  I don’t eat dense carbs after breakfast and I am a little proud of myself that I even know the difference.  The exercise has become a social choice.  My friends go to the classes I go to and when it comes to choosing whether I stay home and do my washing or go and hang out with my friends – like the ageing teenager I am, I will choose my friends.  And so what if it means that they just happen to be boxing, running, doing crab walks or learning how to do a pull up.

It’s a transformation challenge.  My body hasn’t made massive transformations.  I didn’t wake up at the end of the eight weeks, jump through a giant paper picture of my former fat self and magically see Salma Hayek in the mirror.  I still have a floppy middle section that rolls when I move as fast as I can, I still have a crooked front tooth and wobbly tuckshop arms.  But my belly tyre is no longer a land cruiser, it’s a Lancer, my crooked front tooth will always be crooked and my tuckshop wings are 1.5 cm smaller and I’ll have to flap harder to achieve take off.  The challenge may be over, but making better choices and moving my arse is not and won’t ever be and I’m ok with that.