Find What You Love & Let It Kill You

"Patience is not about how long one can wait, but how well one behaves while waiting."

There's something sweet about tonight. Quiet. I read lots of things about patience today. Or should I say, lots of things about patience seemed to find their way to me? Not sure why, I don't feel particularly impatient. Maybe it was in preparation. Regina Spektor in the background brings a slight smile to my face.
         A few months back I wrote a blog about the thoughts of an aspiring power-lifter. I'll be the first to say it wasn't one of my best, or even close for that matter. Probably because, I found it easier to come out as a gay women then I did to confess my passion for weight lifting outside of my close night circle of gym buddies. Even now, I hold myself back a bit. Why? Because so many people don't understand why I do what I do. Why so many of us do what we do. I've been asked why I'm punishing myself. Been told my back and joints are going to give me big issues for the rest of my life, and that there was no way I lifted the weight I did. I've been told my calves are too big, that I'm going to hurt myself. I've been told I spend too much time in the gym and asked what pain I'm still working through. I think about lifting weights all the time. Just tonight I was laying in bed and thinking of squat day tomorrow. Wondering about what would be the best breakfast for me to eat to support leg day but not slow me down or even worse make me want to throw up with 300+ lbs on my back. I replayed the days events in the gym, about how I say others work out, conversations I had and advice that had been given to me without my asking for it. Was it useful information for me? My trainer is out of town, was I going to ask the guy sitting behind the desk who I find a little over the top to spot me? Or was I going to not max and just do 4 sets of 6 @ an 80% effort. Would that be too much? How much weight would that be anyways? 
      I LOVE THIS SHIT. Maybe my quote at the top should have been, "Find what you love & let it kill you." My confessions are these.... I love the way my arms look, my legs look, my neckline looks. I love breaking PR's, I love failing... it gives me something to think about; it makes me want to push harder. I'm always flexing in front of the mirror, and the gym is like my second home. I find it relaxing and grounding, and I go even on days when I don't want too. I'm sore everyday. If I'm not, I didn't work hard enough the day before. I love the way iron plates sound clanging together and coming off & on the bar. I admire people who push themselves mentally & physically to their own limits, willingly. I like tough people. People who don't take shit, and will tell you how it is. People who will look you in the eye and make reality hard to ignore because they know it will make you a better person, even if you don't like it. I've had amazing teachers, each very different, each exactly what I needed. I'm a lifer. This is my recovery. I've been doing this consistently for over 4 years with an 8 month exception after moving to Saint johns, because Snap & B-Strong just weren't working for me. I wear my gym t-shirts proudly. They get hung up, not folded. This is a tangible and visual result of change, starting from the inside. No, I've not reached my goal weight, and yes I eat too many calories sometimes, and some days McDonald's doesn't sound too fucking bad. But I keep moving forward. I take full responsibility for my decisions and don't let them stop me from taking my ass to the gym the next day. I have cheat days. When I'm home alone I watch youtube weight lifting videos and look up raw power-lifting records. I love following pages like "Gym Freaks" on Facebook. I enjoy being surrounded by people who love this sport as much as I do. My trainer told me last week she had embroidery done on her dress she was taking to Prague with her for the WPC world's championship... on the front it was barbell's wrapped like a DNA strand and on the back it said, "...it's in my blood." Then a woman that goes to the gym I used to go to before I moved said, "How about: Don't sit on your fat ass eating McDonald's and tubs of ice cream and then get mad when someone else has the body you wish you had. Eat less, move more. Go to the gym. Eat a f&@king salad. Pass on second breakfast. If you eat a whole bag of peanut butter cups worth 620 calories, get your ass on a airdyne and feel what it takes to burn 620 calories. Drink more water. Time to take that harsh pill called reality. Your excuses are invalid." How about fuck yeah? People like this continue to inspire me. People like this remind me there is nothing wrong with being in the gym 5 days a week, waking up sore every morning, and moving around more weight that most men. But these are the things, I'm hesitant to admit. As if there is something wrong with me because I love it this much. Because it brings out the best in me. Sure, it will wear on my body, but so will sitting on the fucking couch and eating whatever the fuck I want.... I'd rather go out in the gym with a bar in my hand.


With Grace & Gratitude...