Pity Pot


Some days we all feel like shredding the hand of cards we’re dealt. We sit on our proverbial pity pots of why me and if only waiting for our sides of grass to be greener.

For some of us, it is so comfortable to sink in to such negative thinking patterns that we linger too long and our lives become a bitter mess of resentment. Nothing says unattractive like entitlement and pouting (except for not bathing and farting).

Take it from me, a recovering drug addict with narcissist tendencies and arrested development. It’s no picnic feeling sorry for yourself. The longer we make excuses for not taking care of ourselves, the sooner our mental and physical heath take notice and we literally break down from the inside out.

Life is so much easier when during the hard times, you learn to remember what you have rather than what you [think you] need.

The grass may seem greener on the other side, but remember: sometimes it’s fucking Astro Turf.

Christine Macdonald

Ménage à Cardio: I’m stronger than I thought

“There’s no way.” My head is shakes in protest. “I am not a runner.”

Trainer Dude gives me half a grin with a combination raised eyebrow head tilt. He understands but doesn’t care.

“We’ll see.” His tone is borderline annoying.

Shit. This is what I pay him for.

I nod obediently and agree to his ‘one mile on the treadmill’ assignment.

This is going to suck.

Stepping on this deathtrap of a replicated sidewalk feels foreign. She’s dark and cold, like the cloud above my head. I know I don’t speak her language. I can feel her mocking my belly fat as I place my hands on her skinny, curved hips. Her red eyes bat shamelessly, and she cuts to the chase:

Where are you from? (Start)
How are you? (Weight)
How much can you handle? (Miles)

This bitch is a pro.

Standing tall in a precision military-like row of her sister cardio machines, she stands alone in my eyes, daring me to take her on.

I’m from Out-of-shape-ville (I push Start)
You repeat this, I unplug you (I enter my weight)
Four laps (Reluctantly, I enter the assigned distance of one mile)

There is a subtle deep swishing sound coming from her belly. My feet step to her pace without a fight and Trainer Dude seems pleased.

Walking slowly, I try to explain (again) that I am not a runner. “Seriously…” He gives me a look. “I think I have asthma, breathing problems, I am not a…” Pretending not to hear me, Trainer Dude increases the pace and says everything by saying nothing.

Now I am jogging, mostly out of spite. Sure to collapse any minute, I will prove I am not a runner. My breathing is slow, pronounced and causes me to rest every couple of minutes, but I keep going.

“I’m not a runner.” I manage in-between breaths.

After about ten minutes I am still waiting to pass out, but continue my pace. I feel beads of sweat collecting on my skin. Trainer Dude places his hand on my shoulder. He motions toward the mirror across the room and waits until I see my own reflection. He looks at me and smiles. “You are now.”

We are all stronger than we think.
Here’s the part where you tell me something that you thought you weren’t strong enough to do – then you did it. It could be emotionally or physically. Your comment may just inspire someone.
Christine Macdonald

Metabolism Mistress


We’ve all done it: Saved that pair of pants from one (or two) sizes ago with the forthright conviction of wearing them again.

That button-closing-euphoria feeling you experience alone in your bedroom is better than sex. Well, almost. But who can think of naked play time when your skinny jeans are mocking you from the closet?
Metabolism is a bitch. For most of us, she is a fickle mistress we playfully tease in our twenties with second helpings of cheesecake and carefree champagne brunches. In our thirties her spandex is replaced with Spanxand what was once exuberance becomes irritation. We take her for granted and with each bite of portion distortion, ignore the warning signs of Slow Speed Ahead.

By the time we reach forty, our annoyed little Metabolism Mistress becomes a bitter ex-girlfriend. Longing for happier times, we reach out with promises of I am starting my diet tomorrow hoping she will return, even faster and freer than before. After a handful of failed attempts to whittle our waist size, we realize something. We turned our metabolism away. We see now that she is tired of doing all the work. Feelings of self-loathing and defeat consume us and we are left alone to drop off the pieces – one calorie at a time.

Talk about a buzz kill.

A recent study from the Centers for Disease Control tells us the prevalence of adults in the U.S. who are obese remains high. Approximately one-third are in line to receive a series health issues all related to tipping the scales.
Diabetes, your table is ready.

Becoming physically fit is the Catch-22 mother of all Captain Obvious conundrums: eat less, move more. But we have no energy to move more because we’ve eaten too much. The cycle continues.

The fact is, most of us with weight issues are struggling emotionally. Our bodies are a bi-product of the mental malfunctions we attempt to remedy with (comfort) food. We literally push our skinny jeans in the back of the closet while stuffing denial in every pocket.

Some of us overeat out of depression, stress, boredom, and many other reasons that have nothing to do with hunger.

So what can we do?

To quote Nike’s infamous tagline: Just do it. Dust off that bathroom scale and face the dragon; The Dragon being a fire-breathing reality check that can save your life if only you would respect the flames. Write the number on the scale down. Now tell yourself you will never have to see that number again.

Next, make the decision to want to change. N
othing really changes until you connect the dots between your mental, emotional and physical self.

Now that you’ve decided to do the work, it’s time to actually do the work.

When you make the choice to be the best you can be, the necessary work it takes to get there becomes a victorious journey of self-love.

Be creative with your metabolism re-connection road. Romance her with different fitness dates. Try a hip-hop or spinning class. Shelf the ego and pose yourself happy with beginner’s yoga. Remember to have fun.

You hold the crayons and your body is the coloring book. The moment you realize this wonderful fact, something liberating happens. You create a personal masterpiece within the pages of your spirit; one Crayola at a time.

Christine Macdonald