I am trying out a few workout and dieting programs from Beachbody because a few of my friends are Beachbody coaches and I’m drinking their Shakeology. I figured I could at least try to follow a workout program that tells me what to do and when to do it and commit to it. Like, really commit to it.
So here I am, in the middle of PiYo with hardcore Chalene Johnson, and I’m actually making noticeable strength gains. I’m pretty psyched. A few weeks ago the idea of a pushup seemed laughable, and now I can do several tricep pushups. It’s progress.
I just ordered the 21 Day Fix diet program and I’m a bit terrified of what will come. I have never tried to do a portion control diet in my life, mostly because the concept was foreign to me. I think it will be very effective, but I have my concerns. Will I be hangry all the time? Possibly.
I know that I am completely capable of being as disciplined as my husband and forging my own workout or my own hardcore diet, but I lack that special something that drives me the way it drives him. For the record, that “special something” is NOT steroids.
Dear people of the world: stop assuming that my buff husband can only squat 400 pounds because he’s on steroids. Stop asking him if he’s “roiding” because he works out a lot. That’s like asking a skinny fit girl if she is bulimic: “Hey girl, you look soooo good! Did you throw up in the toilet just now? Because how on earth are you capable of having a 6 pack with your schedule?”
You see, I’m overly protective of my husband and his uber-fitness ways. His passion is nutrition and working out and all things active. His life was so dramatically changed from pursuing a healthy lifestyle that he decided to go into medicine.
His discipline has inspired much in me, but nothing has ever really stuck until now. I remember fondly the first day he and I tried Brazilian Jiu Jitsu, because that was the day I had an asthma attack during the warm ups and decided that grappling was not really my thing. I have casually committed to yoga, but never really escaped my yoga noobness.
I’ll be honest, it took a few years for me to fully embrace the active side of my husband and not resent the time it took away from me. It took him a few years to learn how to balance it all effectively. I remember the early marital days when he played ultimate frisbee as often as he could — so often, in fact, that I used to refer to it as “the other woman”. I even cried when he told me he loved me more than frisbee because it was the most romantic thing he had said since we got married.
I understand how important his fitness activities are to him now. If it came down to a bad guy with a leg vendetta telling me I could either choose to lose my legs or choose to lose my husband’s legs, I would say, “Take mine! My husband would die without the ability to run and jump on things. Plus I really like his butt, and it is attached to his legs.” I generally pursue all the things that make me tick sitting down anyway. Give me hot tea or wine and Netflix and a good book. Give me a blog and the ability to take photos and make music. I really don’t need much to be happy. I would sacrifice my legs for my husband. The thing is, I know he wouldn’t let me. My husband would never lose the opportunity to sacrifice himself for me.
I have wondered if other people look at me, an adorable but slightly chubby girl, and my husband, this beastly Captain America like dude, and wonder how we fit together. It’s easy: we respect each other. We love each other no matter what, in times of high fat content or in times of shredding. Caleb’s never pressured me into being a weight lifting champion like him. Sure, he posts videos of Brazilian workout couples doing crossfit together, but he thinks I am beautiful because of my personality, not my pants size. As it so happens, he also finds my curvy figure extremely appealing. He loves me for ME, not the circumstances surrounding me.
And since I love him for him, and want to be with him as long as possible, I am working out consistently for my health. I begged Caleb to let me order PiYo, because it seemed fun and doable. (And it is. I heart you, Chalene Johnson.)
For those of you who constantly “jokingly” ask my husband if he’s on steroids, please STOP. It’s an offense to me, as the wife that sacrifices cuddle time to let him go workout and pursue his goals. It’s offensive to my husband, though he would never say it, because he works HARD to make his health a priority and stretch his body to the max. What’s worse, someone might take your joke seriously, and I don’t need to tell you the implications of that.
For those of you who look at my husband and assume his IQ is lower because his biceps are bigger than your head, please STOP. Why is it that our culture assumes physically disciplined people are idiots? Yes, my husband is a beast. He is my intelligent, sexy, muscle-bound, honorable beast. I will admit that I often fantasize about putting him in an Arrow costume while he works out. It’s one of the many perks of being his wife.
Now if you will excuse me, I have to go PiYo now.
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