Fitness Log - Where Are My Abs?

I began working with a dynamic personal trainer a few weeks ago to rediscover my previous West African dance and rollerblade physique. The first few sessions were as I suspected: huffing and puffing on the exercise mat, cursing all varities of cookies, ice cream, and chips under my breath.

I didn't know what to expect after my initial weigh-in and fitness evaluation. Ryan, my personal trainer, was patient and detailed, measuring body fat, heart rate, and other prerequisites before logging them into an elaborate computer program. I was impressed and awed. He was as thorough as any general practitioner I've ever visited, minus blood test and urinalysis. He won't need to test internal items because my daily food log will reveal what's happening on the inside.

I workout three times a week, for approximately one hour, during which time he guides me through a series of balance, cardio, and aerobic exercises customized for in-home training.

The road to renewed health won't be long or treacherous. It'll require discipline, healthy meals, and daily maintenance. I'll have to get accustomed to logging meals, snacks, and liquid beverages. I know that I don't drink enough water. I don't need a food log to show me that. The log will serve as a reminder to drink at least eight glasses of water a day.

We're off to a good start, and I expect to increase my metabolism while decreasing my midsection. I didn't expect the importance of the mind-body-soul connection. Why am I working out (beyond the obvious health or vanity reasons)?

I invite you to take the journey with me every Monday as I log my progress under the Fitness Log heading. I welcome your comments and support, because I know I'm not the only one undergoing a physical/emotional/spiritual transformation.

*Photo disclaimer: The posted image is an idealized version of the body I could have if I pursue perfection. I'm not. My aim is a healthy lifestyle, not first prize at the Mr. Olympia bodybuilding contest.

Getting Back Into Shape - Day 1

Today was my first morning jogging around The Jackie O. Reservoir in Central Park. I posted ads in the Activity Partners and Groups categories on Craigslist for early morning jogging buddies as I'd two summers ago. Four men and two women responded; the men flaked via e-mail overnight or earlier this morning before the alarm sounded at 6 a.m.

I knew to check e-mail before leaving the apartment as not to sit and search for the anonymous respondents with only vague physical and clothing descriptions as the sun made its appearance just above the park. I wasn't disappointed because I realized that I am responsible for my current condition, and that no one else can shed the ten to fifteen pounds I've gained from my sedentary lifestyle these past two years working primarily from home.

I had the veritable angel and demon on either shoulder as I staggered to get to dressed, all the while trying not to trip over one of my two cats. The angel prevailed, and I was ready to take the crucial first step in dropping down to my ideal weight and waist size. I've clothes hanging in plastic dry cleaner's bags once my metamorphosis is complete.

Rounding the curves and descending the hills to my final destination, I thought back to a petite elderly African American woman, perhaps in her late sixties or early seventies, I'd see several mornings a week two summers ago when I jogged with a small group. I called her Foxy, not only because of the pep in her step as she strutted, but because she was attractive and vibrant, her naturally taut caramel skin free of perspiration. I imagined she was quite a heartbreaker in her youth. She was a motivator then, and now as I hoped to see her power-walking to the music on her walkman.

Once at the bridge, I looked over at the tennis courts and wished for the physical conditioning of either Venus or Serena Williams currently playing at Wimbledon. I stretched and watched the other joggers and their dogs trot by underneath the bridge. The first lap was easy. I relied on emotional recall and muscle memory to propel myself around the 1.3 mile track. The second lap wasn't effortless, perhaps I thought too much about my goal rather than shifting into autopilot. I stopped twice on the track, but didn't put pressure on myself. It was my first day back after a two-year hiatus. I completed my second lap, huffed and puffed my way back to the bridge, stretched, and returned home to shower, eat breakfast, and watch The Sisters and James Blake play at Wimbledon, weather permitting.