Another three pounds down, which means I'll hopefully hit my goal weight in about a month, month and a half. But, like I said, I'm gaining muscle as I'm losing fat, so I don't want to have my eyes glued to the scale. My arms are getting hard, and there's suddenly a layer of muscle beneath the copious padding of my stomach, sort of like a box-spring under a mattress. It's kind of kooky. I have, I shit you not, actual obliques in the making.
Another cardio kickboxing session yesterday. There's always a point—or, as was the case earlier this week, several—during that class where my heart is beating so fast and I'm gulping in breath so raggedly that it occurs to me that I actually might die, crumpling into a big dead pile right there. My reflex is to stop, just stop! and allow myself to relax, possibly with a margarita. But the instructor is savvy enough to keep pushing me, via either commands or cajoling, until the end of the session, where I collapse into a sweaty heap on the mat and positively glow with accomplishment. It was a nice gesture yesterday when the instructor smiled at me on my way out and then said, "Hey." I stopped and turned. "You're doing a great job," she said. I blushed, mumbled my thanks and left. This is the best part of that place: I haven't yet seen a puffed-up attitude on anybody; everyone I've dealt with has been astoundingly encouraging and just flat-out kind. I'm the flabby duckling they've taken under their collective wing. It's very sweet.
A very short run this morning, since my calves and quads are sore as all get out from kicking the shit out of things. The combat gym is closed today, since everyone is going up to Denver to see one of their teammates fight. I, however, have a show to play tonight, and in preparation for this I'll just hit the regular gym during my lunch hour, rock the elliptical for a while, work my arms a little bit, and call it a day.