Was fitness testing supposed to be all Star Warsy...or was that just me?

Feeling pretty chuffed to be getting fitness tested at PISE...in fact, I was feeling kinda like "ya, that's right...I have yoga pants on...I'm wearing sneakers...I bought a sports bra for the occasion...check me out, I'm all Simon Whitfieldy."  And then I realised that I hadn't been a participant in the Olympics...I had merely watched them on television...but to my credit, Simon Whitfield and I are practically best friends...I once said hello to him at the airport!

After fasting 12 hours the first thing that exercise physiologists Holly and Paula did was ask me to lie down for 30 minutes.  Awesomepants!  That I can do...I'm very good at resting.  Strapped a heart rate monitor around my chest and got comfy on the mat.  After 10 minutes, I was asked to put a snorkel in my mouth (okay, it wasn't a snorkel, it was a mouthpiece attached to a tube attached to a huge machine that analysed my breathing), had a clothes peg put on my nose (again, probably something more scientificy), and told to "relax" and breath normally.  Easier said than done, after just a few minutes I had the worst case of dry mouth EVER.  I persevered, and eventually will find out my resting metabolic rate...or in layman's terms:  how many calories my body expends by doing absolutely nothing.  From this, we'll be able to calculate the number of calories I need to simply exist...and how many I should consume for weight loss.  Part one complete...easy peasy lemon squeezey.

My nemesis.

Part two begins...difficult difficult lemon difficult.  It's one thing to accept your body - I get it, I'm fat...but it is another thing entirely to have someone draw Xs on your body where they're going to grab the flab with a calliper and measure it, before going back in and measuring various circumferences with a tape measure.  Good thing I don't feel sorry for myself (okay, maybe I did, but just a smidge), or I would have gotten all up inside my head about it.  I had measurements taken on skin that hadn't seen the light of day since Spring Break 1992.  I suppose it's a good thing to know your body composition....but no one wants to find out that the majority of their configuration is fat...unless you are bacon...mmmm bacon.

Padawan me suited up for the bacta tank.

And now the Star Warsy part...after being pinched and prodded, I was introduced to my nemesis:  the treadmill.  *Insert diabolical laughter here*  We meet again.  This time, application of the scuba gear involved a halo (there's a first time for everything) to hold the mouthpiece in place.  And I was told to walk forward.  I can do that.  

As I walked, the treadmill would be increased to different levels of intensity - 5 levels in total.  I am of course terrified of this, but luckily the intervals are only 3 minutes long.  Having said that, I had no idea how long just 3 minutes actually was...until I had to exercise for 3 WHOLE minutes.  Ha!  You start out easy and then it gets harder...they didn't make me run or anything impossible like that, it was a mosey to a stroll to a romp to jaunt to a "let me just walk super fast up this hill to get away from that hungry looking wampa."  It felt a little Luke Skywalkery, you know, being hooked up to tubes like when he was in the bacta tank in THE EMPIRE STRIKES BACK...without the Jedi part...or the water...or being on Hoth.  So really, nothing like Star Wars actually...except for the tubes.  Oh, who cares...when do I get my tauntaun?

Aerobic Testing complete.

My Croatian conscience stikes again...

"I go to farmer market, give me you bra I no have big beg."

You break it, you buy it.

Tomorrow I have my fitness testing at the Canadian Sport Institute Victoria's lab...yes...I will be hooked up to fancy machines that will tell my physiologists how out of shape I am. 

Oh joy, I also get to have skin fold tests!  Which means I'm going to have to expose some skin to somebody other than my husband...and I don't have a sports bra.  In fact, I don't have any sort of detached bra.  I find it much more comfy to wear what I affectionately call "bodysuits."  I suppose it's shapewear (adult onesies?  Ha!)...whatever the name of it, it cuts down on the jiggle, so I wear them.  And I can't tomorrow.  It's not allowed.  I already asked.

Off I go (with my mom) to buy a sports bra.

In the change room with all the XXL sports bras I could find (and frankly, I'm not sure there's enough material to go around), I hang up my shirt, roll down my onesie and attempt to stretch a fluorescent pink tit sling over my head.

Level 1 achieved - Garment over head!

At which point I lose my grip on the thing and it snaps around my body just below my armpits.  Not good.  I have never felt more like a Tyrannosaurus Rex in my life.  I'm thrashing around trying to get at least a thumb hold...then I get one...and I have to attempt to unroll the spandex...easier said than done.  I get one side unravelled...but only one side...so I scoop up a boob and shove it up into the thing.

Level 2 achieved - One breast in garment!

All of the thrashing about in the change room has alerted the saleswoman that I may be in need of assistance.  She checks on me by knocking on the door and asking how I'm doing.  Don't worry, I didn't subject her to..."Hey, if you could just come in here and grab hold of that elastic there in the front and hold it out away from my body so that I can squeeze my hand down and grab my other boob..."  I managed to do all that on my own.  However, I did think at one point that I was going to have to go to the cash and produce a tag from underneath my shirt for customer service to scan.  What happens if you get trapped in unpurchased merchandise?  Do they have giant scissors on hand in case people need emergency cutting-out-of?  Haha..

Game over - Breasts strapped so tightly to chest that breathing is inhibited...and also both bound boobs have formed one bowl-shaped protuberance just below my chin...yes...it's as sexy as it sounds.

So, no sports bra for me.

Oh wait, if you go to another store and pay $50 they make those in the right size with clasps in the back?  Haha..sign me up.

Crisis averted.