The Taboo of Goal-Setting

There’s something to hate about picking up a self-motivation book and finding that half of it’s based on goal-setting. Like, suddenly, I’m expected to do work outside of the book and not just absorb what it has to say in one sitting. Maybe that’s the problem with reading for information — it’s literally just absorbing info. No bookworm suddenly wants to commit to a book as devotedly as to start doing productive, task-worthy things outside of it. You know, the ones that give you a weekly planner and tell you to achieve a goal by the end of the week? 

You don’t want to be setting tiny barely-passed-the-starting-line goals when the reason you picked up the book was to completely one-up yourself. It’s like those become-a-better-person books: I pick one of those up to learn new life mottos, to figure out how to deal with difficult people — maybe learn some cool, quick breathing tips. You know? But then they tell you to set small goals for the day like ‘smile at everyone you meet’ or ‘make someone happy’. And, just like that, the book is tossed to the corner of the room and never picked up again. I have no regrets.

Who has time for that? So much for a life-changing perspective. Thanks, Dr. Susan with two PhDs, you’ve really changed my life by loading half your book with fill-in-the-blanks goal pages. ‘Really different stuff.

I like to cut corners. I skim books. I actively seek TV show spoilers on the internet. I get bored of colour-in books because all I want is to reach the end-product. I absolutely detest taking the long way around. I’m all about efficiency, even if there is some collateral damage spilling out the sides. So, when someone tells me to just start small — how dare you. How dare you suggest the world can’t change in one day.

The thing about goal-setting is that it's given themselves a bad reputation — or, maybe, the way we think about it has. It’s basically how we think about all small world problems. Someone with acne should just wash their face. A person with depression should smile more. Naturally, we like taking shortcuts around things, regardless of how effective they are. We don’t think goal setting is all that effective when sometimes all it recommends is that someone who is depressed just tries to get out of bed for the day — HOW DARE the results not be immediate. Goal setting suggests we cannot instantly arrive at an overall desired end product but, rather, walk slowly there and hope we’re heading in the right direction. We're not superheros after all.

Maybe it’s the fact that I skim read, but I never thought the idea of setting goals was played out right in these books. Too often all they sound like are meaningless little quests that likely build towards nothing. Just as with eating healthier, people suggest things like cutting down takeout by one night every few weeks or switching it up for one less teaspoon of sugar in your coffee. To me that sounds like utter rubbish. Why bother setting tiny goals like this when you could be back to your old ways straight up. I just never seem to find an explanation as to why teensy eensy goal setting is so effective.

It is for this reason I want to give a shout out to goal-setting, from my own personal perspective…

• ·       Either toy with the lighter or burn the house down.

Ultimately, it depends on the person. For me, as someone who previously could barely stomach anything but junk food, the ‘burn down the house’ method was the way to go. I banned myself from McDonalds and HJs for a year and, following the ‘burn the house down’ method, I found myself actively wanting to set add-on goals. This goal has been developing since with such add-ons as —  also no takeout at all —  and go to the gym five days a week —  and drop that bread! 

•      Try to remember it’s not just one goal.

Goal-setting looks stupid because, most of the time, it starts with a small, not-that-effective aim. But, like human nature, once we achieve one thing, we’re hungry for more. Goal-setting is a total pat on the back, and, while stupid goals might only be achieved at first, a noticeable change from where you were at the start can soon be seen.

Left: October. Right: November. Intense tensing of the tummy in both photos.

•      Make goals you will commit to.

Luckily for me, I’m the most socially awkward person I know. So telling everyone I’m going to swear off burgers for a year is a pretty useful way to prevent me from backing out of it. It’s best to make goals you can actually see yourself achieving. And, at first, it’s important to set weekly goals so that you don’t accidentally give yourself an unrealistic time frame like ‘give me five years, and I’ll get healthy again’. Goals disappear when you don’t see immediate results. Weekly goals set you up more for success, even if it’s a dumb one.

Example of dumb goal: drink skinny coffee instead of normal coffee.
It costs like 40 bucks extra, but damn that skinniness tho'. 

•      Don’t, for the love of God, compare your goals to someone else’s.

Image Credit: Owlturd Comix

Nothing's worse than getting all excited that you're a few goals down, and then looking over and seeing someone who's already reached the end product. Rather than let this in the way of your determination, see this as a motivator. 

To Cheat Day or Not to Cheat Day?

Image Credit: Dee Jae

I take my food as seriously as I would a major life decision. Rectifying my eating habits has seen this fact become increasingly true. I’ve been struggling lately to fit in a good ol’ shovelling down of chocolate cake now that I’ve banned myself from takeout, rice, and bread. So, I went for the classic decision: one cheat day a week where I can divulge myself on all things oily, sugary, salty, and carb-loaded. As I sit up in my bed with an aching Buda belly filled to the brink with hot chocolate and sushi (as well as, shamefully enough, half of my friend's cake), I suddenly regret having a cheat day.

 Three months ago I could inhale five cheeseburgers in one sitting, now I’m considering an ambulance van for a simple one-night-stand with junk food. I should see this as a good sign that I feel full way quicker now, but, maybe, because of how rarely I get to chow down on something carby, my weekly tummy ache should tell me I need to handle this differently. 

Image Credit: Dee Jae

Thanks to the way-too-many fitness pages I now follow on Instagram, I have been made aware of an interesting part of the healthy life known as ‘counting your macros’. In this, your daily calorie intake is divided into three categories: carbs, protein, and fat. Depending on what your fitness goals are, the amount of carbs, protein, and fat you should be consuming daily can differ. For example, my goal is to drop down a dress size. For that to happen, I should be consuming no more than 1,500 calories per day, and, macro-wise, this should be broken up as 50% carbs, 30% fat, and 20% protein. As you can see from the images encompassing this post, this might be hard to do if I’m treating each cheat day as an apocalyptic event (i.e. a kind of leave-no-carbs-uneaten type of set-up).

Image Credit: Madalin Giorgetta

 



What the macro life suggests — and while it might sound slightly more unforgiving than the option of a cheat day — leaves you more open to consume what you want when you want. For instance, if your macros are open enough that day, you might be able to squeeze in a slice of pizza. This comes from whether you’ve given yourself enough leeway to consume a bit of junk. For example, something with a high fat content might be manageable if your fat count is low enough to squeeze it in. It’s just all about knowing where your grams are at on the day.

I'm not mentally calculating all this. Right now, I'm working off 'My Fitness Pal', which is a free app I downloaded onto my phone. Here, I am able to scan my food in advance to know whether or not I'm getting enough protein in my diet, as well as whether or not I should grab another serving of peanut butter and celery. Frequently now, I am glaring at the app as I withdraw my hand slowly from the milo tin at the back of my cupboard. I'll admit, however, that it's an absolute blessing knowing I usually have a bunch of calories left to spend at the end of the day for carbs or fat or protein. Now that I know about macros, I can figure out what my body is craving and how to satiate those cravings without reaching for the wrong foods.

Image Credit: Dee Jae

Bowl'n for a Good Smoothie

Image Credit: Ashley Valli

The first sign that my friend and I had finally found the famous cafe ‘Bowl’n’ was announced by an embarrassingly shrill squeal on my behalf. I jumped up and down a little as well. People saw. I’d like to back this moment up, however, for the sake of my own shrivelling self-esteem, with the fact that we’d been looking for the place for almost half an hour. 

Of course, I can’t blame Urban List, the website we’d found it off originally. I’d seen the store named in one of their articles, boasting it as one of the best places to grab an acai bowl. Fabulously, I had mistaken the whereabouts of the place and dragged my friend halfway across Perth convinced it was located somewhere on Murray Street. Then, when he looked up the place, it was far down Williams Street. And, to everyone in sight hustling to get to work on time, were two mates looking like they’d never been caught outside before 9AM in their life. For future reference: we probably hadn’t.

When we decided to retry the website we’d originally found the place off, we were finally given a concrete destination. I set my sneakers to the ground as furiously determined as any girl on an empty stomach.

Bowl’n is a shop tucked into one of the busy walkways of St Georges Terrace. Between the flashy business men walking and talking on their phones and the illustrious-looking women darting past, is Bowl'n glowing with faint neon lights. Beneath the counter, is a fish tank — I don’t know why, but that just made me so much more excited to be there. I, a pretty average girl from Bunbury, went to a café at 8AM where they have fish tanks beneath the counter. How wild!

Image Credit: Gloria Sim

The enormous Cheshire cat grin on my face when I walked inside would’ve alarmed most but, by the unperturbed look on the staffs’ faces, it must’ve been a common sight. My friend and I were handed the menu. From memory, the menu consisted of five or six types of smoothie bowls. The small collection of choices made the decision so much harder. Did I want an antioxidant-rich dish? Oh god, what were my goals for today? Did I need a pick-me-up? A detox? What even is a dragon fruit?

My friend went with the easy decision of a cacao-based bowl. I, after a five-minute pause, decided to go with a bowl called ‘Dragon’, which consisted mostly of kiwi and, of course, dragon fruit. The bowls are roughly $13 dollars each from memory — but, guaranteed, you’re as content as any other $13-dollar meal afterwards. As soon as our smoothie bowls were placed before us, I devoured mine as savagely as I would a damn good cheeseburger. In under ten minutes, I was scraping the leftovers off from the sides of the bowl and helping myself to my friend's as well. It’s great, starting out, to pick neatly at the top layer, making sure to keep the aesthetic appearance of the bowl well intact. It wasn’t long, however, until I was mixing the nut sprinkles, kiwi, coconut flakes, and dragon smoothie together to form a massive glob of thick, pink goodness. My friend, a devoted food Instagramer, watched on in horror. Alas, but the taste of all the ingredients together made it all that much better.

Afterwards, the meal left me in great shape. For the thrill of a risk, I had worn a half-top today as a way to restrain myself from over-eating (the fear of looking like Winnie the Pooh is a great way to keep my eating habits in check). To my surprise, while I felt so full I could barely get out of my seat, my stomach was still as flat as it had been before I had come into the store. For someone like me that usually bloats up like an over-pumped basketball after a hearty meal, this was an amazing discovery.

So, cheers to Bowl’n for fulfilling my white-girl fantasies of a perfectly Instagramable breakfast smoothie bowl.

 

Image Credit: Dee Jae

Trying My Hand at Bikram Yoga

Image Credit: skeene

My first mistake was not taking the time beforehand to appreciate water.

I’m more sweat than anything else right now. My arms and legs tremble over my yoga mat as the instructor encourages the class to move into Chaturanga Dandasana (basically a plank, but with more exhaustion behind it). There’s a guy beside me swiftly moving into the pose. I’d seen him a few minutes before class twisting himself into a knot and walking across a mat. He was making us all look bad, but I was happy to see a few other newbies, like myself, faceplant into their mats with defeat.

 I’d probably equate this moment to filling up your car tank a week ago, and seeing it so full that you forget it needs to be constantly maintained. I, apparently, had forgotten to keep the tank maintained for my big yoga trip: one hour and a half of pure, unrelenting, 40-degree torture. I definitely did not drink enough water beforehand. That’s not to say, however, that I didn’t enjoy it. Hell, I plan on going again, just maybe next time with a better-equipped tank. Before the first half-hour interval had ended, I was already on the ground like a bug dying in a puddle of pesticide.

I’d read up on all the details beforehand: drink water like you’re paid to, wear nothing overly loose, bring a towel, and (while it’s not actually mentioned) wear your cutest gym outfit on the possibility of running into yogi dreamboats. Nothing says dedication like a light dash of mascara — and your tightest gym pants to conceal the fact you haven't worked out in months. I even did my hair up in a cute, preppy ponytail… of course now it hangs down my face like a wet 9-tail whip.

Backpedalling a few steps, my roommate and I arrive in a seemingly free-flowing and peaceful yoga centre where the two front desk girls greet us with big white smiles and the most magnificently glowing skin. There’s flower wallpaper, beautiful men and women walking in and out — also smiling and glowing — and a sign written in a ‘dance-y’ sort of calligraphy: Please remove shoes here. If you’re walking around barefoot, the place must be semi-peaceful, right? — wrong. Not if you’re a McDonalds-loving woman who spends more time watching Sex in the City than making wise decisions. I’d entered a place of hell for unfit wrongdoers like me, and I was about to pay for it.

At the start, my roommate and I are pretty cocky about the whole thing. I mean, look at us: were so urban. We’re just a couple of cool cats taking a casual yoga class at 7AM. Maybe we’ll go to some unheard of hipster-café afterwards and Instagram our pleasantly aesthetic drinks. Who knows? We walk barefoot into the room like a couple of proud parrots. Everyone else is already lying down, even five minutes before the instructor has walked in. Some, like pretzel guy who stretches in front of us, close their eyes and move from pose to pose. I, meanwhile, stare up at the ceiling and dance my naked toes until the instructor walks in.

Originally, I think this isn’t so bad. It’s hot — but it’s like being in a spa, and I relax into the warmth. Then a sharp clap from the instructor’s hands quickly sends me reeling into seven layers of lava-sweat hell. Even my gym-bunny roommate looks slightly wild-eyed from the strenuous demand of movement. It begins with deception: a simple Ardha Chandrasana with Pada Hastasana, which is basically just a much needed stretch for your chest where you lift your arms up and bend from side to side without moving your legs. I’m thinking, God this is great. I feel like some health maniac already. The heat really makes you think you’re getting a strong workout into your weekly routine. But when the class hit its first 15-minute mark that’s when time really starts to slow and bite down on my muscles.

I was the first one to collapse onto my mat mid-pose and take a breather. I must’ve been the envy of all my fellow newbie yogi’s because as soon as I was down, so did one, two, three — four others! We were like soldiers of war all plotting some sort of get away as we eyed off the glass door exits like a safe haven. I even began fanaticising about leaving: just picking up my mat, brushing off my hands, and looking at my fellow yogis like “yes, I am the weakest link. Good day.” But I didn’t! And the reason why isn’t because I chose to stick it out, but because suddenly our positions changed to lying-on-the-floor poses.

Thank. God.

My favourite floor pose was probably the one where you hug yourself side-to-side in the fetal position — the screaming, wailing McDonalds child inside of me really thanked me for it. Pavanamuktasana, it’s called. During this, our instructor coddled us newbies with little sentiments like how all of us did very well for our first time and that yoga isn’t about competing.

Afterwards, I almost didn’t feel like leaving. I’d grown fond of myself sticking to the floor and somewhat crying on the inside. My roommate, at the very sound of the first person out the door, fled the room. My gym bunny roommate. Fled.

I, however, despite being the first poor bastard to hit the floor, stare up at the ceiling for a while before slowly hopping up. I am an ethereal goddess of fitness. When I catch up with my roommate out by the lockers, I talk about craving yogurt and wanting to sip on coconut water. If anyone else had heard me, they would’ve rolled their eyes.

But, putting aside the pain and heat, who doesn’t love being the newbie?