In a moment of sheer madness, I committed to a goal for next summer -- to participate in the Danskin Triathlon.
It is partly due to being inspired by the dozen women at my gym who participated in it this year, as I have been watching them train since February; and partly due to Gym Buddy who got to watch some of the women during the Triathlon who said to me last night -- "We can do this!"
And without thinking, I said "Sure!"
Gym Buddy is so well organized. She has already enlisted the help of Ohm Dog's Mom --which I will heretofore refer to as Momma Ohm -- to train us. She an athlete extraordinaire, an Iron Woman in her own right, but I am not sure she knows what she has gotten herself into.
In this one event I will be conquering just about every phobia I have -- swimming in lake so murky that you cannot see the bottom, and the possible misplaced alligator that may be waiting to chomp my feet; my fear of riding a road bike -- or the fear of colliding with the much heavier gas, oil and tire machines; and the fear of just plain dying from overexertion. Don't judge me -- it all happens! I've a newspaper report, I've read it all.
From here on in, it will be baby steps -- the first of which is to learn how to run, in such a manner that I can continue to walk.
On your marks, get set . . . . . . .
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
Saturday, July 26, 2008
Hiatus
A spot check, a broken toe and a very dark place have sent me into exile, but I am making a triumphant return.
I say this today, but who know what tomorrow will bring.
So here's the story of a freckle, and how I lost a pound of flesh:
I've always had an oval, fawn-colored freckle on my right side, and in recent months, the edges started to turn the color of dark chocolate, and grow. After 33-years, it decided to build an addition. Having the same coloring as Casper the Friendly Ghost, and having a propensity to burn when spending longer than 10 seconds in the sun without sunscreen, my freckle and I went to the doctor. The nurse practitioner examined it, and said it was indeed questionable, but said she could remove it in the office, lickity split.
More like carved out of my side. When it was all said and done, I had three stitches in an area that was three times the size of the original freckle. And it was hardly a surface wound -- she bore deep into my side and it ached for days. not to mention it was located right on my fat roll, so every time I sat or bent over, the ends of the stitches would stab me in the stomach.
And have I mentioned I am apparently allergic to Band-Aid glue? That was an added, blistering bonus to the whole experience!
The end result revealed that it was three freckles that have been with me since birth, two of which decided to emerge in the spot that was occupied by the first oval freckle. Freckles do not share well.
My recovery from that was short-lived.
It was a dark and stormy night . . . .and I had to pee. So I get out of bed, leave my glasses on the nightstand, and walk head into the master bathroom. Somehow -- whether it was me, or the cat -- the closet door was open and I walked my right pinkie-toe full speed into it, and there was pain like none other that I can remember. The room got bright, them dimmed, and my toe was instantly black. It is several weeks later and it still hurts, and really does not do well when confined. However, it is no longer black.
Now comes the dark place. I have been treated for depression for about five years, and most of the time, life it is good. However, there are times, and I can't explain what brings them on, when I go to a dark, hopeless place where all of my efforts -- be they professional or personal -- are futile to bring me out of it. It's the place where all my faults are front and center, where I can't possibly imagine anything good becoming of my life or succeeding in anything. And all I want to do is seal myself off and sleep all day. That's the worst part -- not being able to stand myself, and being so damn tired all the time. We're talking narcoleptic kind of tired, and the superhuman effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other.
But I am trudging onward. . . . . .
I say this today, but who know what tomorrow will bring.
So here's the story of a freckle, and how I lost a pound of flesh:
I've always had an oval, fawn-colored freckle on my right side, and in recent months, the edges started to turn the color of dark chocolate, and grow. After 33-years, it decided to build an addition. Having the same coloring as Casper the Friendly Ghost, and having a propensity to burn when spending longer than 10 seconds in the sun without sunscreen, my freckle and I went to the doctor. The nurse practitioner examined it, and said it was indeed questionable, but said she could remove it in the office, lickity split.
More like carved out of my side. When it was all said and done, I had three stitches in an area that was three times the size of the original freckle. And it was hardly a surface wound -- she bore deep into my side and it ached for days. not to mention it was located right on my fat roll, so every time I sat or bent over, the ends of the stitches would stab me in the stomach.
And have I mentioned I am apparently allergic to Band-Aid glue? That was an added, blistering bonus to the whole experience!
The end result revealed that it was three freckles that have been with me since birth, two of which decided to emerge in the spot that was occupied by the first oval freckle. Freckles do not share well.
My recovery from that was short-lived.
It was a dark and stormy night . . . .and I had to pee. So I get out of bed, leave my glasses on the nightstand, and walk head into the master bathroom. Somehow -- whether it was me, or the cat -- the closet door was open and I walked my right pinkie-toe full speed into it, and there was pain like none other that I can remember. The room got bright, them dimmed, and my toe was instantly black. It is several weeks later and it still hurts, and really does not do well when confined. However, it is no longer black.
Now comes the dark place. I have been treated for depression for about five years, and most of the time, life it is good. However, there are times, and I can't explain what brings them on, when I go to a dark, hopeless place where all of my efforts -- be they professional or personal -- are futile to bring me out of it. It's the place where all my faults are front and center, where I can't possibly imagine anything good becoming of my life or succeeding in anything. And all I want to do is seal myself off and sleep all day. That's the worst part -- not being able to stand myself, and being so damn tired all the time. We're talking narcoleptic kind of tired, and the superhuman effort it takes to put one foot in front of the other.
But I am trudging onward. . . . . .
Monday, June 9, 2008
Something New
The heat has clearly gotten to me -- I chose tonight, while more of New England is a sauna -- to try Pilates.
And I must be suffering from heat stroke because . . . .I liked it. Don't get me wrong, it's been 90 minutes since class finished, and all ready most of the muscles from my belly button down are starting to voice their displeasure, which by morning -- or 2:11 a.m. which is the time I seem to be waking up each morning just to, well, check the time, as it seems -- will be an all out primal scream.
I think I liked it because the Fitness Guru said many of her clients have said this truly has changed the shape of their bodies. So let's get to molding . . .
Susan Lucci makes it look so easy on those early info-mercials for the Malibu Pilates Chair, but not so. I mean, she's a smidge of a human being, but I give her credit, this stuff is HARD. When I mean hard, I mean actually TRY sitting up straight, only to realize that you are a human "c". (Or for the optimist think: "Man, I've really got this yoga cat pose down pat -- sitting, standing. Just forget the fact it should be done on your knees as a stretch, not a permanent posture. . . .)And that you look like a turtle when you raise your arms and your shoulders swallow your ears. Given my struggle with the basics, this may be a long road, but since I can't trade in this body, I can at least do what I can to shape it.
Just as kickboxing was not impossible, this will be difficult at first, and each class will get easier. It is possible, I've seen it done. (Then again, I seen David Copperfield levitate his assistants, and I still don't believe that . . . )
Speaking of levitating, just try lying down on your side and lifting both your legs off the floor, without moving anything from your hips up. And repeat it. And soon you will begin to appreciate the value of -- and the victory in -- a millimeter.
And I must be suffering from heat stroke because . . . .I liked it. Don't get me wrong, it's been 90 minutes since class finished, and all ready most of the muscles from my belly button down are starting to voice their displeasure, which by morning -- or 2:11 a.m. which is the time I seem to be waking up each morning just to, well, check the time, as it seems -- will be an all out primal scream.
I think I liked it because the Fitness Guru said many of her clients have said this truly has changed the shape of their bodies. So let's get to molding . . .
Susan Lucci makes it look so easy on those early info-mercials for the Malibu Pilates Chair, but not so. I mean, she's a smidge of a human being, but I give her credit, this stuff is HARD. When I mean hard, I mean actually TRY sitting up straight, only to realize that you are a human "c". (Or for the optimist think: "Man, I've really got this yoga cat pose down pat -- sitting, standing. Just forget the fact it should be done on your knees as a stretch, not a permanent posture. . . .)And that you look like a turtle when you raise your arms and your shoulders swallow your ears. Given my struggle with the basics, this may be a long road, but since I can't trade in this body, I can at least do what I can to shape it.
Just as kickboxing was not impossible, this will be difficult at first, and each class will get easier. It is possible, I've seen it done. (Then again, I seen David Copperfield levitate his assistants, and I still don't believe that . . . )
Speaking of levitating, just try lying down on your side and lifting both your legs off the floor, without moving anything from your hips up. And repeat it. And soon you will begin to appreciate the value of -- and the victory in -- a millimeter.
Saturday, June 7, 2008
Goin' Green
I found my inspiration today in an unlikely source -- Paul Pierce of the Boston Celtics.
I am a bandwagon fan. The last time I was glued to a basketball game was -- or had to be -- 1986 because I remember it was the finals and I remember I was watching Larry Bird and his team on a Saturday afternoon.
Haven't paid much attention to the team since then, or at least until the start of the season when it appeared that we may finally have something brag about in between football and baseball.
I did something to my left knee, it's a bit locked, feeling like it needs to just snap. I was going to skip the gym today, but after not being able to go for a week,I needed to go. But my knee was truly killing me.
Then I saw the sports report, with Paul Piece being carried of the court with a pulled knee muscle, only to return later in the game, despite his injury and the team went on to win.
That's exactly what Team Me did -- sucked it up, got in the car and went to the gym.
Thanks Mon Capitain!
I am a bandwagon fan. The last time I was glued to a basketball game was -- or had to be -- 1986 because I remember it was the finals and I remember I was watching Larry Bird and his team on a Saturday afternoon.
Haven't paid much attention to the team since then, or at least until the start of the season when it appeared that we may finally have something brag about in between football and baseball.
I did something to my left knee, it's a bit locked, feeling like it needs to just snap. I was going to skip the gym today, but after not being able to go for a week,I needed to go. But my knee was truly killing me.
Then I saw the sports report, with Paul Piece being carried of the court with a pulled knee muscle, only to return later in the game, despite his injury and the team went on to win.
That's exactly what Team Me did -- sucked it up, got in the car and went to the gym.
Thanks Mon Capitain!
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
The Fitness Guru Has Spoken
My dilemma of the previous post has been solved. One more conflict removed from life.
The answer: stay within the endurance zone. Since my goal is to first get in shape and loose weight, Deb, The f.i.t Fitness Guru, has advised me that the endurance zone is the best way for me to burn fat. So burn, baby, burn!
And while I was a little leary of being left behind – or more importantly being the only one noticeably taking it back a notch to stay within in my zone, whether it be spending more time in the saddle in spin or doing more off the bag in kickboxing – I will let my heart rate monitor be my guide.
It’s a slow process, the pounds aren’t melting away as easily as they did the first time around 10 years ago, but I do notice a difference in the way my close fit – not a change in size, but in comfort and (blessedly) some slight bagginess.
I’ll take my victories where I can get them.
The answer: stay within the endurance zone. Since my goal is to first get in shape and loose weight, Deb, The f.i.t Fitness Guru, has advised me that the endurance zone is the best way for me to burn fat. So burn, baby, burn!
And while I was a little leary of being left behind – or more importantly being the only one noticeably taking it back a notch to stay within in my zone, whether it be spending more time in the saddle in spin or doing more off the bag in kickboxing – I will let my heart rate monitor be my guide.
It’s a slow process, the pounds aren’t melting away as easily as they did the first time around 10 years ago, but I do notice a difference in the way my close fit – not a change in size, but in comfort and (blessedly) some slight bagginess.
I’ll take my victories where I can get them.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
Zone Envy
It's time to move on, at least for some, and I am not sure if I am part of that pack.
Endurance training has now progressed to strength training, particulalry for those who are doing the triathalon. While I am not doing the triathalon, I am not one who likes to be left behind.
However, staying in the endurance zone burns more fat, therefore more successful for those, like me, who want to loose weight. But I want to be strong, too, hence my desire to move into the strength zone with everyone else. I am struggling with staying in the endurance zone with thoughts like "hell, but if my heart rate is up, and I am sweating like a whore in church, and focused on strength, aren't I bound to burn calories along the way?" Which is right back to my erroneous thought process that I used before teaming up with my heart rate monitor, which has been a great workout buddy.
I'm not sure how to balance this. Do I stay in endurance? Do I go totally to strength? Do I alternate days -- say, kickboxing days are strength, and spinning I aim to stay in endurance. or visa versa because I do love pushing it in spin. Is there any benefit to that?
Oh, the conflict . . .
Endurance training has now progressed to strength training, particulalry for those who are doing the triathalon. While I am not doing the triathalon, I am not one who likes to be left behind.
However, staying in the endurance zone burns more fat, therefore more successful for those, like me, who want to loose weight. But I want to be strong, too, hence my desire to move into the strength zone with everyone else. I am struggling with staying in the endurance zone with thoughts like "hell, but if my heart rate is up, and I am sweating like a whore in church, and focused on strength, aren't I bound to burn calories along the way?" Which is right back to my erroneous thought process that I used before teaming up with my heart rate monitor, which has been a great workout buddy.
I'm not sure how to balance this. Do I stay in endurance? Do I go totally to strength? Do I alternate days -- say, kickboxing days are strength, and spinning I aim to stay in endurance. or visa versa because I do love pushing it in spin. Is there any benefit to that?
Oh, the conflict . . .
Saturday, May 10, 2008
Deliver Me
I have enterred the Tenth Circle of Hell: Springtime, the one not written about in Dante's Divine Comedy.
If global warming is can kill all pollen-producing trees and flowers and every other allergen that has created the never ending faucet that has become my nose, then crank up the heat and burn this baby down.
I have been fortunate not to have struggled with springtime allergies -- until this year. I am in absolute misery. And I know I am not exaggerating because my normally sympathy-vacant husband is actually nice, and well, sympathetic to my plight.
I don't have to describe the sinus pressure, the runny nose to those who know what I am talking about. But I am lucky. I have a symptom that not many other people have -- I physically react to pollen -- a very itchy rash not unlike poison ivy which has caused me to literally bathe in anti-itch creams and lotions. Walgreens knows me by my first name.
If global warming is can kill all pollen-producing trees and flowers and every other allergen that has created the never ending faucet that has become my nose, then crank up the heat and burn this baby down.
I have been fortunate not to have struggled with springtime allergies -- until this year. I am in absolute misery. And I know I am not exaggerating because my normally sympathy-vacant husband is actually nice, and well, sympathetic to my plight.
I don't have to describe the sinus pressure, the runny nose to those who know what I am talking about. But I am lucky. I have a symptom that not many other people have -- I physically react to pollen -- a very itchy rash not unlike poison ivy which has caused me to literally bathe in anti-itch creams and lotions. Walgreens knows me by my first name.
Friday, May 2, 2008
Back From the Land of Loose Change and Flip Flops
With one wedding in Las Vegas, and another in San Diego a week later, more time was spent out of the gym than in it.
But I am back, and it is almost like starting from scratch.
I was spoiled on vacation, sort of. I slept each day until 6 a.m. -- which is truly 9 a.m. by my body's clock. And since I have been home getting up at 5:15 a.m. EST -- and BST, body standard time -- has been a challenge.
In Vegas, the first leg of my trip, my motivation to remain on the fitness wagon was still going strong, despite the exorbitant amount of money -- on top of your room fee -- that these hotels charge just to walk through the door of their fitness center. As if my husband wasn't donating ENOUGH of our money at the casino. . . .so every morning I would get up at 6 a.m. and walk the strip. There were only three types of people out at that hour in Vegas: those like me who decided to lace up their sneakers and take to the streets and not spend any more money than necessary to exercise; the homeless, who blend in with everybody else during the city's waking hours, but not so much at dawn; and those poor girls -- usually with their high heels in their hands and not on their feet -- stumbling along "The Walk of Shame" back to their hotel room.
But once we left Vegas and headed first to Santa Monica/Los Angeles/Hollywood -- which is a pit -- it was downhill from there. Hollywood itself was pretty scurvy. I feel safer in some of the bad sections of Boston after dark than I do in Hollywood during the day. Huge disappointment. Walked to the furthest coffee shop each morning to get my coffee, but did not stray too far from the beaten path for fear of, well, being beaten. No matter how hard I tried, I still screamed "Backwoods Tourist." The one redeeming thing: Starbucks on every other street corner, literally. Here, I have to go to the nearest Barnes and Noble for a Starbucks, and it's not like every town has a bookstore . . . Oh yeah, and In-N-Out Burger, that is just something to experience. But thank the God who created Calvin Klein and Levi's that there isn't one around here . . . .
On to San Diego, where, well, I was basically a bridal bitch. A bridesmaid. I was there to serve. But seriously, it was a great wedding and I was honored to be part of it. My friend is a Lt. Commander -- a doctor -- in the Navy (I am very proud of her, adn like to brag), her husband is a Captain in the Marines. It was a full-blown military wedding. It was a love story born in combat in the Iraq desert, and it was a very beautiful ceremony.
And then, after days in the desert, on the road, in the smog, in the sun and beautiful weather, just as I was thinking -- Hey, let's look at some real estate -- it was time to get back on a plane and go home.
And here I am. After a few stuttering starts -- due mostly to a hip injury (I think) got while hoisting one of our suitcases -- I am back!
Is there still time to get that beach body?
But I am back, and it is almost like starting from scratch.
I was spoiled on vacation, sort of. I slept each day until 6 a.m. -- which is truly 9 a.m. by my body's clock. And since I have been home getting up at 5:15 a.m. EST -- and BST, body standard time -- has been a challenge.
In Vegas, the first leg of my trip, my motivation to remain on the fitness wagon was still going strong, despite the exorbitant amount of money -- on top of your room fee -- that these hotels charge just to walk through the door of their fitness center. As if my husband wasn't donating ENOUGH of our money at the casino. . . .so every morning I would get up at 6 a.m. and walk the strip. There were only three types of people out at that hour in Vegas: those like me who decided to lace up their sneakers and take to the streets and not spend any more money than necessary to exercise; the homeless, who blend in with everybody else during the city's waking hours, but not so much at dawn; and those poor girls -- usually with their high heels in their hands and not on their feet -- stumbling along "The Walk of Shame" back to their hotel room.
But once we left Vegas and headed first to Santa Monica/Los Angeles/Hollywood -- which is a pit -- it was downhill from there. Hollywood itself was pretty scurvy. I feel safer in some of the bad sections of Boston after dark than I do in Hollywood during the day. Huge disappointment. Walked to the furthest coffee shop each morning to get my coffee, but did not stray too far from the beaten path for fear of, well, being beaten. No matter how hard I tried, I still screamed "Backwoods Tourist." The one redeeming thing: Starbucks on every other street corner, literally. Here, I have to go to the nearest Barnes and Noble for a Starbucks, and it's not like every town has a bookstore . . . Oh yeah, and In-N-Out Burger, that is just something to experience. But thank the God who created Calvin Klein and Levi's that there isn't one around here . . . .
On to San Diego, where, well, I was basically a bridal bitch. A bridesmaid. I was there to serve. But seriously, it was a great wedding and I was honored to be part of it. My friend is a Lt. Commander -- a doctor -- in the Navy (I am very proud of her, adn like to brag), her husband is a Captain in the Marines. It was a full-blown military wedding. It was a love story born in combat in the Iraq desert, and it was a very beautiful ceremony.
And then, after days in the desert, on the road, in the smog, in the sun and beautiful weather, just as I was thinking -- Hey, let's look at some real estate -- it was time to get back on a plane and go home.
And here I am. After a few stuttering starts -- due mostly to a hip injury (I think) got while hoisting one of our suitcases -- I am back!
Is there still time to get that beach body?
Monday, March 31, 2008
Tanking
My motivation is in the tank today, for many reasons, most of which are work related.
I know I should probably work out my frustrations on the bag tonight, but my evil voice is telling me to go home from work by way of Dairy Queen, get a burger --no, a cheeseburger with mayo, onion rings and a big old chocolate shake -- extra thick, put my gym clothes on, put on Fit TV, chow down while watching others work it, and go to bed.
I already consoled myself with a chocolate chip cookie from the bakery down the street -- it wasn't the SuperHuge Triple chocolate cookie, just a normal chocolate chip. Meager, really.
But like Mom makes.
With lots of Butter.
And Sugar.
And Chocolate.
At least I drank my coffee black, as if that smidgen of milk I would have used saved me from jumping off the caloric ledge.
If nothing else, I need to think of the weddings I have to go to next week -- one in Las Vegas, the other in San Diego. Think about the strapless bridesmaid dress, sans fat roll at the underarm and back of the dress. At least it's purple; I look good in purple. Think about the jiggle -- which will be well controlled by a good fitting pair of Spanx.
OR, what if I scrapped kickboxing for a pedicure?
Even Linda Hamilton has GOT to appreciate a nice pair of smooth feet and red piggy-toes . . .
I know I should probably work out my frustrations on the bag tonight, but my evil voice is telling me to go home from work by way of Dairy Queen, get a burger --no, a cheeseburger with mayo, onion rings and a big old chocolate shake -- extra thick, put my gym clothes on, put on Fit TV, chow down while watching others work it, and go to bed.
I already consoled myself with a chocolate chip cookie from the bakery down the street -- it wasn't the SuperHuge Triple chocolate cookie, just a normal chocolate chip. Meager, really.
But like Mom makes.
With lots of Butter.
And Sugar.
And Chocolate.
At least I drank my coffee black, as if that smidgen of milk I would have used saved me from jumping off the caloric ledge.
If nothing else, I need to think of the weddings I have to go to next week -- one in Las Vegas, the other in San Diego. Think about the strapless bridesmaid dress, sans fat roll at the underarm and back of the dress. At least it's purple; I look good in purple. Think about the jiggle -- which will be well controlled by a good fitting pair of Spanx.
OR, what if I scrapped kickboxing for a pedicure?
Even Linda Hamilton has GOT to appreciate a nice pair of smooth feet and red piggy-toes . . .
Friday, March 28, 2008
My Gym Partner's a Monkey . . . .
Why can't I stop giggling. . . . . .
(I'm not making fun of GymBuddy who, incidentally, swears she was not spooked, only TIRED -- uh huh -- it's the title of a cartoon I found this a.m. while drinking my coffee)
Banana anyone?
(I'm not making fun of GymBuddy who, incidentally, swears she was not spooked, only TIRED -- uh huh -- it's the title of a cartoon I found this a.m. while drinking my coffee)
Banana anyone?
Thursday, March 27, 2008
But, Seriously . .
GymBuddy made a rare appearance at mid-morning spin on Tuesday, and there was almost a throw-down.
I need to preface this by saying I am not attached to a certain bike or location. The spin room is not big enough that a shift to the left or right will cause a great scenery enhancement – what you see will likely be the same five-feet to the left, right, front of back of you (although, if you move to the back of the room, that is likely what you will see – backsides. But I rarely take my eyes off my heart rate monitor, so that is not an issue.) And the bikes are the same – it’s not like there’s a combination of Schwinns or BMXs or Murrays in the room, they are all spinners.
I typically use the same bike unconsciously – I am barely awake at 6 a.m spin on Thursdays, so my body just gravitates there out of habit, not some great bond with my steed of steel.
But I learned early on, that not everyone is like me. GymBuddy, sadly, has not.
When she saw me not on my typical bike, she decided to try it out for a class. Only to be greeted by an unfriendly, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” when the Thursday a.m. bike’s betrothed entered the room and saw GymBuddy on “her” bike.
GymBuddy does not kid; she carries a gun for cryin’ out loud (she’s a cop)! And she does not respond well to those types of introductions. A friendly request may have gotten her to move, (maybe not) but Gym Buddy, instead settled into the saddle with a wicked smile.
And so ensued the nitpickery, though neither addressed the other directly -- the jilted’s whining about her displacement, and GymBuddy questioning the purpose of her wearing sunglasses in room lit only by a string of Christmas lights. (I can’t say I understand it either; if I want the room darker, I close my eyes.)
I thought, for a moment, spin was going to turn into kickboxing.
However, I truly enjoyed the comedy show that played out before me.
But I do think GymBuddy was spooked – she didn’t show up for spin this a.m. – our usual 6 a.m. meeting. She claims its because I kept her out too late last night.
Whatever . . . . . .
I need to preface this by saying I am not attached to a certain bike or location. The spin room is not big enough that a shift to the left or right will cause a great scenery enhancement – what you see will likely be the same five-feet to the left, right, front of back of you (although, if you move to the back of the room, that is likely what you will see – backsides. But I rarely take my eyes off my heart rate monitor, so that is not an issue.) And the bikes are the same – it’s not like there’s a combination of Schwinns or BMXs or Murrays in the room, they are all spinners.
I typically use the same bike unconsciously – I am barely awake at 6 a.m spin on Thursdays, so my body just gravitates there out of habit, not some great bond with my steed of steel.
But I learned early on, that not everyone is like me. GymBuddy, sadly, has not.
When she saw me not on my typical bike, she decided to try it out for a class. Only to be greeted by an unfriendly, “You’ve got to be kidding me!” when the Thursday a.m. bike’s betrothed entered the room and saw GymBuddy on “her” bike.
GymBuddy does not kid; she carries a gun for cryin’ out loud (she’s a cop)! And she does not respond well to those types of introductions. A friendly request may have gotten her to move, (maybe not) but Gym Buddy, instead settled into the saddle with a wicked smile.
And so ensued the nitpickery, though neither addressed the other directly -- the jilted’s whining about her displacement, and GymBuddy questioning the purpose of her wearing sunglasses in room lit only by a string of Christmas lights. (I can’t say I understand it either; if I want the room darker, I close my eyes.)
I thought, for a moment, spin was going to turn into kickboxing.
However, I truly enjoyed the comedy show that played out before me.
But I do think GymBuddy was spooked – she didn’t show up for spin this a.m. – our usual 6 a.m. meeting. She claims its because I kept her out too late last night.
Whatever . . . . . .
Saturday, March 22, 2008
Denying my Maternity
For years I long held the belief that my parents were not my parents. Specifically, I was convinced that I was an alien child -- brought to earth in a pod and stolen by those people I knew as Mom and Dad.
I got over that by about the time I was 15, and realized there was no denying they were to they were, and I was not E.T.
Well, today there was evidence that I may not have been all wrong. At least as far as my mother was concerned. She revealed something to me that made me believe there was NO WAY we could be genetically related.
"I love lunges!"
Are you friggin' kidding me? Who's the alien now? I friggin' loathe lunges! Every morning I hear "snap, crackle, pop," and it's not me cereal talking to me. It's my knees. Whenever I bend them, they talk back to me -- stairs, lunges, bending over, you name it, they bitch. And hurt! With my father going in for a knee replacement soon, I think this is evidence that at least he and I are related. . . .
LUNGES! She could have at least revealed she lived in a Hippie nudist commune in the 1960s, or voted for Gov. Deval Patrick, but not "I love lunges!" What kind of freak is this woman portraying herself as my mother?
A squat I could see, but lunges? They hurt me; I can get down, but getting up is another story. My knees bend, but my muscles don't want to hoist me back up; my lower legs become paralyzed. My legs literally freeze and it is everything I can do right myself. I soldier on, I do them, but one day I will stay frozen in a half-assed genufleciton pose and need to be carried out by the knees by EMTs.
"I love lunges!"
WHO IS THIS WOMAN??????
I got over that by about the time I was 15, and realized there was no denying they were to they were, and I was not E.T.
Well, today there was evidence that I may not have been all wrong. At least as far as my mother was concerned. She revealed something to me that made me believe there was NO WAY we could be genetically related.
"I love lunges!"
Are you friggin' kidding me? Who's the alien now? I friggin' loathe lunges! Every morning I hear "snap, crackle, pop," and it's not me cereal talking to me. It's my knees. Whenever I bend them, they talk back to me -- stairs, lunges, bending over, you name it, they bitch. And hurt! With my father going in for a knee replacement soon, I think this is evidence that at least he and I are related. . . .
LUNGES! She could have at least revealed she lived in a Hippie nudist commune in the 1960s, or voted for Gov. Deval Patrick, but not "I love lunges!" What kind of freak is this woman portraying herself as my mother?
A squat I could see, but lunges? They hurt me; I can get down, but getting up is another story. My knees bend, but my muscles don't want to hoist me back up; my lower legs become paralyzed. My legs literally freeze and it is everything I can do right myself. I soldier on, I do them, but one day I will stay frozen in a half-assed genufleciton pose and need to be carried out by the knees by EMTs.
"I love lunges!"
WHO IS THIS WOMAN??????
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Quad Knot
Is a quad knot a legally accepted form of a knot by the United States Navy, Coast Guard or Boy Scouts of America?
Doesn't matter. I've got them, and the quad knot comes in a pair. One for each leg.
I can trace its origin back to Tuesday morning spin. All was going well (average heart rate 143), until towards the end, we isolated our leg muscles -- standing tall, no bobbing and no movement in the hips on down, the only thing moving was my legs.
Or should I say seizing, like pistons in a motor when you should have had an oil change 30,000 miles ago . . . .
And now it is as if my leg musles are perfectly isolated -- right in the middle of my quads.
Doesn't matter. I've got them, and the quad knot comes in a pair. One for each leg.
I can trace its origin back to Tuesday morning spin. All was going well (average heart rate 143), until towards the end, we isolated our leg muscles -- standing tall, no bobbing and no movement in the hips on down, the only thing moving was my legs.
Or should I say seizing, like pistons in a motor when you should have had an oil change 30,000 miles ago . . . .
And now it is as if my leg musles are perfectly isolated -- right in the middle of my quads.
Sunday, March 16, 2008
The Competition
For years, I have been my own worst enemy. When I should have been my own private cheerleader, I was often my most vocal naysayer.
Well I (think) I have finally moved on -- to my own best competition.
In the past week (yes, I have been a little slow at updating. . .The sneaker fiasco threw me for a loop), I have had great bonding moments with my heart rate monitor. I feel like each time I walk through the doors for spin or kickboxing, or whatever, I feel is a new day for improvement because at the end of each class, I can prove it!
For instance, Tuesday was the first day at spin -- after the Hell Ride -- where I could try to keep my heart rate in "the zone." I thought I was doing fabulous -- mostly in the 142-147 range, with a few blips when I would change positions. However, at the end of class, I was disappointed with how low my average was -- 131, which is toward the high end of my recovery zone. After sulking for a bit, I realized that I hard started to time my workout too soon. I started it when I sat on the bike and was warming up, which lowered my average.
So on Thursday, I started it after I was warmed up, and ended it before the cool down, for an average of 142!
Needless to say, it was a moment of total elation! I think I am getting it!
And I am getting the confidence I need to face the scale, as well.
But I am not ready to deal with numbers just yet . . . . .
Well I (think) I have finally moved on -- to my own best competition.
In the past week (yes, I have been a little slow at updating. . .The sneaker fiasco threw me for a loop), I have had great bonding moments with my heart rate monitor. I feel like each time I walk through the doors for spin or kickboxing, or whatever, I feel is a new day for improvement because at the end of each class, I can prove it!
For instance, Tuesday was the first day at spin -- after the Hell Ride -- where I could try to keep my heart rate in "the zone." I thought I was doing fabulous -- mostly in the 142-147 range, with a few blips when I would change positions. However, at the end of class, I was disappointed with how low my average was -- 131, which is toward the high end of my recovery zone. After sulking for a bit, I realized that I hard started to time my workout too soon. I started it when I sat on the bike and was warming up, which lowered my average.
So on Thursday, I started it after I was warmed up, and ended it before the cool down, for an average of 142!
Needless to say, it was a moment of total elation! I think I am getting it!
And I am getting the confidence I need to face the scale, as well.
But I am not ready to deal with numbers just yet . . . . .
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
OOPS!
I would like to take this moment to thank everyone in kickboxing last night for not pointing out that I was wearing two different sneakers -- A Nike on my left, and an Asics on right!
Not sure how that happened, other than I keep them both in the same closet. I didn't notice until this morning when I found them where I dropped them on my way in last night, and yes indeedy, they were 2 different shoes!
I have moved the Nikes-- my old workout shoes that are just too comfy to part with, but I keep for chores around the house -- to a different closet to avoid further confusion.
Not sure how that happened, other than I keep them both in the same closet. I didn't notice until this morning when I found them where I dropped them on my way in last night, and yes indeedy, they were 2 different shoes!
I have moved the Nikes-- my old workout shoes that are just too comfy to part with, but I keep for chores around the house -- to a different closet to avoid further confusion.
Monday, March 10, 2008
At One
I am feeling a supreme sense of oneness with my hear rate monitor. Now that I know my numbers, it is good to know where I need to be for my workouts.
Kickboxing has always been a challenge for me, but I can say today that I was in “The Zone!” My heart rate was an average of 152, which means I was right in the middle range for my fat burning zone for kick boxing!
At the sake of jinxing myself -- Whoooo-hooooo!
Tomorrow I return to mid-morning spin and add a muscle conditioning class. I am focused on five days of cardio and two days of muscle conditioning.
Kickboxing has always been a challenge for me, but I can say today that I was in “The Zone!” My heart rate was an average of 152, which means I was right in the middle range for my fat burning zone for kick boxing!
At the sake of jinxing myself -- Whoooo-hooooo!
Tomorrow I return to mid-morning spin and add a muscle conditioning class. I am focused on five days of cardio and two days of muscle conditioning.
Saturday, March 8, 2008
My Magic Number . . . . .
Is 167. That’s not my weight (although not far from it), but my threshold -- my heartbeats per minute before I feel like I am ready to crap out.
Today was the lactic threshold ride, which helps you determine where your fat burning and aerobic zones are. Not gonna lie to you -- it was tough.
We started at a recovery rate, just going ‘round and ‘round on the pedals, warming up, and then every 2 minutes worked to increase your heart rate by five beats, until you were at a number where you could maintain it, but not able to maintain anything above it.
167 was mine, and I held it.
And held it.
And held it some more.
For about 15 minutes. Until I wanted to kill somebody, particularly those people who weren‘t personally "there" yet and who I blamed for prolonging my hell.
But I did it. My legs were burning, I was dripping in sweat, I wanted a drink, andI developed a spectacular cramp just under my right shoulder/at the top of my ribcage in my back.
But I was able to maintain it.
And I feel like a rock star.
The key was deep inhales and exhales, and talking myself to work through the discomfort. I have learned that when it starts to feel uncomfortable, breathe deeply and work it out; you reach a point where you can eventually break through it.
The other key -- the heart rate monitor. I didn’t think it was possible to be so connected to an inanimate object as I was to my heart rate monitor. I kept my eyes trained on that with nothing going through my head but the “HOLD THAT NUMBER” mantra. And it worked. I would think it, and it would appear on the watch face.
My butt, however, is mucho tender. There was no standing for 45 minutes. It got so numb there I didn’t even realize I had an ass.
I am well aware of it now.
Today was the lactic threshold ride, which helps you determine where your fat burning and aerobic zones are. Not gonna lie to you -- it was tough.
We started at a recovery rate, just going ‘round and ‘round on the pedals, warming up, and then every 2 minutes worked to increase your heart rate by five beats, until you were at a number where you could maintain it, but not able to maintain anything above it.
167 was mine, and I held it.
And held it.
And held it some more.
For about 15 minutes. Until I wanted to kill somebody, particularly those people who weren‘t personally "there" yet and who I blamed for prolonging my hell.
But I did it. My legs were burning, I was dripping in sweat, I wanted a drink, andI developed a spectacular cramp just under my right shoulder/at the top of my ribcage in my back.
But I was able to maintain it.
And I feel like a rock star.
The key was deep inhales and exhales, and talking myself to work through the discomfort. I have learned that when it starts to feel uncomfortable, breathe deeply and work it out; you reach a point where you can eventually break through it.
The other key -- the heart rate monitor. I didn’t think it was possible to be so connected to an inanimate object as I was to my heart rate monitor. I kept my eyes trained on that with nothing going through my head but the “HOLD THAT NUMBER” mantra. And it worked. I would think it, and it would appear on the watch face.
My butt, however, is mucho tender. There was no standing for 45 minutes. It got so numb there I didn’t even realize I had an ass.
I am well aware of it now.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
Spinning Out of Control
GymBuddy is talking nonsense.
She wants me to get a road bike -- to actually ride outside -- **GASP**
Nay, Nay.
It was only after much trepidation that I would take an indoor spin class. Stationary cycling is perfectly fine for me. Hell, when I am weary on a Thursday morning, I can even close my eyes. Try doing that on the road!
Spinning is safe. For me, as well as the rest of the world. There are no on-coming cars in that square of a room at f.i.t., there are no sand patches, and no need to wear a helmet.
I am still recovering from a road ride trauma one Easter Sunday when I was 9. Almost got killed when my bike hit a patch of sand going downhill on a busy street. When I finally did manage to crash safely on the sidewalk, I wound up with a bloody knee and a hole in my good white Easter tights. I was nearly run over, and all my mother cared about was the fact that I ruined my white Easter tights because I was too lazy to take them off before pulling my jeans on.
And have you seen the tires on road bikes? There are inch worms that are thicker than those things.
I like going nowhere on my bike.
She wants me to get a road bike -- to actually ride outside -- **GASP**
Nay, Nay.
It was only after much trepidation that I would take an indoor spin class. Stationary cycling is perfectly fine for me. Hell, when I am weary on a Thursday morning, I can even close my eyes. Try doing that on the road!
Spinning is safe. For me, as well as the rest of the world. There are no on-coming cars in that square of a room at f.i.t., there are no sand patches, and no need to wear a helmet.
I am still recovering from a road ride trauma one Easter Sunday when I was 9. Almost got killed when my bike hit a patch of sand going downhill on a busy street. When I finally did manage to crash safely on the sidewalk, I wound up with a bloody knee and a hole in my good white Easter tights. I was nearly run over, and all my mother cared about was the fact that I ruined my white Easter tights because I was too lazy to take them off before pulling my jeans on.
And have you seen the tires on road bikes? There are inch worms that are thicker than those things.
I like going nowhere on my bike.
Tuesday, March 4, 2008
Laces on the Bag!
Despite still being unable to control my heart rate, there has been a major kickboxing development.
I am able to lift my leg and KICK THE BAG! I'm not talking grazing the bottom of the bag and -- by the grace of God not falling over -- I mean, shoe laces square in the middle of the bag on my side and slap kicks!
I am not sure when it started, but I noticed it last night in the middle of some kicking drills. Suddenly, I wasn't just swinging my leg out from the knee; I was lifting my leg from my abs, through my butt and actually extending out, planting a hell of a kick (If I do say so myself!) And of course as soon as I noticed I was doing it, I wasn't able to do it anymore . . . .all was fine until I engaged the brain!
A word of caution, however, when demonstrating your success to others: NEVER, NEVER do kickboxing show and tell on someone who is not paying full attention to you.
My brother and I were walking into a restaurant after my class to celebrate his 30th birthday, and I was a little too eager to show off my moves. He failed to understand that it required him to stop walking. Rather than gain his admiration, I gave him a birthday kick to the crotch.
My kick, apparently, is VERY effective. . . .
I am able to lift my leg and KICK THE BAG! I'm not talking grazing the bottom of the bag and -- by the grace of God not falling over -- I mean, shoe laces square in the middle of the bag on my side and slap kicks!
I am not sure when it started, but I noticed it last night in the middle of some kicking drills. Suddenly, I wasn't just swinging my leg out from the knee; I was lifting my leg from my abs, through my butt and actually extending out, planting a hell of a kick (If I do say so myself!) And of course as soon as I noticed I was doing it, I wasn't able to do it anymore . . . .all was fine until I engaged the brain!
A word of caution, however, when demonstrating your success to others: NEVER, NEVER do kickboxing show and tell on someone who is not paying full attention to you.
My brother and I were walking into a restaurant after my class to celebrate his 30th birthday, and I was a little too eager to show off my moves. He failed to understand that it required him to stop walking. Rather than gain his admiration, I gave him a birthday kick to the crotch.
My kick, apparently, is VERY effective. . . .
Friday, February 22, 2008
One Breath at a Time
With one foot extended behind me, propped up on a step, and the other lunged in front of me, I hugged the weighted bar (increased from 5 lbs to 10 lbs -- Woo-hooo for me!), with it resting across my chest with arms crossed -- like a genie, but oh, if only I had magic. . . .
With each bend of my lunged leg, I thought of what tomorrow will be like as I ascend and descend the three stairs from my garage into my house -- it will be like climbing Mt. Everest. Without a sherpa. In a blinding snowstorm. Having never crested a hill, let alone a mountian, before. I fear the pain.
Bend down, up . . .THIS . . .bend down, up . . .WILL . . .bend down, up . . .BE . . . bend down, up . . .WORTH . . .bend down, up . . .IT . . .bend down, up . . .COME . . . bend down, up . . .JULY . . .
Oh my dyin' a** . . . .
And that was only the begining.
Then it was on to these funky push-up/plank things -- plank-ups? Doesn't matter. Call it what you want, but both remain in the realm of impossibility for me. As aforementioned in previous posts, the push-up and plank, individually, are works in progress. I got the "push" part, and I can usually get in to plank position, but it quickly ends after that.
But today, we combined the two for what could have been a pre-dawn disaster. The lighter weighted bar was across the end of the step, hands holding onto the bar, in a plank-up position, chest over the bar itself. Raise and lower . . .
As previously posted, with the push-up, there were concerns about a face plant in the carpet when my wrists snapped under the weight of myself. Today, it progressed from the threat of rug burn and bruised nose, to full on worry about what kind of dental work will be needed if I were to fail in this position.
I did what I could, I might have cheated myself out of a few repetitions, but my dental insurance company will appreciate that.
With each bend of my lunged leg, I thought of what tomorrow will be like as I ascend and descend the three stairs from my garage into my house -- it will be like climbing Mt. Everest. Without a sherpa. In a blinding snowstorm. Having never crested a hill, let alone a mountian, before. I fear the pain.
Bend down, up . . .THIS . . .bend down, up . . .WILL . . .bend down, up . . .BE . . . bend down, up . . .WORTH . . .bend down, up . . .IT . . .bend down, up . . .COME . . . bend down, up . . .JULY . . .
Oh my dyin' a** . . . .
And that was only the begining.
Then it was on to these funky push-up/plank things -- plank-ups? Doesn't matter. Call it what you want, but both remain in the realm of impossibility for me. As aforementioned in previous posts, the push-up and plank, individually, are works in progress. I got the "push" part, and I can usually get in to plank position, but it quickly ends after that.
But today, we combined the two for what could have been a pre-dawn disaster. The lighter weighted bar was across the end of the step, hands holding onto the bar, in a plank-up position, chest over the bar itself. Raise and lower . . .
As previously posted, with the push-up, there were concerns about a face plant in the carpet when my wrists snapped under the weight of myself. Today, it progressed from the threat of rug burn and bruised nose, to full on worry about what kind of dental work will be needed if I were to fail in this position.
I did what I could, I might have cheated myself out of a few repetitions, but my dental insurance company will appreciate that.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Ode to Gene Autry
I was back in the saddle again.
Did I actually go to the gym five days a week for a month straight? Somebody please tell my body that!
During yoga last night, muscles felt like they had shriveled, and were as taught as uncooked spaghetti. I went from feeling Xena strong in my warriors to feeling like a scurvy little foot-soldier. And my modified side plank . . .well, I am still giggling over that one.
The only thing that felt natural, that felt right, was my relaxation posture.
This morning I returned to spin. I had just reached the point where my butt didn't hurt anymore. Two hours later, I am cringing at the thought of sitting on anything other than a nice cushion. I did manage to stand -- both straight and Lance-like -- it's a good thing my focus was on a recovery ride, as suggested, because my heart rate was just not getting up there.
Oh, the irony. After two weeks of trying to control the damn thing, I couldn't barely get it started today, and I was PEDALING!
Tomorrow is muscle conditioning. I am all aquiver with joy . . . .
Did I actually go to the gym five days a week for a month straight? Somebody please tell my body that!
During yoga last night, muscles felt like they had shriveled, and were as taught as uncooked spaghetti. I went from feeling Xena strong in my warriors to feeling like a scurvy little foot-soldier. And my modified side plank . . .well, I am still giggling over that one.
The only thing that felt natural, that felt right, was my relaxation posture.
This morning I returned to spin. I had just reached the point where my butt didn't hurt anymore. Two hours later, I am cringing at the thought of sitting on anything other than a nice cushion. I did manage to stand -- both straight and Lance-like -- it's a good thing my focus was on a recovery ride, as suggested, because my heart rate was just not getting up there.
Oh, the irony. After two weeks of trying to control the damn thing, I couldn't barely get it started today, and I was PEDALING!
Tomorrow is muscle conditioning. I am all aquiver with joy . . . .
Wednesday, February 20, 2008
Back From the Sidelines
A very nasty little germ beat the hell out of me for the past week and a half, but I am making my triumphant return tonight.
I'm a little uneasy. I am afraid that the beastly microorganism undid all the progress that I made. Don't get me wrong, I am determined, but I am trying to prepare myself for the fact that down dog may not be possible tonight; and that perhaps the Lance Armstrong Spin position may not happen tomorrow either.
I know I need to ease back into things, but I know my eagerness gets the best of me, and then I get frustrated, etc. . . .
The most upsetting thing about being sick was the fact that I actually broke down and invested in "the matching fitness ensemble," and was all ready to model it. It was just like that feeling I would get when I got new school clothes. Now I am afraid to try it on -- After living on ice cream and pudding for a week, (for medicinal purposes, I assure you! my throat couldn't handle much else)I think I gained back whatever pounds I lost.
Although maybe my fever induced sweat sessions and hallucinations burned some of it off.
Here's hoping . . . .
I'm a little uneasy. I am afraid that the beastly microorganism undid all the progress that I made. Don't get me wrong, I am determined, but I am trying to prepare myself for the fact that down dog may not be possible tonight; and that perhaps the Lance Armstrong Spin position may not happen tomorrow either.
I know I need to ease back into things, but I know my eagerness gets the best of me, and then I get frustrated, etc. . . .
The most upsetting thing about being sick was the fact that I actually broke down and invested in "the matching fitness ensemble," and was all ready to model it. It was just like that feeling I would get when I got new school clothes. Now I am afraid to try it on -- After living on ice cream and pudding for a week, (for medicinal purposes, I assure you! my throat couldn't handle much else)I think I gained back whatever pounds I lost.
Although maybe my fever induced sweat sessions and hallucinations burned some of it off.
Here's hoping . . . .
Saturday, February 9, 2008
Workin' it in Vogue
Never underestimate the power of a good sports bra.
More than a month into this now, I realized that I needed new sports bras. The ones I have been using for the past five years *gasp* may have worked while I strolled along on the treadmill, but just weren’t cutting it anymore.
Prior to January, I felt sports bras, for me at least, were wholly unnecessary. I mean, really, if you had breasts sports bras are a Godsend. But baby orangutans have larger breasts than me.
I share some of the blame with my Maker on that. While, being female, I knew something was going to sprout, as a child I never really wanted them. I grew up in a household where Dolly Parton was frequently heard and seen, and her boobs scared the livin’ BeJesus out of me. I would go to bed at night, lie on my stomach, with my chest pressing down on my fisted hands hoping to stunt or prevent their growth.
Now, at age 33, I am afraid my plan worked a little too well . . . .
But I can say it does not matter how big they are, they hurt when they bounce. Even if it is just a nipple-bounce. Not a good feeling.
So off to the store I went. Just slipping a new sports bra on and seeing how it makes my arms and shoulders look, does wonders for the ego.
Now I need some new workout clothes. The clothes I have are not nearly as old as the sports bras. Maybe some of the T-shirts, like my Simmons crew team t-shirt, but ones like that hang around for sentimental value and will NEVER be tossed. Never really worn in public outside of the gym, but NEVER EVER tossed.
I am of two minds about workout attire. I think there are some rather smashing fitness clothes out there, but I hesitate to buy the matching ensembles because I feel like they are too good to sweat in. So I go about working out in clothes that are often mismatched -- whatever pair of pants and t-shirt I grab in the morning.
However, the recent sports bra acquisition makes me believe that in ainvestment in new attire might give me a little boost of inspiration when I get up in the mornings before the sun.
But then again, the sweat factor -- I would much rather sweat in $10 Hanes sweat pants, than $30 Nike or Reebok pants. However, while I may save a few bucks, the WalMart specials do make me feel like a schlump.
I’m truly torn.
More than a month into this now, I realized that I needed new sports bras. The ones I have been using for the past five years *gasp* may have worked while I strolled along on the treadmill, but just weren’t cutting it anymore.
Prior to January, I felt sports bras, for me at least, were wholly unnecessary. I mean, really, if you had breasts sports bras are a Godsend. But baby orangutans have larger breasts than me.
I share some of the blame with my Maker on that. While, being female, I knew something was going to sprout, as a child I never really wanted them. I grew up in a household where Dolly Parton was frequently heard and seen, and her boobs scared the livin’ BeJesus out of me. I would go to bed at night, lie on my stomach, with my chest pressing down on my fisted hands hoping to stunt or prevent their growth.
Now, at age 33, I am afraid my plan worked a little too well . . . .
But I can say it does not matter how big they are, they hurt when they bounce. Even if it is just a nipple-bounce. Not a good feeling.
So off to the store I went. Just slipping a new sports bra on and seeing how it makes my arms and shoulders look, does wonders for the ego.
Now I need some new workout clothes. The clothes I have are not nearly as old as the sports bras. Maybe some of the T-shirts, like my Simmons crew team t-shirt, but ones like that hang around for sentimental value and will NEVER be tossed. Never really worn in public outside of the gym, but NEVER EVER tossed.
I am of two minds about workout attire. I think there are some rather smashing fitness clothes out there, but I hesitate to buy the matching ensembles because I feel like they are too good to sweat in. So I go about working out in clothes that are often mismatched -- whatever pair of pants and t-shirt I grab in the morning.
However, the recent sports bra acquisition makes me believe that in ainvestment in new attire might give me a little boost of inspiration when I get up in the mornings before the sun.
But then again, the sweat factor -- I would much rather sweat in $10 Hanes sweat pants, than $30 Nike or Reebok pants. However, while I may save a few bucks, the WalMart specials do make me feel like a schlump.
I’m truly torn.
Mourning Sonny
It's a sad day on The Compound. So many bad and strange things have happened in the past week. Mercury cannot get out of retrograde fast enough.
Sonny, my late grandfather's horse, had to be put down today. He is a very old horse, even by horse standards -- well over 30 years old. My mother estimates him to be about 35. He had broken his leg, somehow, during the night in his stable. It's especially tough for my family to make the decision, because in many ways, he is one of the last living ties to my grandfather, who died suddenly 15 years ago.
Sonny was different things to all of us. To me, he was the horse I could make laugh. He had a soft spot on the tip of his nose that only I could find. If I rubbed it the right way with my index finger, his upper lip would curl up and tremble, exposing his teeth. There were even times I'd walk into the barn, say his name and he'd lift that lip at just the sound of my voice.
Sonny never knew he was a horse. He acted, in many ways, like a dog. If you were out in the pasture, he'd tag along at your heels, maybe give a little nip on your but or shoulder if he wanted some attention, or simply head but you in the back. If you were in the pasture, he was in your shadow.
And sometimes you didn't even know he was there. My father was mending the fence one day, getting ready to drive a large spike into a post. He swung his hammer back to gather, ready to strike, unaware that Sonny had deemed himself the unofficial construction site supervisor, and conked that damn horse right between the eyes. It was very cartoon like -- there were practically stars drawn around his head, and he staggered back, shaking his head and then finding a spot on my dad's back to rub his sore noggin.
I went to see him one last time today, before the veterinarian came. This past winter has been hard on him. He's lost so much weight; it's certainly not from a lack of eating. Even though he was clearly in pain, unable to put weight on his hind leg, he was still eating.
But his eyes were different. For the first time ever, he looked tired. And he knew, as well as we did, that it was time to go. If you know an animal well, their eyes speak the words that are never said. And his eyes said it all.
Animals and humans have a bond that is difficult to explain, and hard to understand, if you are not an animal person. You can take an evolutionary approach, thinking that we are the superior species, and it is our job to care for them. To a great extent that is true.
But I have learned differently with all the animals that are in, and have passed through, my life. For as many ways as I have cared for and loved my animals -- the goats, rabbits, horses, mini horses, sheep, mules, donkeys, dogs, cats, and even two raccoons-- they have each given me more on a level that I can't even describe than I know I have been able to give them. Simply put, the affection that a well cared for animal gives a human is beyond human understanding; I don't think one human being can love another human being the way an animal does its human. It goes beyond companionship, and even basic understanding.
So tonight, when the vet is gone, and Sonny is put to rest, I'll raise a glass to the horse, who thought he was a dog, and could always make me laugh.
Sonny, my late grandfather's horse, had to be put down today. He is a very old horse, even by horse standards -- well over 30 years old. My mother estimates him to be about 35. He had broken his leg, somehow, during the night in his stable. It's especially tough for my family to make the decision, because in many ways, he is one of the last living ties to my grandfather, who died suddenly 15 years ago.
Sonny was different things to all of us. To me, he was the horse I could make laugh. He had a soft spot on the tip of his nose that only I could find. If I rubbed it the right way with my index finger, his upper lip would curl up and tremble, exposing his teeth. There were even times I'd walk into the barn, say his name and he'd lift that lip at just the sound of my voice.
Sonny never knew he was a horse. He acted, in many ways, like a dog. If you were out in the pasture, he'd tag along at your heels, maybe give a little nip on your but or shoulder if he wanted some attention, or simply head but you in the back. If you were in the pasture, he was in your shadow.
And sometimes you didn't even know he was there. My father was mending the fence one day, getting ready to drive a large spike into a post. He swung his hammer back to gather, ready to strike, unaware that Sonny had deemed himself the unofficial construction site supervisor, and conked that damn horse right between the eyes. It was very cartoon like -- there were practically stars drawn around his head, and he staggered back, shaking his head and then finding a spot on my dad's back to rub his sore noggin.
I went to see him one last time today, before the veterinarian came. This past winter has been hard on him. He's lost so much weight; it's certainly not from a lack of eating. Even though he was clearly in pain, unable to put weight on his hind leg, he was still eating.
But his eyes were different. For the first time ever, he looked tired. And he knew, as well as we did, that it was time to go. If you know an animal well, their eyes speak the words that are never said. And his eyes said it all.
Animals and humans have a bond that is difficult to explain, and hard to understand, if you are not an animal person. You can take an evolutionary approach, thinking that we are the superior species, and it is our job to care for them. To a great extent that is true.
But I have learned differently with all the animals that are in, and have passed through, my life. For as many ways as I have cared for and loved my animals -- the goats, rabbits, horses, mini horses, sheep, mules, donkeys, dogs, cats, and even two raccoons-- they have each given me more on a level that I can't even describe than I know I have been able to give them. Simply put, the affection that a well cared for animal gives a human is beyond human understanding; I don't think one human being can love another human being the way an animal does its human. It goes beyond companionship, and even basic understanding.
So tonight, when the vet is gone, and Sonny is put to rest, I'll raise a glass to the horse, who thought he was a dog, and could always make me laugh.
Thursday, February 7, 2008
The Training Wheels are Off!
Dare I say it, but I may be on a streak of success, after Monday's meltdown.
Today, for the first time in Spinning, I was in the 3 position -- butt slightly off the seat, hips back, leaning forward on the handle bars, and really working those glutes, what I call the Lance Armstrong position. My butt cheeks are currently in a state of euphoria, now knowing they can share the load with the legs!
Today, for the first time in Spinning, I was in the 3 position -- butt slightly off the seat, hips back, leaning forward on the handle bars, and really working those glutes, what I call the Lance Armstrong position. My butt cheeks are currently in a state of euphoria, now knowing they can share the load with the legs!
Wednesday, February 6, 2008
Three Dog Night
More yoga victory! I was in downward dog for half the class. Flowing in Warrior 2, however, pretty much muzzled that dog for the night. But I’ll take the half-class downward dog.
As I sat there meditating at the end, I was thinking of my mom. Actually, I was hearing her voice: “DONNA MARIE!!!!” Yup, you’d all be hearing that from Bellingham to Hopedale if she knew I was at yoga on Ash Wednesday.
When I took my first yoga class a five years ago -- Kundalini yoga, lot of breathing, chanting, etc -- she practically held an exorcism. She was so convinced that I was joining a cult. And still believes yoga is aligned with the forces of darkness.
I’m a good Catholic girl. I enjoy my religion. Hell, I was almost a nun; that’s a story for another day.
When I was a sophomore in high school studying to make my confirmation, religious meditation was a large part of the preparation. It wasn’t much different from the focused breathing and concentration I do now on Wednesday night, except it might have included a prayer. Actually, I still do pray in yoga, but it’s more of a “JESUS, that’s tight;” or “Dear God, no cramping please!” not so much a prayer of devotion.
And I’m not taking God’s name in vain. I know God has fun with me; he has to given all the situations he puts me in. I’m not a God-is-my-co-pilot fanatic; (God’s actually on my roof rack; he’s my deer sensor), but I gotta believe The Big Man has done a little yoga himself.
He just hasn’t shared that secret with Mom, yet.
As I sat there meditating at the end, I was thinking of my mom. Actually, I was hearing her voice: “DONNA MARIE!!!!” Yup, you’d all be hearing that from Bellingham to Hopedale if she knew I was at yoga on Ash Wednesday.
When I took my first yoga class a five years ago -- Kundalini yoga, lot of breathing, chanting, etc -- she practically held an exorcism. She was so convinced that I was joining a cult. And still believes yoga is aligned with the forces of darkness.
I’m a good Catholic girl. I enjoy my religion. Hell, I was almost a nun; that’s a story for another day.
When I was a sophomore in high school studying to make my confirmation, religious meditation was a large part of the preparation. It wasn’t much different from the focused breathing and concentration I do now on Wednesday night, except it might have included a prayer. Actually, I still do pray in yoga, but it’s more of a “JESUS, that’s tight;” or “Dear God, no cramping please!” not so much a prayer of devotion.
And I’m not taking God’s name in vain. I know God has fun with me; he has to given all the situations he puts me in. I’m not a God-is-my-co-pilot fanatic; (God’s actually on my roof rack; he’s my deer sensor), but I gotta believe The Big Man has done a little yoga himself.
He just hasn’t shared that secret with Mom, yet.
Monday, February 4, 2008
Are You Lookin' At Me?
I know the walls of mirrors have a purpose. I can assume it’s so you can keep an eye on your form.
But it disturbs me to see me in action. I am at the gym because I don’t like that me, and it doesn’t help the real me to constantly look up and see someone who does not resemble the me I imagine myself to be.
It could be the early hour I get there -- I stand there, and think, is that REALLY me, now? What the hell happened? What’s with the pear in sweatpants? How could I not see those hips and thighs coming at me before now?
The mirrors are good for kickboxing. I enjoy kicking Other Me’s butt. That part of the mirrors I get. When you are working off the bag, it helps me land my jabs, hooks and upper cuts where they should be. I enjoy boxing myself. All the fun of a real throw down, but I always win and there are no bruises (although if you’ve seen any of my punches, you’d wonder if I could bruise a grape).
But I really can do without the mirror any other day of the week. During instructor’s choice and muscle condition, I know I should be focusing on my form, but I look at myself and I feel like an inversed hunchback. I feel like my spine has buckled, and I lean a bit to the left. I knew I should have listened to my mother and started sitting up straight when I was 5 to avoid this thrust-out lean-to thing I’ve got going on.
Thank God spinning and yoga are done in the dark. Slouchy, spreading me can stay hidden from the goddess in training I am trying to convince myself that I am.
I probably spend more time mentally beating myself up, wondering how I got here, than is healthy.
When I left college, I weighed a healthy 180-pounds. Healthy, if I were a Sumo wrestler in training.
I went to college a healthy 125-pounds, with all the warnings that are typically given to college freshmen -- keep your nose clean, don’t drink, beware of horny frat boys; plan to stay in jail if you wind up in jail, because if you get arrested chances are you were somewhere and doing something you shouldn‘t have been; and expect the Freshman 15.
I heard all clearly, but my body understood the Freshman 15 to be the Freshman 50. That’s right -- the first time I am on my own I discovered the responsibility of foraging for food. And I found the mother load at the residence campus café. In the form of nachos and cheese (protein, dairy and fiber, add salsa and you’ve got veggies, too) and the world’s greatest chocolate milkshake (again, dairy) available at all hours of the night. Combine that with lots of sleep and an English major with a concetration in writing -- which meant 99.9% of my time was spent on my back (minds out of the gutter, PLUH-EASE, people!) or on my ass in front of a computer, I clearly wasn’t studying fitness.
I carried that weight around with me for pretty much the entirety of my college career, until the impact of The Great Weight started to show -- not in the form of just saddlebags and cellulite, but in unwanted and unsightly facial hair. My innards were going flukey! The good news was that if my career as a writer/journalist never got off the ground, I was headed for promising career in a circus sideshow as a bearded lady.
I went to a doctor, a kindly 80-something man who looked totally harmless, until he gave me my diagnosis. “You only problem is, you’re too fat.” No lie, those were his words. He made no apology for his lack of sugar, and I wanted him to choke on his dentures. But that sack of wrinkles -- May he now rest in peace -- outlived my referral and so I enrolled in my first diet program at some weight loss center. It worked -- I lost 20-lbs, but I could have done without the weekly pep rally and round of applause for every pound lost.
I was on my own after graduation, and then I kicked it into high gear, when my sophomore year roommate called to tell me she was getting married. It was Go Time. I hadn’t seen her in two years. We were both very similar, and sloth like, and damn her for getting married first. How could that happen?
I had a friend who majored in exercise science, but wound up being a great journalist instead, who put me on a paced program -- 30-minutes on the treadmill, three times a week; weights three times a week. It was tough in the beginning, but before I knew it, I was upping the time, increasing the speed, the repetitions on the weights, and missing it when I skipped a day.
And, in its own time, it all came off. I dropped 50-lbs in the course of a year, and maintained that for about six years -- through my first broken heart (shed one tear here, but no more. He wasn’t worth it), through a crazy work schedule, planning my wedding, the first year of marriage.
But building a house was my undoing. Before I knew it, I was celebrating every milestone with a cookie. We made the decision to build-- that called for a chocolate chip cookie! We closed on property within The Compound -- that calls for an oatmeal raisin cookie! The first view of the house floor plans -- that calls for a chocolate chocolate chip cookie! The old house was knocked down to make way for the new one -- This calls for two chocolate chip cookies! We broke ground -- cookies all around! The foundation was in -- Hey, it’s cheaper to buy three cookies at Subway than one. Fill me up! Hey every day is a day to celebrate. 3 p.m. became my daily date with a bag of cookies -- cheaper when in threes!
Happiness was measured in chocolate chips and raisins. Meanwhile, my body as adjusting to my daily workouts, and more was going in my mouth than was being walked off.
My unhappiness at being too close than I’d like to be to my college weight, and frustration at the my inability to maintain, is now measured on a scale, how my clothes fit, and slouchy, spreading me in the gym mirror.
And yes, this long journey down Explanation Avenue is necessary because I am hankering for a cookie now and as long as I keep my fingers going, I will outlast the craving. My lack of coordination will prevent me from being able type and eat at the same time.
But it disturbs me to see me in action. I am at the gym because I don’t like that me, and it doesn’t help the real me to constantly look up and see someone who does not resemble the me I imagine myself to be.
It could be the early hour I get there -- I stand there, and think, is that REALLY me, now? What the hell happened? What’s with the pear in sweatpants? How could I not see those hips and thighs coming at me before now?
The mirrors are good for kickboxing. I enjoy kicking Other Me’s butt. That part of the mirrors I get. When you are working off the bag, it helps me land my jabs, hooks and upper cuts where they should be. I enjoy boxing myself. All the fun of a real throw down, but I always win and there are no bruises (although if you’ve seen any of my punches, you’d wonder if I could bruise a grape).
But I really can do without the mirror any other day of the week. During instructor’s choice and muscle condition, I know I should be focusing on my form, but I look at myself and I feel like an inversed hunchback. I feel like my spine has buckled, and I lean a bit to the left. I knew I should have listened to my mother and started sitting up straight when I was 5 to avoid this thrust-out lean-to thing I’ve got going on.
Thank God spinning and yoga are done in the dark. Slouchy, spreading me can stay hidden from the goddess in training I am trying to convince myself that I am.
I probably spend more time mentally beating myself up, wondering how I got here, than is healthy.
When I left college, I weighed a healthy 180-pounds. Healthy, if I were a Sumo wrestler in training.
I went to college a healthy 125-pounds, with all the warnings that are typically given to college freshmen -- keep your nose clean, don’t drink, beware of horny frat boys; plan to stay in jail if you wind up in jail, because if you get arrested chances are you were somewhere and doing something you shouldn‘t have been; and expect the Freshman 15.
I heard all clearly, but my body understood the Freshman 15 to be the Freshman 50. That’s right -- the first time I am on my own I discovered the responsibility of foraging for food. And I found the mother load at the residence campus café. In the form of nachos and cheese (protein, dairy and fiber, add salsa and you’ve got veggies, too) and the world’s greatest chocolate milkshake (again, dairy) available at all hours of the night. Combine that with lots of sleep and an English major with a concetration in writing -- which meant 99.9% of my time was spent on my back (minds out of the gutter, PLUH-EASE, people!) or on my ass in front of a computer, I clearly wasn’t studying fitness.
I carried that weight around with me for pretty much the entirety of my college career, until the impact of The Great Weight started to show -- not in the form of just saddlebags and cellulite, but in unwanted and unsightly facial hair. My innards were going flukey! The good news was that if my career as a writer/journalist never got off the ground, I was headed for promising career in a circus sideshow as a bearded lady.
I went to a doctor, a kindly 80-something man who looked totally harmless, until he gave me my diagnosis. “You only problem is, you’re too fat.” No lie, those were his words. He made no apology for his lack of sugar, and I wanted him to choke on his dentures. But that sack of wrinkles -- May he now rest in peace -- outlived my referral and so I enrolled in my first diet program at some weight loss center. It worked -- I lost 20-lbs, but I could have done without the weekly pep rally and round of applause for every pound lost.
I was on my own after graduation, and then I kicked it into high gear, when my sophomore year roommate called to tell me she was getting married. It was Go Time. I hadn’t seen her in two years. We were both very similar, and sloth like, and damn her for getting married first. How could that happen?
I had a friend who majored in exercise science, but wound up being a great journalist instead, who put me on a paced program -- 30-minutes on the treadmill, three times a week; weights three times a week. It was tough in the beginning, but before I knew it, I was upping the time, increasing the speed, the repetitions on the weights, and missing it when I skipped a day.
And, in its own time, it all came off. I dropped 50-lbs in the course of a year, and maintained that for about six years -- through my first broken heart (shed one tear here, but no more. He wasn’t worth it), through a crazy work schedule, planning my wedding, the first year of marriage.
But building a house was my undoing. Before I knew it, I was celebrating every milestone with a cookie. We made the decision to build-- that called for a chocolate chip cookie! We closed on property within The Compound -- that calls for an oatmeal raisin cookie! The first view of the house floor plans -- that calls for a chocolate chocolate chip cookie! The old house was knocked down to make way for the new one -- This calls for two chocolate chip cookies! We broke ground -- cookies all around! The foundation was in -- Hey, it’s cheaper to buy three cookies at Subway than one. Fill me up! Hey every day is a day to celebrate. 3 p.m. became my daily date with a bag of cookies -- cheaper when in threes!
Happiness was measured in chocolate chips and raisins. Meanwhile, my body as adjusting to my daily workouts, and more was going in my mouth than was being walked off.
My unhappiness at being too close than I’d like to be to my college weight, and frustration at the my inability to maintain, is now measured on a scale, how my clothes fit, and slouchy, spreading me in the gym mirror.
And yes, this long journey down Explanation Avenue is necessary because I am hankering for a cookie now and as long as I keep my fingers going, I will outlast the craving. My lack of coordination will prevent me from being able type and eat at the same time.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Success!!!! And then .. .. . .
Last night, marked a yoga milestone.
I was able to bend forward and touch the floor. Not palms flat on the mat, more like fingertips with pressure. Miniscule achievement, yes, but I'll take it.
Wore the heart rate monitor to spin today. Quite the challenge. I was out of my zone even before I started warming up. I would adjust the tension, slow my cadence, it would come down a bit, but still out of the 55 to 70 % range it should have been in.
It wouldn't stop beeping. I resisted the urge to rip off the watch and toss it out the doorway into the outer room. I was getting nervous that it was going to flat line.
I spent a total of 6 minutes "in the zone," only about 13 percent of the time.
I think today was the slowest I have ever peddled a bike. And I don't think I have ever taken so many deep cleansing breaths to lower the heart rate. It was almost like yoga in on wheels.
Though I wasn't going very fast, all that concentrating and adjusting did cause me to break out into a nice sheen of sweat, as opposed to the deluge of moisture that usually accompanies my Thursday morning spins.
I was able to bend forward and touch the floor. Not palms flat on the mat, more like fingertips with pressure. Miniscule achievement, yes, but I'll take it.
Wore the heart rate monitor to spin today. Quite the challenge. I was out of my zone even before I started warming up. I would adjust the tension, slow my cadence, it would come down a bit, but still out of the 55 to 70 % range it should have been in.
It wouldn't stop beeping. I resisted the urge to rip off the watch and toss it out the doorway into the outer room. I was getting nervous that it was going to flat line.
I spent a total of 6 minutes "in the zone," only about 13 percent of the time.
I think today was the slowest I have ever peddled a bike. And I don't think I have ever taken so many deep cleansing breaths to lower the heart rate. It was almost like yoga in on wheels.
Though I wasn't going very fast, all that concentrating and adjusting did cause me to break out into a nice sheen of sweat, as opposed to the deluge of moisture that usually accompanies my Thursday morning spins.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Going Retro
I figure I can stop complaining about how sore my body is, because in reality, it’s not really sore at all. Sure there were a few days when movement was nearly impossible, but for the most part, I spend a lot of time marveling at how sore I am not. That means one of two things: I doing things right, or I’m doing them wrong.
With GymBuddy still in recovery, I figured Saturday was as good a day as any to attempt the 20/20/20 class (that and the guilt from ditching on Tuesday). The class is divided into 20 minutes of cardio drills, 20 minutes of kickboxing and 20 minutes of resistance training, not necessarily in that order, that is just the order in which I memorized the description from the gym pamphlet.
You can usually tell what you will be up to the moment you walk in because Deb has all of her equipment set up.
So I was greeted with the kickboxing bag. Fantastic! I am so digging the kickboxing class. I am nowhere near Chuck Norris perfection, but I enjoy working at.
Not nearly as psyched when she announced, as the class began, “All right, everyone go grab a jump rope!” in a voice that was just a little to enthusiastic for my pre-caffeinated psyche.
My jaw dropped. My facial expressions were a mixture of uncontrollable awe and outrage. Are you f$(#(@g kidding me? I was 9 years old when I last jumped rope, and that was at recess. Granted, then I could double Dutch like nobody’s business, but that was 24 years ago. Back when I had a jump rope, and a 20-minute break called recess.
Jumping when you are, say, 65-lbs is fun. Jumping rope when you are more than double weight is defies the laws of physics. Now, it’s more like trip rope, than jump rope. It took all the coordination I had. Wrists twirling, legs jumping. Jesus, there were going to be injuries.
I swear, if I had seen that jump rope when I walked it, I would have walked out. I said as much to Deb, and she told me she would have chased my sorry ass down the driveway and brought me back kicking and screaming. (That’s why I love her. She can deconstruct any excuse I may throw at her.)
One deep breath, a quiet prayer to any playground God that was listening, and I was off for . . . .two jumps. Landed smack on the rope. No one saw that. . . One more time. . . . Four jumps. One foot on the rope. Bound to dislocate a shoulder. No one saw that either.
But hey, wait a minute. This jump/trip thing is happening to everybody around the room, at various intervals. I don’t feel so bad.
I don’t know how long we lasted. That was just our warm up. Deb said the key was to be light on your feet and alternate feet rather than the two-foot jump. Light on your feet? I haven’t yet figured that out. Some people had, bouncing like there were springs attached to the feet, effortless. I caught myself in the mirror -- I looked like a mastodon pillaging a village. Nothing light or delicate about these feet.
Anyway, I survived the jump rope.
Oh, yeah, there was actually class, too. All things considered, it was worth pushing through the jump rope to get through the class, which was pleasantly enjoyable.
It’s now Tuesday. I’ve been a little slow in updating the blog, something I promise to work on.
Today was the return to instructor’s choice. Definitely much better on the second time around (except for the damn beat step. Simplest thing in the world, but damn if I can’t get it right. Throw in a tap, kick and I am all sorts of confused!).
Today was the first day with the heart rate monitor. It’s like a portable EKG machine -- a strap with the monitor goes around your chest, feels a bit like an underwire. I thought mine was nice and secure, until I bent over to pick up my t-shirt, the strap came undone, went flying across the room. My cat damn near lost a paw. Note to self: make sure the strap is securely fastened.
The readings are transmitted to a digital watch you can wear around your wrist.
I haven’t seen a digital watch since about the last time I jumped rope -- Fourth Grade. (Many things in my life have some Fourth Grade reference. That was the year my mother gave me a “shag” haricut and I looked like a pilgrim for my school photo; that was the year I lost my pants in gym during dodge ball. They were the greatest pair of jeans. They had a picture of Benji -- the poor man’s Lassie -- on the back pocket. The zipper was broken. We were playing Dodge Ball. I was the favored target. Every time I bent down, it would get drafty. I would have to run back to my corner and discreetly zip up. Well, on one duck, the snap went with the zipper (no buttons back then) and as I ran back to the corner, Benji slid down to my ankles, exposing my Tuesday labeled underwear on a Thursday morning. I’m still traumatized.)
When we were kids my brother had a friend with a speech impediment and was always so proud of his DIG - I - TELL watch. I think of Jimmy every time the alarm beeps.
Yes, there is an alarm, which after you program it, beeps when you break a range. I am not supposed to surpass 75% of my maximum heart rate. It didn’t take much to set the alarm off. I felt like a time bomb. Every few seconds the damn thing would beep.
The theory is that you don’t have to totally exhaust yourself to achieve calorie and fat burn. You can push yourself to a level that doesn’t give you much benefit. After today -- which my DIG - I - TELL watch informed me I spent 38%t of my workout “in the zone” -- I wonder if I got any benefit.
I used to measure a good workout by the amount of sweat and the strength of the odor coming off my body. I was barely winded. I could breathe, was a little sore from the lower body moves, but was working at a snail’s pace to keep my heart rate from maxing out.
This may take some getting used to.
With GymBuddy still in recovery, I figured Saturday was as good a day as any to attempt the 20/20/20 class (that and the guilt from ditching on Tuesday). The class is divided into 20 minutes of cardio drills, 20 minutes of kickboxing and 20 minutes of resistance training, not necessarily in that order, that is just the order in which I memorized the description from the gym pamphlet.
You can usually tell what you will be up to the moment you walk in because Deb has all of her equipment set up.
So I was greeted with the kickboxing bag. Fantastic! I am so digging the kickboxing class. I am nowhere near Chuck Norris perfection, but I enjoy working at.
Not nearly as psyched when she announced, as the class began, “All right, everyone go grab a jump rope!” in a voice that was just a little to enthusiastic for my pre-caffeinated psyche.
My jaw dropped. My facial expressions were a mixture of uncontrollable awe and outrage. Are you f$(#(@g kidding me? I was 9 years old when I last jumped rope, and that was at recess. Granted, then I could double Dutch like nobody’s business, but that was 24 years ago. Back when I had a jump rope, and a 20-minute break called recess.
Jumping when you are, say, 65-lbs is fun. Jumping rope when you are more than double weight is defies the laws of physics. Now, it’s more like trip rope, than jump rope. It took all the coordination I had. Wrists twirling, legs jumping. Jesus, there were going to be injuries.
I swear, if I had seen that jump rope when I walked it, I would have walked out. I said as much to Deb, and she told me she would have chased my sorry ass down the driveway and brought me back kicking and screaming. (That’s why I love her. She can deconstruct any excuse I may throw at her.)
One deep breath, a quiet prayer to any playground God that was listening, and I was off for . . . .two jumps. Landed smack on the rope. No one saw that. . . One more time. . . . Four jumps. One foot on the rope. Bound to dislocate a shoulder. No one saw that either.
But hey, wait a minute. This jump/trip thing is happening to everybody around the room, at various intervals. I don’t feel so bad.
I don’t know how long we lasted. That was just our warm up. Deb said the key was to be light on your feet and alternate feet rather than the two-foot jump. Light on your feet? I haven’t yet figured that out. Some people had, bouncing like there were springs attached to the feet, effortless. I caught myself in the mirror -- I looked like a mastodon pillaging a village. Nothing light or delicate about these feet.
Anyway, I survived the jump rope.
Oh, yeah, there was actually class, too. All things considered, it was worth pushing through the jump rope to get through the class, which was pleasantly enjoyable.
It’s now Tuesday. I’ve been a little slow in updating the blog, something I promise to work on.
Today was the return to instructor’s choice. Definitely much better on the second time around (except for the damn beat step. Simplest thing in the world, but damn if I can’t get it right. Throw in a tap, kick and I am all sorts of confused!).
Today was the first day with the heart rate monitor. It’s like a portable EKG machine -- a strap with the monitor goes around your chest, feels a bit like an underwire. I thought mine was nice and secure, until I bent over to pick up my t-shirt, the strap came undone, went flying across the room. My cat damn near lost a paw. Note to self: make sure the strap is securely fastened.
The readings are transmitted to a digital watch you can wear around your wrist.
I haven’t seen a digital watch since about the last time I jumped rope -- Fourth Grade. (Many things in my life have some Fourth Grade reference. That was the year my mother gave me a “shag” haricut and I looked like a pilgrim for my school photo; that was the year I lost my pants in gym during dodge ball. They were the greatest pair of jeans. They had a picture of Benji -- the poor man’s Lassie -- on the back pocket. The zipper was broken. We were playing Dodge Ball. I was the favored target. Every time I bent down, it would get drafty. I would have to run back to my corner and discreetly zip up. Well, on one duck, the snap went with the zipper (no buttons back then) and as I ran back to the corner, Benji slid down to my ankles, exposing my Tuesday labeled underwear on a Thursday morning. I’m still traumatized.)
When we were kids my brother had a friend with a speech impediment and was always so proud of his DIG - I - TELL watch. I think of Jimmy every time the alarm beeps.
Yes, there is an alarm, which after you program it, beeps when you break a range. I am not supposed to surpass 75% of my maximum heart rate. It didn’t take much to set the alarm off. I felt like a time bomb. Every few seconds the damn thing would beep.
The theory is that you don’t have to totally exhaust yourself to achieve calorie and fat burn. You can push yourself to a level that doesn’t give you much benefit. After today -- which my DIG - I - TELL watch informed me I spent 38%t of my workout “in the zone” -- I wonder if I got any benefit.
I used to measure a good workout by the amount of sweat and the strength of the odor coming off my body. I was barely winded. I could breathe, was a little sore from the lower body moves, but was working at a snail’s pace to keep my heart rate from maxing out.
This may take some getting used to.
Friday, January 25, 2008
The Difference Between 5:15 a.m. and 5:15 p.m.
One word: Guilt.
I faltered.
I woke up at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesday morning, setting my alarm the night before with the intent that I would go to the dreaded instructor’s choice class.
I can’t really say what went wrong there, other than I rolled over and went back to bed.
After, of course, a moment of pondering.
What seemed like a good reason for shutting the alarm off, rolling over and going back to sleep only looks like a weak excuse in the cold hard light of day.
5:15 a.m rationale: I have to work late tonight, 4 p.m. to 12 a.m., and Wednesday night, the same. I need my sleep to function. Sleep is good. No worries. Now back to Tom Brady and that dream . . .Where were we . . . . . .
5:15 p.m. rationale: I feel like crap. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe 6 a.m. was too early. I could have made 9:15 a.m. spinning. Ugh!!! Weakling . . . .Where are the cookies?
11:30 p.m.: Crap! I hoped my absence went unnoticed, but as I check my home e-mail, I see an e-mail from Deb Dushku at f.i.t., the subject line reading simply: “!” To anyone else that is just an exclamation point. But I know what it truly is: a bitch slap to my motivation. I hesitate to open it, but I do and it reads, “I can’t believe you didn’t come this morning! You let your brain beat you!”
Damn that gob of gray goo! She’s right. It did get the best of me, seducing me with the promise of sleep and Tom Brady – who I am not particularly attracted to in real life anyway. Gisele can keep him. Not really sure what that is about. . .
But I do appreciate the check-up. Now that I know I am considered a 6 a.m.’er, part of that elite pre-dawn club of fitness warriors and that my absence will be noticed, I’ll be there.
Though I am a few days removed from the Tuesday break down, I continue to rationalize. You see, GymBuddy is out of commission for a bit, thanks to her gall bladder, or as it is now, lack there of. Though she didn’t attend instructor’s choice the first time, and told me she would likely never, and she has bagged out on a few other classes (see previous posts), there was always the hope she would be there. Knowing there was no hope for that, it made getting out of bed that much harder.
Having traveled with her, and having seen her lumber into spinning on Thursday mornings, she truly is the definition of “not a morning person.” So I always showed up because I can only imagine bearing the brunt of her wrath were I not to.
Get well soon, GymBuddy! My fear of you is my motivation!
In all seriousness, Thursday morning spinning is not the same without you singing along next me!
I faltered.
I woke up at 5:15 a.m. on Tuesday morning, setting my alarm the night before with the intent that I would go to the dreaded instructor’s choice class.
I can’t really say what went wrong there, other than I rolled over and went back to bed.
After, of course, a moment of pondering.
What seemed like a good reason for shutting the alarm off, rolling over and going back to sleep only looks like a weak excuse in the cold hard light of day.
5:15 a.m rationale: I have to work late tonight, 4 p.m. to 12 a.m., and Wednesday night, the same. I need my sleep to function. Sleep is good. No worries. Now back to Tom Brady and that dream . . .Where were we . . . . . .
5:15 p.m. rationale: I feel like crap. What the hell was I thinking? Maybe 6 a.m. was too early. I could have made 9:15 a.m. spinning. Ugh!!! Weakling . . . .Where are the cookies?
11:30 p.m.: Crap! I hoped my absence went unnoticed, but as I check my home e-mail, I see an e-mail from Deb Dushku at f.i.t., the subject line reading simply: “!” To anyone else that is just an exclamation point. But I know what it truly is: a bitch slap to my motivation. I hesitate to open it, but I do and it reads, “I can’t believe you didn’t come this morning! You let your brain beat you!”
Damn that gob of gray goo! She’s right. It did get the best of me, seducing me with the promise of sleep and Tom Brady – who I am not particularly attracted to in real life anyway. Gisele can keep him. Not really sure what that is about. . .
But I do appreciate the check-up. Now that I know I am considered a 6 a.m.’er, part of that elite pre-dawn club of fitness warriors and that my absence will be noticed, I’ll be there.
Though I am a few days removed from the Tuesday break down, I continue to rationalize. You see, GymBuddy is out of commission for a bit, thanks to her gall bladder, or as it is now, lack there of. Though she didn’t attend instructor’s choice the first time, and told me she would likely never, and she has bagged out on a few other classes (see previous posts), there was always the hope she would be there. Knowing there was no hope for that, it made getting out of bed that much harder.
Having traveled with her, and having seen her lumber into spinning on Thursday mornings, she truly is the definition of “not a morning person.” So I always showed up because I can only imagine bearing the brunt of her wrath were I not to.
Get well soon, GymBuddy! My fear of you is my motivation!
In all seriousness, Thursday morning spinning is not the same without you singing along next me!
Friday, January 18, 2008
My Mission
I will master the push-up.
Allegedly the bent-knee modification is supposed to be easier, but I find the standard push-up to, in fact, be easier. But, it could be because I am doing it wrong.
I like to think I have a nice straight line, but occasionally I will catch a glimpse in the mirror and see some-sort of bastardized downward dog, which I like to call, “slouching puppy,” which apparently is not a recognized fitness posture.
It is also bad form to stare at the floor. You should be looking straight ahead. I find it necessary to look at the floor, just to calculate the rate of impact and how to avoid chipping a tooth or breaking my nose.
Once I have worked out that equation, I am usually looking down to figure out where the disconnect is between my brain and my arms. I’m not sure what part of “lower” they don’t understand. “Bend, dammit!” is also not an understood command. I know the message to lower is being sent, but it gets detoured and winds up at my hips. Again, the “hip-up” is not a recognized fitness move.
There are times when I believe I have accomplished a push-up, only to find that I am the master of illusion. There I am, struggling with all my might, shaking with the effort to lower myself, and just when I think I have achieved one, solid push-up, I check myself in the mirror only to find I have not moved. Not even budged. Chalk that one up to my overactive imagination.
As if the push-ups weren’t bad enough, there was a new move today, where we lay on our side, knees bent and in line with the hips, lower arm is curled up to touch the opposite shoulder, while upper arm is planted straight down, on the floor. The key is to raise your upper body from the floor, not with your abs, but with your arm.
I was pushing. I was pushing. I was pushing.
I was going nowhere.
Allegedly the bent-knee modification is supposed to be easier, but I find the standard push-up to, in fact, be easier. But, it could be because I am doing it wrong.
I like to think I have a nice straight line, but occasionally I will catch a glimpse in the mirror and see some-sort of bastardized downward dog, which I like to call, “slouching puppy,” which apparently is not a recognized fitness posture.
It is also bad form to stare at the floor. You should be looking straight ahead. I find it necessary to look at the floor, just to calculate the rate of impact and how to avoid chipping a tooth or breaking my nose.
Once I have worked out that equation, I am usually looking down to figure out where the disconnect is between my brain and my arms. I’m not sure what part of “lower” they don’t understand. “Bend, dammit!” is also not an understood command. I know the message to lower is being sent, but it gets detoured and winds up at my hips. Again, the “hip-up” is not a recognized fitness move.
There are times when I believe I have accomplished a push-up, only to find that I am the master of illusion. There I am, struggling with all my might, shaking with the effort to lower myself, and just when I think I have achieved one, solid push-up, I check myself in the mirror only to find I have not moved. Not even budged. Chalk that one up to my overactive imagination.
As if the push-ups weren’t bad enough, there was a new move today, where we lay on our side, knees bent and in line with the hips, lower arm is curled up to touch the opposite shoulder, while upper arm is planted straight down, on the floor. The key is to raise your upper body from the floor, not with your abs, but with your arm.
I was pushing. I was pushing. I was pushing.
I was going nowhere.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
Tested
Kickboxing on Monday kicked my butt -- I mean my gluteus maximus (not sure if this is the right spelling. As a writer, you would think I'd have a dictionary handy. . . ) is really sore, not sat-too-long-on-the-bicycle-seat sore, but a deeper hey-I-didn't-know-I-had-muscles-there kind of sore.
I never planned on going to a 6 a.m. class on Tuesdays. I work nights, so Tuesday is my day to sleep in. Except for today. I decided to try instructor's choice, which turned out to be a bad choice on my part.
When I say bad, I am not dissing the class -- it was a good class. It was bad because, for the first time, I wanted to quit. Grab my water bottle, bundle up. Exit stage right. Go back to bed.
I am used to grabbing equipment before class begins, but there was no equipment today. Just what God gave me. And I prayed that what was ahead of me was not a glorified elementary school gym class. I was seized by flashbacks -- of dodge ball, of running in place, of chin ups and suicide drills.
Then the music came on, the warm up began, and we started -- jumping rope with no rope, partial jumping jacks morphing into to full jumping jacks and back to jumping rope, repeating that series non-stop for what seemed like a thousand times.
The point was to work at a steady pace, keep my heart rate controlled. There was no friggin' way I could do that. I was dying. (really, not so much an exaggeration).
I had to stop. Everything was tightening up. The mind and body did not want to do this this morning. Then we added jumping jacks and a kickboxing jab. Again for eternity. Everything was slowing down. Everything was telling me to run to the bathroom, make an excuse, sneak out. DO NOT CONTINUE.
Except for that little voice that said, simply, No. Go slow if you have to. Do three , then rest. Do anything you need to do to not quit. I knew I would absolutely hate myself if I walked out.
So I carried on. 45 grueling minutes later -- tire runs, squats, push ups, working my abs from my legs up -- I was done.
Not gonna lie to you -- I hated it. But I felt good. I did not quit.
Now, a few hours later, the knees are grinding-- making a noise like I am walking on crushed rocks when I go up the stairs. That was the reason I gave up the treadmill --I could walk for miles, but could not climb the stairs to get out of my workout room. Nothing I have done so far has aggravated the knees, except this.
Maybe I can modfy it somehow. Maybe I will get used to it.
Dare I say it -- I'll see what happens next Tuesday.
I never planned on going to a 6 a.m. class on Tuesdays. I work nights, so Tuesday is my day to sleep in. Except for today. I decided to try instructor's choice, which turned out to be a bad choice on my part.
When I say bad, I am not dissing the class -- it was a good class. It was bad because, for the first time, I wanted to quit. Grab my water bottle, bundle up. Exit stage right. Go back to bed.
I am used to grabbing equipment before class begins, but there was no equipment today. Just what God gave me. And I prayed that what was ahead of me was not a glorified elementary school gym class. I was seized by flashbacks -- of dodge ball, of running in place, of chin ups and suicide drills.
Then the music came on, the warm up began, and we started -- jumping rope with no rope, partial jumping jacks morphing into to full jumping jacks and back to jumping rope, repeating that series non-stop for what seemed like a thousand times.
The point was to work at a steady pace, keep my heart rate controlled. There was no friggin' way I could do that. I was dying. (really, not so much an exaggeration).
I had to stop. Everything was tightening up. The mind and body did not want to do this this morning. Then we added jumping jacks and a kickboxing jab. Again for eternity. Everything was slowing down. Everything was telling me to run to the bathroom, make an excuse, sneak out. DO NOT CONTINUE.
Except for that little voice that said, simply, No. Go slow if you have to. Do three , then rest. Do anything you need to do to not quit. I knew I would absolutely hate myself if I walked out.
So I carried on. 45 grueling minutes later -- tire runs, squats, push ups, working my abs from my legs up -- I was done.
Not gonna lie to you -- I hated it. But I felt good. I did not quit.
Now, a few hours later, the knees are grinding-- making a noise like I am walking on crushed rocks when I go up the stairs. That was the reason I gave up the treadmill --I could walk for miles, but could not climb the stairs to get out of my workout room. Nothing I have done so far has aggravated the knees, except this.
Maybe I can modfy it somehow. Maybe I will get used to it.
Dare I say it -- I'll see what happens next Tuesday.
Saturday, January 12, 2008
ZUMBA!!!!!!
Me Like Zumba!
Something about the word Zumba makes me feel like channeling Cookie Monster.
Zumba, a Latin dance-inspired cardio workout, was the offering this morning, led by Ann Saldi, the Master Instructor of New England.
First, I DON’T dance.
Anymore.
As a kid, I used to square dance, but that’s all Alabam-lefts, daisy chains and yee-haws -- basically line dancing couples grouped in fours. I can still do a mean do-si-do, but it’s far from the Cha-Cha, droppin’ it low and pattin’ my weave.
I’m an American mutt – mostly Irish and French Canadian, which usually means just add alcohol (music optional) for the dancing to begin. The booze probably doesn’t mean I dance any better, it just makes me feel like I’m on Fame, and I am going to live forever.
But I digress. . . .
Latin dancing involves a lot of hip action, and I’ve got a lotta hip to activate. It all looks so fluid – feet stepping, hips swaying, but I felt like I was dancing in Super Glue. My mind is willing, but my body is so damn rigid when it comes to movement.
Once I got passed my self-consciousness and realized that we were all “Zumba Virgins,” I could let go and have some sweaty, clumsy fun. I could shake it. And it kept on shaking, even when I stopped.
Toward the end of class, I was getting’ my groove on, finding my own suburban-white-girl-American-mutt rhythm. Doin’ some salsa, some mambo, even a teensy bit of hip hop.
Note to Beyonce: Look out biotch. I’m right behind you. . . .
Something about the word Zumba makes me feel like channeling Cookie Monster.
Zumba, a Latin dance-inspired cardio workout, was the offering this morning, led by Ann Saldi, the Master Instructor of New England.
First, I DON’T dance.
Anymore.
As a kid, I used to square dance, but that’s all Alabam-lefts, daisy chains and yee-haws -- basically line dancing couples grouped in fours. I can still do a mean do-si-do, but it’s far from the Cha-Cha, droppin’ it low and pattin’ my weave.
I’m an American mutt – mostly Irish and French Canadian, which usually means just add alcohol (music optional) for the dancing to begin. The booze probably doesn’t mean I dance any better, it just makes me feel like I’m on Fame, and I am going to live forever.
But I digress. . . .
Latin dancing involves a lot of hip action, and I’ve got a lotta hip to activate. It all looks so fluid – feet stepping, hips swaying, but I felt like I was dancing in Super Glue. My mind is willing, but my body is so damn rigid when it comes to movement.
Once I got passed my self-consciousness and realized that we were all “Zumba Virgins,” I could let go and have some sweaty, clumsy fun. I could shake it. And it kept on shaking, even when I stopped.
Toward the end of class, I was getting’ my groove on, finding my own suburban-white-girl-American-mutt rhythm. Doin’ some salsa, some mambo, even a teensy bit of hip hop.
Note to Beyonce: Look out biotch. I’m right behind you. . . .
Friday, January 11, 2008
Spinning in Paradise
For this week’s class we were to mentally transport ourselves to a tropical island for a hot ride.
Enter Jimmy Buffet.
First the good news: I peddled standing up!
For about two minutes during a jump drill (stand/sit).
That was it. The thighs were shaking, and I had an entire island yet to cover.
However, next time I go to an island, I want a drink in my hand and my ass in a chaise.
Enter Jimmy Buffet.
First the good news: I peddled standing up!
For about two minutes during a jump drill (stand/sit).
That was it. The thighs were shaking, and I had an entire island yet to cover.
However, next time I go to an island, I want a drink in my hand and my ass in a chaise.
Complete Cycle
Wednesday marked one week at the gym: one full rotation of yoga, spinning, muscle conditioning and kickboxing.
GymBuddy joined me at yoga this week, albeit briefly due to a deficit in her time telling ability.
I noticed this week, that I was actually able to flow from pose to pose, as the name of the class implies: FLOW yoga.
With one week behind me, I was able to concentrate on the movement and the poses, rather than learn them. Don’t get me wrong, I am still learning as I go, but they are becoming more familiar. Now that I am not struggling so much with where my feet and hands need to be, I can actually flow. I am rather proud of my warrior poses. I feel like Xena, the Princess Warrior.
This week brought something new: the side plank pose. Not sure if that is the official name, God knows I should know it, given the amount of times I have stared at magazine layouts wondering how those models seemingly defy gravity, and usually with a smile.
To accomplish this, you have to lift/balance yourself one your right hand and right foot, rotating your body to the side. When complete, you look like the diagonal arm of a triangle -- your right arm extended and your body descending down to your feet. The slowly raise your left arm to the ceiling.
All of which I was able to do. Momentarily. My arm started to shake, and then, at the most inopportune time, my labrynthitis kicked in, enabling me to flow into my next move: the yoga belly-flop. Thankfully, the lights were off so the visual collapse was hidden, but not much could be done about the great OOMPH!
I will say briefly, by way of an explanation, that labrynthitis (not even sure if I am spelling this right) is an inner thing that I can best describe as a great, but brief, wash of dizziness. I’m still getting used to dealing with it, which came upon me suddenly last year. The dizziness itself lasts no longer than the snap of a finger. Those little finger-snaps of dizziness can last a few days, a few weeks or a few months, and are usually prompted by slightest movement, such as just shifting my eyes. I can never tell, just as I can never predict when they will start.
It’s been a few months now since the last bout, but side plank pose was just not the right time to return.
Back to yoga.
By the time we shifted to the other side of the body, I was begging for some chanting and the sound of little finger cymbals. Can I please get an “OHM?”
Not likely. This is yoga is not for the touchy-feely.
Or the dizzy.
GymBuddy joined me at yoga this week, albeit briefly due to a deficit in her time telling ability.
I noticed this week, that I was actually able to flow from pose to pose, as the name of the class implies: FLOW yoga.
With one week behind me, I was able to concentrate on the movement and the poses, rather than learn them. Don’t get me wrong, I am still learning as I go, but they are becoming more familiar. Now that I am not struggling so much with where my feet and hands need to be, I can actually flow. I am rather proud of my warrior poses. I feel like Xena, the Princess Warrior.
This week brought something new: the side plank pose. Not sure if that is the official name, God knows I should know it, given the amount of times I have stared at magazine layouts wondering how those models seemingly defy gravity, and usually with a smile.
To accomplish this, you have to lift/balance yourself one your right hand and right foot, rotating your body to the side. When complete, you look like the diagonal arm of a triangle -- your right arm extended and your body descending down to your feet. The slowly raise your left arm to the ceiling.
All of which I was able to do. Momentarily. My arm started to shake, and then, at the most inopportune time, my labrynthitis kicked in, enabling me to flow into my next move: the yoga belly-flop. Thankfully, the lights were off so the visual collapse was hidden, but not much could be done about the great OOMPH!
I will say briefly, by way of an explanation, that labrynthitis (not even sure if I am spelling this right) is an inner thing that I can best describe as a great, but brief, wash of dizziness. I’m still getting used to dealing with it, which came upon me suddenly last year. The dizziness itself lasts no longer than the snap of a finger. Those little finger-snaps of dizziness can last a few days, a few weeks or a few months, and are usually prompted by slightest movement, such as just shifting my eyes. I can never tell, just as I can never predict when they will start.
It’s been a few months now since the last bout, but side plank pose was just not the right time to return.
Back to yoga.
By the time we shifted to the other side of the body, I was begging for some chanting and the sound of little finger cymbals. Can I please get an “OHM?”
Not likely. This is yoga is not for the touchy-feely.
Or the dizzy.
Monday, January 7, 2008
Day 4: Kickboxing
Dear God, I looked like a ragdoll in a windstorm.
There was nothing pretty about this.
Left jab. Right jab. Got that. Jab, upper-cut combo. Got that. Hook, upper-cut combo. Got that, too.
Add kicks. Don't got that. Goes back to that whole coordination thing.
I started off strong, but by the time we added the kicks, I had hooks and jabs flying, but could barely get my legs off the ground for a good kick. I mean, a chihauha on a fire hydrant can lift its leg higher off the ground to pee than I can to kick.
Then I get flustered, loose my concentration. Forget my lefts from rights. I've got arms going everywhere and legs that want to go nowhere.
Deb, my instrcutor, says it comes in time. All of this is a learned behavior. I need kickboxing SPED.
But, I feel good. It felt good to get sweat in my eyes, despite the stinging. It felt good to feel my blood pumping though my body, and feel like my face was in an oven. It felt good to know that my fists, if nothing else, landed on the bag with a vengeance.
Now, the rug burn on my elbows, not so good. The cool down started with a yoga plank pose, bending the knees only to tap the floor and then straigtening again. Seems I was putting all my weight on my elbows and not spreading it out to my toes. Let's hope this clears up by yoga time on Wednesday.
There was nothing pretty about this.
Left jab. Right jab. Got that. Jab, upper-cut combo. Got that. Hook, upper-cut combo. Got that, too.
Add kicks. Don't got that. Goes back to that whole coordination thing.
I started off strong, but by the time we added the kicks, I had hooks and jabs flying, but could barely get my legs off the ground for a good kick. I mean, a chihauha on a fire hydrant can lift its leg higher off the ground to pee than I can to kick.
Then I get flustered, loose my concentration. Forget my lefts from rights. I've got arms going everywhere and legs that want to go nowhere.
Deb, my instrcutor, says it comes in time. All of this is a learned behavior. I need kickboxing SPED.
But, I feel good. It felt good to get sweat in my eyes, despite the stinging. It felt good to feel my blood pumping though my body, and feel like my face was in an oven. It felt good to know that my fists, if nothing else, landed on the bag with a vengeance.
Now, the rug burn on my elbows, not so good. The cool down started with a yoga plank pose, bending the knees only to tap the floor and then straigtening again. Seems I was putting all my weight on my elbows and not spreading it out to my toes. Let's hope this clears up by yoga time on Wednesday.
Sunday, January 6, 2008
Dawn of the Dead
I am moving like a zombie -- stiff legged with bulging eyes.
The legs are from the squats, the eyes, the pain in my thighs.
I am talking can't-bend-my-knees-or-sit-to-pee kind of soreness. I just sort of stand and straddle. Maybe I should have titled this: "My Weekend as a Man."
The legs are from the squats, the eyes, the pain in my thighs.
I am talking can't-bend-my-knees-or-sit-to-pee kind of soreness. I just sort of stand and straddle. Maybe I should have titled this: "My Weekend as a Man."
Friday, January 4, 2008
Day 3: Muscle Conditioning -- I Feel the Burn
I have met the enemy, and it is rubber: The resistance band.
I think I need start slow with this one. Perhaps start with a shoe string and work my way up through office supply-grade elastic. And then move to fitness rubber.
I made the acquaintance of the weighted bar. I think it was originally developed by intelligence officials as a form of “intensive interrogation.” With each squat I wanted to cry, “Please stop. I know no national secrets.” Starting level: 2.5 lb weights on either end. It’s only up from here.
Next up, dumbbells. I’ve used then before, in fact earlier this year I could have said I use 10 lb weights regularly, but oh, how the mighty have fallen! I am starting at the bottom with 3 lb dumbbells. But the difference is that I am no longer cheating. When you use them properly, those 3 lb dumbbells might as well be 30-lbs.
I know I should feel no shame, but they are florescent green. I’m pumping a glow stick, while everybody else is pumping iron.
My dream is to have arms like Linda Hamilton, circa Terminator 2. It won’t happen overnight, but hopefully something will sprout by summer.
Inhale . . . .patience. Exhale . . . .I will improve with time. Focus. They will be back . . . .
I was warned by my instructor that I will be sore in the morning. That was at 6:45 a.m. Night has just fallen, my body has decided not to wait to a full 24 hours to react. The only thing not sore is my fingertips, so I will stop now for fear of straining them, too.
I think I need start slow with this one. Perhaps start with a shoe string and work my way up through office supply-grade elastic. And then move to fitness rubber.
I made the acquaintance of the weighted bar. I think it was originally developed by intelligence officials as a form of “intensive interrogation.” With each squat I wanted to cry, “Please stop. I know no national secrets.” Starting level: 2.5 lb weights on either end. It’s only up from here.
Next up, dumbbells. I’ve used then before, in fact earlier this year I could have said I use 10 lb weights regularly, but oh, how the mighty have fallen! I am starting at the bottom with 3 lb dumbbells. But the difference is that I am no longer cheating. When you use them properly, those 3 lb dumbbells might as well be 30-lbs.
I know I should feel no shame, but they are florescent green. I’m pumping a glow stick, while everybody else is pumping iron.
My dream is to have arms like Linda Hamilton, circa Terminator 2. It won’t happen overnight, but hopefully something will sprout by summer.
Inhale . . . .patience. Exhale . . . .I will improve with time. Focus. They will be back . . . .
I was warned by my instructor that I will be sore in the morning. That was at 6:45 a.m. Night has just fallen, my body has decided not to wait to a full 24 hours to react. The only thing not sore is my fingertips, so I will stop now for fear of straining them, too.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
The Begining
I could have asked my husband for anything for Christmas, but what I really wanted was a gym membership.
I searched high and low for a place that felt right, and tried a class with a friend at a small group fitness center -- f.i.t. (First in Training) in Hopedale. I loved it. So now I prepare for the journey -- on a bike, on a mat or on a bag. Whatever the road brings I am up for it.
Already I find myself saying things I never thought I would ever hear come out of my mouth: "I'm taking a spin class" ; "I have a kickboxing class in the morning."
To understand the wonder of this is to know me; to know that I have a hard enough time doing simple things simultaneously, like, say, typing and writing, and that grace is not something that comes naturally to me. And the most stunning thing of all is not the activity, but the fact that it is a group activity. I am one who does not like to feel vulnerable in public. (Warning to self: Success at the gym may lead to dancing in public. * GASP* Well, only if success at the gym somehow breeds the knowledge of how to boogie.)
Kickboxing is a work in progress, I am still pretty much all legs and arms akimbo, but a good instructor is key. Knowing before I even put on my gloves that it was OK not to be able to keep up with the rest of the class, was a relief. And to know that she wasn't afraid to stop and show me how to do things right BEFORE I say "OWW!" is also a great help.
So after taking a few drop-in courses to feel it out, I am now an official member, and I started this week.
Encouragement and tips are welcome, and maybe I can return the favor.
How have a first two classes gone?
Day 1: Yoga. Multi-level flow yoga, to be precise.
Holy Mother of Mary my body doesn't move! The next time anyone thinks yoga is easy, try the bow position: get on all fours, bend your left knee up and reach back with your right hand and grab-- yes, grab -- your left ankle. Don't shift your weight, and hold if for five breaths. 5 BREATHS!!!!? I'm too busy trying not to bring all 150 lbs of me down on my face, I'm am getting a Charlie Horse in my thigh, and you want me to freakin' breathe? I returned to all fours and admired those who can do it.
What I learned: This is going to take a lot of patience, but I am determined. And that I am 5'3'': 5-feet of ass and leg, and 3-inches boobs, shoulder and head. Yup, folks, someone stole my middle! With those proportions I believe it is a definite impossibility that I will ever be able to "hinge forward at the waist" while standing and place my palms flat on the floor. So like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, I am hoping the miracle of yoga will lengthen my spine and make me a piece of putty.
Day 2: Spin
o'dark:30. (5:30 a.m.) 5 degrees. I went to bed in Bellingham, Massachusetts and I woke up in North Dakota. Why am I doing this? It's coming back to me know: legs, waist, and the chance to have a torso through the yoga miracle . . .
Today is spinning. A fancy name for "stationary bike ride and sore ass." You can put three-feet of gel on top of that seat and your whooo is still going to hurt. I am praying for the day I can stand up in the saddle to give my butt a much needed break. Hear that knees? You will have to learn how to pump a 45-lb wheel and 150lbs of me. We'll work up to it slowly.
For now, let's relish the accomplishment: 45-minutes of constant peddling, at varying intensities. I did not throw-up.
I will be standing for the rest of the day.
I searched high and low for a place that felt right, and tried a class with a friend at a small group fitness center -- f.i.t. (First in Training) in Hopedale. I loved it. So now I prepare for the journey -- on a bike, on a mat or on a bag. Whatever the road brings I am up for it.
Already I find myself saying things I never thought I would ever hear come out of my mouth: "I'm taking a spin class" ; "I have a kickboxing class in the morning."
To understand the wonder of this is to know me; to know that I have a hard enough time doing simple things simultaneously, like, say, typing and writing, and that grace is not something that comes naturally to me. And the most stunning thing of all is not the activity, but the fact that it is a group activity. I am one who does not like to feel vulnerable in public. (Warning to self: Success at the gym may lead to dancing in public. * GASP* Well, only if success at the gym somehow breeds the knowledge of how to boogie.)
Kickboxing is a work in progress, I am still pretty much all legs and arms akimbo, but a good instructor is key. Knowing before I even put on my gloves that it was OK not to be able to keep up with the rest of the class, was a relief. And to know that she wasn't afraid to stop and show me how to do things right BEFORE I say "OWW!" is also a great help.
So after taking a few drop-in courses to feel it out, I am now an official member, and I started this week.
Encouragement and tips are welcome, and maybe I can return the favor.
How have a first two classes gone?
Day 1: Yoga. Multi-level flow yoga, to be precise.
Holy Mother of Mary my body doesn't move! The next time anyone thinks yoga is easy, try the bow position: get on all fours, bend your left knee up and reach back with your right hand and grab-- yes, grab -- your left ankle. Don't shift your weight, and hold if for five breaths. 5 BREATHS!!!!? I'm too busy trying not to bring all 150 lbs of me down on my face, I'm am getting a Charlie Horse in my thigh, and you want me to freakin' breathe? I returned to all fours and admired those who can do it.
What I learned: This is going to take a lot of patience, but I am determined. And that I am 5'3'': 5-feet of ass and leg, and 3-inches boobs, shoulder and head. Yup, folks, someone stole my middle! With those proportions I believe it is a definite impossibility that I will ever be able to "hinge forward at the waist" while standing and place my palms flat on the floor. So like the miracle of the loaves and fishes, I am hoping the miracle of yoga will lengthen my spine and make me a piece of putty.
Day 2: Spin
o'dark:30. (5:30 a.m.) 5 degrees. I went to bed in Bellingham, Massachusetts and I woke up in North Dakota. Why am I doing this? It's coming back to me know: legs, waist, and the chance to have a torso through the yoga miracle . . .
Today is spinning. A fancy name for "stationary bike ride and sore ass." You can put three-feet of gel on top of that seat and your whooo is still going to hurt. I am praying for the day I can stand up in the saddle to give my butt a much needed break. Hear that knees? You will have to learn how to pump a 45-lb wheel and 150lbs of me. We'll work up to it slowly.
For now, let's relish the accomplishment: 45-minutes of constant peddling, at varying intensities. I did not throw-up.
I will be standing for the rest of the day.
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