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Posts Tagged ‘The Gym’

Aging gracelessly

One of the many great things about my job is that I’m sometimes off on Fridays.

“Sometimes” doesn’t happen very often though. In fact, the last time was October 2010, I think.

When I am off, I go to the YMCA for the line-dancing class.

(Yes, I like line dancing and country music.)

Eleanor, the cranky cottonhead, was there, as were Martha and Jan. They were thrilled to have fresh blood.

They were impressed with my mad dance skilz. I guess it becomes difficult to successfully complete a grapevine once you hit 70.

And then they informed me that I really needed to see “Menopause The Musical” at the Lucas Theatre.

How old do I look?

Subtract a few dozen people and that's the class.

Don’t answer that.

Combine this experience with my last post and you’ll see a trend. There’s also the fact that Eddie and I had an overnight sitter last night, but were still in bed by 10:30.

What is happening to my life?!?

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‘Twas five days before Christmas when all through our house,
All creatures were stirring, except for a mouse.

In Naveen’s belly* it rested, all squeezed to a pulp.
(The boys loved watching the snake grab it and gulp.)

The children denied attempts to put them to bed —
Optimus, Bumblebee filling their heads.

And I with my chicken and Eddie with his dog
Had just settled down with some spiked eggnog

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.

Away to the front door we flew like a flash.
In our bare feet, we looked like white trash.

Out on the driveway something made our eyes hurt:
The guy next door again wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Then what to our watering eyes did appear,
But a strange being — just whom was not clear.

What this being was bearing gave me pause:
Poorly written signs? Must be Santa Clause!

More rapid than Bob Ross, these signs he produced,
And shouted the many mistakes he deduced:

“No comma! No period! And what’s with the quotes?
A misspelling here – Just see what they wrote!”

To the step of the porch he came with his haul.
“Let’s slash away, slash away, slash away all.”

“Get me your stylebook, and Strunk and White too.
They must learn the difference between whom and who.”

Eddie looked at us and in a manner quite snide,
Said, “You two have at it, I’m going inside.”

And then in a twinkling, I fetched my Mac Air
And my iPhone as a camera to capture signs there.

As I drew closer to my mysterious guest,
I noticed something odd: He was kind of a mess.

He was dressed all in things that I write about
From snack food to rednecks – how’d he find out?

A bundle of Utz chips he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a vendor, just opening his pack.

A mask – just like Batman! His shoes? Birkenstocks!
His jeans were jacked up, Dixie flag as a top!

His mouth was covered in hot cheeto dust
And the beard of his chin was colored like rust.

The stump of a Sharpie he held tight in his yap,
To give to the kids for their skin art crap.

He had a broad face, around which headphones
Blasting some KISS – thank God — not the Stones!

He was chubby and plump – hadn’t been to the gym.
So I suggested that later I’d go there with him.

He winked with his eye, then his head he did nod,
And I knew right then he’d been reading my blog!

We spoke not a word, but went straight to our work.
“If we fix all these signs, does that make us two jerks?”

Laying his writing hand aside of his knee,
He nodded his head, and we laughed with glee!

It took us a while; we edited with passion.
Then he left – but I have loads of blog rations!

I heard him exclaim ‘fore he strode out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good write!”

* Naveen is the ball python we are snake-sitting for the break

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Not quite ready for MMA*

You may have noticed in my posts about going to the dreaded gym that I had not attended a kickboxing class. And kickboxing is kind of a staple of every group class lineup.

OK, I was afraid.

And it seemed weird because that’s what Eddie teaches at Club SCAD. I’m not about to take one of his classes, for reasons that are probably obvious to married couples.

That all changed Tuesday when the kickboxing groupies at the Y sort of swept me into that class after the “Awesome Abs” class. I rationalized it as a good way to continue lowering my cholesterol. (The doctor said my elevated cholesterol could be genetics, or might not be. That’s doctor-speak for “Put down the bacon, Woman.”)

I lasted 30 minutes in the class. There was a lot of kicking and pseudo-boxing, naturally, and some jumping jacks, which equaled uncomfortable jiggling.

That could be me in the green, checking to make sure the leg's not broken.

The moves were easier to pick up than Zumba, so I think I might grow to like it.

I’ll just wear a better bra.

 

* Mixed martial arts

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Gideon has been very interested in music lately, and I’ve been playing all sorts of music for him. I try to give him a little history of the song and the artist as we’re listening.

I’ve been feeling very Jack Black from “School of Rock” (which I watched again today).

My musical taste is all over the place — everything except rap and classical. Yet I’m afraid my favorite songs can be classified as white girl music.

To illustrate this, and to make a cheap ploy to get comments on my blog (even if they mock me), here is the list of songs I listen to in hell (ie. The Gym).

I refuse to be ashamed that Britney Spears and Hanson are on this list. Let the mocking begin.

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Rejecting the rejector

My fat took the letter well, and seems to be going away quietly. At least according to the YMCA scale, which reveals that there’s five pounds less of me.

Yay.

The miracle of eating heathfully and exercising more. What a novel concept!

Since I began my exercise class extravaganza, I’ve also invested in more appropriate outfits to replace my T-shirts and sweats.

My taste runs more along the lines of this:

Rebecca Romijn, appropriately clothed

rather than this:

Kim Kardashian. Oh HELL no.

And you will NEVER catch me dressed like this, even if I manage to lose every single ounce of fat:

Jamie Lee Curtis in "Perfect," wearing an outfit looking not-so-perfect in the glow of 2010

Struggling through the torture of “Awesome Abs” today also helped tamp down a minor disappointment: McSweeney’s* did not like my open letter as much as my friends did.

 

Oh well. Rejection is nothing new for a writer.

Ever tried. Ever failed. No matter. Try again. Fail again. Fail better.
~Samuel Beckett
Or, alternatively,
I discovered that rejections are not altogether a bad thing. They teach a writer to rely on his own judgment and to say in his heart of hearts, ‘To hell with you.’ ~Saul Bellow

 

* A friend suggested I submit it for their “Open letters to people or entities who are unlikely to respond” section.


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An open letter to my fat

Dear Body Fat:

We’ve been inseparable for years, ever since we started hanging out while I was pregnant with my first child. I must admit that I did not like you at first, but you grew on me. Soon we started doing everything together: clothes shopping, sitting on the couch watching TV, and eating. It seems our relationship really revolves around meals, doesn’t it? Meals, and the Beer of the Month Club membership, of course.

I know you may not want to hear this, but it is time for me to move on. I think you began to suspect as much when I started writing down the substance of the meals we shared. I know you had hope for our relationship during Trish’s birthday weekend. I’m sorry if the beer, butterbeer, margaritas and mixed drinks gave you the wrong impression. It was my way of celebrating the choice to say goodbye to you.

You may have thought Zumba was a passing phase. And why wouldn’t you? You know me so well, and know that I loathe group exercise situations. But that should really prove to you that I am done with you for good. If Zumba didn’t raise a red flag, then I know the MVE Pilates class did. I felt you quaking during that class, and I’m sure it was from fear.

I’m sorry, but our relationship really is over. I’m ready to meet up again with dress sizes I haven’t seen in years. I’m ready to feel happy about photo opportunities. I’m ready to breathe evenly after climbing a flight of stairs.

I wish you all the best, and I’m sure you will find someone new who will love you more that I ever did.

Sincerely,
Beth

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I finally had a Friday off and I spent most of it going to two more group exercise classes: Pilates and Line Dancing. (In case you are counting, that makes five group sessions this week. Five!)

To me, Pilates is what we used to call “calisthenics” back in the ’80s. We weren’t all fancy then. All we had was Jane Fonda and her legwarmers.

Now there are balls, mats, elastic bands, weights, etc. At this class, there was also a sweaty, inflexible man next to me who grunted as he exhaled. Jane never grunted. I don’t think she ever sweated either.

By the time my abs were screaming a sound only dogs could hear, it was time for the next class. Even though it’s supposedly geared toward seniors, I was excited about line dancing. I still mourn the death of Stetsons on Mall Boulevard, which is where, many years ago, I two-stepped my little heart out a couple of times a week.

The class consisted of the instructor, me and two other ladies. I had what I never want in a group exercise session: individual attention. And I was the youngest by at least 20 years.

Subtract two, add me, and that's the class.

At least I didn’t complain. Eleanor complained. Loudly. About a variety of things. Some elderly ladies seem sweet and kind, like Betty White. Eleanor was like Betty White’s older, bitter, spinster sister.

I shouldn’t judge, though. At least she was there and trying to stay active. Rock on, cranky cottonhead!

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Working my way through the YMCA group class schedule makes me feel like a certain girl who has a fondness for bears (and breaking and entering).

Stacie’s Zumba class was too fast.
Bobbi’s Zumba class was too slow (and filled with snotty women).
Ellen’s MVE Pilates class may be just right.

I’ll still go to the Zumba classes — snotty be damned — but I may go more often to MVE Pilates. MVE stands for “maximum versatility exercise” and there is a torture device involved: a special chair for all kinds of acrobatic work.

I did this maneuver, but with much less grace.

Oh HELL no.

























After 15 minutes of Cirque du Soleil, I was questioning my sanity. After 30 minutes of trying various “poses,” including the especially heinous one that is pictured second from the right in the collage below, I had sweat dripping off my nose. My nose! And my nose was running too!

But the instructor and other victims were very nice and helpful, and I feel like I got a great workout. And I didn’t die. So I’ll be back.

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Zumba is the devil. Zumba kicked my ass. Kicked. My. Ass.

For those of you who don’t know, Zumba is like Broadway choreography set to Latin music. Here’s an “official” definition.

Maybe the moves are “easy to follow” for the other 99.9 percent of the population, but I couldn’t even make the drill team in high school. And they didn’t have a full squad even after I tried out, if that tells you something.

Thankfully, this fellow was not my instructor.

I felt like a “Fantasia” hippo thrown in with the Rockettes.

Me

Them


















I’m not completely inept, it just takes me a while to learn choreography. Once I learn it, I won’t forget. But it is hard to learn when your life is flashing before your eyes.

There were weights involved also. And mats. And Desperate Housewives in cute workout clothes. I’m so glad my friend Keisha was there for a reality check. And to make sure I was breathing.

See the guy in the back? Kindred spirit.

I’m proud to say I made it through without blacking out. My face was Pantone 187, though.

It is the color I imagine Hell to be. Zumba, I’ll see you in Hell on Monday!

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I went to the gym today.

Anyone who knows me knows that’s a big deal.

I haven’t set foot in a gym (with the intention of working out) in about 15 years.

It wasn’t concern for my padded hide that drove me there. It was concern for my slender wallet.

We joined the YMCA this summer so that Dominic and Gideon could take swimming lessons. On the tour, I saw the weight room and the class schedule, and became optimistic that I could actually start going to the gym. When they said they provided childcare, I almost shouted, “Sold!”

Well, you can guess what happened: Life intervened.

I got the renewal notice in the mail this week, and told Eddie that two weeks of swimming lessons set us back about $500.

Before I renew anything, I decided I really needed to feel the burn — and not just the burn of lost money.

The girl at the Y’s front desk had to help me get in because I couldn’t even remember our member number.

This is not me. I don't even own clothes like this.

Once inside, I dropped the kids off at “kid fit,” and I introduced myself to the elliptical machine. I managed to hang on for 45 minutes without barfing. It wasn’t the exertion, but the smell of Gramps next to me.

When I first got a whiff, I was afraid it was me. I was suitably horrified. Then Gramps sped up and moved around the air a little more. I got another snootful of the aromatic blend of sobaco and culo, with a bit of aged shirt stink for extra flavor.

And anyone who knows me knows that if I could smell it, it had to be bad.

So I fled. I rinsed off, picked up the boys, and we went swimming for a while. As we left the Y, I smiled at the girl at the front desk. Maybe she won’t have to help me next time. Yes, next time.

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