Tag: Exercise

Fashion, Friends, Health, Humor, Husband, Money, Shopping, Working Out

This. And That.

“Good God, woman, where have you been?” he cried furiously.
A morbid lunacy overtook her.  She smiled fiercely and held up the bag.
“Shopping.  Want to see what I bought?”
– Lois McMaster Bujold

My wallet is now under permanent lock-down.  Because of going to That Show, I bought this and this (the latter for my sister-in-law’s upcoming wedding), but unfortunately not this because it did not look at all good on a less-than-five-foot woman.  I looked a frilly mess.

Pictured: the THAT in question.

Then, the other day, Venice called me (from two doors down in her flat) and said I had to come over right now.  I obligingly threw on some basketball shorts and scampered on over only to behold this. 
“Where did you get that?!” I screeched in excitement. 
“From that place we hate,” she triumphed.
“You’re kidding!”
“Nope.  For $87.00!”
“I NEED THAT!”

The next step was to get J. to agree.  I pitched it as the perfect solution to this problem, which has been exacerbated since getting married as the only time I really get to see my husband is the time I used to go to the gym.  I pinky-promised my way through the usual litany of bargains (to use it everyday, not to be a little grump when he reminds me that I haven’t worked out that day, etc.) and expounded its virtues (it’s cheap, it’s nice and small – C. sized! – it’s light, and it’s portable for future moves). 

If anything else, the sheer guilt that would come from having that sitting in my house (staring at me) will motivate me to use it.  It’s easy to ignore the gym when it’s not sitting in your living room!  So, with J.’s consent, I bought it. 

I really think this could be a solution to my exercise problem.  After coming home from work in the evening to feed this guy, coupled with the desire to enjoy this, and the lack of desire to drive back to campus to deal with this, the idea that I could work out in my own home sounds pretty darn good. 

What do you think of this plan, darlings? 

**And by the way, if I start talking about buying anything else in the near future, jump me, steal and hide my wallet, and under no circumstances return it to me.

Health, Holidays, Humor, Husband, Working Out

Self. Denial.

“You should give up hamburgers for Lent.”
“Why on earth would I do that?”
“Well, I’m giving up something bad for me, so you should too.  Be supportive.”
“I’m giving up smoking.”
“You don’t bloody smoke!”
“See?  I’ve improved myself already.”
– C. and J.

I’m at a loss.  New Year, the time for such bursts of ardent revamping passed without so much as a guilty twinge.  The number on the scale creeping upwards gave me pause, but not enough.  The subtle tightening of my trousers was acknowledged, but then dismissed (though oddly enough my shirts displayed no such variance).  No no, friends.  What gets C. back into the gym, swearing off junk food and dedicating herself anew to salads?  

Alright, I'll work out. I'LL WORK OUT!

Lent. 

Of course I’m not going down by myself so J. has been bugged, hounded, and generally harassed until he agreed to give up Mountain Dew (though not all sodas, he would like it noted).  He’s also being dragged to the gym with me to keep me on the straight and narrow.  I got on an elliptical machine today for the first time in six months and clocked nearly three miles before doing a half hour of weights, so I forsee the traditional Lenten feelings approaching tomorrow: sorrow, remorse, and reliance on prayer to get one through. 

I’m already craving sugar.  Keep me strong, friends!

Humor, Shameful, Work

Get A Grip…

“‘You could always try relaxing.’
Relaxing!  She was way too hyper!”
-Marian Keyes

My arch nemesis!)
My arch nemesis!)

Long ago I discovered that I work best when I frame my life projects and goals as battles to be won (yes, I am Napolean reincarnated).  Thus my life is tiny parade of tiny crusades that I participate in valiantly and no one really cares about but me.  Case in point: blackheads.  Hate ’em!  Loathe em!  I have a mission, nay, a calling to eradicate those nasty little buggers and a whole arsenal at my disposal including cleansers, extractors, a new toy – Clean ‘n Clear Blackhead Eraser – recommended by Venice and seconded by me, and Biore Pore Strips, aka God’s Gift to Noses.  Want to seriously gross yourself out?  Slap one of those babies on and see how much gunk it pulls out of your face! 

Of course, this mentality has side effects.  Since I’m in a state of perpetual warfare with blackheads I often make the mistake of thinking other people are too.  So when I see people merrily prancing through their lives, seemingly indifferent to the noxious body waste pooling in their pores, I just want to attack them with salic acid.  The crusader aiming a sword stroke at the Turk and demanding, “Convert, heathen!” while they stare back in confused disdain, “What exactly is your problem?”

Occasionally my battles are of a more productive variety.  I’ve written several times of my Battle of the Bulge, even though I’ll be the first to admit that since buying a dress the ferocity of my attacks have put a serious dent in enemy flanks (plus my own flanks, I might add smugly).  I’ve also campaigned against landlords, laundry piles of epic proportions, work projects, more recently wedding planning, mountains during hiking trips, treadmills, and shoes that think I won’t be able to break them in (HA!). 

I am aware that this is a rather exhausting way to live life.  For example, the university does this health reward program which gives participants $25 per lifestyle even they chose to participate in.  This month it’s a goal to walk a certain amount every day.  Not a problem, I though originally, I can easily meet that quota during my gym time.  But then I looked online today…and some guy (with an unfortunately chosen Lord of the Rings nickname, I think he’s trying to be one of the characters) had already logged ten times what I had.  Just counting at the gym, was I?!  I THINK NOT!  I dashed over to the university health center and got myself one of their sad, cheap little pedometers and have been annoying people with it’s rattling sound ever since!  Competitive?  Me?

Life

Feel the Burn

“Beauty knows no pain, so what you cryin’ about, girl?”
-Frank Zappa

caption

Quick update: exercise hurts.  Running, which I’m used to, isn’t bad at all, but strength training should be somewhere in Dante’s hell.  As a punishment for sloth, perhaps?  I’m sure I’ll turn out toned and fabulous, but in the meantime ouch! 

Yesterday morning after lifting weights, I was putting my makeup on and was more than a little embarrassed to discover my hand was shaking.  My eyeliner was a bit dodgy and ragged around the edges, I looked like a raccoon vibrating from a caffeine high.  Today just lifting my arm high enough to apply mascara was a chore.

I need a goal to keep me going at 6am on Friday morning instead of whimpering, “Stop the treadmill I want to get off!”  Suggestions?  My fallback bribe of choice, chocolate, seems counterproductive for some reason.  And legally morphine is out.

Friends

Rise and Scowl

“How are you feeling?”
“Like a military academy, bits of me keep on passing out.”
-The Hitchhiker’s Guide to the Galaxy

I, to grossly understate it, am not a morning person.  I like to think I’m usually slyly sharp with a Katherine Hepburn-esque wit and sarcasm, but when I’m cranky I’m flat out vicious. 

I'd support a movement to have the day start at 10am
I'd support a movement to have the day start at 10am

Actually I don’t mind mornings as such, I just hate getting up.  Or rather, being woken up before I’m good and ready to do so myself.  During freshman year, Jenni and I had a friend who for some reason disdained to eat the cafeteria food graciously bestowed upon us (that was uttered with said biting sarcasm, by the way) and usually cooked her own breakfast.  Also inexplicably, although more reasonably so, Jenni had what amounted to a fully stocked kitchen under her dorm room bed complete with mixing bowls, blender, and assorted spices.  Our friend Sunny would raid this horde everyday to make herself breakfast, which I had no objection to.  But at 6:00 in the morning, which I did.  

Sunny is a naturally loud person at normal times but at that ungodly hour of the morning…let’s just say I found it a particular trial.  After about a week of trying to swallow my frustration and try go back to sleep after pots had been clanged and crockery clattered, I couldn’t take it.  Unfortunately the very next morning Sunny spaced and not only showed up earlier than usual, but accidentally flipped on the lights (at 5:30 in the bloody morning!) when she tiptoed into our dorm room and made such a ruckus under Jenni’s bedthat I erupted.
“Morning, C.,” she chirruped brightly, “Want some breakfast?  I’m…um…uh…”
“Sunny?” I murmured darkly.
“Yeah?”
“Get.  Out.”
She didn’t enter our dorm room again without my permission, daylight or not, for the rest of the school year.  Apparently I bare an uncanny resemblance to a Fury at 5:30 in the morning.

exerciseMy latest bone to pick with mornings is my workout schedule.  J. and I have started working out together, but on weight lifting days the only time we can seem to manage is early mornings, other times are just too crowded at the gym.  Today was the first attempt at the new time.  I HATE it.  There were about three other girls, all with their respective boyfriends like me, who had to navigate the rows of testosterone soaked equipment with our dinky little 5 and 10 lbs weights while these Hulk-wannabes hefted my entire body weight in each arm for arm curls.  Every once and a while some guy let out a roar that sounded suspiciously like he was giving birth, and most spent an inordinate amount of time checking themselves out in the mirrors.  If I hadn’t been so cranky/clueless I’d have thought it was hilarious.  Unfortunately nothing is funny that early, not even to me.

I’m sticking with it, hating something and giving it up aren’t necessarily mutually inclusive, but I have spent the day encased in emotional ice and venom.  With aching muscles.  Watch out, I bite.