My life has been dedicated to the goal of never breaking a sweat, and so far, I have been pretty successful.
Admittedly, there have been random deviations over the years. Temporary bouts of insanity like in the 80's when Jane Fonda had us all wearing neon spandex and hopping around like rabbits on a bad acid trip, or more recently, when I decided that if I danced with the stars, I too could look like Edyta or Karina.
The only redeeming quality about exercising to these tapes is that the machine is equipped with a stop button. Over the years, I've gotten really good at warm-ups, but as far as I know, the actual exercise and cool-down portions are just urban myths.
For the past few years, I thought I'd found the holy grail with yoga; the perfect balance between exercise and inertia. But no. Lying down and visualizing your breath expanding your rib cage does not translate into abs of steel. Go figure.
And so, I decided it might be time to try something I have pretty successfully avoided my whole life...actual, consistent exercise. To this end, Tim got me ten sessions with a real, live personal trainer for my birthday, who, regrettably, has no off button.
It all started out innocently enough. She seemed nice and kind, like she would have pity on an out-of-shape slug. When she showed up for our introductory meeting, she didn't seem intimidating or like someone who could make me cry. I was wrong.
Lesson one in personal trainer school must be lulling your gullible victims into a false sense of security.
We chatted about goals(looking like Jennifer Aniston), expectations(looking like something other than a life-size pear), and health concerns(that exercise would kill me). She took my measurements (after which I had to consume a lot of chocolate to soothe me and help me forget) , and did some small sample moves to test for balance and muscle tone (there was none).
By the time she left, I felt...encouraged, hopeful, even maybe a little excited.
Then she came back last week for our first two sessions.
As she unloaded the instruments of torture from the car, I felt the excitement drain away. Hope became a distant memory. What had I been thinking, asking for this? How could Tim not have seem my request for what it actually was...a cry for help? I needed counselling and liposuction, not free weights and balance balls. But it was too late.
For the next hour, she made me lunge, lift, squeeze and push. I began to really hate the number 15. 10...11...12...I think she was adding numbers in between because I was getting to 15 reps before she even got to ten.
And why, once we finish an exercise do we need to go back to it? Shouldn't we just hit 15 reverse flys or push-ups and be done...forever? What about lying down and breathing for 15...minutes. I suggested adding that on after each new exercise, but it didn't go over so well.
"You can do this," she would say. "Look, you've got a little bicep already." Okay. Good. Then we're done here. Mission accomplished. Thanks for coming.
"We're going to hold this pose now for 10...9...8... We? Who is we? I didn't see her hold the pose for a ten count. And could she count any slower? Instead of 10 Mississippi, 9 Mississippi, I think she was trying to name all fifty states in between numbers including the territories and District of Columbia. I began to suspect that Tim had not hired a personal trainer, but a hit man. I was going to have to check my life insurance policy and see how much I was worth.
Eventually though each hour came to an end. As I crawled into the shower and wept, I tried to console myself with the fact that I was getting healthy and would eventually be able to step on a scale without running screaming into the night. My triceps would no longer flap around when I waved like laundry on a clothesline during a monsoon. Spanks would no longer be a staple in my wardrobe. I wouldn't need oxygen after climbing a flight of stairs.
But then the next morning would come and as I crawled out of bed and limped toward the bathroom, I became more convinced than ever that I was right in the first place.
Exercise is evil.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Friday, January 9, 2009
Clash of the Titans
I'll admit it. Tim and I are set in our ways.
We like certain TV shows (Today vs. GMA, Boston Legal vs. CSI anything). Newspapers (minimum of 3 daily) and the Sunday morning snorefest of political shows are, to Tim, at least as important as oxygen. Lunch and dinner? Our goal on vacation is to see how many different places we can try.
Likewise, my parents are set in their ways. They like certain TV shows (GMA vs. Today, and every hour long crime drama up to and including reruns of Matlock from about 3 pm -11pm daily --what, are they planning to start second careers as forensic scientists?). Lunch and dinner? Why go out when there is perfectly good food in the fridge. Two week old pea soup will go perfectly with the six week old bread. Or how about some yummy black bananas? Mmm mmm. Good eats.
So it should have come as no surprise that while spending ten days together at Christmas, our ways were bound to...clash a bit. And yet we never saw it coming until it was too late.
First up...TV. If Tim is home, the TV is on. That's the rule. There is no radio, ipod or book that can compete with the king of all kings in entertainment and information, the TV. It is his lifeblood. God forbid he would miss one second of the 456th version of the same news story on CNN. He watches while he eats, works on his computer, goes to sleep, wakes up, showers (yes, we even have a TV in the bathroom). TV is huge in Tim's life, a fact that, apparently, my parents haven't tumbled to after 28 years.
Christmas day, I walked into the living room only to find him on his computer being forced to listen to Christmas music from my mom's ipod. And the TV was stone cold dead (aka, off).
"She just walked in and turned the TV off," he whispered in a tone that struck a delicate balance between someone in shock and someone who was headed to a bell tower with a high-powered rifle.
Of course, that was nothing compared to a few days later when she decided to leave the TV on, but run the vacuum for forty minutes. Or the day she invited a friend's grandchildren up to sing Christmas carols.
By day ten, he was in fairly serious withdrawal and panicked that he might have missed some minute detail about any one of the dozen news stories he was following, like what somebody had for lunch right before they had come on air to be interviewed.
Then there were the newspapers. Either he or my dad would run out every morning to get at least the New York Times and the Washington Post.
While Tim eagerly hunkered down on the couch with his diet coke and precious papers (ahh, does life get any better than that?) my dad would scoop up another unread paper and proceed to read it...out loud...to Tim.
"Did you see where so and so...?" "How about this story about the guy who...?" "What do you make of this editorial?"
Tim tried to escape, once, but my father simply followed him out to the balcony and continued sharing (Actually, I think Tim forgot the whole balcony was screened in. Besides, jumping from the 4th floor probably wouldn't have killed him. With his luck, he would have just been hospitalized for several months and my dad would visit every day and read him the papers).
And finally: lunch and dinner.
My parents and I have never quite seen eye to eye on food. For example, I say if there is mold on it, it shouldn't be eaten. They think of it as a seasoning. Shrimp that has been sitting out for three or four hours probably equals a quick trip to the ER in my book, but apparently makes a great base for shrimp salad in my parents' book. Throwing caution to the wind to me means trying a new fusion restaurant, throwing caution to the wind to my parents means throwing out the 2 oz. piece of leftover steak sitting in congealed sauce that smells like a pair of dirty socks. Who are these people, and what did they do with my real parents?
And so the lunch ritual began around ten each morning: What were we going to eat for lunch? When would we eat lunch? Why go out when both the refrigerator and freezer were both full of perfectly fine food? Dear God, we didn't just go over to the store and buy more food??? So, there was no ham for sandwiches. You could scrape the sauce off the leftover one ounce of osso bucco, slice it, mix it in with the two leftover pierogies and create something better than a ham sandwich. And why go out somewhere when we could empty out the fridge by finishing off last weeks salad which was still perfectly fine if you rinsed off a few brown, slimy spots.
Let's just say that when we got back home, it was a toss-up as to which of us rushed to our empty fridge first and kissed those barren shelves. After, of course, we stopped for the papers and Tim turned the TV on.
We like certain TV shows (Today vs. GMA, Boston Legal vs. CSI anything). Newspapers (minimum of 3 daily) and the Sunday morning snorefest of political shows are, to Tim, at least as important as oxygen. Lunch and dinner? Our goal on vacation is to see how many different places we can try.
Likewise, my parents are set in their ways. They like certain TV shows (GMA vs. Today, and every hour long crime drama up to and including reruns of Matlock from about 3 pm -11pm daily --what, are they planning to start second careers as forensic scientists?). Lunch and dinner? Why go out when there is perfectly good food in the fridge. Two week old pea soup will go perfectly with the six week old bread. Or how about some yummy black bananas? Mmm mmm. Good eats.
So it should have come as no surprise that while spending ten days together at Christmas, our ways were bound to...clash a bit. And yet we never saw it coming until it was too late.
First up...TV. If Tim is home, the TV is on. That's the rule. There is no radio, ipod or book that can compete with the king of all kings in entertainment and information, the TV. It is his lifeblood. God forbid he would miss one second of the 456th version of the same news story on CNN. He watches while he eats, works on his computer, goes to sleep, wakes up, showers (yes, we even have a TV in the bathroom). TV is huge in Tim's life, a fact that, apparently, my parents haven't tumbled to after 28 years.
Christmas day, I walked into the living room only to find him on his computer being forced to listen to Christmas music from my mom's ipod. And the TV was stone cold dead (aka, off).
"She just walked in and turned the TV off," he whispered in a tone that struck a delicate balance between someone in shock and someone who was headed to a bell tower with a high-powered rifle.
Of course, that was nothing compared to a few days later when she decided to leave the TV on, but run the vacuum for forty minutes. Or the day she invited a friend's grandchildren up to sing Christmas carols.
By day ten, he was in fairly serious withdrawal and panicked that he might have missed some minute detail about any one of the dozen news stories he was following, like what somebody had for lunch right before they had come on air to be interviewed.
Then there were the newspapers. Either he or my dad would run out every morning to get at least the New York Times and the Washington Post.
While Tim eagerly hunkered down on the couch with his diet coke and precious papers (ahh, does life get any better than that?) my dad would scoop up another unread paper and proceed to read it...out loud...to Tim.
"Did you see where so and so...?" "How about this story about the guy who...?" "What do you make of this editorial?"
Tim tried to escape, once, but my father simply followed him out to the balcony and continued sharing (Actually, I think Tim forgot the whole balcony was screened in. Besides, jumping from the 4th floor probably wouldn't have killed him. With his luck, he would have just been hospitalized for several months and my dad would visit every day and read him the papers).
And finally: lunch and dinner.
My parents and I have never quite seen eye to eye on food. For example, I say if there is mold on it, it shouldn't be eaten. They think of it as a seasoning. Shrimp that has been sitting out for three or four hours probably equals a quick trip to the ER in my book, but apparently makes a great base for shrimp salad in my parents' book. Throwing caution to the wind to me means trying a new fusion restaurant, throwing caution to the wind to my parents means throwing out the 2 oz. piece of leftover steak sitting in congealed sauce that smells like a pair of dirty socks. Who are these people, and what did they do with my real parents?
And so the lunch ritual began around ten each morning: What were we going to eat for lunch? When would we eat lunch? Why go out when both the refrigerator and freezer were both full of perfectly fine food? Dear God, we didn't just go over to the store and buy more food??? So, there was no ham for sandwiches. You could scrape the sauce off the leftover one ounce of osso bucco, slice it, mix it in with the two leftover pierogies and create something better than a ham sandwich. And why go out somewhere when we could empty out the fridge by finishing off last weeks salad which was still perfectly fine if you rinsed off a few brown, slimy spots.
Let's just say that when we got back home, it was a toss-up as to which of us rushed to our empty fridge first and kissed those barren shelves. After, of course, we stopped for the papers and Tim turned the TV on.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Joys of Southern Living
People are always making jokes about all the retired people in Florida....and there is a good reason why they do.
Tim and I just spent the holidays there, and have decided that, when the time comes to retire, we will be thinking of Alaska or Canada or anyplace else as far away from Florida as we can get. Maybe Antarctica even.
First, there are issues with driving.
You would think that being retired, these people would have patience. Or at least nothing better to do than work on their anger management issues. Not so. Pull up to any light/stop sign, and before your wheels even stop turning, the guy behind you is laying on the horn like he's on his way to the ER to save lives instead of to the community cocktail hour (which, as far as I can tell, begins at 11:00 am) to have his martini. Seriously, I'm pretty sure red means stop, even in Florida. If you actually do come to a stop, and God forbid it's in the right lane where people are allowed to turn on red, the cacophony of horns behind you would wake the dead (no, I am not going to take the obvious joke here).
Conversely, time is definitely not of the essence when it comes to parking. If you manage to get behind them then, you might just as well throw the car into park and break out War and Peace.
Now, I'm not talking parallel parking, which can be tricky. I'm talking about front-end-in parking in a parking lot with a compact car in a space designed for an SUV. A toddler on a Big Wheels aiming at the garage of Barbie's dream house could do a better job.
There is the first swing where they almost plow into whoever has the misfortune to be parked in one of the adjoining spaces. Then, they jam it into reverse and aim for the car behind them. The third swing has them gunning for the car in the other adjoining space. Swings four and five are where they try to decide who will be getting screwed that day by not being able to get into their car, the driver of the car on their right, or the passenger of the car on their left.
By this time, you might as well just leave the parking lot and go home, because you've forgotten why you came in the first place.
Of course, you need to hurry home anyway because you might have missed something back at the condo, like someone taking their trash to the garbage chute or having a box delivered. Ah, the drama and excitement of community living.
For forty-some years, people in my parent's neighborhood in Pennsylvania managed to live perfectly full lives without knowing what the guy up the street was doing every five seconds. They went into the house, closed the door and were content to live vicariously through the characters on General Hospital. Not in Florida.
There is a grand obsession with the minutiae of their neighbor's lives, and like the old fashioned game of telephone, the stories flow from ear to ear with the swiftness of a raging river after a hurricane. If someone in unit 105 sneezes at 9:00am, the people in 311 are down there saying, "God bless you" by 9:05.
"Oh, Edna is away and the mailman is here. I hope he knows not to leave her mail. I'll just run down and tell him where she is, how long she is staying, the names, ages and schools of every one of her grandchildren, and the results of her last dental exam."
"Couple J- are renting their place to a new couple. Nice people. of course, they've only been here two hours, but we can tell you that he has an allergy to rare, exotic orchids grown in the Brazilian desert, and that she has always wanted to be an aerial juggler with the circus. We don't know his shoe size or her bra size for sure yet, but we're working on it."
"The K-'s are away, but they are due back any day now. They are from Minnesota. She is a doctor. They like Italian food and body surfing. They have lived here for thirty years. Did we tell you that they are away?"
Try to spend a relaxing afternoon at the pool, and you soon found yourself tag-teamed by various residents who could give the CIA lessons in interrogation techniques.
It actually got to the point where I watched one poor bugger who was visiting try to escape the tide of information by saying they had an appointment. They were literally followed down three flights of steps to their car while being inundated with the details of who was where and what they were doing and with whom. It was like watching a PBS special on predators of the Serengeti. You know the gazelle doesn't stand a chance against the hungry lion, but you root for it anyway.
After three days, between the drivers and the drama, Tim and I were feeling more and more like that poor gazelle. After seven, we were wishing we were a gazelle.
Tim and I just spent the holidays there, and have decided that, when the time comes to retire, we will be thinking of Alaska or Canada or anyplace else as far away from Florida as we can get. Maybe Antarctica even.
First, there are issues with driving.
You would think that being retired, these people would have patience. Or at least nothing better to do than work on their anger management issues. Not so. Pull up to any light/stop sign, and before your wheels even stop turning, the guy behind you is laying on the horn like he's on his way to the ER to save lives instead of to the community cocktail hour (which, as far as I can tell, begins at 11:00 am) to have his martini. Seriously, I'm pretty sure red means stop, even in Florida. If you actually do come to a stop, and God forbid it's in the right lane where people are allowed to turn on red, the cacophony of horns behind you would wake the dead (no, I am not going to take the obvious joke here).
Conversely, time is definitely not of the essence when it comes to parking. If you manage to get behind them then, you might just as well throw the car into park and break out War and Peace.
Now, I'm not talking parallel parking, which can be tricky. I'm talking about front-end-in parking in a parking lot with a compact car in a space designed for an SUV. A toddler on a Big Wheels aiming at the garage of Barbie's dream house could do a better job.
There is the first swing where they almost plow into whoever has the misfortune to be parked in one of the adjoining spaces. Then, they jam it into reverse and aim for the car behind them. The third swing has them gunning for the car in the other adjoining space. Swings four and five are where they try to decide who will be getting screwed that day by not being able to get into their car, the driver of the car on their right, or the passenger of the car on their left.
By this time, you might as well just leave the parking lot and go home, because you've forgotten why you came in the first place.
Of course, you need to hurry home anyway because you might have missed something back at the condo, like someone taking their trash to the garbage chute or having a box delivered. Ah, the drama and excitement of community living.
For forty-some years, people in my parent's neighborhood in Pennsylvania managed to live perfectly full lives without knowing what the guy up the street was doing every five seconds. They went into the house, closed the door and were content to live vicariously through the characters on General Hospital. Not in Florida.
There is a grand obsession with the minutiae of their neighbor's lives, and like the old fashioned game of telephone, the stories flow from ear to ear with the swiftness of a raging river after a hurricane. If someone in unit 105 sneezes at 9:00am, the people in 311 are down there saying, "God bless you" by 9:05.
"Oh, Edna is away and the mailman is here. I hope he knows not to leave her mail. I'll just run down and tell him where she is, how long she is staying, the names, ages and schools of every one of her grandchildren, and the results of her last dental exam."
"Couple J- are renting their place to a new couple. Nice people. of course, they've only been here two hours, but we can tell you that he has an allergy to rare, exotic orchids grown in the Brazilian desert, and that she has always wanted to be an aerial juggler with the circus. We don't know his shoe size or her bra size for sure yet, but we're working on it."
"The K-'s are away, but they are due back any day now. They are from Minnesota. She is a doctor. They like Italian food and body surfing. They have lived here for thirty years. Did we tell you that they are away?"
Try to spend a relaxing afternoon at the pool, and you soon found yourself tag-teamed by various residents who could give the CIA lessons in interrogation techniques.
It actually got to the point where I watched one poor bugger who was visiting try to escape the tide of information by saying they had an appointment. They were literally followed down three flights of steps to their car while being inundated with the details of who was where and what they were doing and with whom. It was like watching a PBS special on predators of the Serengeti. You know the gazelle doesn't stand a chance against the hungry lion, but you root for it anyway.
After three days, between the drivers and the drama, Tim and I were feeling more and more like that poor gazelle. After seven, we were wishing we were a gazelle.
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