Round 9

Signed up for a fitness class that is boxing based. A friend and I took boxing lessons for fitness last year, bought pink gloves and everything. The problem with it was that it was at an actual boxing gym. The guy who ran the place, coach Joe, couldn't get it through his head that we just wanted a new workout. We didn't want to actually punch anyone, like ever. And I was definitely not on board with being punched. Always on us about footwork and letting our guard down. He was so annoyed all the time that it wasn't fun anymore. I brought him a cupcake once, and he went easy on us that day, but it was short-lived.

So today I go to my first high intensity 30 minute boxing workout. I get to pull out the pink gloves again. I hope my arms don't cause me social embarrassment in a group setting as they are want to do. If I remember correctly, skipping for two minutes straight is harder than you can imagine, and my least favorite part of boxing. ADRIENNE!

Lotions and Potions

I keep adding more and more to my morning smoothie with the hope that I will come up the magic cocktail that will cure all of my woes. Much like the anti-wrinkle cream hunt. To date it includes 1/2 banana, 1/4 cup pineapple, 1/4 cup raspberries, 2 tsp flax seed meal, 1 tsp straight fiber, 1 tsp honey, 1/2 cup orange juice, 1/2 cup carrot juice, 1/2 cup low fat vanilla soy milk. It doesn't taste horrid yet, so clearly there is work to be done.

Speaking of wrinkle creams. The people that make them, and the models and actresses that flog them should all be put in a vat of smelly green slime. It just isn't right to lie to people like that. If you've had work done, you should not tell me that the cream did it. Give me a closeup shot of a make-up-less 40 year old, who has not had cosmetic surgery or spa treatments. A before an after shot will reveal - nothing. Cause the shit doesn't work, yet we keep buying it. At least they wouldn't be lying.

My thighs are screaming!

And not in a good way. Damn. Yesterday was a holiday so I was by myself at the track. Today, there was a bit of a crowd. There was creepy track guy, you know, the one who's exercising in street clothes. It was just us for the first 15 minutes. Then, at 5:15, a running group of like minded crazy fanatics like my husbands cycling peeps showed up. They were 5 marathon runners there to do cross training. Then a few minutes later, a personal trainer and his game entered the track. The poor bastards, he ran them ragged while saying shit like "fitness needs to become a habit, then it becomes therapy, then a lifelong obsession." He must have had time for coffee, I didn't, so all his motivational speakery just got on my nerves. The fitness people just don't get the non-fitness people. We know all this is true, but it just doesn't speak to us like it speaks to them. For us, it is work, end of story. Means to an end. Pain. Suffering. Stick your endorphins up your ass. I'm there because I don't want to be fat. If I had a metabolism and didn't have to work out, I would be as happy, I would not feel the need to acquire a life long obsession. Other than shoes. ADVIL.

I've gone over to the dark side

And I mean that quite literally. It's fucking dark at 5 am. Yet there I was, at the track, me and the dark. And only one song loaded on my phone, that got old fast. I did a walking/run combo for and hour and 15 minutes. The run length was determined by my body's refusal to run any further and still maintain normal functions, like breathing. When I was able to breath again, I would run again. After I was finished that portion of the workout, I found a great little spot to wrap my resistance band around to do some arm exercises. Unfortunately, in this perfect little spot, I was immediately attacked by a herd of gnats, so I had to move. Undaunted, I finished my resistance workout, with intervals of suicides in-between each set and felt quite accomplished. I felt great, home, showered, fed and off to meet a decorating client. Then I came home and went into a coma on the sofa for two hours. I'm going to be sore as shit tomorrow, and the alarm is going to go off at 4:25.

Fer Reals?

People in Russia are reading my blog...yet nobody seems to want to comment. A "hi" would be appreciated :)

Long Weekend Glory

R actually slept in - and then got up and made coffee. I want to go hiking in the mountains as a change of scenery and a cooling of temperature, but I don't want it to turn into a huge expedition. Hiking for 3 hours at a nice pace, not a cross training opportunity for crazy cycle pants. Must sell my case.

I have to change things up, the pilates is making my muscles stronger, but it's not cardio and the pooch is firmly in place. I have two big trips coming up that I want to make improvements before. I'm running out of time for this, just two weeks. It's so freaking hot in this God-forsaken place that outdoor exercise either has to be done at 5am or after a 3 1/2 hours drive to the mountains. I ran last year, but it generally doesn't agree with my crocked spine, however, it's fast and effective. Might be my only choice - get up with crazy pants and run. I wish personnel trainers weren't so expensive, it works, that's why they can charge what they do.

I feel like a big hunk of dodo

Too much red wine. My head was pounding so much this morning that my back teeth hurt. I didn't even think that I was drinking that much, but the evidence is overwhelming.

R sucker punched me last night. I met he and his boss down in our parking garage and he looked my outfit up and down, then looked at me and said nothing. Awesome, I can't change out of what I thought was a cute outfit into something else because they have arrived. So I was even more self conscious than usual the whole night. Two of the guys that came over have stunning wives, who I always feel inferior to. I just sat there talking to them imagining that they were looking at me and thinking, at least she can cook. I had changed six times before deciding what to wear, guess I should have stuck with #5.

My breakfast drink tastes horrible this morning. I don't feel funny today.

Moose-hunting lottery opens in Cape Breton

Ah, my people. However, not on board with eating moose.

R and I were watching the Giro d'Italia last night. As with all bicycle races, there are crazed fans at the tops of mountains who like to chase the riders for as long as they can. And I noticed something. These men that run alongside the riders screaming at them are usually less than fit, it's probably the most exercise they get all year. They love to take their shirts off so we can see their bellies bouncing along as they try and maintain the riders speed. Men. Imagine if you will the same scenario but with women, you can't. There will never be an instance where chubby women go and locate the fittest of fit girls they can find, waving there arms madly so that the camera can capture side by side image for posterity. Check out how I look next to this perfect specimen of woman. The moment where they show themselves to be chubby and desperate. Men don't care, and I'm jealous.

Dinner guests tonight. That means I have to cook really good food that I won't be able to resist. But I shouldn't have to. I've decided that I can eat whatever I like, just half of what I would normally. So I'm hungry, but not denied deliciousness. We are having a green salad with honey dijon dressing, boeuf bourguignonne with sautéed onions and mushrooms, roasted potatoes and chouquettes for desert. And I literally have to start cooking in 1/2 hour if I want to feed them at 7pm tonight.

Seriously...

One pound. I've exercised every day, well, except when we were in Canada. I've cut my portions in half and I've lost one lousy pound. This is the time I start to think about drastic measures. Which only serves one purpose, making me immediately hungry. Right after I decide to do my shake for breakfast and lunch, my stomach starts to growl on cue. I need a cheerleader. But I want Jennifer Aniston, Madonna, Heidi Klum. An old bitch like me that had managed to keep her shit together. I want to eat with them everyday for a month and exercise with them. I hope they're paying. Maybe I should make a youtube video request to these ladies, it works for people who need dates. If I only new how to work the flip cam, and youtube. It would also mean taking a video of me, which I'm against. This is going to require some thought.

The dangers of NASCAR

We live in the middle of the city, a southern city. It's NASCAR week, so our city center is about to be invaded with race fans. Here's the danger. If you lived here you would understand. Unless you are 20 something and currently in the market for your primary care giver (that's husband to southern women) you are not too worried about fitness. That is unless said primary care giver has more money than the average bear and you have to maintain a certain look to maintain him. But there's lipo for that.

What I'm saying is, in the south, for a 41 year old like myself, I'm fit. My dress size isn't in the double digits and my food of choice is not fried chicken, biscuits and gravy. I want to do better personally but the social pressure here to do so is minimal. If you take all this into account, then add NASCAR race fan wives, I look amazing. For the next week, while I'm battling the reformer, I will look out my window and see men and women alike wearing tank tops and jean shorts, sneakers, ball hats (some equipped to hold beer) and white sunglasses; all sporting bellies that my husband has horrible names for. Where's the incentive?

Luckily, we seem to have picked a place across the street from 20 somethings on the man hunt. So I think if I only go outside during dog walking time I should be ok. That's when they're in their full dog walking regalia of spandex. Showing off their "i've never had children and I don't eat carbs" bodies.

On your marks, get set, close the blinds!

Boy finds finger in Arby's sandwich

The reformer is depressing me. I still can't "use the reformer to walk myself back up". And if I'm to keep working out in our bedroom, the giant mirror beside my has to go. I keep looking at the TV and what it's supposed to look like, and then looking at the harsh blast of reality in the mirror. My arms are really jacked up, I am a cripple. The driving force, besides the bathing suit and hot husband, is that I don't want it to get worse. So I am committed to keeping up the pilates torture with the hope that my body will remember that it used to be more flexible. I will occasionally pop in the aerobic dance video to remind myself that I'm also horribly uncoordinated, you know, for balance.
I finished that book, and I was angry with her. Not for (spoiler alert) leaving him in the end, but for turning down the personnel trainer and diet program. Bitch, do you know how expensive it is to have a personnel trainer four days a week. Idiot. I would have crossed out everything else that kinky bastard had in the contract and said I would like to get in shape first if he didn't mind. There's no explaining people.

50 Shades of stop telling me what to do

As a wanna be writer, I'm trying to read the book everyone is talking about. It's erotic and scandalous and yet all I can think about is how bad her writing is and how she's raking in money for this piece of crap. Am I focusing on the wrong thing? Not to mention that I'm so annoyed on the behalf of the "submissive". If I had to name the single biggest annoyance in my life, it would be being told what to do. Even when someone is trying to help. Just try and teach me something, you'll understand. Pretty sure R will never try and teach me anything ever again. Or work with me, or be my trainer.
Neck is feeling better today so I'm back to the reformer. Which seems like something Mr. Grey would use if he'd thought about it. I'm feeling good today, like my outfit, planning a night out with a friend. A friend who will guarantee I will feel like shit tomorrow. But that's the price we pay for the love of laughter and wine. She is also a writer, and shares my scorn.

Man dies during lap dance.

The research I read yesterday said to make the titles of your posts more exciting so that people would read your blog. This news headline caught my eye so I thought I'd give it a try :)

The verdict on my three choices yesterday, I picked advil and finished the dining room. It was the most logical thing to do. I've had an "o"pifany, not having a TV is going to make me skinnier, and make my house cleaner. When we moved, we couldn't decide if we wanted cable or internet TV. We still haven't decided. So last night at 9 o'clock, what was I doing? Washing the dining room floor of course. Idol was on, I was meant to be spending my time watching a painfully drawn-out elimination. I am realizing how many hours I have spent watching the Today show in the morning and all reality TV in the evening. I never want full time TV again. I have hulu, if I'm dying to see a show, I can look it up. But I will never plunk myself down on my still drop sheet covered sofa again and actively look for something to watch so that I don't do other things. Did you know you can't eat and clean at the same time. Unsanitary. You also can't paint and eat at the same time, or type. I'm going to look fabulous! And luckily you can still drink wine during the above mentioned activities, although with painting, keep it to a minimum. Neck still sore today, shocker, based on yesterday's picture hanging marathon. Must run and get more advil, I've got shit to do!

Oh Dear....

I have scoliosis - it's not debilitating or anything. I'm just not allowed to take a job as a piano mover or paint the Sistine Chapel. I once had a cute little aerobics instructor ask me in front of the class if I was a cripple because I couldn't lift both arms over my head at the same time.

Over the period of the last three weeks, we have moved (no pianos), I have painted all the main rooms in the new house. They have gorgeous 12' ceilings. Flown to Canada and back and started a new workout routine. Along with other extra curricular activities. When I woke up this morning, my neck refused to lift my head off the pillow. That's its job, moving my head. My neck turned in a letter of resignation at some point during the night and now I am left with a job opening necessary to complete the renovation of both house and body. This leaves me with three options. Take 8 advil and pretend my neck still works. Go get a massage that will take three days to have any effect but is easier on your liver than 24 advil. Rest. I suck at the last one, especially when there is decorating to be done! Not sure how today will go.

On a side note, my husband said last night while discussing who would play us in a movie, he's Ben Affleck, no argument - that I reminded him of Mini Driver. Um, I love her, but she has jawline issues, i.e. a massive one. I have the before mentioned turkey neck. I don't see it. I said I would rather Marion Coltillard. Apparently there is a boob difference that could only be corrected by surgery. And folks, that's neck money.

Genes

Just looked at the photos from my parents 50th wedding anniversary, also this past weekend. There are some powerfully bad genes in the pool. Definitely wish I had more of my dads side. This turkey neck of mine showed up in every single picture of every single relative on my moms side. I wonder how much the surgery will hurt when I get it? I was happy that my sister chose to include as many unflattering pictures of me as were possible without calling the album, Bad Pictures of Laura. Isn't it a rule somewhere by the way that you don't take pictures of people eating? I thought that was a rule!? Gives me tons of options for my before and afters. Must finish painting the dining room, then hit the reformer. Which is better than when it hits me.

What's a girl to do?

We went home for our daughter's college graduation on Thursday. I tried to fit the reformer in my carry-on but I had three pairs of wedges and those suckers take up a lot of space. And it was after all a celebration. What I didn't try was saying no to any and all food and drink put before me. I'm just now awakening from the food coma so I can't remember everything but here's an example....Lobster Poutine. For those unfortunate souls who do not know what poutine is, a "normal" poutine is fries, gravy and cheese curds, already a decent heart stopper. Lobster poutine was fries, gravy, lobster and hollandaise. Hear in the south they say "so good you wanna slap your momma". R's mom and my mom were MIA so I slapped myself. That was followed all weekend with equally healthy and delicious choices. There was cake, there was deconstructed "apple pie" made with beignets and cinnamon ice-cream, carbonara, fish chowder...oh dear. I had a carrot smoothie on Friday to make myself feel better. R was just as bad but the only way he would gain a pound is if he put on a backpack filled with rocks. The penance this week will be painful, and totally worth it. I'm now the pudgy mother of a college grad so that's pretty cool.

the "Reformer"

Windsor Pilates...me, a mat, and an heavy duty rubber band. I can't believe I still have all of my teeth. Had to hook my feet and arms into this contraption and on several occasions was instructed to use it and my core to get me to an upright position. Not once did I make this work in an attractive or efficient manner. My core refused to cooperate. The only thing I was grateful for during the 45 minutes workout was that no one was there to see me struggle and watch the bands come flying off my feet. Shoulders and back sore. Must double up on the mat today. And wear mouth guard.

OUCH

Going to hurt tomorrow, based on the fact that I hurt now...

Is the universe trying to tell me something?

So, I get my "going for a gym tour clothes on" you know the ones, they look sort of gymy but you wouldn't be expected to spontaneously workout in them. And I walk up to Elements (not Evolution, that's a bar) - door's locked, I peek through the window, the joints cleared out. I call the number, they have not moved, it's been disconnected, they're toast. What does this mean, when you looked over all of the gyms on Sunday, read all of their promises, carefully picked one, and they've gone out of business. The one that spoke to you, failed. Back to the computer to look up other gyms within walking distance, there are two. One does shit I've never seen before with silks and rubber, like the Pink MTV music awards act. The other is the exclusive gym of the bankers, so it's no surprise that the fees are outrageous. I go to the dance studio that my friend and I had been taking "La Blast" classes from and see about private lessons, that would be fun. $95 per lesson. Unless I can get fit in one lesson a week, this will not do. So I do it, I go to Barnes and scour the workout videos, don't judge me. I buy three, pilates and a mat, dance cardio and some 30 minute a day miracle, I can't resist those. I know what you're all thinking, a girl with the kind of historical hatred of working out needs others to motivate. Well, I also bought a bathing suit, and put it on, and stood in front of a full length mirror in bad light, and eventually opened my eyes. I have my motivation. It's third drawer down in my closet, and I will use it when necessary.

The Gym Membership

We have just moved into a new place, that means new neighborhood, new gym. Or new company I give permission to take money from my account on a monthly basis in return for being able to say I belong to a gym. The gym is called Evolution, sounds promising. Mr. was up at 4:30am to go cycling. How, I ask you, am I expected to compete with this?! If it wasn't' difficult to park I would probably drive the 2 blocks to go to the gym because I hate being hot and we live in the south, but that seems extremely at odds with my current goal. So after I drive him to work, I will summon the correct amount of enthusiasm and head to were a super fit girl will pretend she understands my predicament. This woman who has been an athlete her whole life will tell me how she too hates going to the gym, as she walks me through the place for the tour, I will bounce a quarter off her ass. I will leave feeling accomplished, almost as though I have worked out, I was after all at the gym. I will of course require new workout clothes based on how the other women look, even though I will carefully time my workouts to hours when the gym is empty.

Exactly One Month Until our 20th Anniversary

I met a wonderful, good looking man and married him almost 20 years ago. At the time we were both 21 years old. He was racing motocross. He had also played hockey at a high level and was a catcher in baseball at some point in his sporting history. R is just one of those athletic guys who is good at whatever he decides to do. At the time, I didn't appreciate what I was stepping into. I am not athletic, have never been the sporty girl, although throughout the years I have made attempts. After 20 years of marriage I thought I would be able to let my guard down, not totally go to shit you understand, just "relax" a little. But damned if that man isn't just as fit and good looking as he was the day I met him. I have resigned myself to the fact that I will never put ice-cream to my lips without the guilt. Not only is he good looking, he's successful and without making you all barf, the most wonderful caring human I have ever met. So as I reach my 42nd year without donuts, and still managing to get a nice little one around my middle, I have decided to document "being in love with a beautiful man" - a year of self improvement. If you can't beat him (I did once at bowling, just a string mind, but still) join him. I will become some sort of athlete, I will take up a hobby which is terribly intellectual, and I will walk into a room on his arm and not feel like a mole.