Okay, self revelatory posts are supposed to be written in January when everyone else is yammering on about making a fresh start. I know, but I am not everyone else. Actually, that is one of the shocking epiphanies to confront me over the past month. I am different. Yes. I am ACTUALLY quite different and not in that self-soothing; "Oh, I just dance to the beat of a different drummer" bullshit that you tell yourself after your Flock of Seagulls haircut has failed to impress your peers. I am made differently and in two important parts of life I have been passive-aggressively attempting to deny my true self, for a long time. I didn't even realize I was doing it.
In the arena of all things religious, I have long labored under the notion that my atheism was entirely private. Don't ask, don't tell. I will deftly evade discussions of God and perhaps even nod in agreement when the situation paints me into a corner. I am not going to talk about not believing. Why rock the boat, right? Well, I went and had myself a baby and all of a sudden that baby needs training up in the ways of relating to other humans and how to be nice and all that stuff you never think about until a tiny voice asks you, "Why did the bird die?" Shit. I'm working on that question with the help of this book and I will probably be talking about this subject a lot more in the future.
Physical fitness is another phantom that I have long avoided making eye contact with. Until I had a baby all that was necessary for me to lose a couple of pounds was to will it into reality. Hmmm, I may have overdone it on the Christmas cookies this year. Well, I should probably eat more sensibly. Poof! Really.
I have never enjoyed organized sports. Okay, with the exception of theater I have never enjoyed organized anything. I just don't. You can't make me. I'm gonna take this book and go read under a tree by myself. Don't follow me! Junior high and high school gym classes were akin to the 9 circles of hell for me. I know that when it comes to kids and fitness, traditional wisdom suggests the promotion of sports and playing. If they are having fun, they won't know it's good for them! Once I reached puberty and my body sprout these comically disproportionate boobs and sent my hormones into dark places, I lost any joy I might have known for sports. I pouted. I protested the injustice of volley ball. I purposely wore mismatched gym clothes and never took them home to be washed. I was told on more than one occasion that my lack of participation would be reflected in my grade. I was not much more cooperative when I took phys. ed. in college, where I was expected to be enthusiastic about learning to monitor my heart rate. Gah! I don't care about optimizing or maximizing or whatever. Is there an option for "feels good and keeps me from huffing on a flight of stairs"?
I am not lazy. I really like being outside and walking. I really wish I had a bicycle. My fondest childhood memories are of taking off alone on my bike and exploring. Are you beginning to see a theme here? When you look for fitness ideas as an adult, they all talk about having a workout buddy or using a video to encourage you to "reach your goals". I struggle to plan dinner. Planning fitness goals is not in my nature.
My husband is currently devoting himself to something called P90X. It is a vicious, video workout regiment, complete with smug muscle heads and incessant pep-talking. Listening to it for even a few minutes causes my brain to itch. I despise a pep talk. SHUT UP! So, I have taken to leaving the house while Aaron tortures himself. On the days when Violet does not accompany me on these walks, I take the ipod. Aaron made me a snarky playlist of inspirational workout music (including the theme from Rocky, which only makes me think of Mr. Mom doing housework and NOT running) and although the music was nice it did not compel me to push myself. Today, I decided that I would listen to the stand-up comedy of Patton Oswald and you know what happened? I had fun. I smiled and tried not to laugh like a crazy person, while I walked the neighborhood at a brisk pace. It was a wonderful escape. I got some exercise and I didn't have to follow anyone else's stupid rules about "working out" and using peer pressure to stay on track. I didn't have to go to a class and no one chirped in my ear about what a great job I was doing. In fact, Patton Oswald talked about his own struggles to be healthy and then joked about putting french fries on top of his cupcakes. Hilarious.
I don't know. Maybe I am rambling. I feel like I just came to a crossroads and decided to jaywalk across the street to my true self. There are way fewer people over here and I think I might keep walking.
Monday, March 8, 2010
Crap I Probably Should Have Figured at New Years
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Saturday, January 3, 2009
Zumba!
Aaron gave his mother an unusual gift for Christmas this year. He's known for this and sometimes he lands off the mark (way off the mark in the case of the Hustler Hollywood gift card of '03 fiasco). This year's gift was the gift of Zumba, more specifically Zumba with Kelly (Pattie is kind of shy and would be unlikely to go by herself. )
A gift for my mother-in-law, or penance for me?
Here's where I fail as the snarky hostess of the Heathen Family Revival. I wanted to be able to write about how corny Zumba is or how stupidly impossible it was to keep up, but I can't. It was fun. I mean really, really fun. It was like a great wedding were all the guests dance, but aren't so drunk that they throw up after the electric slide. Sure, I had a moment where I thought my heart was going to explode, but I slowed down and caught my breath and it was all good.
I've got a pretty sizable chip on my shoulder about physical education, having been tortured with the rural public school version during my formative years. It has taken me half a lifetime to embrace the possibility of exercise as fun. Zumba may have cured me of my cynicism. Of course, I may change my mind when I wake up sore tomorrow. Fingers crossed.
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Thursday, September 11, 2008
Six Unspectacular Things About Myself
I am slow to respond at the game of blog tag, just like real tag, which brings me nicely to the core of my un-spectacularness; my physique. Now, I pride myself on being totally practical and unemotional about the state of my body, but I still know deep in my reptilian brain that I couldn't outrun a sabre tooth tiger should one materialize in my living room. So, here goes SheShe.
1. I get itchy all over my body when I run for any length of time. I've been told this is called circulation. Apparently, I am usually undead and operate with little or no return of blood from heart to lung (wait, is that actually spectacular).
2. To use an old cliche, I could give myself two black eyes when I run or jump. NO bra can contain them in a manner that remains attractive, comfortable and secure. I believe some of you may recall the fungus I got from the heady combination of a bad bra and a few days of sweaty workouts. Ladies, please remember my cautionary tale whenever you find yourself wishing for ample cleavage.
3. I have HUGE pores. You can see my pores from space. These epidermal breathing holes are constantly filling with oil and dirt and then manufacturing sebum. I console myself with the knowledge that my oiliness will slow down the aging process. Right? Right? Whimper...
4. My feet are always dirty and calloused. I could fill a PedEgg once a week with the dead skin I shave off my cracked heels. It is the Appalachian strain in my ancestry that leads me to walk around barefoot, despite the damage it does. If I were constantly pregnant, I could roleplay some tacky stereotypes.
5. I only have one hip. I'm only exaggerating a little bit. Here's where the confessional goes to totally uncharted territory for me. I was born with something called a cavernous hemangioma. It's kind of like those terrible birthmarks that children get on their faces. The ones that grow and deform their features. Mine was present at birth and scared the ever-livin'-shit out of the doctors at the AirForce hospital I was born at. They immediatley sent me to an Army hospital (because those dudes know what's up?). It was a reddish-purplish-black colored tumor and it slowly drained over the course of my babyhood and remained concave. I am missing 7 layers of tissue on my left hip. All of the veins and stuff are visible (imagine a really old man's hand) and the skin is paper thin. The hip joint is also visible. It feels like a fantastically sensitive funny bone when struck. School desks were the bain of my childhood. My left butt cheek ends like an eroded cliff face. There is no gradual tapering. It gives the illusion that I may have been bitten by a shark. To add insult to injury, the varicose veins I suffered during pregnancy have stuck around on the left side. They aren't cosmetically irritating, because they blend right in, but they actually hurt. In fact, when I am pounding away at my keyboard they are at their most sensitive. I sit right on them. I would link a picture, but I am NOT going to photograph myself and there are absolutley no other people in the universe who have this. Believe me. My first foray into the seedy underworld of the internet was to look for other people like me. I AM IT!
6. My nose runs continually from August until the first frost. Thank you ragweed!
Are you happy now! I am going to go polish off that box Little Debbie's in the kitchen, but first misery loves company. Minnesota Matron, These Are The People in My Neighborhood, Mrs. G, Motherhood from the Edge of the Map. TAG, you're it!
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Labels: exercise, misadventure, tag
Tuesday, May 13, 2008
TMI
Just in case you wanted to know. I went to the doctor and was informed that I did not have mastitis. No, what I had was much more embarrassing. I had a fungus. It seems my brand new ill-fitting bras and a borrowed Dancing with the Stars exercise dvd conspired to give me athlete's boob. I've gotta hand it to those last ten pounds. They keep coming up with new ways to thwart eviction.
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Wednesday, March 26, 2008
Nobody Walks In Dayton
I am by no means an athlete. I try to stay active, but I am easily discouraged by things like temperature and precipitation. I make a great effort every spring to get out and rebuild some of my lost lung capacity. My resolve is usually mush by June, when the suffocating heat kicks in. So, I force my weary self and my dawdling child to walk as often as weather permits. Today, it was a fine day and we trucked up the hill to the park. We take a circuitous route, so as to avoid the steep ascent of Wyoming Street. I am sure that if my legs were in better shape, we could get to our destination much quicker by taking the direct path, but right now I am taking it easy. The round trip is a little over a mile. Halfway to the park, on a quiet, level street, I begin to fantasize about living in one the houses that we pass. The houses are old, many are exact copies of my own. The only real difference is that Gunkel Street lacks a steady stream of speedy traffic. Violet is already tired by the time we arrive at the playground and mostly wants to swing. We meet a few kids, get licked by an enormous dog and then meet a few more kids. The latter duo of siblings gets there 20 minutes after us and they arrive by car. There is no sanctioned parking lot at this city playground, so their parents have parked in an alley driveway behind the bathrooms. Daddy has one full sleeve of tattoos and Mommy has one visible on the side of her neck. I have tats myself, but the throat writing always reminds me of livestock branding and I immediately begin to look for signs of domestic abuse. The children are close to Violet's age, a boy and a girl, and they are unusually frightened of the equipment. The parents don't really help. I practically force Violet to venture away from the swings and do some climbing. I insist that she try. When Violet skips down the ladder/steps on her behind and begins to cry, I make a halfhearted effort to get her back in the saddle. We are too tired to recover and I scoot her along with her wet face to exit the park. As we are coming to the bottom of the first hill, only two blocks from the park, I catch of glimpse of Neck Tat Mommy getting out of her car. "Do you live around here?", she asks. "Yeah, we live down on Wyoming Street," I gesture in that direction. "I could have given you a ride," she says. I explain that we are walking for exercise and she calls me honey. I'm pretty sure she's not old enough to drink. This family could have rolled down the hill faster than it took them to buckle and drive and unload. They were at the park for only 15 minutes. I feel superior in their presence and muster a little extra energy for the rest of my journey.
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Labels: city, driving, exercise, playground, swings, walking
Thursday, May 4, 2006
I've never been in great shape. I am blessed with a reasonably speedy metabolism and a few other assets that keep me looking pretty good, despite my sloth. I am not opposed to physical activity. I like to be outside, if it isn't too hot. I like finding hidden places in the woods and contemplating my life. I enjoy walking. But, all of these things have frequently taken a backseat to my more cerebral pursuits. It's very hard to walk and knit at the same time. You cannot scrapbook while on a bicycle and you shouldn't try to read while swimming. There is no place to plug in a sewing machine in the woods and you can only rearrange the furniture AT HOME. All of these intense, creative, hands-on hobbies are virtually impossible to enjoy with a small child around. I have a tendency to be very myopic when working on art and that leads to an injured child. Even being on the computer is a hazard to Violet's health. She wants to stand at my feet and play with the base of the desk (an antique sewing machine peddle) and I should be vigilant. I should be watching and waiting to catch her, hands at the ready. She cannot walk without holding on and she's not very good at landing on her padded bottom. The poor kid has a big head and the momentum just pulls her down face first. The desk is not stable. The peddle moves, which is why she wants to play with it! We have nasty, splintery, hardwood floors. Even I get slivers of wood in my feet and I have two inch callouses. The only activity that keeps Violet save and me occupied is walking. I never thought this would happen to me, but I actually look forward to going outside and sweating a little. I put the kid in the stroller and go. I feel like I've discovered a new identity. I just hope my brain doesn't atrophy.
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Labels: art, exercise, small children