Shannon has the best ideas, doesn’t she? I’m joining her Bloggy Giveaway and offering one of you readers six Sooo Yummy Mint Truffles made (at least partly) by yours truly. Leave a comment on this post, and a drawing for a winner will be held on February 3!
It’s taken me an HOUR to figure out how to put that cute pink button on this post. Let’s all just admire it, can we? I’m so pleased!
The gym I usually go to is a women’s gym. It’s not uncommon to see women there with full poufy hair and makeup and dangly earrings, even in a yoga/pilates class. It is yoga/pilates, but it’s yoga/pilates in Texas. A great many women do not show up to work out and also sweat – something i can totally understand. I really love my gym. But it’s not really an atmosphere of intensity. It’s more an atmosphere for… princesses. Or, at least, a Princess Friendly atmosphere. If you’re not there to really get your exercise on – no one would ever fault you for it.
I occasionally take classes at other locations, if my Princess Friendly gym doesn’t offer them or a teacher i like is somewhere else. That is how I ended up at the Opposite-of-Princess-Friendly-Gym. Some trainers had been talking about the new kickboxing class there and how great it was. They told me I should get me some big pink poufy boxing gloves (pink, with some of the profit going to breast cancer research), and go try the class. I know nothing about kickboxing, but I thought it sounded like a class that might be done barefoot, and so that raised another crucial preparatory step. I carefully touched up my toenail polish.
I bought the big pink poufy gloves. I showed up. And right away, there was a distinctly different… atmosphere.
At my gym the instructors DO the class with you. They show you. They sweat. And they also offer to help, explain things, offer to turn on and off the ceiling fans and make you feel your general, princessy best. The room where classes meet is pretty.
This room – in the Hard Core Gym – smelled. Of sweat. A. Whole. Lot. Of. Other. People’s. Sweat.
It looked like a warehouse. Not pretty. The floor was red and black rubber-y stuff that sopped up and held all that sweat rather well. There were big padded poles for all of us to kick or hit. I attempted to befriend a couple of women who looked like they knew how to throw and receive a few punches. They said I’d love it, and then gave each other a look that said ‘no way.’ I walked away and found a very nice British lady who told me to do whatever she did and I’d be fine. She was kind, but I didn’t miss the same skeptical look.
The instructor’s duty for the next hour was to yell directions at us. She did it well. She was not nice, or willing to demonstrate anything at all, and there were no ceiling fans anyway for her to turn on, but she really did the yelling thing well. By the end of the hour we had done hundreds of push ups and sit ups and thrown hundreds and hundreds of jabs, hooks, and roundhouse kicks. We did hundreds of spinning jump squat things and lunges, and lots and lots of bouncing and jumping jacks.
The guy next to me helpfully pointed out my mistakes and told me how to correct them. I kicked and punched my big black padded pole thing and did not think of my toenail polish once. There wasn’t time. Did you know how much HARDER it is to do push ups on your big pink poufy boxing gloves? It’s like a whole new exercise when you do it that way. And no one did their push ups on their knees, like at my Princess Friendly gym, so I didn’t dare.
At the end of the hour, every single person in there looked like they were going to faint. We were all dripping large amounts of sweat onto the accommodating ugly red and black rubber floor. The guy next to me overheard the nice British lady telling me that she was surprised since no one makes it through their first class. To which I wanted to say, “Nice. to. Know. NOW.” But I couldn’t breathe, much less speak. The helpful guy said, “This is your first time? I thought you knew what you were doing.” Which made no sense at all considering he’d just spent an hour correcting my every move. Again, I couldnt’ speak so I didn’t. He said that most people who come for the first time don’t bring gloves, and don’t last twenty minutes.
Oh. There must be some secret code among these people that you never say that to the newbies beforehand.
I went to put on my shoes, noticed the deplorable state of my chipped toenails, and the two rough looking women I’d tried to chat up earlier came and sat down. Again with the whole “Oh my gosh, you’re still HERE?” line of questioning. Apparently they had figured me for a princess who couldn’t keep up. Must have been the pedicure.
I really want to go back. It was by far the very best workout ever. It’s been a couple days and I can almost move normally again. I should be ready.
I’d love to take a little air freshener with me and make a suggestion about ceiling fans, but I won’t. I’ll just be all Hard Core like them. Well, as hard core as you can be with pink, poufy gloves.
update: a personal, private thank you to LaLa’s friend MKA because I DID NOT KNOW.
“No, there is nothing wrong with the word ‘nuts.’ I just don’t really care for that particular USE of the word.”
Excerpt from a LONG conversation with Caden-3yr in which there were countless misunderstandings, and before it was over i had to explain the difference between cashews and almonds and pecans and testicles.
(but why can’t i comment on blogger anymore? it seems there are a thousand different ways to sign in now, but none of them ever work for me.)
I’m not big on New Year’s resolutions. I make resolutions all year long, constantly, so I intentionally avoid the whole build up that accompanies the January 1st variety. But! If I could make one this year for Club 17, it would be to figure out the Mr.Linky thing, and manage to include that with each Club 17 post. I think it would hep, but it is far beyond my limited technical skills.
Anyway! Club 17 simply means that we all have crucial, but laidback framework for accountability in doing those monthly self breast exams. I find that without sucha system, lots of us forget. Or just won’t.
Got questions? Click here. (It’s also where you can find out how to get a cute little Club 17 ‘button’ for your sidebar.)
Basically, you do your BSE, leave a comment on THIS post right here, and then in a few days I announce a winner and send a prize.
I’m in San Diego for a few days. The strangest thing happened ont he way out here. I really, really think Tim Gunn was on one of my flights. Which makes no sense whatsoever, since why would Tim Gunn be on a Southwest flight from Las Vegas to San Diego? Not likely.
Also, my mother and sister read this magazine article about people who can’t recognize faces and it’s entirely possible I have a mild form of that and could therefore never be a reputable source of Tim Gunn sightings anyway. If he’d only spoken i would have known instantly. Or if he’d said to the pilot, “Make it work!” Yeah, that would have been a total giveaway, no facial recognition necessary. So I discreetly studied him, and his nose turned up at the end just a tiny bit, which I’m now thinking is less Tim Gunnish than I first thought. And a gold wedding band. That was surprising. Oh, now I don’t even believe it.
There was the one time a few years ago I went to meet my dad for breakfast. I was supposed to pick him up at his hotel. I arrived early and when a man with dark hair came into the lobby I ran at him and came INCHES from throwing my arms around his neck. The only thing that stopped me was the petrified look on the guy’s face. That look was NOT saying, “Oh, here comes my excited daughter. Yea. Hug her.” Did I mention it was 6:30 a.m.? He was probably afraid it was a bad dream. Anyway, I managed to slam the brakes on in time, and said (oh so wisely) “Oh! I thought you were someone else!” To which he said, “Yeah. I… got… that.” And then I noticed the man looked NOTHING like my father. It was slightly easier to notice this since i was ALL UP IN HIS FACE and all. Oops.
Okay. New policy. If I ever think I saw someone exciting, let’s just agree that we don’t believe me. Not even if I think it was my own dad, unless I’ve seen a photo id.
Go do that BSE! And spread the word!
A couple nights ago we went to dinner at a Japanese place with the three boys. We sat near a very nice couple. The woman looked at me, and then – as sometimes nice women do – said, “It gets better. They grow up quickly. Just enjoy them.” Then she looked at her husband and back at me and said that they have three (grown) boys of their own.
I’m always grateful to these women. And then I think I must look like a total crazy mess, and I want to go take a nap and brush my teeth. But since I can’t take a nap or brush my teeth, I usually replay what happened right before a total stranger was inspired to tell me this.
What happened this particular time, in the preceding ten minutes:
Seth-2yr zipped Mike’s neck into a zipper. Small amount of blood. Not so small amount of pain. Mike handled it well.
Caden-3yr and Ethan-7yr touched everything in sight, almost knocking over these weird white barrels in the ‘waiting for a table’ area. I put them both on Sitting, Not Touching Anything status, and put every last bit of energy into enforcing it. This was particularly difficult since Caden-3yr saw a bell with a string at toddler height, so that any three year old could easily ring it or choke if he so desired. Fantastic idea, that bell.
Seth-2yr had the standard fit about being placed in a high chair, and we all survived. Also standard.
At the table, Seth-2yr and Caden-3yr insisted on squeezing out edamame from the pods. Seth-2yr is obsessed with anything spherical and every time one would pop out he’d cheerfully yell “BALL!” Then the edamame would go into the clear soups, which they didn’t eat. Which was fine. Splashy, but fine.
Caden-3yr dropped a slice of tomato on the floor, burst into tears and yelled, “MY POTATO! MY POTATO FALLED!” Then we had the potato/tomato talk, and topped it off with a replacement tomato.
Caden-3yr and Ethan-7yr examined the menus thoroughly and held a lengthy discussion about what the word Fanta really meant.
Ethan-7yr called out, “H I B A C H I” for me to tell him what that spelled. Four times.
Ethan-7yr was tired, and it mellowed him. It doesn’t often. I was grateful.
We took the boys to the corner of the room to see the koi pond. No one fell in. No animals were harmed, although the boys did discuss the possibility of throwing money at the fish.
Seth-2yr had the standard fit about being placed in a high chair (again) and we all survived. Also standard.
We ordered. Caden-3yr wanted chicken but didn’t want to order anything different than Ethan-7yr. Ethan-7yr and Caden-3yr discussed (at length) ordering fish. No one ordered fish or chicken. Fanta was ordered, and there was no conclusion to the ‘what does Fanta really mean anyway’ conversation.
But. It gets better. I’m enjoying them. (really!)
And I got a nap.
This morning I was stetching and leaning and breathing and doing all the things necessary when participating in a yoga/pilates type class. It’s not my favorite class at the gym, but a nice change of pace. I forgot what we were doing at the time, but the instructor said, “I need each of you to show me BOTH your rib cages now, please!”
well. a nanosecond of performance anxiety since really? i just don’t think I CAN. Her reqest seemed both weird and funny at the same time, and I was trying to stay still, not laugh, and try to remember for sure exactly what a rib cage looked like, and why in the world does she know that i have two of them when I certainly never thought so… i thought it was a ‘one rib cage per person’ sort of deal. like a heart. or a brain.
yeah, yeah. she probably meant both halves. i get what she meant, but it certainly caught me off guard.
So if you’ve taken more than your fair share of rib cages, I know a yoga/pilates instructor in Texas who wants to see them. Both. (And, like, make it snappy, because she requested it 5 hours ago.)
okay, i KNOW it’s been too long since i posted because when i tried to log on and write something…? i couldn’t remember my password. obviously, i finally figured it out, but there were several long moments of panic.
i had good intentions about blogging lots while j-mom and lala were visiting. i wanted to share them with you. really! but then when it came down to it, i just selfishly pig snorted alone, hogging the fantastical family-ness and barely turning on the computer at all this last month. did you email? i didn’t answer – did you notice? shameless!
i think remembering my password was the height of my bloggity brilliance for the night.
how utterly pathetic.