11.17.19

Once upon a time, a little girl (every little girl) put on a Cinderella dress and suddenly she knew she was Cinderella… the same way you knew you could run faster in new sneakers.

She didn’t look in the mirror and think “Hang on – I don’t look animated AT ALL. It’s still JUST ME inside this magical dress.” No – that’s not what happens.

When you’re four or five, you spread the skirt and twirl in joy at becoming someone beautiful. Any minute now, bluebirds are going to fly in and tie a bow around your suddenly-slender waist. Bliss!

Something happens in the intervening fifty-five years. I’ve acquired demons since then – the most visible being sugar. But the oldest, most clever, most cruel demon never goes away. Call that one “self hate.”

When you look at a photo of yourself and wince, ah – the original demon is grinning.

I went to a gala last night at the Workhouse Arts Center in Lorton, Virginia. For once, I dressed up in gala clothing. I had a huge, full skirt (with pockets! Forget the demons in your life and hear this: Pockets will never let you down!!) with a train. It was off the shoulder. Navy blue – which looks so nice with diamond-ish accents. It was a Cinderella dress.

Well, I thought it was.

It turned out I required both Mammy AND Prissy to wedge me into this creation. I needed a long-line bra that I couldn’t hook myself – and the corseted back needed at least four hands to secure, and none of them could be mine (which faced the wrong way to be useful).

The long train was stepped on repeatedly.

The boning that held up the strapless-ness was off-the-rack; no nimble tailor nipped and tucked so it actually fit. Instead, the boning in the strapless bra united with the boning in the gown to create a sort of breast plate that hovered in the general proximity of my torso without actually touching me where a gown is supposed to touch the body. The boning did, somehow, manage to repeatedly stab me in the groove between biceps and triceps. By the end of the evening I couldn’t even close the car door once I got in.

As for the pretty diamanté sandals with the thin ankle straps? Torquemada clearly invented them. By the time we sat down for dinner, I had a circlet of red, angry flesh above my ankle bones. Since I wasn’t able to buckle them myself while so heavily boned, I knew that if I took them off, I was doomed to being barefoot all night…

…and the acres and acres of skirt would only not be too long if I stood on those two-inch heels.

I lasted about ten minutes. Then I took the shoes off and spent the rest of the evening barefoot in a tent in November, hauling up great handfuls of overlong skirt so I could move anywhere.

“Look out, Pru,” one of my charming dinner companions said, “someone broke a shot glass over here. I’m worried about your bare feet and the glass.”

So kind, I thought – but I’d rather walk through crushed glass than put those shoes back on again.

And then he kindly took a photo. “That dress is a romance novel in the making – you’re wearing a bodice ripper! Let’s take a photo for the author picture in your first book!”

What a sweetheart. Okay – let’s do it!

He took the photo, beaming at me with love and affection and approval, and handed me the phone back.

OH DAMN. Who is that old fat hag?? Surely I’m not going through the labors of Hercules to look like THAT??

And the original demon chortled happily, feeding off my fierce self-doubt.

A gala is a terrible place for people with body image issues. Everywhere I looked, slim women were effortlessly drifting about in stunning gowns. I was filled with envy and self-loathing. And I thought – ah, but if we had to run a mile, could THEY? I can. If we compared cholesterol levels, who would be doing better? If I was lying on side-by-side gurneys next to that graceful beauty and there was only one liver available and the transplant team had to decide who should get it based purely on evidence of an attempt to live healthfully, wouldn’t my general muscle tone give me an edge over a woman who clearly had no stamina nor determination to improve her health?

It’s not fair that some women are just naturally slim. I’ve been working out all my life – and working out with effectiveness for three years – and I’m still thick and plodding. And that’s just the way it’s going to be.

Sigh.

Next year, a tunic, leggings, and boots. That’s where I look and feel best.

Damned demon.

It takes a quarter-hour to get into this rig, and assistants – and cinching really doesn’t help. As Mammy said – you done had a baby, Miss Prudence – you ain’t never going to have no 15-inch waist again. Yeah. Let’s blame it on the kid.

 

11.6.19

I am BETRAYED BY CHEMISTRY. I had a dental implant put in a few days ago; I was under anesthesia for about 45 minutes and was never in any real pain. For which let us all joyfully shout HALLELUJAH!

(My big back molar cracked months ago. MONTHS AGO. This process has taken an eternity. First the dental surgeon pulled the tooth, for which I made him put me to sleep – for about ten minutes. Easy. He wadded up a lot of cadaver bone and shoved it up in the socket so it would bond to my jaw and allow for a screw to be put in, off of which they could hang a fake molar. The whole process takes about nine months; you could create and birth a baby in that time.)

(During all that time you’re not supposed to chew on that side, but hah. Best laid plans, and all that.)

However, now that I’m almost 60 years old, I’ve discovered that all those OLD PEOPLE from my past who were too wimpy to get over surgeries quickly weren’t such wimps after all. Three-quarters of an hour under IV sedation leaves, apparently, a little sticky residue in both body and soul. I find that three days after (or is it two? It must be two), my brain is utterly cloudy. I was keeping score while playing Scrabble last night and was rendered utterly confused at having to add the number six to the number seventeen. Surely that’s impossible, isn’t it? No one could REALLY add those two numbers together, right?

Hopeless.

And I’m blue. Just utterly depressed and lonely and grumpy and sad. So I went to my fitness appointment this afternoon because – endorphins, right? And it was miserable, and my jaw hurt, and I could feel every single stitch disappearing into the vulnerable and naked pinkness of my flesh above where teeth are supposed to be and I think a few unsuspected pockets of anesthesia misery must have been waiting to burst forth because now I feel completely defeated and deflated and the exercise actually made me feel worse.

And oh – did I mention? I have an ENORMOUS SCREW STICKING OUT OF MY JAW BONE and I am constantly worrying it with my tongue. At first I thought it was a flat-head screw, but now I’ve discovered it actually has two parallel grooves in it. What I can’t figure out is…

Are those grooves just straight? Or is there a little wide place at one end so the new tooth can slot into a groove and hold there, like the cover of my cell phone? I don’t know why I need to know this, but I keep trying to figure it out – and my tongue is at just the wrong angle to perform a useful diagnosis. And yes, I have stuck my iPhone into my mouth in a blurry attempt to photograph it, but all I can see is darkness, more teeth, and a whole lot of filled cavities. My dental history has been sadly crowded with incident.

I also wonder – do these stitches go under the screw? Or over it and I just can’t feel it? I think under – but I’d better check again.

And just how big a gap is there between the top of the screw head and the roof of my gum? Could I fit a seed up in there and then lose it? No more brown flax with the morning breakfast, I’m guessing.

And am I rinse-and-spitting enough with disgusting salt water? And did I take the antibiotic today? And why can’t I get a decent night’s sleep when I’m so damned tired?

My mind is a weak, stupid rat running on a wheel. I’m not getting anywhere and I can’t figure out how to get off. This anesthesia stuff is bumming me out.

I’ll be better tomorrow. No need to send a St. Bernard with whiskey.

Although a dog would be nice.

Fitness. It’s not just about abdominals, you know.

 

10.30.19

Would you rather read a tender romance… or a report from the eighth grade science fair?

I ask because I can go either way. I was reclining propped by soft pillows as the handsome man dimmed the lights. He took my vulnerable, naked foot into his warm hands, strong fingers wrapping around the arch. “How’s the pressure?” he purred.

As it happens, my reflexology appointment with Bobby (at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA) was a lot more like an eighth grade science fair.

In fact, my whole fitness journey is like an eighth grade science fair – except I was a lousy science student in eighth grade and now I’m continually goggle-eyed, amazed and fascinated by what I’m learning about anatomy, kinesiology, cardiovascular endurance, the role of nutrition and sleep, and the perpetual, ongoing quest to WAKE UP THE GLUTES.

So I hope you weren’t eager for romance – because this was ALL SCIENCE FAIR!!

Bobby is a trainer at BDI. I didn’t even know he was also a masseuse until the recent massage workshop. I went with my friend Laura, who’d recently had shoulder surgery. There were four massage tables set up in the Balance Class room, and the four BDI masseurs standing by them, ready to demo the different kinds of massage available – it was a drool-fest and pretty fascinating.

And Bobby was working on Laura’s neck and talking with her about her shoulder surgery. At the time limit (“get up and give someone else a chance”), Bobby refused to surrender Laura. He moved to her feet and began his version of reflexology (besides going to massage school, Bobby trained in Thai massage) – and Laura began making faces.

These faces are familiar to you because you’ve seen them on the faces of your dining companions when they bite into something magnificent. Perhaps you’ve seen these faces on your sexual partners – well done, you, if so. (Look! We’re back to tender romance!)

These are the faces of people who are suddenly lost in a sensation. The brain temporarily shuts off and the body takes over.

Laura got off the table and staggered over to me. She woozily put her shoes and socks back on. “Is your shoulder better?” I asked.

“Uh – yeah!”

Uh, yeah is right. I signed up for my hour with Bobby (and then stupidly arrived a full 15 minutes late; I hate that. It’s so rude. I blame traffic… but also that I kinda forgot until the last possible moment, eek).

Bobby and I discussed what he was doing and what he was noticing. He told me that there are some 7,000 nerves in the foot, and that reflexology focuses there instead of on the hand (which has even more nerve endings) because the foot is bigger and it’s easier to tease out the different strands of information.

“You’re a shallow breather,” he said.

“You can tell that from my FOOT?” I squeaked.

Bobby grinned. (This alone is worth the price of admission; Bobby has a megawatt grin you could use in a blackout to find your way to safety.) “I can tell that because I’m looking at you.”

“Oh.”

“But also because this is the part of the foot associated with the lungs.” He bore down a little and I squeaked again – this time because he’d found a tender spot. “This tells me maybe you’re dealing with something in your respiration.”

We talked about the fact that I was running with Barbara, and that the reason I slow down and start walking is not because my muscles wear out but because my lungs do.

“Try doing some deep breathing. Fill your lungs to the bottom. Not all the time – just when you remember. See if you can’t become a deep breather, slowly.”

Well, shit.

That was pretty fascinating

There was more – a lot more – but that was my big take-away. When we were done, I was scheduled for my Barbara fitness appointment. We were going running. How provident!

I put my sneakers back on; my feet felt smaller in my shoes. Was that because I just didn’t lace the shoes up tightly enough? Or were all those muscles primed and ready and sleek and loose?

Bobby had worked my ankles, so my foot rolled more easily; that was a plus. But mostly my run was notable because I was trying to breathe more deeply. (Barbara has told me repeatedly to breathe more deeply, but sometimes you can’t hear the message until you’re ready – or until a handsome man is holding your foot while he says it.)

And here’s what happened:

Envision my lungs as a large flannel bag. I use the upper two thirds, and a cluster of kittens has taken up sleepy residence in the lower third. They’re curled up, purring and warm, unassaulted by the gasping wind of my cold pants… until yesterday.

I was trying to breathe into the bottom of my lungs as I ran, and all the kittens woke up and began protesting, driving their tiny kitten needles into my flannel bag… it’s going to take a bit of time to work those kittens into mighty tigers, but I’m going to do it…

…and we made it back around our mile and returned to Body Dynamics in good time. I think I’ve run the loop in less than this 13 minutes, three seconds – but I don’t think I’ve ever gotten to 12 minutes yet. YET. I can’t claim a “personal best” or anything, but I bet it was close.

So I think the fancy footwork was a benefit. Heaven knows, it was fascinating. I’m going back!

Oh, dear. Upon re-reading, I see that it looks like I have a REAL crush on Bobby (as opposed to the entertaining crushes I already have on Barbara, Gwynn, Grace, Chip, Mario – all those fit, happy, kind people at Body Dynamics). But really – the man is TWELVE. I don’t want him. I just want to look at him. Don’t we all need more kind, smart, cute people in our lives??

10.24.19

Above the swirling bodies in the club, sporadically plucked from the darkness by the spinning lights, is the god of raves, the master of beats, the silent hero amid the cacophony:

The DJ.

Always shown wearing headphones – and frequently really, really long dreads – the DJ is the acme of ultra-cool, matched with a technical nerdiness that transcends fashion or style. He (or she) holds every dancer in the palm of their hand, able to change frantic tempo, pulsing beat, grinding rhythm, MOOD with the flexing of one long, spider-like finger…

…unless we’re talking about putting together a playlist for Balance Class.

Barbara (my personal fitness guru and the Balance Class professor) does not object if I act as DJ for class. So every week I spend happy hours thinking up what we’re going to listen to. When my buddy Steve is in residence, he and I swap off as DJ – but he’s been temporarily sidelined, so it’s all me at the moment.

And this gives me SO MUCH JOY.

I think some people are completely indifferent to music in class, and some people are energized and powered by it. As for myself, I am ruled by it. If we’re doing an exercise that’s whipping me, I can be completely reenergized by a great song. NOBODY enjoys my playlists more than I do, and if I have any breath at all, I usually sing along. Sometimes loudly.

You can’t sing Pink quietly. Sorry – I meant P!nk. (A name that really messes with the spell-checker.)

Steve set an incredibly high bar by creating themed playlists. “Songs with lots of brass.” (Which he did for me because I LOVE a good brass section.) “Songs produced by Peter Asher.” (We cursed him when he finally announced the theme when no one could come up with it. He knows TOO MUCH about music.) His best was “Name the link between these two songs.”

When you’re sweaty and gasping, it’s a wonder and a glory to have a mental puzzle to figure out. It distracts you from the exhaustion. He played “Jolene” by Dolly Parton and followed it up with “Wrecking Ball” by Miley Cyrus, and we were all stumped. Finally he had to tell us that Dolly is Miley’s godmother.

Yeah – too much knowledge…

But the theme concept is so much fun. I’ve done (checking my playlists now) an all-covers playlist, one that was all Beatles or Beatles covers, colors, girls’ names, places, songs by people who use a pseudonym (like Elvis Costello or Sting), movie soundtracks, and weather phenomena. Sometimes I tell the class the theme; sometimes I try to make them guess.

It’s trickier than you might think, because you can’t throw on any song. The class doesn’t love contemporary music; they respond best to disco or earlier. It can’t be inappropriate (Barbara looked at me in alarm when a song had profanity in it; she’s not prim herself, but she has to protect the sensibilities of her students, and I respect that). It has to have a driving beat and a lot of energy… so if you try to do a playlist that names every person in the class and you want to do something for Beth, you can’t dredge up that syrupy surprise from Kiss. That’s a BAD balance song. (And a bad song.)

I had to finally go with “The Boys Are Back” by Thin Lizzy, and then it turned out that Beth wasn’t short for Elizabeth, so the very long stretch of “Lizzy” wasn’t at all accurate… but everyone enjoyed that playlist. I did “Dear Prudence” but by Siouxie and the Banshees for me; the class agreed it was disturbing… which entertained me. Siouxie Sioux’s version has a LOT more energy for Balance Class than the original by the Beatles. I win.

The song that got the most people singing along ever? Creedence. Here Comes the Rain, from the weather playlist. Go figure.

Last week, Barb (not the teacher – this is another Barb, and a true Sister in Sweat she is, too) requested a Queen playlist. Fun!

Only… all that wild experimentation Queen did, it turns out, renders MANY of those songs ineligible. Those guys were changing tempos ALL THE DAMNED TIME. This would be the kiss of death if we were trapped doing Barbara’s infernal “Empty the Dishwasher” move.

(Squat down and reach down to your left. Stand and reach up to your right. See? You’re pulling a plate from the dishwasher and stacking it on a high shelf. Barbara will NOT allow you to pull multiple plates from your imaginary dishwasher and stack them to move them all at once; I’ve tried. The point is, if you can get into a rhythm, then unloading an impossibly high number of invisible plates from a non-existent dishwasher is more bearable; you just can’t have music that makes you go speeding up and slowing down.)

(Do I need to point out that after you’re done unloading THAT dishwasher, there’s another one on your right, with empty shelves above you on the left? Barbara is VERY symmetrical in her Torquemada-like excess.)

So I’ve varied the Queen playlist; now it’s “Flamboyant Performers.” I’ve got eight good Queen songs (we’ll do our warm-up to the wildly-varied tempo of Bohemian Rhapsody; I’ll be watching to see how many people sing along), and I added some Elvis Presley, Elton John, Lady Gaga, Madonna, and Adam Ant. There’s a P!nk song because she is just astonishing in concert. And I polished it off with Adam Lambert, who the surviving members of Queen chose to go on tour with them because his voice is close to Freddie’s. His solo work is very high energy.

It’s time to go to Balance Class now. Hope my fellow sweaters (sweat-ers, not woolly pullovers) enjoy this week’s selection!

Anyone got a good idea for a playlist theme?

10.9.19

Moonlight lovingly edged the ancient cobblestones. It wasn’t a square or plaza – nothing so grand. Osteria No. 8 (or maybe it was Osteria No. 7 or Osteria No. 21 – I don’t remember anymore) had its outside seating in a wide place in the street. Rome passed along beyond the low planters, but the pace was leisurely – just right for an Italian summer after sundown

We were having dinner at a place we just happened across after a day of tourism. The waiter set a large, shallow bowl before me; almost a broad dish. It was filled with heaven. A broth, fragrant with fresh herbs. Pliant, compliant potatoes, cubed and fetching. Beans – blameless and curved. Fresh carrots. Onions, sweet and nearly translucent. The occasional coquettish and winking noodle.

“Minestrone,” he said with a shrug that said both “nothing – air – merely the bare minimum for life’s survival” as well as “others may have fallen from the pure path but we hold to the old ways here at Osteria No. 8. Spoon up the glory and feel your life’s essence restored. Here is a reason to rise each morning; something to give your soul to – something worth dying for.”

I’ve never forgotten that simple, extraordinary soup…

…so when I tell you I know how good soup CAN smell, please believe me.

That’s not how I smell.

No one talks much about menopause. Sure, you finally put paid to the messiness of menstruation, and that’s a bonus. The underwear takes a decided turn for the better. And we’re all taught to fear hot flashes.

But no one told me that the change in my hormones would alter the way my sweat smells.

I keep smelling soup when I work out. Not ethereal, ambrosial Roman minestrone – no. I’m talking about the tinny, salty odor of cheap canned soup. Condensed, so the smell is strong and assertive.

WHAT THE HELL??

It turns out that’s ME smelling like a bad chicken noodle soup.

My pits still smell like the primate house at the zoo, and my crotch still has that secret hot scent when I get an unplanned whiff (which sometimes happens; those trainers at Body Dynamics sometimes get me in strange positions where I’m confronted, astonishingly, with my own Lycra-clad genitalia).

It’s the rest of me that smells different.

“Jeez,” said Barbara as she was putting me through bird-dogs. (Hands and knees; now reach out, fore and aft, with one hand and the opposite leg. Don’t let your hip dip. Don’t arch your back.) “It smells like soup back here again.”

“It’s ME!” I collapsed to the mat (which smelled a great deal better than I did). “Menopause has made me smell like bad chicken noodle!”

There aren’t many things you can say to a trainer with Barbara’s experience and knowledge, but I think I really did startle her with that one. “What?”

I explained that my body chemistry had shifted WITHOUT MY PERMISSION and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. This made her laugh – but I still don’t know how to handle this. I can put deodorant on the primate house, and I can keep the nether regions clean. But what am I supposed to do when the skin over my chest exudes the smell of cheap soup until I hie me to the showers??

And if I ate a better quality of minestrone – say, if I moved to Rome and ate exclusively at the various osterias – could I improve the quality of my personal fragrance?!?

And wouldn’t it be a delicious experiment to try?

10.1.19

Let’s be clear – it’s important: That title isn’t “WOO-choink” – it’s definitely “WUH-choink.” Can you hear it?

It’s the sound I make when I walk around my house. “Wu-choink,” I say, “wu-choink, wu-choink, wu-choink.”

I am, of course, providing the soundtrack to my glutes grabbing my femur and pulling it back. Now that Barbara and Chip and Grace and Gwynn at Body Dynamics in Falls Church, VA have done the impossible (only took three solid years) and turned my glutes on.

So now I mutter “wu-choink” as I walk. Unless I’m on the stairs, going down. Then I say “brraaa-aa-aa-ack?” Because I’m a lot less sure that my glutes can actually do that… despite the fact that I’ve been going down stairs for 59 years now.

(Well, maybe 58. How old are babies when they start going downstairs? I mean upright; not the bump-ba-dump method on the butt. I have a child and I remember when such milestones were important to me, but the actual date is gone now.)

Now that I think of it, I seem to have a permanent soundtrack going in my mind, helping me graduate from bump-ba-dump to thud-thud-thud to brraa-a-ack. Next up on my body playlist: Woosh! The sound of glutes gracefully lowering this body from one step to the next. No “falling with style” here – I shall slip effortlessly down the steps as if on rails, my toned and obedient butt muscles at last working as they are supposed to.

Soon. I’m sure of it.

It’s a good thing I live alone. I think this constant verbalization (not to mention the fact that I now keep my hands UNDER where I thought my butt stopped so I can feel the muscle connect to the thigh) would drive anyone else mad.

I was lying in my bed yesterday. (A brief round of intestinal distress made sleepytime a requirement; it wasn’t MY idea to sleep for 48 hours straight with brief but action-packed forays to the potty.) When I lie on my back with my knees up, I can feel a long, scary-hard muscle running down the back of my thigh.

I’m pretty sure that’s a hamstring… but I think it’s suddenly popped up like tensile steel because of wu-choink, wu-choink, wu-choink.

(No, not the noise – I mean the awareness of the glute’s role in ambilocamotion, duh, which deserves, nay – REQUIRES, that I make that noise as I prowl around the house at a pace just slightly faster than a wedding march.)

And if the hamstrings are suddenly waking up… is it possible that the hip flexors might one day soon be able to take a vacation in Tahiti? Lie on a beach in a hammock and drink fruity beverages adorned with cocktail umbrellas?

Come to think of it – you know what it sounds like when you rock gently in a hammock? That’s right. Wu-choink… wu-choink… wu-choink…

This is not a picture of my ass. This is about a third the size of my ass. But this is how my ass is beginning to FEEL. Oh, Lordy.

9.29.19

Borborygmus – this word makes my “top ten best words” list. It means the rumblings and grumblings of the stomach and various innards. Sometimes doctors will stick a stethoscope on your belly and have a listen; they’re  enjoying the borborygmus concerti. A healthy gut is not quiet.

But when I woke up this morning, most of the intestinal orchestra had fled – all the flutes and clarinets and violins suddenly decided they needed to go for coffee – because the tympani section had all indulged in a marathon session of movies like “A Clockwork Orange” and were raising one hell of a rumpus. Kettle drums and huge standing chimes and clashing gongs had replaced the more sedate borborygmus.

“What’s up?” I thought, surprised. Usually my belly is peaceful and placid under its pale, downy layer of insulation. But barely before the question had formed in my mind, I bolted for the bathroom.

Fluid in the solid waste system. Uh-oh. Something’s not right, and I am today rather less well than usual.

As the percussionists in my intestines continue their riot – rumbling over here, suddenly popping up wild-eyed over there – it occurs to me that this is the first time I’ve actually been sick (as opposed to just overtired or stressed or temporarily flattened by a cold or something) since before Jonathan died, more than two years ago. And this is just a stomach thing; the tympani section is going to get tired eventually and will settle down to sleep it off.

My point is – I think all this working out and at least fretting over sugar (if not actually limiting it) has had a tremendous effect on my immune system. Knock on wood. I seem to be pretty healthy for someone with a stomach orchestra run amuck.

Another favorite word for the Top Ten list? Syzygy. Isn’t that a honey?

 

 

 

 

9.24.19

The tiny step sits in the middle of the room, exuding waves of innocence. “Who, me? Just a tiny little step. Maybe five inches tall. Nothing to me – I mean you no harm.”

BUT I AM NOT FOOLED.

That step is like a poltergeist. It doesn’t mean any real harm… but it’s going to mess with your mind for as long as it can. Barbara moves it from its resting place against the wall in the Body Dynamcis Fit-er-ex room and I think to myself, “They’re heeeeeeere.”

Because, you see, I don’t go up stairs right.

Since before the earth cooled, I’ve gone up stairs thinking that you put one foot on the upper step and then pushed off from the toes of the lower leg. BUT HERE’S THE THING (and it’s wild):

Barbara believes that you put one foot on the upper step and then use the glute muscle of that bent leg to pull your thigh bone back into vertical again, because – we will remember – the glute isn’t just riding around on your butt like a remora on a shark. The glute extends down your leg to end up much farther down your thigh than you thought…

…so if you grip with the glute, it’s actually drawing that thigh bone back.

This is SO confusing to me. I feel like the dog when my husband or son would make kissy noises through a tube of wrapping paper. Ears up, head cocked to the side, confusion in every inch. I know you’re making that noise, but why am I hearing it all the way over here?

I was PUSHING to go up; Barbara has at last (three years, this took!) shown me that you can PULL instead. The blind fold is off; I’m blinded by the light!

She put a belt around my hips and hooked me up to resistance and then brought out the poltergeist step – the one that has always made her grimace in the past. “Watch what your hips are doing. Keep your weigh in your heel. Pull forward onto the step – no, that’s not it. Here – watch again.”

But yesterday… she smiled.

“Yep,” she said. “That’s it.”

A-ha!

“Does it ever frustrate you?” I asked her. “It’s taken me three years to get to this point. How many times have you said all this stuff, and I just couldn’t understand it?”

“It’s not frustrating,” she said – “it’s fascinating.” (I’m sure. Watching a fat lady step up and down on a five-inch step can hardly be fascinating.) “What you’re doing is very hard.”

She’s not just a brilliant trainer; she’s also extremely nice.

Children of the 80s will get why I used this image for a post entitled A-Ha. The rest of you will have to live in ignorance.

9.22.19

In the far distant future, when our brains are preserved in jars hooked up to electrodes and we won’t have to care for these overly-complicated bodies, everyone will rest in a warm amniotic bath and read books all day. THAT will be the future as we were promised…

…but until then, I keep having to do maintenance on my body – the furnace/AC/energy delivery system that my brain is currently hooked up to. And it’s been years and years of poor maintenance that I’ve got to repair!

As you know, I’m learning all kinds of earth-shaking things (like sugar is poison AND the devil, and the glute muscles are holding on to the upper thigh bone like claws from the coffin). But I’m also learning truly insignificant things.

Here’s today’s observation, after running stairs:

My face sweats.

I know everyone’s face sweats; I’m not talking about everybody else. I’m saying I think I’m the only one – a rare unicorn! Dig me! – whose face sweats for HALF AN HOUR after I get the heart rate up. Surely that’s not normal?

After I run stairs, I have to sit around panting for a while, because if I jump in the shower right away, I can stand under icy torrents and still when I get out – all dewy and clean and scent-of-soapy – then out of nowhere, I’ll start sweating all over my face. Big, round, cartoon-like drops which sometimes roll down disgustingly.

I end up looking like the windshield of a car that’s just been Rain-ex’ed.

This doesn’t only happen when I’m running stairs. On Thursdays, I go to Barbara’s Balance Class. (Which is hard and fun and you should join us.) We work out madly, ignoring the contempt of the far-tougher cardio workout class that happens one room over.

(That’s literary license; there ARE no contemptuous looks at Body Dynamics.)

After I’m fully sweaty – and my fellow victims and I have strong-armed Barbara into adjusting the thermostat until the room is chilled to impossible lows – then I stay in that room for Stretch Class.

Now, because of the aforementioned strong-arming, Stretch Class is the polar opposite of Hot Yoga. It’s Icy Stretch. Anyone who comes to Stretch Class without having first gone to Balance Class has learned to bring a sweater or jacket because man, those industrial air conditioners really work. Praise be!

And fifteen minutes after my high-energy Balance Class playlist has been replaced by temple bells and waterfalls and mystic, new age spa music – long after we’ve done our deep breaths and arm circles and frog poses – I am STILL reaching for my gym towel to blot my face of the epic amounts of sweat that appear to have been generated by a simple figure-four butt stretcher.

But it’s not the stretching that’s making me sweat in the icy air; it’s Balance Class, now just a distant gasping pant in the past.

And no one else is scrubbing their faces during Stretch Class.

So I think it’s just me. I am as rare as (if far less lovely than) a unicorn!

If you’ve ever noticed – and you probably haven’t – I’d be grateful to hear if your face sweats hard long after exercise, too. Perhaps I can find my herd?