Today, I have chosen to wear absurdly tight pants. This decision was spurred by my feelings of intense guilt over eating two bowls of sugary, tasty cereal last night right before bed. This morning, determined to change my ways, I reasonably concluded that the sporting of acutely uncomfortable apparel would discourage me from the consumption of any additional food.
What it has done, of course, is make me feel irritable and quite plump. There is nothing quite like the feel of being stuffed into clothing in a sausage-like manner to make one feel every single ounce of extra weight. As I sit, obsessing over the feel of the pants AND the food that I “should not” eat, my flesh strains against the waistband of the jeans and spills a bit over the top. Attractive, there’s no denying, in a Jabba-the-Hut sort of manner. Were I in the market for an eligible slug-like monstery human-eating bachelor, today would be my day.
Unfortunately, I am not currently in the market for any sort of bachelor, monster or otherwise. What I AM in the market for is a weight loss method that encourages the rampant consumption of peanut butter and sugary cereal, and is still shockingly effective. I suspect that I may be shopping in this particular market for a lo-o-o-o-o-ong time…..
As I manage this flurry of thoughts that whirls around my brain, there is a loud voice – a voice that might, perhaps, fall into the category of “reason” – that is hell-bent on pointing out a few “truths.”
“You are,” says the voice, “fortunate to have those rolls and bulges. That is the flesh that you carry with you into yoga, that you twist and lift into beautiful expressions of self, and that you sleep with every night. It is the same flesh that has seen you through happy times, and through sad times, and that has been – and will be – surrounded by those you love.”
“But,” my Shallow Self protests, “I don’t like the way it looks. It doesn’t fit into the clothes I want to wear. Other people don’t have it.”
“So.” The voice retorts. “What? Get a grip. You are strong. You – every day – can do things that other people will never have a chance to do. There are people in this world that will never have a fraction of what you have, and all you are thinking about is the smallest element of your life – one of the FEW things that you DON’T like. What – in the hell – is wrong with you?”
This is a valid question, which causes Shallow Self to grow resentfully – and a little ashamedly – quiet.
I think, silently, about the article I read this morning – an article about the traffic-related death of a 23-year-old girl. I have already surpassed her life by 8 years. What would she have given to have those 8 years? Would she have been willing to carry 10, 20, 30 pounds for that length of time, if it would have allowed her to live?
The answer is obvious.
In this knowledge, I am faced with the stark reality of the selfishness of my Self. The fact that I have the luxury of “worrying” about carrying weight that is not a health risk – merely a cosmetic issue – is a testament to the GOODNESS of my life. Were I truly suffering - were I truly living a life that did not allow me to be fulfilled - my mind would be consumed with far, far different concerns.
What does this mean for me? It means that I have been given a gift, and that – to some degree – I have been wasting it. How do I change that? It doesn’t matter. What matters is that I am willing to work on changing it. As I do, I will be living an even richer life, and – more importantly – I will appreciate it.
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Wednesday, August 20, 2008
Be All That You Can Be. You Can Do It.
[Interesting life development: Since blogging, yesterday, about my insane level of irritability, the irritability seems to be lessening. Bizarre. It is likely due to either my acknowledgement of it – and conscious effort to reduce it – or the embarrassment factor involved in baring my unreasonableness to all. Either way, it’s an improvement.
(It is also possible, I suppose, that taking yesterday off from exercising might have played a small part, particularly as I have been suffering from muscle fatigue and a bit of a tweaked knee. But that’s a whole different topic….)]
This morning, as I was contemplating my already decreasing irritability, I had a brilliant idea for making my way through the world today. I would – I decided – coach myself all day long only in commercial jingles. Excited, I launched my experiment immediately. As I began to get ready for work, the canine assumed her usual position at my heels, causing me to nearly trip every time I turned around.
“Don’t get mad,” I counseled myself, cheerily, “get Glad.” Resolutely, I ignored the canine as I continued my preparations, only once stopping to suggest – kindly – that she go lie down in another room.
Heading into the office, rather than allow the traffic (and poor driving) to bother me, I decided to practice acceptance. Unfortunately, the jingles that came to mind did not seem to relate well to the advice I needed. I made do the best that I could.
“You can take Salem out of the country,” I told myself, sagely, “but you can’t take the country out of Salem.”
It did not take long for me to realize the flaw with my plan. My brain has – of late – not been functioning properly. As it turns out, there are valid reasons for this, and – when compounded, as they have been – they could likely explain quite a bit of my irritability as well. My current mental state (while improving) does not allow for the conscious recall of many useful bits of knowledge like commercial jingles. On the contrary, it appears that the jingles are now rising – unbidden – into the forefront of my mind, whether they apply or not.
“Double, double your refreshment,” sings my mind, happily, as a co-worker hands me some files to proof. “Double, double your de-ligh-igh-ight-ment.”
I was so startled by this cheerful and out-of-place melody that I missed what my co-worker is saying and had to ask her to repeat it. I suppose – now that I’m reflecting upon it – that the experience was, therefore, “doubled.” Hmmm. Devious mind.
Later, as I lift my cup of yogi tea to my mouth, my mind once again erupts.
“The best part of waking UP” it bellows, enjoying this activity FAR too much, “is Folgers IN YOUR CUP!”
Now I am starting to feel disturbed. It is almost as if the marketing tunes have taken over my untrustworthy mind. On the plus side, the experiment seems to have quite a cheering effect on my overall mood. In fact, I think that this focus on commercial jingles might be encouraging an overall feeling of goodwill. As I surveyed the cubicle farm outside my own little square, my mind began a soft serenade.
“I’d like to buy the world a Coke,” it began, earnestly. I stopped it in its tracks. We do NOT support coke, I reminded it, due to the high fructose corn syrup.
“Always Coca-Cola” it rebutted in a sing-song manner, undeterred.
I sighed mentally. This was getting creepy.
In some ways, I am beginning to feel that another being has begun to occupy my mind. Even now, as I type, I can hear an ongoing song in the corner of my mind.
“Charlie says,” it chants, “I love my Good & Plenties. Charlie says, they really ring a bell.” It goes around and around, broken only by an occasional foray into “My dog’s better than YOUR dog, my dog’s better than YOUR-OR-OR-ORS.”
I suppose that this mental takeover is – in actuality – real. These jingles – and all marketing tools – have been constructed to have this effect. They have utilized scientific knowledge to manipulate our own minds, to capitalize upon the areas of our consciousness AND unconsciousness that we have difficulty controlling, but that will drive us to certain behaviors. Even as a marketer, and someone with an unusual interest in understanding psychological manipulation, I am not immune. I find the repercussions of this truth frightening.
On the other hand, I’m also no longer irritable. “After all,” my mind asks, “why bother? “Instead,” it suggests, “we could: jump in, just enjoy the ri-i-i-ide…da, da, da, da, da…..”
(It is also possible, I suppose, that taking yesterday off from exercising might have played a small part, particularly as I have been suffering from muscle fatigue and a bit of a tweaked knee. But that’s a whole different topic….)]
This morning, as I was contemplating my already decreasing irritability, I had a brilliant idea for making my way through the world today. I would – I decided – coach myself all day long only in commercial jingles. Excited, I launched my experiment immediately. As I began to get ready for work, the canine assumed her usual position at my heels, causing me to nearly trip every time I turned around.
“Don’t get mad,” I counseled myself, cheerily, “get Glad.” Resolutely, I ignored the canine as I continued my preparations, only once stopping to suggest – kindly – that she go lie down in another room.
Heading into the office, rather than allow the traffic (and poor driving) to bother me, I decided to practice acceptance. Unfortunately, the jingles that came to mind did not seem to relate well to the advice I needed. I made do the best that I could.
“You can take Salem out of the country,” I told myself, sagely, “but you can’t take the country out of Salem.”
It did not take long for me to realize the flaw with my plan. My brain has – of late – not been functioning properly. As it turns out, there are valid reasons for this, and – when compounded, as they have been – they could likely explain quite a bit of my irritability as well. My current mental state (while improving) does not allow for the conscious recall of many useful bits of knowledge like commercial jingles. On the contrary, it appears that the jingles are now rising – unbidden – into the forefront of my mind, whether they apply or not.
“Double, double your refreshment,” sings my mind, happily, as a co-worker hands me some files to proof. “Double, double your de-ligh-igh-ight-ment.”
I was so startled by this cheerful and out-of-place melody that I missed what my co-worker is saying and had to ask her to repeat it. I suppose – now that I’m reflecting upon it – that the experience was, therefore, “doubled.” Hmmm. Devious mind.
Later, as I lift my cup of yogi tea to my mouth, my mind once again erupts.
“The best part of waking UP” it bellows, enjoying this activity FAR too much, “is Folgers IN YOUR CUP!”
Now I am starting to feel disturbed. It is almost as if the marketing tunes have taken over my untrustworthy mind. On the plus side, the experiment seems to have quite a cheering effect on my overall mood. In fact, I think that this focus on commercial jingles might be encouraging an overall feeling of goodwill. As I surveyed the cubicle farm outside my own little square, my mind began a soft serenade.
“I’d like to buy the world a Coke,” it began, earnestly. I stopped it in its tracks. We do NOT support coke, I reminded it, due to the high fructose corn syrup.
“Always Coca-Cola” it rebutted in a sing-song manner, undeterred.
I sighed mentally. This was getting creepy.
In some ways, I am beginning to feel that another being has begun to occupy my mind. Even now, as I type, I can hear an ongoing song in the corner of my mind.
“Charlie says,” it chants, “I love my Good & Plenties. Charlie says, they really ring a bell.” It goes around and around, broken only by an occasional foray into “My dog’s better than YOUR dog, my dog’s better than YOUR-OR-OR-ORS.”
I suppose that this mental takeover is – in actuality – real. These jingles – and all marketing tools – have been constructed to have this effect. They have utilized scientific knowledge to manipulate our own minds, to capitalize upon the areas of our consciousness AND unconsciousness that we have difficulty controlling, but that will drive us to certain behaviors. Even as a marketer, and someone with an unusual interest in understanding psychological manipulation, I am not immune. I find the repercussions of this truth frightening.
On the other hand, I’m also no longer irritable. “After all,” my mind asks, “why bother? “Instead,” it suggests, “we could: jump in, just enjoy the ri-i-i-ide…da, da, da, da, da…..”
Tuesday, August 19, 2008
Right With The World
I can no longer deny that I am, in fact, an extraordinarily irritable person. At the very least, I have been an extraordinarily irritable person for the past month (okay….TWO months) and am showing no signs of becoming a non-irritable person anytime soon. I find this new personality that I’ve developed to be quite…irritating.
I honestly do not know what has happened to my Self. Things that used to please me - or at the very least not bother me -have begun to provoke sentiments ranging from mild anger to acute rage. In case you are not following, allow me to paint a picture of any given (recent) day’s activities:
6:00 am: Wake up. Think about how irritating it is that I have to go to work. Step over dog to go into bathroom. Consider how annoying it is that dog gets to stay home and sleep all day, but will have nerve to look upset when I leave. Would much rather stay home all day like dog. Dog should be more appreciative.
6:10 am: Start coffee brewing. Listen to Petula peep, feel irritated. Why can bird not stay quiet until I get her up? Does bird REALLY need to have IMMEDIATE attention? Bird knows that I will not be taking blanket off for at least five more minutes. Irritating.
6:12 am: Feed rabbits, take dog outside.
6:15 am: Order dog out of kitchen. Feed dog.
6:17 am: Get birds up. Feed birds. Water birds. Think about how spoiled birds are, and about how they feel that they need more attention. Feel annoyed. Petula peeps constantly while I pour coffee, arrange mirrors on table for “bird time.” Am angry at whiny bird. Yell at her, which is completely pointless as Petula believes this to be my form of peeping, and thinks I am joining her whining. Irritated by this inter-species miscommunication. (Note: Before the development of this irritable persona, I found bird’s undying affection ALMOST endearing. Also felt happy for dog that she was able to stay home all day, thought it was cute that birds were so excited to see me, etc. This is no longer the case. Now all is annoying.)
6:20 am – 7:20 am: Bird time. I read magazines, drink coffee, birds climb all over me and get pets. Oddly, do not feel so irritable during this period, likely because it involves reading and coffee.
7:20 am: Put birds in cage. Immediate whining erupts. Cover birds with blanket. Keats pleased, Petula furious.
7:21 – 7:30 am: Eat breakfast.
7:30 am: Begin to get ready for work. Dog IMMEDIATELY begins following me from room to room, looking mournful. Am annoyed. Order her out of rooms, she looks even more wounded.
7:50 am: Leave for work, feeling irritated because as I leave dog looks traumatized and birds are screaming. Ungrateful creatures.
8:00 am: Am at work. How irritating. Also irritated by bicyclists in my way on commute, by VERY annoying construction, and by day’s schedule.
8:05 am: Am hungry. Irritating.
8:16 – 11:30 am: Irritated and annoyed by wide variety of sources.
11:30 am – 12:30 pm: Somewhere in this range, take lunch break. If go home, feel irritated by screaming birds and dog with panting anxiety disorder. If do not go home, feel annoyed because I am “behind” on getting things done (taking dog out, various errands, etc.)
12:30 – 4:30 pm: Generally very sleepy at work, which is cause for quite a lot of irritation. Have usually received a number of annoying emails by now, and had numerous irritating projects come up.
4:30 pm: Depart office, find traffic that builds up at stop sign EXTREMELY irritating. Cannot understand complete lack of driving abilities that are demonstrated on a daily basis.
I shall spare you the details of the evening, but will assure you that there are plenty of causes for irritation in it. The person next to me in yoga class is inevitably annoying (this is NOT a yogic attitude on my part… shameful, really), the shower drain that does NOT drain is REALLY frustrating, the speed with which my evening passes is enough to spark my fuse. I can scarcely go out in public anymore, since I am so highly irritated by everyone that I come in contact with that I have begun to fear that I shall tell them exactly what it is about them that annoys me.
As you might imagine, the most irritating thing of all these days is my Self. I am not, I’m afraid, very good company, as my irritability extends to everything that I think or do. I barely have time to complete a conscious thought before my inner irritable persona is critiquing it. How annoying.
It is clear that something needs to change. Were it not such an irritating topic, I might even consider spending some time on it. As it is, I think I’ll just wait – annoyed – for the world to fix itself.
I honestly do not know what has happened to my Self. Things that used to please me - or at the very least not bother me -have begun to provoke sentiments ranging from mild anger to acute rage. In case you are not following, allow me to paint a picture of any given (recent) day’s activities:
6:00 am: Wake up. Think about how irritating it is that I have to go to work. Step over dog to go into bathroom. Consider how annoying it is that dog gets to stay home and sleep all day, but will have nerve to look upset when I leave. Would much rather stay home all day like dog. Dog should be more appreciative.
6:10 am: Start coffee brewing. Listen to Petula peep, feel irritated. Why can bird not stay quiet until I get her up? Does bird REALLY need to have IMMEDIATE attention? Bird knows that I will not be taking blanket off for at least five more minutes. Irritating.
6:12 am: Feed rabbits, take dog outside.
6:15 am: Order dog out of kitchen. Feed dog.
6:17 am: Get birds up. Feed birds. Water birds. Think about how spoiled birds are, and about how they feel that they need more attention. Feel annoyed. Petula peeps constantly while I pour coffee, arrange mirrors on table for “bird time.” Am angry at whiny bird. Yell at her, which is completely pointless as Petula believes this to be my form of peeping, and thinks I am joining her whining. Irritated by this inter-species miscommunication. (Note: Before the development of this irritable persona, I found bird’s undying affection ALMOST endearing. Also felt happy for dog that she was able to stay home all day, thought it was cute that birds were so excited to see me, etc. This is no longer the case. Now all is annoying.)
6:20 am – 7:20 am: Bird time. I read magazines, drink coffee, birds climb all over me and get pets. Oddly, do not feel so irritable during this period, likely because it involves reading and coffee.
7:20 am: Put birds in cage. Immediate whining erupts. Cover birds with blanket. Keats pleased, Petula furious.
7:21 – 7:30 am: Eat breakfast.
7:30 am: Begin to get ready for work. Dog IMMEDIATELY begins following me from room to room, looking mournful. Am annoyed. Order her out of rooms, she looks even more wounded.
7:50 am: Leave for work, feeling irritated because as I leave dog looks traumatized and birds are screaming. Ungrateful creatures.
8:00 am: Am at work. How irritating. Also irritated by bicyclists in my way on commute, by VERY annoying construction, and by day’s schedule.
8:05 am: Am hungry. Irritating.
8:16 – 11:30 am: Irritated and annoyed by wide variety of sources.
11:30 am – 12:30 pm: Somewhere in this range, take lunch break. If go home, feel irritated by screaming birds and dog with panting anxiety disorder. If do not go home, feel annoyed because I am “behind” on getting things done (taking dog out, various errands, etc.)
12:30 – 4:30 pm: Generally very sleepy at work, which is cause for quite a lot of irritation. Have usually received a number of annoying emails by now, and had numerous irritating projects come up.
4:30 pm: Depart office, find traffic that builds up at stop sign EXTREMELY irritating. Cannot understand complete lack of driving abilities that are demonstrated on a daily basis.
I shall spare you the details of the evening, but will assure you that there are plenty of causes for irritation in it. The person next to me in yoga class is inevitably annoying (this is NOT a yogic attitude on my part… shameful, really), the shower drain that does NOT drain is REALLY frustrating, the speed with which my evening passes is enough to spark my fuse. I can scarcely go out in public anymore, since I am so highly irritated by everyone that I come in contact with that I have begun to fear that I shall tell them exactly what it is about them that annoys me.
As you might imagine, the most irritating thing of all these days is my Self. I am not, I’m afraid, very good company, as my irritability extends to everything that I think or do. I barely have time to complete a conscious thought before my inner irritable persona is critiquing it. How annoying.
It is clear that something needs to change. Were it not such an irritating topic, I might even consider spending some time on it. As it is, I think I’ll just wait – annoyed – for the world to fix itself.
Friday, August 15, 2008
Leggin' It
Over the years, I have come to understand and appreciate that I will always actively pursue self-improvement and – in fact – embrace transformation. This is a part of my nature, and it seeps into all that I do and think. I’ve grown to enjoy this aspect of my character, for the most part. There have been times, however, that I’ve cursed myself for not “letting things be.” Today is one of those times.
I am a fairly active person, yet I am forever shadowed by the feeling that I am “not quite active enough.” I could – after all – be doing more. I am certain of it. My certainty stems from the hours and hours that I’ve spent THINKING about how I could be engaged in physical activity rather than whatever I happen to be engaged in at that time (often work, or driving, or talking to someone who bores me immensely….) It is also confirmed by all of the fitness magazines that I read, which demonstrate all sorts of clever little exercises and have indicated that “just a few minutes” of said exercises, when repeated at regular intervals, will “completely transform my body.” This, of course, inspires feelings of immense inadequacy, as there are OBVIOUSLY women in this world who are – at this very moment – radically transforming their bodies, and I am not one of them.
The culmination of years of these thoughts, plus my new personal recession, led me to the determination that I MUST learn to exercise in creative and stimulating ways at home. The final determining factor: I now have enough space to do it in. Whereas in my last apartment I did not have room to even – say – turn in a circle, my current living space is chock-full of assorted roomy expanses of openness. These are spaces that could easily be filled with exercise bands, yoga mats, weights, and more.
And there you have it. On Wednesday, before embarking on my outing for the evening, I decided that I would get some exercise, and I would do it at home. Feeling quite pleased with myself in advance, I collected an assortment of fitness items from the office and toted them to the living room, where I spread them about and stood, for a moment, admiring them.
To begin, I picked up a pair of ankle weights and slipped them on. (These had never before seen more than two minutes of use – I honestly cannot remember what I was thinking when I purchased them. I must have read something in a magazine about their transformative powers.) Experimentally, I lifted my right leg off the floor and swung it about. The ankle weight was not even noticeable.
Hmmm, I thought, a bit disgusted. What sort of equipment is this? It does NOTHING.
Mentally shrugging, I began my “warm-up.” This was the part designed (by me) to raise my heart rate. Initially, I ran in place – alternating between lifting my knees high and kicking my heels behind me. After about 30 seconds, I grew bored. I began inventing dance steps, and soon found myself trotting about the living room/kitchen/hallway area with flair. The first time I zipped past the rabbits, heels bouncing jauntily and arms swinging wildly back and forth across my torso in an exaggerated ark, they both froze in horror, eyes widening. The second time I passed, now skipping, they both disappeared in a flurry of loose rabbit fur. From the recesses of Lulu’s cage, I heard a “thump” of warning. The rabbits, it appeared, were not advocates of the at-home exercise regiment.
Meanwhile, the birds were transfixed by my performance. This was the best entertainment that they had witnessed for quite some time, confusing as it was. Occasionally, Keats emitted a soft and questioning noise.
“Wheeew?” he asked, turning his head sideways to see if my behavior made any more sense when viewed strictly from the right side of his head. “Wheew?”
When I finished my cardio portion I moved on to the floor for abdominal work. It was at this point that Petula’s world crashed about her. For reasons that I do not understand, she finds my eight-pound purple weight ball terrifying. Until Wednesday, I had no idea. The first time I tossed it into the air, she let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror. I was so surprised that I nearly missed catching the ball on its descent toward my abdomen. After a moment, I decided that it must have been a fluke and again launched the ball into the air. Once again, Petula shrieked in horror. This was – I admit – a touch irritating. Ignoring her, I proceeded with my routine. Her shrieks escalated the entire time, eventually reaching the level usually reserved for “Stage 5 Needs Attention.” The squawks at that crisis level have been known to bring humans running from all sections of the building.
I could not help – at this point – wondering what the people across the hall were thinking. Earlier that evening, I had spotted a couple with a small child arrive. I assumed that they were preparing the place for the return of the temporarily displaced resident, an elderly woman who required in-home care. (The paper towels and bottles of Ensure on the stairwell supported this theory.) Since their arrival, the male half of the duo had been spending a LOT of time on the balcony, talking loudly on his cell phone. Since I could hear him very well through my open patio door, I imagined that he could hear Petula just as well. I was unable to peek out there, as I had not bothered dressing for my exercise routine (I had decided that one of the perks of an at-home program was the ability to perform it in one’s underwear) and had been doing my best to avoid the door and window, given my attire.
Ah well, I thought. That will teach him to loiter on balconies. He’ll have to spend the rest of his day wondering what in the hell goes on across the hall from his mother. (At least I THINK she’s his mother…. Based on the phone conversations I overheard.)
I was approximately twenty minutes into my bout of exercise, engaged in some more heart-rate acceleration, when I suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort in one of my calves. I frowned, glancing down. The other calf responded with an equally uncomfortable twinge, and I decided that it was, perhaps, time to remove the ankle weights. The twinges passed, leaving a strange sort of numbness behind, and I ended my session. As I went for a walk afterward, capping off the day’s exercise, I noticed that my legs WERE feeling a bit sore. It would, I decided, work itself out.
Imagine, then, my surprise when I awoke yesterday to find that my legs refused to function normally. Generally, the deal that we have between us is that I’ll swing them out of the bed, placing my feet on the floor, and they’ll then support the burden of my weight as I lift off of the mattress. It appears that – sometime over the course of the night – our deal was renegotiated without my input. When I attempted to stand, in defiance of our newly amended agreement, they retaliated by cramping – the entire backside of them, with extra focus on the calves. This was most unpleasant.
As time has passed, and I have continued to defy the terms of our new contract, they have grown increasingly resistant to our partnership. Today, I sit in my cubicle plotting the manners in which I can stay seated for the maximum length of time before I am forced to stand and engage in the activity formerly known as “walking.” The movement of my body from one location to another has become a lesson in humility. As I hobble, I do my best to pretend that I have not noticed the strange contorted shape that I present, or the negative-mile-per-hour pace that I am keeping.
I now know that truth about those evil and deceptive weapons dubbed “ankle weights.” No matter how long it takes, I shall track down the magazine that recommended them, and I shall extract revenge. This new me – the slow-paced hobbler – is not a transformation that I welcome.
I am a fairly active person, yet I am forever shadowed by the feeling that I am “not quite active enough.” I could – after all – be doing more. I am certain of it. My certainty stems from the hours and hours that I’ve spent THINKING about how I could be engaged in physical activity rather than whatever I happen to be engaged in at that time (often work, or driving, or talking to someone who bores me immensely….) It is also confirmed by all of the fitness magazines that I read, which demonstrate all sorts of clever little exercises and have indicated that “just a few minutes” of said exercises, when repeated at regular intervals, will “completely transform my body.” This, of course, inspires feelings of immense inadequacy, as there are OBVIOUSLY women in this world who are – at this very moment – radically transforming their bodies, and I am not one of them.
The culmination of years of these thoughts, plus my new personal recession, led me to the determination that I MUST learn to exercise in creative and stimulating ways at home. The final determining factor: I now have enough space to do it in. Whereas in my last apartment I did not have room to even – say – turn in a circle, my current living space is chock-full of assorted roomy expanses of openness. These are spaces that could easily be filled with exercise bands, yoga mats, weights, and more.
And there you have it. On Wednesday, before embarking on my outing for the evening, I decided that I would get some exercise, and I would do it at home. Feeling quite pleased with myself in advance, I collected an assortment of fitness items from the office and toted them to the living room, where I spread them about and stood, for a moment, admiring them.
To begin, I picked up a pair of ankle weights and slipped them on. (These had never before seen more than two minutes of use – I honestly cannot remember what I was thinking when I purchased them. I must have read something in a magazine about their transformative powers.) Experimentally, I lifted my right leg off the floor and swung it about. The ankle weight was not even noticeable.
Hmmm, I thought, a bit disgusted. What sort of equipment is this? It does NOTHING.
Mentally shrugging, I began my “warm-up.” This was the part designed (by me) to raise my heart rate. Initially, I ran in place – alternating between lifting my knees high and kicking my heels behind me. After about 30 seconds, I grew bored. I began inventing dance steps, and soon found myself trotting about the living room/kitchen/hallway area with flair. The first time I zipped past the rabbits, heels bouncing jauntily and arms swinging wildly back and forth across my torso in an exaggerated ark, they both froze in horror, eyes widening. The second time I passed, now skipping, they both disappeared in a flurry of loose rabbit fur. From the recesses of Lulu’s cage, I heard a “thump” of warning. The rabbits, it appeared, were not advocates of the at-home exercise regiment.
Meanwhile, the birds were transfixed by my performance. This was the best entertainment that they had witnessed for quite some time, confusing as it was. Occasionally, Keats emitted a soft and questioning noise.
“Wheeew?” he asked, turning his head sideways to see if my behavior made any more sense when viewed strictly from the right side of his head. “Wheew?”
When I finished my cardio portion I moved on to the floor for abdominal work. It was at this point that Petula’s world crashed about her. For reasons that I do not understand, she finds my eight-pound purple weight ball terrifying. Until Wednesday, I had no idea. The first time I tossed it into the air, she let out an ear-piercing shriek of terror. I was so surprised that I nearly missed catching the ball on its descent toward my abdomen. After a moment, I decided that it must have been a fluke and again launched the ball into the air. Once again, Petula shrieked in horror. This was – I admit – a touch irritating. Ignoring her, I proceeded with my routine. Her shrieks escalated the entire time, eventually reaching the level usually reserved for “Stage 5 Needs Attention.” The squawks at that crisis level have been known to bring humans running from all sections of the building.
I could not help – at this point – wondering what the people across the hall were thinking. Earlier that evening, I had spotted a couple with a small child arrive. I assumed that they were preparing the place for the return of the temporarily displaced resident, an elderly woman who required in-home care. (The paper towels and bottles of Ensure on the stairwell supported this theory.) Since their arrival, the male half of the duo had been spending a LOT of time on the balcony, talking loudly on his cell phone. Since I could hear him very well through my open patio door, I imagined that he could hear Petula just as well. I was unable to peek out there, as I had not bothered dressing for my exercise routine (I had decided that one of the perks of an at-home program was the ability to perform it in one’s underwear) and had been doing my best to avoid the door and window, given my attire.
Ah well, I thought. That will teach him to loiter on balconies. He’ll have to spend the rest of his day wondering what in the hell goes on across the hall from his mother. (At least I THINK she’s his mother…. Based on the phone conversations I overheard.)
I was approximately twenty minutes into my bout of exercise, engaged in some more heart-rate acceleration, when I suddenly felt a twinge of discomfort in one of my calves. I frowned, glancing down. The other calf responded with an equally uncomfortable twinge, and I decided that it was, perhaps, time to remove the ankle weights. The twinges passed, leaving a strange sort of numbness behind, and I ended my session. As I went for a walk afterward, capping off the day’s exercise, I noticed that my legs WERE feeling a bit sore. It would, I decided, work itself out.
Imagine, then, my surprise when I awoke yesterday to find that my legs refused to function normally. Generally, the deal that we have between us is that I’ll swing them out of the bed, placing my feet on the floor, and they’ll then support the burden of my weight as I lift off of the mattress. It appears that – sometime over the course of the night – our deal was renegotiated without my input. When I attempted to stand, in defiance of our newly amended agreement, they retaliated by cramping – the entire backside of them, with extra focus on the calves. This was most unpleasant.
As time has passed, and I have continued to defy the terms of our new contract, they have grown increasingly resistant to our partnership. Today, I sit in my cubicle plotting the manners in which I can stay seated for the maximum length of time before I am forced to stand and engage in the activity formerly known as “walking.” The movement of my body from one location to another has become a lesson in humility. As I hobble, I do my best to pretend that I have not noticed the strange contorted shape that I present, or the negative-mile-per-hour pace that I am keeping.
I now know that truth about those evil and deceptive weapons dubbed “ankle weights.” No matter how long it takes, I shall track down the magazine that recommended them, and I shall extract revenge. This new me – the slow-paced hobbler – is not a transformation that I welcome.
Tuesday, August 12, 2008
Mental Floss
Today’s mental notes:
1 – It does not, in fact, take eleven minutes to walk from my home to the office. It actually – interestingly enough – takes THIRTY minutes.
2 – Shoes that hurt one’s feet when one walked about in San Diego, California, will also hurt one’s feet when one walks about in Madison, Wisconsin.
3 – While they may SEEM like a good idea at the time of consumption, s’mores seem like LESS of a good idea when they are written in one’s food journal under the heading of “Breakfast.”
4 – Doctors operate on a different timeline than the rest of us, and also apparently don’t thoroughly read emails.
5 – Some doctors appear to abandon the rules of grammar, perhaps related to Mental Note #4.
6 – Too-tight pants do NOT grow less irritating as the day goes on. While THEORETICALLY they might remind one that one needs to lose weight, they – conversely – make one incredibly inactive due to intense discomfort felt upon moving.
7 – Projects do not disappear from one’s desk just because one refuses to look at them. The next time that one accidentally passes one’s eyes over the surface of one’s workspace, one might be startled and dismayed to find project sitting there.
8 –Mark Twain was an AMAZING man.
9 – Putting LOTS AND LOTS of thought into the potential location of the keys to one’s file cabinet may not lead to the actual remembrance of key’s location. Interestingly, anxiety level progressively increases in fashion that correlates with amount of thought invested.
10 – One should consider NOT locking one’s checkbook, debit card, and all credit cards into one’s file cabinet if there is chance that one will lose keys to aforementioned cabinet.
11 – To a bird, there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
12 – Come to think of it, for many ex-people-in-my-life there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
13 – No matter how hard you try, it is impossible to make stair-climbing “fun.”
14 – For a true aficionado, the urge for cupcakes never COMPLETELY goes away. This means that one’s ENTIRE life could become an exercise in will-power.
15 – Now that I’m considering it, one’s entire life IS an exercise in willpower.
16 – What in the fruit??? What kind of game is this that we’re playing here???
1 – It does not, in fact, take eleven minutes to walk from my home to the office. It actually – interestingly enough – takes THIRTY minutes.
2 – Shoes that hurt one’s feet when one walked about in San Diego, California, will also hurt one’s feet when one walks about in Madison, Wisconsin.
3 – While they may SEEM like a good idea at the time of consumption, s’mores seem like LESS of a good idea when they are written in one’s food journal under the heading of “Breakfast.”
4 – Doctors operate on a different timeline than the rest of us, and also apparently don’t thoroughly read emails.
5 – Some doctors appear to abandon the rules of grammar, perhaps related to Mental Note #4.
6 – Too-tight pants do NOT grow less irritating as the day goes on. While THEORETICALLY they might remind one that one needs to lose weight, they – conversely – make one incredibly inactive due to intense discomfort felt upon moving.
7 – Projects do not disappear from one’s desk just because one refuses to look at them. The next time that one accidentally passes one’s eyes over the surface of one’s workspace, one might be startled and dismayed to find project sitting there.
8 –Mark Twain was an AMAZING man.
9 – Putting LOTS AND LOTS of thought into the potential location of the keys to one’s file cabinet may not lead to the actual remembrance of key’s location. Interestingly, anxiety level progressively increases in fashion that correlates with amount of thought invested.
10 – One should consider NOT locking one’s checkbook, debit card, and all credit cards into one’s file cabinet if there is chance that one will lose keys to aforementioned cabinet.
11 – To a bird, there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
12 – Come to think of it, for many ex-people-in-my-life there is no such thing as “enough attention.”
13 – No matter how hard you try, it is impossible to make stair-climbing “fun.”
14 – For a true aficionado, the urge for cupcakes never COMPLETELY goes away. This means that one’s ENTIRE life could become an exercise in will-power.
15 – Now that I’m considering it, one’s entire life IS an exercise in willpower.
16 – What in the fruit??? What kind of game is this that we’re playing here???
Monday, August 04, 2008
Moving On Up
It was Friday night, and Rob was helping me move the contents of my apartment into my new residence. This was officially an acceptable time for panic. The movers were slated to arrive at 8 am the next morning, and my goal was to have ONLY furniture for them to move. As my plan – which had been devised weeks earlier in the period affectionately referred to as “deluded beyond belief” – also called for the packing of NOTHING, we had our work cut out for us. Instead of “packing,” I had been carting things over in boxes, emptying them on the other end, and then returning with the box to do it all over again. This had been working quite well until it was actually time to be moved.
Despite the absolute UNFUN nature of this event, Rob and I managed to almost enjoy elements of it. At the very least, we didn’t whine or swear too much, despite our exhaustion and the valid reasons for it. By the time it was nearly midnight, we were too tired to carry on. The decision to sleep was made, with the understanding that we would rise early enough to make another trip to the new place, vacuum it, dissemble the bed, take the top off of the desk, finish boxing some things, etc. Clearly our fatigued brains were tricking us into believing that we could actually afford the time to sleep.
Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. For a short time, I considered the ramifications of NOT waking up before the mover’s arrival, but only entertained the idea with any seriousness for five minutes. First order of priorities: The pets. Second: coffee. Rob and I hopped in the car to make a run for our only hope of getting through the morning. Unfortunately for us, the chosen coffee source did not open until 6:30 am. As we sat in the parking lot, contemplating the locked door, we struggled to stay awake. This was seriously cutting into our preparation time.
Minutes later, we were back at work, only slightly impaired in our thinking. Efficiently, I closed various critters into cages and stacked them all in the empty closet, where they sat – frozen in shock and horror – for approximately two minutes before launching into a cacophony of whining protest that would continue through the entire move.
Rob, meanwhile, was hauling items out to my vehicle, which we were filling with the remaining items that we did not wish to entrust to the movers. On one of his trips, he was greeted by Strange Shirtless Neighbor. [Strange Shirtless Neighbor is a generally cheerful fellow in his forties who has resided in my former apartment complex for nearly a year. In that time, I have only seen him sporting a shirt a handful of times. Every other time, including in the winter, he has been shirtless. It appears that he is quite comfortable in this state, although I myself felt a bit awkward when he would engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he engaged me in conversation every time he saw me. This was particularly odd when we found ourselves together in the fluorescent intimacy of the underground laundry room. Strange Shirtless Neighbor has been monitoring my move with a great deal of interest.] This morning, his engagement with Rob was as chipper as always.
“Wow.” He exclaimed, noting the armful of things that Rob was carrying. “How much stuff can you fit into one of these apartments? Is she moving into a bigger place?”
Rob indicated that yes, I was indeed moving into a bigger place – a two bedroom.
Strange Shirtless Neighbor seemed pleased. “That seems more her speed.” Rob agreed politely, continuing on his way.
At 8 am, the movers arrived. Immediately Rob and I struggled with the age old dilemma: How to look busy while the movers are working – to avoid looking like slackers – while staying out of the way of the movers. We retreated to the kitchen where we proceeded to feel lazy and sympathetic for the second mover, a gentleman that I would – frankly – describe as practically elderly. This went on for some time, until the bedroom had been emptied and we escaped to that room, where we lounged on the carpeted floor. By then, fatigue had overtaken our concerns of appearance.
By the time we made the trip over to my new residence, Rob and I were consumed with hunger. Alas, we had no choice but to continue to accompany the movers. This we did, and once again we positioned ourselves in the kitchen. Our guilty feelings reinstated themselves as we munched on snack mix while the movers struggled up the stairs, heavily burdened with awkward furniture. The elderly mover grew very chatty, perhaps in an effort to avoid additional trips up and down the stairs.
“I bet you’re liking that kitchen,” he commented approvingly on one trip. “That’s a good one.”
I concurred.
A few trips later he paused to ask “You thinking of doing some repainting?” He had a smile on his face that suggested that I would be insane to NOT do some repainting.
“Well,” I replied, unbothered, “That IS the repainting.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Finally, the mover recovered. “I see,” he replied, at a loss for more words.
I tried to maintain a straight face. It appeared that my carefully chosen assortment of vivid paint colors did not strike him as a situation that one would CHOOSE to live in.
The movers continued their work, and – four hours after they started – they were done. Rob and I were surrounded by my material possessions, in my new home. We had additional work ahead of us, but first things first: It was time to retrieve the furred/feathered family, and it was time to eat. With those thoughts, we were once again “on the move.”
Despite the absolute UNFUN nature of this event, Rob and I managed to almost enjoy elements of it. At the very least, we didn’t whine or swear too much, despite our exhaustion and the valid reasons for it. By the time it was nearly midnight, we were too tired to carry on. The decision to sleep was made, with the understanding that we would rise early enough to make another trip to the new place, vacuum it, dissemble the bed, take the top off of the desk, finish boxing some things, etc. Clearly our fatigued brains were tricking us into believing that we could actually afford the time to sleep.
Saturday morning, the alarm went off at 6 am. For a short time, I considered the ramifications of NOT waking up before the mover’s arrival, but only entertained the idea with any seriousness for five minutes. First order of priorities: The pets. Second: coffee. Rob and I hopped in the car to make a run for our only hope of getting through the morning. Unfortunately for us, the chosen coffee source did not open until 6:30 am. As we sat in the parking lot, contemplating the locked door, we struggled to stay awake. This was seriously cutting into our preparation time.
Minutes later, we were back at work, only slightly impaired in our thinking. Efficiently, I closed various critters into cages and stacked them all in the empty closet, where they sat – frozen in shock and horror – for approximately two minutes before launching into a cacophony of whining protest that would continue through the entire move.
Rob, meanwhile, was hauling items out to my vehicle, which we were filling with the remaining items that we did not wish to entrust to the movers. On one of his trips, he was greeted by Strange Shirtless Neighbor. [Strange Shirtless Neighbor is a generally cheerful fellow in his forties who has resided in my former apartment complex for nearly a year. In that time, I have only seen him sporting a shirt a handful of times. Every other time, including in the winter, he has been shirtless. It appears that he is quite comfortable in this state, although I myself felt a bit awkward when he would engage me in conversation. Unfortunately, he engaged me in conversation every time he saw me. This was particularly odd when we found ourselves together in the fluorescent intimacy of the underground laundry room. Strange Shirtless Neighbor has been monitoring my move with a great deal of interest.] This morning, his engagement with Rob was as chipper as always.
“Wow.” He exclaimed, noting the armful of things that Rob was carrying. “How much stuff can you fit into one of these apartments? Is she moving into a bigger place?”
Rob indicated that yes, I was indeed moving into a bigger place – a two bedroom.
Strange Shirtless Neighbor seemed pleased. “That seems more her speed.” Rob agreed politely, continuing on his way.
At 8 am, the movers arrived. Immediately Rob and I struggled with the age old dilemma: How to look busy while the movers are working – to avoid looking like slackers – while staying out of the way of the movers. We retreated to the kitchen where we proceeded to feel lazy and sympathetic for the second mover, a gentleman that I would – frankly – describe as practically elderly. This went on for some time, until the bedroom had been emptied and we escaped to that room, where we lounged on the carpeted floor. By then, fatigue had overtaken our concerns of appearance.
By the time we made the trip over to my new residence, Rob and I were consumed with hunger. Alas, we had no choice but to continue to accompany the movers. This we did, and once again we positioned ourselves in the kitchen. Our guilty feelings reinstated themselves as we munched on snack mix while the movers struggled up the stairs, heavily burdened with awkward furniture. The elderly mover grew very chatty, perhaps in an effort to avoid additional trips up and down the stairs.
“I bet you’re liking that kitchen,” he commented approvingly on one trip. “That’s a good one.”
I concurred.
A few trips later he paused to ask “You thinking of doing some repainting?” He had a smile on his face that suggested that I would be insane to NOT do some repainting.
“Well,” I replied, unbothered, “That IS the repainting.”
There was a moment of stunned silence. Finally, the mover recovered. “I see,” he replied, at a loss for more words.
I tried to maintain a straight face. It appeared that my carefully chosen assortment of vivid paint colors did not strike him as a situation that one would CHOOSE to live in.
The movers continued their work, and – four hours after they started – they were done. Rob and I were surrounded by my material possessions, in my new home. We had additional work ahead of us, but first things first: It was time to retrieve the furred/feathered family, and it was time to eat. With those thoughts, we were once again “on the move.”
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