Self improvement, part infinity

Exercise and housekeeping are two areas of my life where my ambitions and intentions are always overcome by my complacency.  One day, I hope to have routines that work so well I can accomplish them as naturally as now I breathe, or help myself to ice cream after dinner.

I let my membership to Curves expire, and I have to say I finished with a “whimper and not with a bang,” as Eliot would say.  In other words, I quit attending long before my pre-paid months were up.  However, I made sure to practice relationship etiquitte; I made some attempts to go through the motions even after the love had cooled in my heart, and even in our final weeks of complete separation, I did not exercise at any other facility until I was sure that my contract was officially over.  However, I have since moved on, and time will tell if this is a transitional relationship or if I have found The One.

The Summit is a much earthier exercise venue than Curves.  It is run by the city, so it is inexpensive and therefore attended by an unusual variety of patrons.  All of the weight and cardio machines are in one room, so I as I walk on the treadmill and look at the mirror-covered walls I can see Terminators-in-training in T-shirts with the sleeves cut off bench pressing 350 pounds.  Ten feet away, a spry 80-year old sits at the weight machine doing bicep curls with 10 pound resistance.  On the treadmills, to my right might be a high school athlete, and on my left might be a very overweight person trying, like me, to get a handle on personal fitness before things get any more out of hand.

The general atmosphere does not even try to be cheery, as Curves did, with little logic puzzles posted on the walls and encouraging slogans on a bulletin board.  It’s crowded and usually smells sweaty.  But for $20 a month, Stephen and I can go and get our exercise, and it’s do-able because it’s not far from our house.  Outside, we have access to a pool and tennis courts if we choose to ever take advantage of them. And honestly, I like the low-maintenance aspect of this gym.  I can come and do my thing, and as long as I don’t try to move the fans or change the TV channel without assistance, no one will bother me. So we’ll see how it goes.

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My other latest quest has been to get a handle on my housekeeping.  We had fallen into a bad habit of neglecting all chores during the week, which meant that by Saturday morning it looked like a frat house–clothes strewn around the bedroom, scum on the bathroom sink, and dishes piling up in the kitchen.  Half of the weekend was devoted to restoring my home to its usual comfortable neatness, and the other half was spent coming up with excuses not to get anything dirty now that it was clean.

I hate this cycle, and I could forsee it getting even worse during the summer, when my lazy side gets indulged.  Even worse, I worried that the arrival of TH in August would result in not much housework getting accomplished on a regular basis during the week, and even less on the weekend.  So I decided to whip myself into shape before my procrastinating habits became any more ingrained.

I made myself a schedule that divides chores into three categories:  must be done every day, must be done every week, must be done once a month.  Then I divided up the chores among the days so that I have two little tiny projects to do each day.  Since I am the wife, and the member of the family with only one job instead of two, these are primarily my responsibility, although Stephen is gracious to pitch in whenever he is home.  So far it’s been two weeks and the schedule is working swimmingly.  Here’s what it looks like:

Every day chores (for Lindsey and Stephen):

-hang up/fold clean clothes
-put dirty clothes in hamper
-wipe down bathroom sink after use
-wipe down kitchen counters
-put away personal clutter

Weekly chores:

Monday:  dust, Swiffer hard floors
Tuesday: no chores due to Bible study group
Wednesday: laundry, Clorox wipe bathroom surfaces
Thursday:  Vacuum carpets, wipe down bathroom floor
Friday: no chores due to weekend
Saturday: laundry, weekend project
Sunday:  laundry, clean out refrigerator

Monthly chores:

Weekend 1: mop floors
Weekend 2:  launder dog pillow, blanket, towels, etc.
Weekend 3: mop floors again
Weekend 4:  deep clean bathrooms
Weekend 5: clean windows

 

Dancing Queen…or not…

When I took step aerobics, I loved the group “choreography” of us all doing the same step together in front of a giant mirror. With a little creativity, I imagined that we looked something like backup dancers in a cool music video, grapevining or hop-stepping to the beat in perfect unison. There was tremendous peer pressure to be right on step, and no room at all for slacking, or for forgetting which foot was right or left in the heat of the moment (yeah, don’t ask…).

So at Curves, my workout du jour, they try to incorporate the same element of fun into the workout circuit, but it falls a little flat. In case you’re not familiar with the setup, there are about 15 different weight machines that you cycle through during a workout, and in between each machine is a little foam pad that you stand on for the “aerobic” part of the workout (hence, the Curves combination of strength training plus aerobics). Each pad is labeled with a suggestion for an aerobic activity: jog in place, arm circles, boxing, etc.–my favorite being the irritatingly misspelled “hulla hoop.” The big difference in doing these activities in Curves versus in a class is that you are doing it alone. Everyone else in the room is at a different point in the circuit.

Call me self-conscious, but I can’t bring myself to do it. I jog in place at every aerobic station. I know that it’s evil, but, yes, I do watch the other women as they pantomime swimming motions or air-hula-hoop and I think they look silly. I can’t get over myself. Especially not the hula, which just looks vulgar with no hoop. And ESPECIALLY not the one labled “chorus line,” which scarred me on my first day. I was behind a very manic woman who chorus-lined with such enthusiasm that she almost kicked me in the face. It made me think of an episode of Friends (yes, I know, I need to get a life…) and now every time I circuit past this station, I think, “I’ve never had any professional dance training!”). So that you can enjoy the full effect of this mental picture, check out the video below.

(The moment that I am referring to is at 4:28. The video is the full Amanda story, which is pretty hilarious if you have five minutes to watch. It reminds me of Steele and Megan in London.)

 

Curvaceous

I’m afraid that if I were to die at this moment, “Tried to Exercise” would be a fitting epitaph on my tombstone. Exercising, for being an activity that I enjoy so little, has taken up a large portion of my mental energy over the past few years as I have swung back and forth between attempting a workout routine (again!) and feeling guilty because I was not sticking to the program.

My Old Ladies’ Pilates class fizzled out late last semester when Kay, the glue that held us all together, had surgery and was out for several weeks. No one came to class in her absence, and no one bothered to revive the group once she had recovered. Since then, I’ve walked with some regularity (less, now that school is in session), but my efforts have been hit-and-miss.

My intention was to join a gym when I moved to Temple and join a class, which I’ve had the best success with. I like the accountability and peer pressure that comes from someone else telling me what to do, and lots of classmates obeying all around me. I’ve come to accept the fact that I have a hard time pushing myself to exertion on a treadmill or with a workout video if I’m in charge of my own progress.

Unfortunately, my current schedule does not lend itself to a class commitment. I can’t imagine adding one more fixed to-do to my evening schedule, which feels crammed enough as it is. So class is out. Inspired by KarenD and my mother-in-law, Paula, I took out a two-week trial at Curves to see how that would go. I’ve gone six times in two weeks (the recommended three times a week), and now I have to make a decision. Here are the pros and cons:

Pros:

• steady routine, similar to a class, takes the decision-making out of my exercising
• little censors tell me when I’m working hard or slacking off, providing at least digital accountability
• people are nice
• flexibility is perfect for my schedule
• nice moderately intense workout- enough to break a little sweat but not so bad that I have to go shower afterward, which makes it do-able even on on-the-go evenings
• variety of machines works out all muscles
• I can go in Temple or Waco, depending on my schedule

Cons:

• No people my age go to Temple Curves
• Don’t know if the “moderate intensity” will be a good workout long-term
• Have to commit for 12 months
• Don’t know if I’m ready for the whole Curves culture- seems to be quite a lifestyle for some people. Is there some Curves juice in the water fountain that will make me interested in all the merchandise and social activities?

 

Team Effort

There’s nothing like a glimpse of my scantily clad self in the Target dressing room mirror to help me renew my enthusiasm for getting in shape. My new fondue friend Dan says that vanity is a bad motivation for exercising, but I’ll take whatever motivation happens to strike.

Stephen and I were in Target shopping for Laurashmaura’s birthday gift (I was in the dressing room trying on clothes for her), and after my little dressing room incident I shared my resolution. I’ve got to step up my exercising–my occasional Pilates sessions with Kay and Pat are just not cutting it. Stephen volunteered to be my new personal trainer.

Now this sounds crazy, but I agreed to try it out. Stephen doesn’t really enjoy exercising any more than I do, but he’s motivated by the fact that he now gets to boss me around, and he exercises alongside of me. So Tuesday was our first workout, and he made me do squats and lunges in the living room. We also took the dogs for a brisk walk and did a million crunches.

Wednesday, I started to feel it.

Thursday, I almost had to get a sub because I couldn’t climb up the stairs to my second-floor classroom. Stephen tried to convince me that another workout was all my sore muscles needed, but I rebelled. I tried my own remedy: laying on the couch with my new issue of Good Housekeeping and letting Stephen cook dinner.

I think it worked, because I am feeling a little better today. I’m off of school, and we’re going to head up to Dallas with my family for the weekend to celebrate Easter, Six-Flags style.  If I count tomorrow’s day at the park, that will be three days of working out this week!  I’m feeling more fit already.

 

Empty Calories, Empty Promises

A dietitian came to speak to our classes last week, and while I don’t think my kids walked away with any new convictions, I left the assembly feeling like a walking lump of lard. The articulate, trim nutritionist impressed upon us all the waste of empty calories, inspired us with visions of bodies nourished by organic, vitamin-rich, non-processed foods, and shamed us with statistics about current American gluttony (average consumption of 150 pounds of sugar per year, up from 2 pounds 100 years ago). I walked away intimidated and inspired by the new science which recommends that all American eat nine, yes NINE servings of fruit and vegetables daily. Egad!

So that night I went to the grocery store to stock up on some nutritious snack foods. I was reminded again of why I have not embraced this habit sooner- yikes! Fresh food is expensive! So I bought some apples and bananas and called it a good start.

While I was there I remembered that I needed to get some groceries for our Superbowl party. So I added chips, cookies, candy, dip, and frozen appetizers. It was not long before my good start was buried beneath the Doritos and cheese sticks!

I vowed to re-commit myself to healthy living on Monday after the Superbowl. But today, we still have lots of leftovers from the weekend’s festivities, and I can’t justify wasting perfectly good food. Maybe next week…

 

Back on the Exercise Ball

In fulfillment of my New Year’s resolutions, I have been attending Pilates class for two weeks. The first time I tried to go to class, the instructor no-showed. Undaunted, I came back the following week.

I had been mistaken on the time the class started, so I showed up halfway through the workout routine. I started to turn around and leave, but the instructor encouraged me to stay. In fact, everyone stopped and waited for me to get my equipment out and settled. One older lady, Kay, recognized me from when I had been part of the class last year. She was laying on her mat with her head near my feet.

“When was the last time you were here?” she asked suspiciously, tipping her head back to look at me upside-down.

I admitted that I hadn’t been in Pilates since Spring Break. Feeling the need to explain myself, I rambled on about switching to the aerobics class for heart health, and then quitting that to do Tae-Bo videos at school and take walks with Karen around our neighborhood. By the time I finished relating my exercise exploits to these women who had never left Pilates to begin with, I felt like Gomer explaining herself to Hosea.

Kay shifted back on her mat, and we began to do large leg circles. However, in the middle of the set, she craned her neck once more.

“Well, welcome back. Are you going to be faithful to the class this time?”

I honestly can’t remember what I said, although I’m sure it was something hopefully affirmative, but I do remember being intensely interested in my leg exercises. How embarrassing to be called out on my exercise commitment-phobia by a sixty-five year old woman!

So, needless to say, I have been faithfully attending class on Tuesdays and Thursdays since. The class attendance has dwindled since the last time I was a participant, down to the point that there is not even a regular instructor. So it’s me, Kay, and another sexagenarian named Pat conducting our own Pilates independent study course.

We meet on the fourth floor of our exercise facility, and Pat counts out our reps while Kay cracks us all up with her blunt and forceful opinions on all topics. My favorite so far is, “Men with families should not ride motorcycles. If a man with a wife or kids were to die in a crash, that would be so inconsiderate. Unless he had like two million dollars in life insurance.”

I rub my youthfulness in the faces of Kay and Pat by doing a few extra reps with my five-pound weights, and in return they rub their life experience in my face by regaling me with stories about assembling puzzles and living with dietary restrictions. It’s great inter-generational fun, and, even more, I can still feel my muscles toning even as I sit here typing. Here’s to continued success in February!

 

Forecast: Ice "Down Under"

I went running yesterday. I was not desperately chasing an ice cream truck, nor was I being pursued by a bear, panther, or molester. I ran by choice. I am an honorary member of what is called the “Lindsey Watson Rickshaw Club,” which is the group of teachers from my school who exercise together after school. The name comes from an offhand joke that I made about the conditions under which I would join a running club. Since it has been so hot, the LWRC has been exercising indoors with workout videos, and I have happily participated.

Well lately the weather has been beautiful, as you fellow Central Texans know, and so the members of the LWRC have started running. Yesterday, I agreed to join them. I thought that perhaps my loathing of running was exaggerated in my mind, since it has been many years since I’ve actually tried it. I thought that the peer pressure of running with my friends would inspire me to challenge myself. I thought that the social aspect of chatting would distract me from the running itself.

Wrong! I still hate running. First of all, it was a long run. We were going to run the “Bear Trail,” which is the most famous running track in town (and which, by the way, is highly overrated. It’s just running on crowded sidewalks around campus). But our run began at school. So, yes, we ran to the Bear Trail, and I felt ready to keel over by the time we reached campus. And I was breathing so hard, I was unable to chat, and so all of my attention was focused on my own fatigue. Finally I exerted my bad influence on one flexible friend, and persuaded her to finish the run with me at a brisk walk. When we had slowed down enough for me to catch my breath and actually participate in a conversation, I enjoyed myself very much.

So, the moral of the story is, if you ever do see me running again, you better drop your gear and hightail it too, because there’s something deadly nearby.

 

Wake Up

Mr. Darcy famously observed that every personality has a tendency to certain evils. One of mine is a tendency to be boring. It’s easier to stay home and watch a movie than to think up an exciting outing. It’s easier to say “no” to a risky proposal than to try it out. It’s easier to order what I know I like than to try something new. Usually I coast along in my status-quo life, but occasionally I take some uncharacteristic initiative to try something new. This weekend was one such time.

My sister Laurashmaura played college basketball. My brother Alan was an all-star football player in high school. My sister Leslie is a cheerleader, which she claims is sport enough to qualify her as an athlete. I am commonly regarded as the family scholar, on a nice day, or else I’m the family couch potato. So when Stephen and I went out to the lake with my family last Saturday, I didn’t even bother to wear my swimsuit, as I had no intention of getting my hair wet.

Laurashmaura and her friend Jayna took some turns tearing it up on the wakeboard. After they finished, dripping all over the boat in all their glory, I started to feel twinges of interest. “Next time we go out, I think I’ll try that,” I offered, imagining this blessed event to be next summer. The family was surprised but encouraged me. And so, to make a long story short, I jumped into the water in my tank top and shorts to try out the wakeboard for myself.

It was so fun! No one thought to take a picture of my proud accomplishment, so I’ve searched the internet to find a substitute picture that documents what I must have looked like:

Now of course, the down side is that no activity short of a car accident could have prepared my muscles for this kind of use. Today I wish I could have called in sick and laid on the bed with my whole body in traction. But it was worth it to be wicked cool for twenty minutes.

 

Practical Knowledge

A couple of days ago I was leaving work later than usual, and the parking lot of my downtown building was empty of its normal traffic. As I walked toward my car, I was approached by a scruffy looking man who had been sitting on a nearby bus stop bench.

When he asked if I could give him some money to go eat dinner, I replied with my ready answer, “I’m really sorry, but I don’t carry cash.”

My heart started to race as the man’s eyes narrowed in anger. “Let me see about that,” he growled, lunging for my purse.

The adrenaline surged through my body and my instincts kicked in. My right fist shot out and my assailant was startled by the force of the blow, the pain of which was compounded by the impact of my Aggie Ring on the bridge of his nose. He yelped in pain and staggered backward, clutching his face when I struck him again with a swift uppercut to the chin.

Taking advantage of his momentary weakness, I felled him with a roundhouse kick, no small feat in my tweed pencil skirt and brown high heels. He lay unconscious long enough for me to dial the police on my cell phone, and the police quickly arrived to take him into custody. As they loaded the vagabond into the back of the squad car, the cops praised my quick thinking and sure aim.

Okay, maybe not. But I like to tell myself stories like this often as I try to motivate myself to keep up the hard work with my Tae Bo videos. I never know…one day these wicked skills might come in handy!

 

Slump Day

I’m not going to therapy because I want to believe that this happens to everyone. I had a bad self-esteem day. Actually, it was two days.

Day 1: It all began when I tried to put on my favorite pair of khakis, (the ones I bought last year because my old khakis were too small, the ones with the baggy fit) and they were so tight the pocket seams made big distinct rectangle shapes on my thighs. It continued when we went to my in-laws’ house and I weighed myself on their hospital scale. They have the brutal kind with the sliding weights, so there is no room for fudging about which tiny line the arrow is pointing to, and no excuses about alignment and scale differences. Anyway, the weight was my all-time high.

(I do realize that people who obsess about their weight are obnoxious to those well-adjusted people who have come to happy terms with their body image. But I have not been able to contain my neurosis, and I’ve asked around to selected diplomatic family members and friends if they can tell a difference. Everyone has diplomatically informed me that I am not visibly larger, except for my mom, who said she thought I looked more “healthy.” Whatever.)

Day 2: the scale incident had been enough to shock me into action. I bought Slim-Fast shakes at the grocery store and ordered a salad at Panera rather than my favorite potato soup. I was excited to be taking action, but still in a self-esteem slump. It didn’t help that all of my clothes had turned ugly in the closet while I slept, and that I happen to hate my new haircut. (The only redeeming factor was that my freshly cut bangs did sweep low enough to cover the new zit on my forehead–seriously, I couldn’t catch a break on this day.)

So anyway, I did the stupidest possible thing on a day like this- I went clothes shopping. I was with my mom and sister, who wanted to walk around the Marketplace. I happen to be on a long-time search for a cute white shirt, and so I tried on a few items.

Big mistake! Everyone knows that the Devil installs the lighting in dressing rooms, and that there is no worse image than your own body clad in underwear and socks in a full-length mirror. And of course, all the shirts I tried on made me look/feel dumpy.

The dressing-room employee makes his way down the row, checking up on all of us. A little chirpy wisp next door is disappointed that the size zeros hang a little loose on her. The employee knocks on my door and wants to know if I need anything in a different size.

I wish I could hand over my rear end and thighs. “Can you get me some of these in a Small? You should be able to find them somewhere around 2004.”