Sunday afternoon, after lazing about in my pajamas and annoying the mister, who was trying to study, I went to the gym.
That guy was there.
There are certain people you see at the gym, certain people that are just stereotypes on feet. Muscebound men. Women with more boobs than brains. People who GRUNT with every weight lifting rep they do. Short men lifting the equivalent of a Volkswagen. The bendy people. The guy who runs a 6 minute mile pace for so long you start to wonder if he’s bionic. Those people.
But there’s only one guy I refer to as “that guy.”
He’s short-ish, a couple inches shorter than me, but I am fairly tall. He’s old-ish. In his mid-fifties, perhaps, with his curly red hair and beard going to gray. He’s annoying as all hell.
Sunday was no different. Despite the fact there were dozens of open machines, that guy hopped on the elliptical right next to mine. Well, first he wiped it down with not one, not two, but three of those wet-wipe thingies the gym provides. Then he hopped up on it. He then wedged his water bottle into the cup holder. The water bottle was not full of water. It was a Dasani bottle, sure enough, but it had been emptied and refilled with tomato juice.
Then, that guy took the cap off the bottle and dropped it onto the floor, the better to fill my nostrils with the unpleasant and cloying aroma of V8.
Then, he put in his headphones and began working out.
Two minutes later, he started SINGING.
Out loud.
I was wearing ear phones and listening to a rather juicy audiobook,* but I could hear that guy singing over the narration.
I shot that guy the look. You know, the one that says shut it or I will push you off that elliptical, little man, and crush you like a bug.
He shut it for a few moments.
Then he began singing again. His music had apparently switched to Sinatra. I tried the look again, but that guy had his eyes closed, a rapturous expression on his face.
The girl two ellipticals down met my gaze though, and we shared a moment of joint eyerolling.
That guy opened his eyes and caught the glare I was sending his way and stopped singing.
Repeat for the next 15 minutes, and you have my workout, and also why I will refrain from working out that early on Sundays ever again.
* Stranded, by Lori Foster. I am very bored at the gym and need to distract myself. Music is not enough. But I cannot read on anything other than a stationary bike because I get horribly, terribly motion sick. I do not get motion sick in cars, on boats, or in trains, but the elliptical + the latest Women’s Health = regurgitated ham and cheese on rye. So, I either watch TV episodes on my ipod or listen to audiobooks. And if I’m going to listen to an audiobook, something I normally find annoying because I could read so much faster than they speak, if only I could read on the treadmill, I’m going to listen to something smutty and completely inappropriate. Romance novels!
Showing posts with label Working Out. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Working Out. Show all posts
Monday, February 16, 2009
Thursday, February 5, 2009
One of those couples
A couple of days ago I was at the gym, doing my thing on an elliptical and zoning out. I tuned back in when a couple got on the two treadmills directly in front of me and began jogging. They moved in perfect unison, their footsteps synchronized. As they warmed up and bumped up the pace, they remained perfectly in sync, the clomp-clomp of their feet never once getting out of rhythm.
When I was in Duluth for Grandma’s this past summer, I saw other couples like this. Usually husband and wife teams that obviously trained together and moved seemingly as one as they jogged the marathon course.
I sighed as I wiped down my machine. They were still moving perfectly, not even looking at each other to gauge pace.
I look at those couples that train together, that find a physical activity they truly love and share it with each other, and I wish the mister and I could be like that. It would be lovely to have a work out buddy and to develop that sort of in-tuneness without words.
But the mister and I won’t ever be those people.
He is one of the most supremely physical people I know. He thrives with exertion, finds enjoyment in challenging himself physically. I love this about him, and not just because it’s gifted him with impressive shoulders and a butt you can bounce quarters off of (although, BONUS!). He skis and rock climbs, but his favorite sport is mountain biking.
I, on the other hand, am remarkably uncoordinated. I fall off of bicycles at stop signs. My sports of choice include knitting, reading trashy romance novels, and using a laser pointer to torture my dog. I run merely because it is an expedient way to burn calories and make room for additional chocolate cake. I’ve yet to find a physical activity I love with the sort of ferocity the mister feels for mountain biking. I enjoy my kickboxing class, but I never come home from it grinning like I won the lottery the way he comes home from mountain biking.
I have gone mountain biking with the mister exactly twice. Once he dragged me on a three hour bike ride through tick-infested woods and I learned that it is possible to curse steadily for three hours.
The second time, we unloaded our bikes from the pickup and set off across a graveled parking lot to get to the trail. I fell down in the ditch at the edge of the parking lot.
I want to be one of those girls, all ripped and fit and ready to bound off on an adventure at the slightest opportunity. But I'm not. I want the mister and I to do the same sport so often that we just click into it, coordinated and synced and completely fluid. But we don't.
When I was in Duluth for Grandma’s this past summer, I saw other couples like this. Usually husband and wife teams that obviously trained together and moved seemingly as one as they jogged the marathon course.
I sighed as I wiped down my machine. They were still moving perfectly, not even looking at each other to gauge pace.
I look at those couples that train together, that find a physical activity they truly love and share it with each other, and I wish the mister and I could be like that. It would be lovely to have a work out buddy and to develop that sort of in-tuneness without words.
But the mister and I won’t ever be those people.
He is one of the most supremely physical people I know. He thrives with exertion, finds enjoyment in challenging himself physically. I love this about him, and not just because it’s gifted him with impressive shoulders and a butt you can bounce quarters off of (although, BONUS!). He skis and rock climbs, but his favorite sport is mountain biking.
I, on the other hand, am remarkably uncoordinated. I fall off of bicycles at stop signs. My sports of choice include knitting, reading trashy romance novels, and using a laser pointer to torture my dog. I run merely because it is an expedient way to burn calories and make room for additional chocolate cake. I’ve yet to find a physical activity I love with the sort of ferocity the mister feels for mountain biking. I enjoy my kickboxing class, but I never come home from it grinning like I won the lottery the way he comes home from mountain biking.
I have gone mountain biking with the mister exactly twice. Once he dragged me on a three hour bike ride through tick-infested woods and I learned that it is possible to curse steadily for three hours.
The second time, we unloaded our bikes from the pickup and set off across a graveled parking lot to get to the trail. I fell down in the ditch at the edge of the parking lot.
I want to be one of those girls, all ripped and fit and ready to bound off on an adventure at the slightest opportunity. But I'm not. I want the mister and I to do the same sport so often that we just click into it, coordinated and synced and completely fluid. But we don't.
Wednesday, January 28, 2009
Sadly, I cannot eat bacon every morning
Several months ago I got a fitness assessment at my gym. It was…well…let’s go with slightly demoralizing.
First, the trainer played pinch an inch (or five) by measuring various fat deposits on my body with a set of calipers. Then I stood on a scale and was confronted with numbers. Big numbers. Then I showed off my incredible lack of flexibility (in my defense, I’ve never been flexible, even when I was in fantastic shape) and then I got to get on a treadmill and trot while the trainer tried to hold a conversation with me. I actually did pretty well at this part, trotting away and chatting, but my lack of physical coordination asserted itself when my right foot landed half on the spinning part of the treadmill and half on the stationary party and I nearly took a facer.
After the physical portion of the assessment, we sat down and the trainer asked me about my exercise, diet, goals, etc. One question was do I eat breakfast. I thought I did, since I drink coffee and will usually root around in the kitchen at work until something edible presents itself, but turns out I do not actually eat breakfast. Breakfast, to be called such by a trainer, must be eaten within one hour of waking. By the time I get to work and locate a scone or muffin, at least two hours have passed since my rolling out of bed, so no, I was not eating breakfast.
And, of course, not eating breakfast screws up your metabolism, breakfast is the most important meal blah blah blah.
I’m trying to eat breakfast now, but I’ve got to tell you, it’s tough. It’s the within-one-hour of waking thing. And not because I don’t have time to eat within one hour of waking. It’s because there are some things I just cannot eat without being awake for a while first. I prefer to eat most breakfast foods around brunch time – 10:00 a.m. or later. It takes me a long time to be awake and functioning in the mornings – I can brush my teeth and get dressed, but I cannot speak coherently or manage complex tasks until I’ve been up for at least an hour. My digestive system is the same way – certain tastes or textures before my taste buds and stomach are fully awake and with the program will do nothing but gross me out or make me vomit.
I cannot have milk until I’ve been awake for a while (unless it’s mixed in with coffee). Something about the way it coats the side of the glass and makes me all mucousy…gag. So, cereal is out. Oranges and grapefruits and their associated juices are out too. Too much acid, bad troubles. Oatmeal is out because it’s so thick and goopy and…gag. I cannot stand eggs unless I’ve been awake for a while. Scrambled, fried, an omelette, whatever. No. They’re jiggly or slimy or runny and…gag. Yogurt: slimy, goopy…gag. Bananas…gag.
So, basically, my breakfast options are dry cereal or toast. Hard to get really excited about eating either of those first thing out of bed in the morning. And, sadly, the trainer doesn’t think that eating bacon for breakfast every morning, within an hour of waking, is a good diet plan.
First, the trainer played pinch an inch (or five) by measuring various fat deposits on my body with a set of calipers. Then I stood on a scale and was confronted with numbers. Big numbers. Then I showed off my incredible lack of flexibility (in my defense, I’ve never been flexible, even when I was in fantastic shape) and then I got to get on a treadmill and trot while the trainer tried to hold a conversation with me. I actually did pretty well at this part, trotting away and chatting, but my lack of physical coordination asserted itself when my right foot landed half on the spinning part of the treadmill and half on the stationary party and I nearly took a facer.
After the physical portion of the assessment, we sat down and the trainer asked me about my exercise, diet, goals, etc. One question was do I eat breakfast. I thought I did, since I drink coffee and will usually root around in the kitchen at work until something edible presents itself, but turns out I do not actually eat breakfast. Breakfast, to be called such by a trainer, must be eaten within one hour of waking. By the time I get to work and locate a scone or muffin, at least two hours have passed since my rolling out of bed, so no, I was not eating breakfast.
And, of course, not eating breakfast screws up your metabolism, breakfast is the most important meal blah blah blah.
I’m trying to eat breakfast now, but I’ve got to tell you, it’s tough. It’s the within-one-hour of waking thing. And not because I don’t have time to eat within one hour of waking. It’s because there are some things I just cannot eat without being awake for a while first. I prefer to eat most breakfast foods around brunch time – 10:00 a.m. or later. It takes me a long time to be awake and functioning in the mornings – I can brush my teeth and get dressed, but I cannot speak coherently or manage complex tasks until I’ve been up for at least an hour. My digestive system is the same way – certain tastes or textures before my taste buds and stomach are fully awake and with the program will do nothing but gross me out or make me vomit.
I cannot have milk until I’ve been awake for a while (unless it’s mixed in with coffee). Something about the way it coats the side of the glass and makes me all mucousy…gag. So, cereal is out. Oranges and grapefruits and their associated juices are out too. Too much acid, bad troubles. Oatmeal is out because it’s so thick and goopy and…gag. I cannot stand eggs unless I’ve been awake for a while. Scrambled, fried, an omelette, whatever. No. They’re jiggly or slimy or runny and…gag. Yogurt: slimy, goopy…gag. Bananas…gag.
So, basically, my breakfast options are dry cereal or toast. Hard to get really excited about eating either of those first thing out of bed in the morning. And, sadly, the trainer doesn’t think that eating bacon for breakfast every morning, within an hour of waking, is a good diet plan.
Friday, October 24, 2008
Kickboxing and Fat Pants*
The mister and I joined the local big box gym a couple months ago. I’ve done my duty, going at least 12 times each month to make sure we get our health insurance to cover some of the cost. 
Last night, though, I could not bring myself to go. I’ve blown through all the TV series I have downloaded onto my ipod, read all my trashy magazines, and there was nothing on TV worth watching. The idea of spending 45 minutes on the treadmill with nothing to distract me from the sheer boredom that is jogging in one place, I thought sitting at home and playing with my dog sounded like the much better option. But then. Then!
I remembered that the new schedule of classes had come out at the gym. Free classes (well, free with my membership). So I checked out what options were available that night. Deep water aerobics. No. Basketball. Not a chance. Kickboxing. Hmm.
I put on my sneakers and headed over the gym and chatted with the instructor, whose name I will always remember because it’s the same as my friend B.
I’ve never done anything like this before, will I be okay?
The instructor was awesome. The class wasn’t kickboxing-fighting, it was more kickboxing-aerobics. She was really excited to have a newbie in class, so she brought me up towards the front so I could see and made sure one of the regulars stood next to me in case I needed some extra guidance.
We wore weighted gloves, 16 ounces on each hand, and sometimes used a 9 pound bar as a staff.
An hour later, I was sweaty and exhausted and incredibly pleased with myself and the class and the whole world. It was a lot of fun, a really good work out, and such a welcome change of pace from my steady trot on the treadmill and 20 minutes with the weights.
I am a little stiff and sore today, but it’s totally worth it. I will make it a point to go to that class every week.
In other work-out related news, I’ve lost 15 pounds. I haven’t mentioned my weight-loss goals because I was afraid I’d jinx it or that I’d create actual expectations and that I would then disappoint. But the last few months I’ve been trying to eat less crap and to get some more exercise.
Part of it is that I’ve been dealing with a little bit of stress and was hoping that regular exercise and a better diet would help counteract that. Part of it is that I’m broke and junk food is just too expensive. A really big part of it is that even my fat pants were getting a little snug around the waist.
So, I’ve been pretty successful. I still eat crap, I just eat way less of it, and I still sit around too much, but I get a lot more exercise than I used to. My fat pants now hang off my hips (not in that sexy, midriff baring way, more in that slovenly, unkempt way). I’ve got a goal in mind and if I ever reach it, I’ll tell you all what it is and what I started out as. For now, though, let’s just be glad that I no longer have to lay down to zip up my favorite jeans.
Picture snapped with camera phone in office bathroom. These are my former fat pants. There's some extra room in them. Not that it's stopping me from wearing them (obviously).
*I write the lamest post headlines. It's a good thing I never went into the journalism business.
Thursday, September 4, 2008
New gym, new addiction
The mister and I joined the local big box gym. I like the classes they offer and he likes that it's ten minutes from his office so he can go work out over his lunch break.
Last week I attended the first of my two free introductory training sessions.
This was the session where they dug out the fat calipers and played pinch-an-inch (or three), made me walk on a treadmill so they could tell me my physical age as opposed to my real age, and forced me to do the sit and reach.
But this testing was pretty demoralizing. Not that the trainer doing the testing was demoralizing, he was actually pretty encouraging. But the paper he gave me at the end of the night basically translated into moo-cow.
I talked to my brother's girlfriend, who happens to be a trainer at the same company, just a different location, and she filled me in. This testing? Total selling tool. They use it to try to sell me other not-free testing, to get me to buy a heart-rate monitor, and to get me to buy lots and lots of personal training sessions. So take the information they gave me with a grain of salt.
Which is what I've done. Basically, all the testing showed me was shit I already knew. Overweight and inflexible. And, done worrying about it.
Also, I have something to say about heart rate monitors. What the hell? I have two fingers and a watch, I'm sure I can figure out my own heart rate. Furthermore, all the machines at the gym have monitors in the handlebars. AND, I have a built in heart rate monitor. When I can feel my pulse in my sinus cavities, it's time to slow down. Explain to me why I need to buy a $250 dollar watch/chest-band combo I'm only going to lose in my car.
Anyway, I'm spending a fair amount of time on the treadmill, the elliptical, or the bikes (because I cannot find the weight lifting equipment. This is a BIG gym.), and because I have the attention span of a gnat, I've been looking for fun stuff to do. At my old gym all the cardio equipment faced the TVs and the gym was small enough and not-busy enough that I could just crank the volume on the TV I liked best and trot away. At our new gym, not all the cardio equipment faces the TVs and I certainly am not allowed to hunt up the remote and crank the volume.
I have discovered how to entertain myself though. The TV series Bones. I'd never seen it until a few weeks ago when it came on after something else I was watching and I was too busy with cooking dinner to change the channel, so I watched it.
Good show.
So I downloaded the past three seasons on to my ipod and now when I'm huffing away at the gym I watch an episode. They're about 45 minutes long, they're commercial free, and they're just interesting enough to keep me distracted from the jogging/stair climbing I'm doing without requiring more attention than I can give. The only downfall is watching TV shows on my tiny two-inch wide ipod screen. Not much detail.
Tonight is the second of my freebie training sessions. I'm hoping my trainer will show me where the weight room is. I also hope the weight room is not occupied by a bunch of huge, sweaty guys that make me feel guilty for doing the sissy weights. Flashbacks to high school track. Bleh.
Last week I attended the first of my two free introductory training sessions.
This was the session where they dug out the fat calipers and played pinch-an-inch (or three), made me walk on a treadmill so they could tell me my physical age as opposed to my real age, and forced me to do the sit and reach.
But this testing was pretty demoralizing. Not that the trainer doing the testing was demoralizing, he was actually pretty encouraging. But the paper he gave me at the end of the night basically translated into moo-cow.
I talked to my brother's girlfriend, who happens to be a trainer at the same company, just a different location, and she filled me in. This testing? Total selling tool. They use it to try to sell me other not-free testing, to get me to buy a heart-rate monitor, and to get me to buy lots and lots of personal training sessions. So take the information they gave me with a grain of salt.
Which is what I've done. Basically, all the testing showed me was shit I already knew. Overweight and inflexible. And, done worrying about it.
Also, I have something to say about heart rate monitors. What the hell? I have two fingers and a watch, I'm sure I can figure out my own heart rate. Furthermore, all the machines at the gym have monitors in the handlebars. AND, I have a built in heart rate monitor. When I can feel my pulse in my sinus cavities, it's time to slow down. Explain to me why I need to buy a $250 dollar watch/chest-band combo I'm only going to lose in my car.
Anyway, I'm spending a fair amount of time on the treadmill, the elliptical, or the bikes (because I cannot find the weight lifting equipment. This is a BIG gym.), and because I have the attention span of a gnat, I've been looking for fun stuff to do. At my old gym all the cardio equipment faced the TVs and the gym was small enough and not-busy enough that I could just crank the volume on the TV I liked best and trot away. At our new gym, not all the cardio equipment faces the TVs and I certainly am not allowed to hunt up the remote and crank the volume.
I have discovered how to entertain myself though. The TV series Bones. I'd never seen it until a few weeks ago when it came on after something else I was watching and I was too busy with cooking dinner to change the channel, so I watched it.
Good show.
So I downloaded the past three seasons on to my ipod and now when I'm huffing away at the gym I watch an episode. They're about 45 minutes long, they're commercial free, and they're just interesting enough to keep me distracted from the jogging/stair climbing I'm doing without requiring more attention than I can give. The only downfall is watching TV shows on my tiny two-inch wide ipod screen. Not much detail.
Tonight is the second of my freebie training sessions. I'm hoping my trainer will show me where the weight room is. I also hope the weight room is not occupied by a bunch of huge, sweaty guys that make me feel guilty for doing the sissy weights. Flashbacks to high school track. Bleh.
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