Zoooo--what?

Zumba.  The Latin-dance based aerobics workout.  I joined a new gym, one that costs - no joke - TEN TIMES LESS than my old gym, and they offer Zumba several times a week, at widely varying times.  At my old gym, they offered Zumba, too, but the new gym changes its schedule of classes about once a quarter, so if there's something you want to try, chances are that it will eventually end up in a time slot that works for you.  My old gym kept the same schedule all the time.  There are pros and cons to both methods...so far in 2009, I can't really get to any of the yoga classes I want, because they're at times that are highly inconvenient to me; but at the end of last year, there were two that worked well in my world.

I despise old-school areobics.  With a passion.  Step - hate.  Cardio-kick - hate.  Jazzercise - hate.  But I keep trying new classes in the hope that something will be fun, something will be one I'd like to stick with.  This attitude is what got me into a BOSU class - -which looked like such fun.  In the end, I hated it, but at least I gave it a shot.  (More than once, just in case you're wondering.  Three times.  The first one was the only class EVER I have considered walking out of in the middle of the class, just packing up my shiz and leaving.  Ugh.)

I was late to Zumba (shocker), but the tardiness was due to confusion at the door over my membership card.  Hopefully that mess is straightened out.  I walked into a dance studio full of 23 year-olds, mostly skinny ones.  Can I tell you that I'm glad for the death of the leotard for exercise classes?  That Jane Fonda/Oliva Newton John look of leotard, tights, socks, sneakers, and sometimes legwarmers?  Ugh, I hated that.  So at least the 23 year-old skinny bitches aren't one-upping each other with skimpier and skimpier outfits.  Mostly t-shirts and leggings, the sort of thing I myself wear to work out.

At first blush, the class was filled with cute young things, but as I looked around, I saw several other women in my age bracket and older, and I relaxed a little.  I also noticed that I'm not the only one who gets off-track from the instructor.  (I have 3 left feet!)  I might have been the only one in the room who had never done this before, though, because it seemed like everyone else had the moves mostly down. 

Ten minutes into it, gasping for breath, knees killing me, sweating profusely, I was wondering what the hell I had been thinking, wanting to do this.  But then the music stopped, and everyone grabbed water or just vegged for a few seconds until the next song came on, and it was slower.  I kept catching my reflection in the mirror through the next sequence; and wonder of wonders, every time I saw my reflection, I was smiling.  I was *gasp* having fun.  Astonishing.  Don't get me wrong, I was still watching the clock, like I have in every single exercise class I've ever taken, except for Pilates.  

But I enjoyed it enough to want to go back, I'm even looking forward to it.  Even though 3 days later I was STILL sore.  Damn, who knew that dancing was such a workout?

Hurt

Is it too much to ask to be able to run without pain?  I'm starting to think so.  I'm back on the daily grind of gym at an ungodly hour, work, home, dinner, knit for a short while, and bed.  I try to ride my bike to work at least 2-3 days a week, but Oh-hia-ia's weather, as usual, has been tres un-co-operative.

I can't seem to manage an entirely pain-free run.  Either I get stabs and twinges in my knee(s) or I get shin splints that are excruciating.  I'm using Podrunner: Intervals to train this time around, following their very sensible regimen of running 3 days a week and strength training on alternate days.  

I know I've written about Podrunner before, but it bears frequent repeating: this is phenomenal music to run to. (Linkage in the sidebar under Music, Bands, Radio.  I'm too lazy to type the html this morning.  Deal.)  Podrunner: Intervals are the brainchild of DJ Steveboy, and the idea is to take you from couch potato to running a 5K in 10 weeks.  As I've not done much running during calendar year 2008, it seemed prudent to just start all over, as if I had never run.  I had debated jumping in to Intervals around week 3 or 4, and I'm glad that I didn't.  I can only imagine how much pain I'd be in if I'd decided to just skip ahead.  Lots.

Intervals continues after the 5K as well, training for an 8K, a 10K and, I'm sure, in time, will also work its way to a half and a full marathon.  

I've tried all sorts of things for the shin splints.  I was advised to: eat more bananas (yuk), drink more water (more?!?!),  get new shoes (yeah, did that, too) and none of it has worked.  Shocking, I know.

I despise bananas.  Just....ick.  Unless, of course, we're talking about a banana milkshake.  Then, yeah, I'm all for it.  So what I've done about that is incorporate them into the protein smoothies I make, where they're not the predominant flavor.  I use those as a meal replacement sometimes, or I use them when that 10 AM or 3 PM I'm-so-hungry demon shows up.

I really thought with the last new shoe purchase, back in April when I was in Florida, that the shin splint problem would be over.  I went to a store that sells only running shoes.  I took my old shoes, to show them the wear pattern.  They spent over an hour with me, watching me walk, jump, sprint, and jog in place.  They gave me a pair of shoes that were heavier than my old ones, which was weird until I got used to them.  I did use them to run around in Florida, and had little trouble.  That honeymoon didn't last long; after I got back to OH, it was the same story.  Clearly?  I need to run only in Florida.  Heh.  Too bad that's not really an option.

As for the water, how much more can I drink?  I get far more than the recomended 6-8 8-ounce glasses every day.  @ work, I have a 24-ounce tumbler that sits on my desk, and I drink usually 2.5 of those in a day.  I drink at least 16 ounces while I'm working out.  Another 12-20 at dinner.  99.9999% of the time, I'd rather drink water than anything else.  I do have my morning coffee, but not every single day, so we can't blame caffine for draining all my hydration.  I don't drink soda.   My eyeballs will be floating if I drink more water.

For curing the pain after it has occurred, I do all sorts of not-really-helpful things.  I stretch, after every run, far more than the casual exerciser will stretch.  Because it feels woooonderful.  I have tried hot baths (in the winter) or sitting in the sauna after my runs.  Also feels good, but doesn't cure the pain.  Lavender oil, massaged into the legs along with a base moisturizer.  Smells nice.

I go to see my physical therapist (PT) when the pain is out of control.  What does he say?  Don't run.  Full stop.  Running's bad for your body.  Tell me something I didn't know, genius.  Life is hazardous to your health, FFS.  I'd rather be skinny and have bad knees from running than fat and unhappy.  Sorry, PT.

Suggestions for pain-free running gladly accepted in the comments box.

Gain

I had been avoiding my bathroom scale. Tossing dirty clothes and towels on top of it to cover it up, so I'd forget it was there. Except that didn't work; whenever I got up to use the potty in the middle of the night, the glass disc where you stand would be glinting out from under all the dirty clothes in the light of the night-light. "I'm still heeeeeeerreee!" it would whisper to me at 2 AM. "I know you're avoiding meeee!"

For good reason, too. I have gotten out of the habit of daily gym, run on the treadmill, stretch, do crunches, do push-ups (getting rid of that flabby upper arm was priority #1, and push-ups are the only way I know to do it), do some yoga, and then move on with my day. Out of that habit for a handful of reasons, absolutely not one of them a 'good' reason, they're all excuses.

In the dark part of the winter, when the snow and the cold and the dark began to seriously wear on me, there just wasn't much point to my depressed mind, in getting out of bed. Then starting the Lexapro in addition to the Wellbutrin, in an effort to pull me out of one of the darkest periods of my life *ever,* the Lex made me tired. Really, really, really tired. I took the Lex for two months, during which time it seems to have managed to completely change my internal clock/diurnal rhythms to no longer an early morning person.

No, I did not consult with my doc or the shrink about discontinuing the Lex. The simple fact is that it was too expensive to add to my med regimen, and since it was making me sleep more and be even more reluctant to get out of bed, it seemed to me the better part of wisdom to give it up. I'm doing all right without it. I think that's mostly because the days are longer and the weather is better, not because I no longer need it. I'd be trying to fool both you and myself should I claim otherwise.

So not a single one of those is a good reason for being out of the habit of working out. Let's call a spade a spade, then, and call it what it really is: laziness, and my usual self-defeatist principals working against something good happening. The fact that I can recognize this for what it is, though, shows that therapy = progress.

When I did finally bite the bullet, and step on the scale (first thing in the morning, after using the restroom, not a single bite to eat beforehand, and not wearing a stitch of clothing) I thought I was prepared for it to show a higher number. The clothes that had been loose are fitting fine or in some cases are snug, so I knew I'd gained some weight. 5-6 pounds, I thought, no big.

Yeah.

The number on the scale was nearly 10 pounds more than what it had been. Eeep. Eeeeeeeeeeppppp!!!!

Then I was angry. I've worked too damn hard to get healthy and thin, and I refuse to gain all of that weight back. I've come too far, and I am NOT going backwards. Hell, I refuse to gain an ounce of it back, so obviously, the scale is wrong. Uh-huh. What was that we used to say in the early 90s? Not!!!

I've allowed some of my old eating habits to creep back, too. A conversation with my mother reminded me that we share an addiction that can be as lethal, as deadly, as any narcotic: food. I have replaced my processed sugar addiction with more natural sweeteners, which are fine in moderation, but there are other temptations. There is no longer granular (white) sugar in my house. When I'm craving a bad 'sweet' fix, I take a swig of apple cider, or make a cup of herbal tea with a generous spoonful of a spectacular find: Really Raw Honey. (yum! I could write a whole post about that stuff, but I shall admirably restrain myself. Buy some, do!)

But there are other food addictions in that bunch: carbs, carbs, carbs, bread rice and pasta are all large weaknesses of mine. We've been eating out more than is smart, and I've allowed myself to mostly eat exactly what I want at restaurants, instead of being a pain in the ass to wait staff and specifying exactly how something should be prepared for me. That started on our vacation in Florida, where I allowed myself to eat a whole lot of a south Florida/Caribbean regional specialty: conch fritters. Deep fried conch fritters. Plus the temptation of trying all sorts of things unavailable here in Oh-hi-ia: Caffe Cubano (an espresso-esque coffee with PURE CANE SUGAR, the liquid from a stalk of sugarcane, added served hot and super-sweet, woooo what a a caffeine fix!) and all sorts of other Cuban foods, along with booze, booze, booze! We were on vacation, why not?

Well, because then your clothes don't fit, dumbass!

Getting back into the habit of the gym has been tough. I managed to make it two times last week. Today being Tuesday and all, I wish I could say I'd been there two times THIS week, but I made it this morning, so that's one. My work schedule has been interfering with my Pilates classes, which is very annoying. I made it to a Pilates class a week or so ago, and OUCH! I've lost a whole lot of strength and muscle tone that I had from Pilates. I won't make it to both classes this week either, which is frustrating.

I wish I could pinpoint when exactly I quit the daily gym routine, because then I'd be able to figure out how much weight I'd gained each month. Which is a silly thing to obsess about, anyway....I didn't put on 10 pounds in one month, there is nothing seriously wrong with me that could contribute to the weight gain, this is laziness and sloppiness and nothing else.

But remind me of that tomorrow morning at 5, will you, please? Because I still can't figure out a way to be dragging my ass out of bed at a normal time. (Yeah, 5 AM was normal for me, until very recently.) I find that unless I get to the gym when I first get out of bed, and preferably when they open their doors, I'm unlikely to go at all. The place is so darned busy any other time of the day that it irritates the hell out of me. I pay them almost $600 a year for a membership; I don't think they should allow so many people to join that there are no parking spaces available. Ugh, that's a rant for another day. And another excuse: I don't want to go because it is too busy, whaaaaa.

Multiple alarms haven't worked; having coffee brewed and waiting when I would get out of bed has also not worked; my clothes fitting tighter hasn't been motivation either. And yes, I have tried heading to bed earlier, too. I'm sleeping (knock on wood) with no sleeping pills right now, not over the counter, not prescription, nothing, so curtailing the sleepy pills isn't a suggestion either. I'm not sleeping well, waking at least once every hour, but I'm hoping that evens out and that I only need to use the Ambien when my anxiety levels are particularly high. Sleeping, for the moment, isn't the problem; waking is.

Questions, comments, suggestions?

41:28

The goal? Was to finish the race 1) running 2) on my own two feet and 3) not last. I succeeded in those 3 endeavors, although I did not manage to run the entire 3.1 miles. I walked some of it. I'm disappointed by that, but not deeply so.

I had some pain that I've never had running, and was upset by that. Shin splits, I've had plenty of experience with those, but that wasn't the problem. I developed a....cramp, maybe, for lack of a better term...in my right ankle, near the Achilles tendon, but closer to my ankle bone. It hurt, quite a bit. It developed before the first mile was up, and by the time I was finished with the race, I was limping. And wheezing, but we'll get to that.

This race, as I have explained before, was the one I chose because it was a FLAT course. It was a 2 laps of the fairgrounds it was held on. Before the first lap was done, I was wondering why the fuck I thought I could ever do this; I felt like something was trying to claw its way out of my chest, and right at that moment, I'd have gladly allowed someone to crack my chest with bolt cutters to let it out. Took a while for that to fade, too. I've felt that on the treadmill before, but I've just slowed down or stopped until I could catch my breath.

I say to people all the time: "It ISN'T a race, dude, slow down." But this WAS a race, and I was determined to not finish dead last, so slowing, well, wasn't so much of an option, really. I did walk for a portion of each lap, but I didn't stop, not even once, not even when my left shoe came untied with a mile of the race remaining.

DH took a few pictures, and aren't I the fashion plate in them! Grey stretch pants; a long-sleeved t from a public radio station, a black nylon pullover over the t, an orange-and-blue-and-burgundy striped beanie, a black & white number pinned to my tummy, a timer mechanism strapped to my ankle, two pairs of gloves, one cream, one burgundy (which did NOT match the burgundy in the hat, FYI) a red handkerchief, and a red neck-thingy, which I usually wear skiing. It takes the place of a scarf. Oh, and a jingle bell pinned to my left shoe, and my silver iPod in its black case strapped to my right arm in its usual place. The gloves didn't last past the first mile, and by the end of the race, the hat was off, too. Sharp, lemme tell ya.


The only reason I'm posting this picture is that it is a bit blurry, you can't make out the number on my stomach, and I think that if you don't know me very well, you wouldn't recognize me. I'm enough of a paranoid freak that it probably won't stay attached to the post for more than 24 hours.

I had decided previously to run to a Podrunner mix, one of my current favorites, Radiant Dark. At 166 BPM, it is a bit faster than I can really run, but I really like the music, so that was my choice. Additionally, at always at least an hour long, Podrunner mixes are pretty ideal for a race like this.

I couldn't run without music at all, and crossed the finish line to Eminem's Lose Yourself, from the 8 Mile soundtrack. While I'm not a huge fan of Em's anti-woman lyrics or a lot of his ideology, say whatever you like about the guy, Lose Yourself is hugely inspiring and something that gets me revved every time I listen to it. I had listened to it about 5 times before the race, and when I was thinking that I wasn't going to get across the finish line at all, I turned from the Radiant Dark mix to Lose Yourself, which brought me back up to speed.

I was looking at DJ Steveboy's blog a few hours after the race, and I'm so excited about his newest project; Podrunner Intervals. Click the linky above to read about it yourself, but the idea is to bring beginner runners from couch potato to half-marathon. Release date is Feb 1, 2008, and you bet your bottom dollar that I'll be adding that to my list of podcast subscriptions.

The aftermath of the race is that I hurt. I ache. My legs, that spot on my ankle, my lower back, and the base of each of my shoulder blades. I'm exhausted, have a headache, and it took several hours for asthmatic me to return to normal breathing. For all that, I can't wait to do this again. I'm on a high, one that I don't want to end.

I'll tell you this, too. I don't have plans anytime soon to run in temperatures much warmer than it was here today, about 40F or about 4C. No matter what the outside temp, you still sweat, and I was HOT. Any warmer, and I might've been faint.

Here's the best part. Today, my weight stands at 161, up a few pounds from my 40 lb loss, but I'm blaming that on the holidays and all the parties I've been at the last 2 weeks. It'll drop. The best part is that a year ago this time, I weighed 190, and couldn't walk up a flight of steps without wheezing. What an amazing long way I've come.

Look, if you had one shot, or one opportunity
To seize everything you ever wanted

One moment
Would you capture it?

or just let it slip?

~Eminem, Lose Yourself, 8 Mile Soundtrack

Ciggy

Once upon a time, I smoked.

Cigarettes, silly, not anything else.

Not a whole lot, you understand, but enough. It started as a "look at me, I'm so tough with my beer and cigarette" thing, and grew into a "well, everyone else does it, so why not." I'm not suggesting that intelligence was ever a factor here.

Shortly before I met DH, however, I quit. I was very ill the summer after I graduated high school, and stuck in bed for most of that summer. When I began to feel better, the first time I went out with friends and lit up a cigarette, I started to hack and cough. I put out that cigarette, and have only had a stray puff here and there in the 14 years since.

It isn't a habit that I miss, most of the time. Every now and then, on a stressful day, I'll walk past smokers outside and think, "ah, that would be nice." Middlesis smokes, but I can never talk her in to giving me a hit off of one of her cigarettes if I'm around her when I'm having a day like that. Which, all things considered, I'm grateful for.

I despise the smell of cigarette smoke. With a burning passion. (No pun intended.) Ex-smokers tend to be the most nazi-like enforcers of "no smoking" signs, which is pretty hilarious and hypocritical, but somehow I think ex-smokers are particularly sensitive to the smell.

About a year after I quit, I was diagnosed with asthma; the decision to either breathe or smoke was a pretty simple one. Its tough to do both if you're an asthmatic, although I do know asthmatics who smoke.

When Oh-hia-ia passed the smoking ban a year or so ago, I was ecstatic. Finally, no more smelling like cigarette smoke after an evening at a bar with friends. No need to strip down in the garage after bar-hopping, lest the smell of the cigs be carried in the house with the clothes. Enforcement of the law isn't perfect; there are still a few places where you can light up and no one will say anything. The state does not have near enough folks to enforce the law; it is the local health departments who are responsible for checking up on restaurants and bars. Which is ridiculous, really, because personally, I'd rather that the health department continue to insure the cleanliness of the area kitchens than play cigarette cop. The law isn't without its flaws.

Over the past two days, I've been smelling cigarette smoke IN my house. Ugh. And double ugh. I can not figure where in the living hell it is coming from. DH, the son of a pretty heavy smoker, despises the smell worse that I do; but he says he can't smell it. Now we already know that I'm mostly out of my mind, but phantom smells? Really?

It is strong enough that it woke me this morning; spraying air-freshner (something I hate to do) only covers it for a short while. Lighting the two aromatherapy diffusers I have hasn't helped much either. One is sitting next to me as I type, filled with a combination of lemon, lavender and cedar essential oils. It isn't helping sitting less than a foot away from me, I still smell the cigarette smoke. And we aren't talking about that first inhale from a cigarette, which could still appeal to me; we're talking about the smell of a week-old overflowing ash tray. I say again: ugh.

I can't open the windows...besides being too cold outside to open the house up, we've plasticized the windows, something we do in the winter to help keep our heating costs down. Even the sliding glass doors have been covered over with a shrink-wrap-esque sort of material. Baking more cookies is out, because I only smell it in the bedroom, which is on the second floor. So that wouldn't help either.

As if I needed more proof I was out of my mind......


On something not exactly related, I have sent in the entry form for my first ever 5K race. It is on New Year's Eve. I choose this race because it is at a location that is entirely flat; and I think it is a good place to start to attain my eventual goal of running in a marathon. What was I just saying about being out of my mind? Just nod and smile at the crazy woman in the corner.

Rediscover

My father collects clothes. So much clothing does he own that he has a closet of his own, plus the entirety of a guest room closet and the storage area in their basement also has a rack full of clothes that are his alone.

DH collects movies. At last count, more than 250 films of every genre reside on shelves in our media room. Most on DVD, but some on VHS too. Although opposites attract, and we are opposite in many, many ways (politically, socially...I could go on) but we share some OCD tendencies, and there is an Excel spreadsheet list stored on his laptop and on mine that lists all of the movies. One worksheet has them listed alphabetically by title. The second worksheet lists them by genre.

For me, it is neither clothes nor movies, but music. When I was razzing my father a few weeks ago about the amount of clothing he owns, he took it stoically for a few minutes; then he asked how much music I own. Guilty as charged. The only proper answer to that question is LOTS.

I will listen to almost anything; from hip-hop to opera, alt-country, trip-hop, dance hall, pop, classic rock, folk, bluegrass. About the only thing I don't really like is country, but that's not a hard and fast rule.

I use iTunes to digitally store my music. When I got my new computer, I divided the hard drive, portioning off a section to dedicate to music storage. I keep increasing that section, because it keeps getting too close to being full.

I subscribe to a handful of free podcasts on iTunes, and one that I listen to faithfully is DJ Steveboy's Podrunner. I've written about Steve Boyette before; I discovered him on iTunes by searching for music to run to. Using words like awesome, amazingly talented, and unbelievable don't come close to doing justice to describing him. Subscribing to the podcast on iTunes means that whenever he uploads a new one, I get it automatically whenever I log in to iTunes. And he does these things weekly.

Some of the mixes I like more than others, of course. House and dance hall stuff can be annoying if it isn't your thing. But I have yet to find one that I don't like at all. He categorizes them based on number of beats per minute (bpm) which range from 130 to 170. I tend to use the slower end of the spectrum for my runs, as I'm not a world-class marathoner, but using the high speed ones sometimes kicks up my workout a bit.

I couldn't work out without music. I've been known to leave the gym if I don't have at least headphones with me; most of the cardio machines have headphone jacks so that you can watch TV, and without at least that, I just can't face more than about 3 minutes of cardio. I have forgotten the iPod from time to time, and as long as I can listen to something that is all right, but of course I'd rather have my own music.

I owe DJ Steve a debt of extreme gratitude. (Ooo, he blogs, too.) Without several of his more recent mixes, among them "Radiant Dark," "Beat Cathedral," and "Step Sequencer," I wouldn't have been able to get back in to the groove of running. I skipped about 2 weeks total of the gym as I've settled into the new job, 3 days here, 2 days there. Not going a few times makes it easier to not go at all. But then those numbers on the scale creep up, and I can't stay away from it, no matter how hard it is to drag my ass out of bed to get to the gym in the mornings.

I've claimed throughout this process that I don't like working out. And I don't, really. I don't like to sweat. I don't like being too hot. I don't like my clothes sticking to me when I'm done. I don't like that I think *I* sweat more profusely than other people. I used to say of running, when I was a teenager, "The only good thing about running is when you stop." But I don't really feel that way anymore.

When my time on the elliptical was winding down today, I felt so exhilarated, so energized, that I couldn't believe my time was up. I've been so cautious about running, with the shin splints causing me so much pain. I don't like not being able to run, but neither do I like the idea of stress fractures if I'm not careful. But since I didn't feel "done" today when my time was up on the elliptical, I ran a few times around the track, to the "Beat Cathedral" mix, feeling so strong.

It is so very hard for me to put into words how much 'feeling strong' signifies major change for me. I didn't use to be. Strong, that is. Running a few blocks to catch a bus in NYC would have had me gasping for air like a fish out of water. Carrying baskets of laundry up the stairs in our old apartment building had me heaving and panting. No longer.

In fact, I'm actually considering signing up for several upcoming 5 and 10 K races. I must be out of my mind.

Blades of idiocy, not glory.

Once upon a time, I went rollerblading all the time. With my bad-boy trainer R, with my sisters, with friends, even all alone. I used to enjoy it, but with both sisters being far away, the skates have been forgotten in recent years.

DH and I cleaned our garage as part of that whole attic-cleaning madness, and the skates were rediscovered in a box in the garage, which is where they've been since we moved to this house at the end of 2004.

When I woke up today, I hurt too much from a combination of running and Pilate's, so I decided that since today was a rare beautiful day, I'd go out blading instead of running. Which, in hindsight, might have been mistake #1.

I pulled the skates from their box and tried them on. Yes, they still fit, and yes, I had no trouble skating around the library floor, which is currently cement. We ripped out the carpeting and are going to install laminate flooring this weekend. Anyway. No trouble getting around on them.

There are several park trails within walking distance of my home, but I decided that crossing a major road on skates for the first time in 3 years wasn't a bright idea, so instead I hopped in the car and drove to another trail that is closed to vehicular traffic and is paved.

Once the skates were on, and I got into the parking lot successfully from the car, I had no trouble navigating on them. Soon, I had a good rhythm down, with the wheels of the skates going "whirrrr, whirrr" underneath me, the sun shining through in dappled patches on the trail, and the wind in my super-short hair. Lovely. I did about a half mile without a thought.

When I would go out skating with the bad-boy trainer, years and years ago, we would always call out to people we were about to pass, so that we didn't startle them as we flew by, saying things like "Coming up on your right!" or "Passing on your left!" and I still do that, because I don't want to scare the bejebus out of anyone.

I passed a woman and her dog on the left, then careened around her to pass a pair of women on the right, calling out to each of them. As I passed the pair of women, one of them turned to look at me and brushed her arm against mine. Completely unintentionally, I assure you. She didn't reach out to me, just turned in time to see me whiz by. I was startled enough to take my attention off of the skates for one second...and I was down on the ground instantly.

I landed hard on the heel of my left hand and on my left hip, a jarring shock. I was breathless for a second while the woman apologized and agonized over causing my fall. "No worries," I told her, "I haven't been up on these for three years, and I expected to fall at least once. I'm OK." I declined their offer of assistance and managed to get to my feet without falling again. (Amazingly.)

I continued the trail, and managed about 3-1/2 miles, and enjoyed all but about the last half mile. Once back at my car, with the skates off, I realized how sore I was. I've spent most of the rest of the day trying to not put much weight on my left hip as I sit down. I'm going to have a fantastic bruise.

Reformulated

There's a commercial running on television these days for a popular multi-vitamin which touts its reformulation. As most commercials are, this one is annoying. Relevant, today, though because I'm thinking about the changes, reformulation if you will, of myself.

I've been doing Yoga weekly since October of 2006. At first, I could barely do half the poses and I'd wake up a day or so later hurting in places I didn't even think had muscles. (Silly me, there isn't much of the human body that does not have muscular structure.) It has gotten easier over the intervening months, but there are still some things that I simply can not do.

One of those things is a balancing pose that I don't know the name of. The first time I saw my Saturday morning Yoga instructor do it, I laughed. As IF! I thought. No way I could do THAT! We defeat ourselves sometimes, don't we? If you think you can't, you're probably right. My instructor continued to do the pose weekly for a few months, and after several weeks, she came to me as the class was holding the pose and asked me quietly why I couldn't do it.

"I'm afraid," I responded honestly. "I think I'm going to fall headfirst into the concrete floor."

"You won't," she encouraged gently. "Give it a shot."

So I did, but I was too heavy, then, to support myself. You get into this particular pose by standing with your legs about 2 feet wider than hip distance apart, feet parallel. Bend at the waist, and place your hands on the floor. Bend your knees. Squat down until your knees are resting against your elbows. Lean forward, and balance your weight on your hands, with the legs still against the elbows, feet off of the floor. All your weight is in your hands, and the pressure of the entire body rests in the wrists. Ouch, right? Eyah.

Eventually, she stopped doing it as part of the routine on Saturday mornings, and I forgot about it. Then I started taking the Core Yoga class that my gym offers during the day on Thursdays, which when I'm employed I could never do. The instructor for this class is less flexible than my Saturday teacher, but she's stronger. Core Yoga means that the poses focus on the core of the body, the abs, the glutes, the chest, the back. So there's a whole lot of Plank pose, Downward Dog, poses that are tough. We hold them for longer than in the Intermediate Yoga class. I leave there drenched and usually shaking.

Today, I didn't even realize where she was heading when she began giving instruction to get into this pose, so I simply followed her directions and at the very last second I realized where this was going. Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I thought. And I DID IT!!! It was all I could do not to yell, "Look! LOOK!! I'm doing it!!" (very not kosher in a quiet Yoga class) I was not able to hold the pose as long as the instructor did, but as we say in Swedish, skit samma. That's akin to saying 'it's all good,' just not very polite.

I've been discouraged by the exercise program because the weight loss has stalled. In this age of instant gratification, we all expect results overnight. I'm no different, I think that after nearly a year of working out six days a week I ought to be about 50 pounds lighter, not 30-some. My brother-in-law lost 90 pounds in a year. How come I haven't? Grrr, it frustrates the hell out of me. I've permanently altered my eating habits. I'm eating more healthy than I have in my entire adult life. I drink tons of water every day. And I have not lost any weight at all since about June. URGH!

I'm so much stronger than I was this time last year. My asthma is so much less bothersome. My flexibility is astonishing; if I could show you the bendy, twisty things I can do, you'd be jaw-on-the-ground amazed. That's all great, but what I want is to be a size 4. Yes, yes, I know that's unrealistic and stupid, but it is the truth.

I am not able to see the results when I look in the mirror, because we are all our own worst critics. Very recently I've noticed some changes to my waistline, it had become more nipped-in, for lack of a better term, I've got more of that curvy shape. This is due to the sit ups I do every day, 100 facing forward, 100 lying on my left side and 100 lying on my right side. I can tell that the oblique crunches are making a difference. A slow difference, VERY slow, but at least I can finally see it.

Now if I could just get some magic elves to alter the clothes that I want to keep from falling off of me, that would be great. Where's that damn gnome? You know, the one who drinks the last beer, eats the last cookie, drinks the protein shakes I make for myself, makes a mess and then disappears? Put that petite batard to work doing some sewing. Don't look at me like that; I know one lives in your house too.


Listening to: Sarah McLachlan, "Trust" from the Touch album. Woot for strong women!

I have an owie.

Several of them, really. This is what happens when you push yourself too far, too fast in the gym. My DAILY workout routine goes something like this:

35-45 minutes of cardio, lately a mix of elliptical and treadmill time, as I am trying to run without pain.

4 weight machines, 4 days a week. I work major muscle groups one at a time, so each day that I lift is either legs, shoulders/back, and biceps/triceps.

300 sit-ups. Every day is abs day.

20 minutes of stretching, which includes running through the entire sequence of Sun Salutation A (yoga poses) twice.

I do this six days a week. Add to it Pilates classes on Tuesday and Thursday evenings, Core Yoga on Thursday mornings and Intermediate Yoga early on Saturday mornings.

I'm not going to whine at all about how the weight loss has slowed, even while I've ramped things up, adding the Core Yoga class only recently and increasing the weights on every machine that I use, as well as increasing my lean protein intake. Nope. Not going to whine at all.

Yesterday was a legs day. I'm trying hard to develop all the muscles in my legs so that the shin splints leave me the hell alone and I can run like I want to. I spent 25 minutes on the elliptical, 10 minutes on the treadmill plus a 5 minute cool-down, ran on the treadmill for about 7 of those minutes and then moved on to the adductor and abductor machines. The other two machines I wanted to use, the Glute/Ham machine and one that I don't know the name of and call "that swingy thing" were both occupied, so I went off to do sit-ups and when I came back, they were STILL being used by other people so I did 45 squats with a weight bar instead. All told, I was at the gym about two hours.

Later in the day, I returned for Pilates, and the instructor had us use the Pilates ring, a torture device of medieval proportions. And what did we use the ring to work? Our legs. I left the gym knowing that I'd had a good workout, but not hurting. I knew that would be later.

Sure enough, getting out of bed this morning was a slow process. My legs hurt. Especially those adductors. My abs hurt. My lower back aches a bit. Ow.

I've also had trouble getting out of bed this week because the depression is relapsing a bit. I'm still faithfully taking the meds every day, and yes, it is much, much better, but I have days that aren't so good, where I want to be in tears at the slightest provocation. Stupid things, like my reading glasses are missing. Or I broke a glass in the kitchen, an 'everyday' glass, not something special, and I was nearly hysterical over it. W.T.F. is that? (Seriously, dude.)

Yesterday I got up, got dressed for the gym and then sat on the couch for nearly two hours watching something on Sci-Fi. Because I just couldn't get moving. Today, after getting out of bed the first time and hurting so much, I went back to bed and pulled the covers up and slept for another two hours, deciding that this week, Wednesday will be my 'off' day from the gym instead of Sunday, because I hurt and I think all I'd be able to do at the gym is a slow walk on the treadmill. If I can't go all out, why bother?

The silver lining, perhaps, is that I'm able to write more and work on the book when I'm in such a state. I'm very worried that I need to be semi-unbalanced in order to write. Before I was getting treatment for the depression, I was writing prolifically, the novel was speeding along. When I got better, then I wasn't as interested in writing. Which depressed me. What a cycle.

Thank goodness I've got an appointment today to get my hair trimmed. The short style I'm wearing requires frequent upkeep. Who doesn't feel better after getting their hair done and being fussed over a little bit?

P.S. Fangirl nonsense about Supernatural Origins #4 will post later today over on MySpace.

Learning to BE rather than DO

I took a new (well, new to ME, anyway) yoga class this morning, Core Yoga. It was completely awesome, I enjoyed it a lot. Almost as soon as I left the gym, however, I got a stabbing pain in my left deltoid muscle. For a while it hurt to breathe, but it seems to be easing off. Hopefully is just something I slept wrong on and not a serious injury.

At the end of most Yoga classes that I take, the instructors do something called Savasana, a little meditation. In English, Savasana is Corpse Pose. You're supposed to relax completely. Sometimes the instructors do a guided meditation for this part of the class, sometimes not, you're just supposed to concentrate on your breathing.

Today the instructor gave us our direction while we were still in the final pose of the sequence, which happened to be boat pose. "Imagine something, something relaxing," she trilled. (She was pretty sing-song-y throughout the whole class, it entertained me a lot.) "A child's smile, or a butterfly, floating along, just that and nothing else. Then, when I tell you to, clear your mind and think of nothing, nothing at all."

Living in the moment is very, very difficult for me. When I'm trying to sleep (and this is the biggest reason that I take a sleeping pill) my mind is busy making lists of things that need done tomorrow, or the next day, or just in general. Trying to meditate is a bit like trying to pick one instrument's sound out of a vast symphony for me. So I tried to focus on the memory of a butterfly that I followed around Lily Dale for about a half hour on my last day there, trying (unsuccessfully) to get a picture of the darn thing with its wings wide open. It was a delightful few minutes, I almost felt the wonder of being a child again, chasing after it.

I'm laying on the floor in the exercise studio of my gym, trying to remember the wind off of the lake, the butterfly bobbing along with the breeze, the flowers it landed on, and into my mind pops Jensen. So I pushed him out (blasphemy, no?) and went back to the butterfly. Then my closet with its heaping piles of stuff on the floor that I'm supposed to get into reasonable shape while I'm off pops up. Pushed that out as well. Then the laundry that isn't done, Jensen, the floors that aren't scrubbed, Jensen, the car that needs washed, Dean, the dishwasher that needs unloaded, Jensen, the weeds that need pulled, Dean, the flowers that I haven't planted, Jensen, a conversation I had with a fangirl friend about Jensen, (are we seeing a pattern here at all? No? Must be just me, then.) the mess that needs cleaned up in my bathroom, Dean, the bed that isn't made, GAH!!! Butterfly, dammit, butterfly!!!

Each time I managed to bring myself back to the meditation, only to have it disrupted with something non-related. So much disruption that I never heard her tell us to clear our minds, the next thing I knew she was having us sit up into Lotus position, exchanged "Namastes" with each student, and the class was over. It occurred to me after I left that perhaps next time I ought to choose something else to concentrate on, that whole butterfly thing wasn't really working out for me.

Being in the NOW, right this moment, has always been very tough for me. I'm always thinking ahead to what's next. But as I walked to my car, I realized that this time I've had away from work is making it easier for me to just BE, that I've got a sense of almost serenity that I've never had before. Is it the medication? Probably. Maybe. I don't know.

I finished reading "Is It Me Or Is It My Meds" and I hadn't really thought a lot about it until I cracked that book, and read about others who think the meds make them less creative people. The meds are stifling my creativity. I think. I'm having trouble writing the book. Blog posts, these rambling bits of what runs around in my head are no problem, but the book, that's a problem. Knitting, too, I'm not very interested in doing.

I feel so much better, mentally lots more stable, and I don't ever want to go back to where I was in February/March of this year. But at what price? Taking away my ability to write may just not be worth it. The last time I felt able (and excited) about writing was after that mediation class I took at Lily Dale. Perhaps I need to incorporate that into my daily routine to get "it," whatever "it" is, back.

The only reason I'm not giving up on the writing completely and saying "forget it. move on. find something else." is because I love my little story and having had at least one other person read it, I know it is worth it, there's something there, that could just turn out to be the most amazing thing I do in my life. And if Rowling could write the first Harry Potter book whilst she was unemployed AND a single mom, well, damn. I can manage it too.

Törstig Tisdag

Thirsty Tuesday

I am indulging a bit in my neurotic tendency to be a hypochondriac. Here's a silly thing. I'm worried about the amount of water I drink every day, which has increased dramatically since I started running at least a mile six days a week.

I do know that the thirst and the exercise are directly related. When I was in California around Mother's Day, I was active, but not as much as I am at home. By the 3rd day away from my usual routine, I wasn't as desperately thirsty. But I wasn't not thirsty either.

I've always been a water drinker, rather than soda or other things. The first time I visited Europe, at 14 years old, I was appalled at how expensive a can of Coca-Cola was, and stuck with water in order to be able to buy other things. Very important things. Like Sangria.

With the rise in bottled water being sold in this country, and an increased awareness that not only is soda a diuretic, but also in the awareness that the sugar in soda contributes to our expanding national waistlines, I don't ever have trouble anymore when all I want is some water. Used to be I got odd looks in stores when I asked for bottled water. Every single gas station, convenience store, even sometimes upscale department stores, sells bottled water now. We have a water cooler at home, and go through about 8 of the 5 gallon bottles every month, but I also buy bottled water by the case from a warehouse club for when we want water that's more portable.

I suppose it is very silly to purchase water when it can be had from the tap for much cheaper, but the taste and lack of chemicals in bottled water appeal to me. You have to read the labels of bottled water carefully; I remember finding gallon jugs in the grocery store once which flatly stated in tiny print: Source: City of Columbus water supply. Yuk.

The cases of water that I buy have 32 bottles, each containing 16.9 ounces of water. I drink one at the gym every morning while walking/running. Another on my way home from the gym. A third when I get to my office. A fourth usually before 10 AM. A fifth, and sometimes a sixth, with my lunch. Sometimes even a seventh on the way home from work, and then at least two or three 16 ounce glasses of water from the water cooler with dinner and while I'm online. That's a grand total, every day, of a little more than a gallon. It seems like a lot to me. A whole lot. An excessive amount.

The last time I was in Dr. H's office, I complained to him about it, wondering if my allergy pill was contributing to that problem, making me thirsty. No, he didn't think so. Well, what about my family history of Type 2 diabetes? Excessive thirst can be a symptom of undiagnosed diabetes. If you read this blog all the time, you know that becoming an insulin-dependent diabetic is one of my greatest fears, second only to the fear that abortion could be outlawed.

Dr. H rolled his eyes when I asked about diabetes again.

To reassure me, he flipped open my chart and showed me the lab results from the last time I had blood work done. Normal range for my glucose levels. "You know you're paranoid about this, right?," he asked me, exasperated. "I mean, if you want, we can do a finger-stick test right now, but really, you're NOT diabetic. And I'm going to start charging you for those, because I think that's the only way you're going to stop requesting them every time you come in here."

"All right, I know I'm overly worried about diabetes." I responded. "But I'm thirsty ALL THE TIME, that's not really a good thing, is it?"

"Luce, if you're thirsty, drink more water. But for chrissakes, quit worrying about it." He rolled his eyes again.

His advice is seldom bad, so I've tried. Lest you think he was too abrupt with me in the above exchange, he's someone I've known for a very long time, I knew him before he was a doctor, so a bit of back and forth harassment goes on every time I see him. But when I say I'm thirsty all time, I mean ALL THE DAMN TIME. It is this odd little tickle in my throat, and when I drink water to get rid of it, it reminds me of when you water plants that you've neglected, where the soil soaks it in hungrily. For a short while, that parched feeling dissipates. But not for very long. I'm talking a space of a few minutes.

On the Sunday before Memorial Day, DH and I trekked part of the way across Oh-hi-ia for a family gathering. We stopped for gas just outside our city, and I got out of the car to get some water for the ride, having forgotten to grab a few bottles from home. DH said, "Hon, there's already a bottle in the car. I brought it for myself, but you can have it."

Um, thanks, but it wouldn't be enough. I bought two one litre bottles and drank one entire litre before we got to our destination, which took roughly an hour. While at our destination, I drank 2 more bottles provided by our hosts, which were 32 ounces each. We were there for about 5 hours, so I'm not guzzling the stuff, but still. Then I drank the second litre on the way home. Doesn't that seem like a lot of water?

Sure, being hydrated is a good thing. But there's also too much of a good thing; have you ever heard of water intoxication? First time I ever heard that phrase, I thought that it sounded like fun. Intoxicated on water. Turns out not so much, really. You can die. You would need to drink something like three gallons of water over a very short period of time, but it is worrisome.

I've been trying to dig up some research to see just how much water I really should be drinking every day and if I ought to be concerned about this thirst, and of course I'm not turning up things that are helpful. I could have psychogenic polydipsia, although I seriously doubt it. Yeah, I'm nuts, but psychogenic polydipsia is usually not seen outside the population of those with serious mental disorders says Wiki.

Then there's Diabetes Insipidus. (the diabetes that I'm worried about, type 2, is Diabetes mellitus.) DI is about loss of kidney function, also worrisome, but unlikely, because lemme tell ya, my kidneys? Working just fine. One of the symptoms of DI is craving icy cold water. I do like my water cold, but if it isn't, it don't matter. I just need to quench the thirst.

About the most useful thing I've come across so far, besides Dr. Hottie's advice to just roll with it, is this article from CoolRunning.com, which just about says the same thing as Dr. H, but with some scientific facts to back them up. One hour's run can cause you to sweat more than a quart, active people need more water, you should try to drink 4-6 ounces of water every hour you're awake, yadda yadda. All good to know.

The end of the article makes some good points about alcohol consumption and running. Since this thirsty all the time thing started, I've been very cautious about any alcohol-consuming, because we all know how boozin' it up can make you dehydrated. Since I don't need any of that (I think the thirst then would KILL me) I've been skipping the hard liquor mixed drinks that I'm fond of occasionally indulging in.

But if you're looking for who took that last bottle of water? That would be me.

New Experiences are GOOD for you. Yeah.

I started a new exercise class today. BOSU stands for Both Sides Utlilized and isn't new, having been developed in 1999. But here in the midst of cornfields and lowlands of the Appalachians, it is new to us. Picture a balance ball, cut in half and mounted on a solid plastic base. You stand on it, and do aerobics.

My gym began hyping it at the end of last year, promising to bring intro classes for free. Some of the classes that they offer cost about $20, at least the interesting ones cost. Things that I have no interest in, like Step, are free. Of course. So the offer of a free new class was pretty tempting and I signed up.

I had the first class today. It was awful, horrible, and I hated it. I think that I have a decent sense of balance, and I know that I'm pretty damn flexible, but this was miserable. I do not have good balance on the ball.

The instructor suggested trying first with no shoes, that you might have better balance in socks. True. So I offed my shoes and gave it a shot. My feet almost immediately cramped up, much like getting a charley horse in your leg. I gave it about 15 minutes, hopping off the ball and stretching from time to time, and that didn't work, so I put my shoes back on, and tied them tightly. That was better.

I despise aerobics, I always have. I don't know what the hell I was thinking, signing up for this. I have THREE left feet, can't hold tempo, and have no idea what half of the exercises that the instructor calls out are. V-Step, side lunges? Clueless. So I have to watch the instructor for two or three cycles of the moves and then catch up. I'm always the only freaking one in the goddam class doing that, no matter what the class. And then I can't keep up, getting exhausted before they're done with whatever sequence they're working their way through, wheezing...and I feel like the only idiot in the room who is so out of shape.

I know that's not the case, I wasn't (for once) the fattest person in the room. When I got on the scale after the class, I'm actually down four more pounds than the last time I stepped on the scale. Yay! I've lost about 1/3 of the total weight that I'd like to. And I am in better shape, my cardiovascular system is fantastic. The asthma monster should be completely out of control at this time of year and its good, really. My breathing is fantastic, and my legs, in my adorable pink high heeled sandals, look spectacular. I'm not obese and never have been, but things like this class make me feel like I weigh 300 lbs.

I stayed for the whole class, despite wanting badly to just walk out. The other exercise classes I've been doing for the past 6 months, Yoga and Pilate's, are things that I really liked from the very first class. I dunno if I'll continue to take this class, because it really wasn't fun. And since I don't like to sweat, or do ANY of this stuff to begin with, why should I continue to do it if I think it sucks?

On the other hand, I'm about the MOST stubborn person that I know, and I hate to 'give up' on anything, anything at all. Will I go back next week? Probably. In fact, a woman who was in this class that is also in my Yoga class suggested that I give the Sunday BOSU class a shot, that with a different instructor and repeated exposure, it gets easier.

I'm sure it does, but if it was awful the first time, won't I think it is just as awful the next time? With so many options out there for exercise, shouldn't I stick to things that are fun?

When we're talking about trying new foods, I'm always down for that. New places to travel, yep, sign me up. New exercise classes? Eeaych, not so much.

Run, girl.

I had another tough day on the treadmill. I don't understand why this happens. I couldn't run for more than about eight minutes today, when I've been doing 11 for a few days.

As if I'm not convinced that I'm completely losing my mind, I've had a couple of odd things happen to me that make me think I'm slipping over the edge. Tuesday, I 'lost' my iPod. Had it IN MY HAND when I got in the car...got to the gym, and it was gone. Now, really, where could it have gone? Had I dropped it in the garage? Set it down inside the house? Frantic searching ensued when I got out of the car in the gym's parking lot, looking around the seats, and it was nowhere to be found. So I used the gym's phone to call home and asked DH to look for it in the house and garage. No iPod.

Working out without music is horrible. Running on the treadmill is boring. Being at the gym isn't fun. So oddly enough, on Tuesday, I had headphones but no iPod. Fortunately, you can plug the headphones into some of the treadmills and I survived the workout.

Where was the iPod? Uh, in the car. Under the passenger seat. Found it when I got home, in the lighted garage. The gym's parking lot was just too dark to see it. But wait, that's not the worst of it.

This morning, I couldn't find my cell phone as I was on my way out the door to work. I'd tossed a load of laundry into the washing machine and started it, and somehow became convinced that the phone was inside the washing machine. Maybe it had gotten into the laundry basket. O, crap, what if it got in the laundry basket? Wet cell phone = bad. So I pulled every soaking wet thing out of the washing machine, shook it out, got water everywhere, and no, no cell phone. Finally found it about 10 minutes later, I'd set it down in my closet when getting dressed.

Scatterbrained like that isn't like me. Good god, I am losing my mind.

Sakta mina steg

Or, in English:

Slow my steps

Every now and then I just can't resist slipping a little Swedish into the mix. Sorry. I was listening to Swedish pop on my iPod and I'm having trouble getting back into the English groove.

I know I was complaining just a few short days ago about how my exercise program isn't working as well as I'd like, and that's still true, but I noticed a few things today that thrill me to my fingertips.

I take an early morning Yoga class on Saturdays. In the depths of winter, it is really difficult to get to that class...it is still dark outside, bitterly cold, and forsaking the warmth of my bed is hard. As spring continues to unfold, it gets easier, in part because it is light outside, and in part because it isn't as frosty outside. I've been doing this class for between 6 and 7 months, it is intermediate Yoga. Some of the stuff we do is hard, some less so. I find Yoga very soothing, usually. Every now and then, if I've been out on Friday night before the class, it is awful.

My instructor is a serene woman, mother of four. Her kids range in age from 8 months to 10 years. I have no idea how she stays so calm all the time. I've never seen her in a snit, or on edge. Which makes me slightly suspicious that she's one of those "terminally happy" people, you know the type. The ones that need a good bop in the head. But maybe she just really loves teaching Yoga.

Today she led us through a series of moves, from downward-facing dog, into plank, to upward dog, table, to cat-back, lather, rinse, repeat. We went through this cycle half a dozen times, and I was breathing at her instruction. I have never been able to hold the plank pose for very long, it hurts my lower back. Today, not a problem. Not a hitch. No wimping out and dropping the pose to its modification, which puts your knees on the floor.

Sometimes, if I can drag my ass out of bed, I do my cardio on the treadmill before Yoga. Most of the time, though, I end up doing it after. I left Yoga today feeling strong and positive, but I really wanted to go back to bed. Part of this whole exercise thing is pushing myself to do more, a little bit of beating myself up over having gotten as overweight as I was. Part of it also is when I joined the Y, and informed DH that I intended to go every weekday when the gym opened up at 05.30, he said, "That will NEVER last." So I'm thumbing my nose at him a bit. Don't get me wrong, he's really supportive. On days when I can't drag myself out of bed, or don't feel well, he's always really sweetly concerned. But the fact that I do go six days a week in no way means that I really like it, or am enjoying myself whilst at the gym. I hate almost every stinking minute of it. I'm not having a good time, this isn't fun, it isn't a party at 05.30 every morning.

I worked my way up to 11 minutes of running on the treadmill today, and ran in much longer bursts than I usually do. Normally I do 3 minutes running, twice, and then four minutes to get to my ten, taking walking breaks in between. Today I did six minutes and five. With significant breaks walking at a slower speed. And it felt wonderful. For the first time in weeks, no pain. No muscle spasms, no aching calves or tibia muscles. In fact, it was almost easy. At the beginning of each running episode, I wanted to bump the speed of the treadmill up, because it was too easy. I know from experience that I tire quickly, and if I had given in to that impulse to sprint, I wouldn't have been able to do what I did. And by the end of the second bit of running, I was gasping, sweat pouring down my face, dripping off my nose. Hardly a pretty picture. I bring a small towel with me every day to mop at my face, and it was drenched by the time I was done.

I was reading on someone else's blog about people who lip sync to the music they're listening to at the gym, and how funny they sometimes look. I do that! It is less rude, I think, than doing what I want to do, which is sing at full volume. When I'm running and listening to something appropriate for the running, like "Dig" by Incubus, I mouth the words along with the music to force myself to not watch the timer on the treadmill, because if I watch the timer, all I can think about is when I can stop.

Running along today with Brandon Boyd's voice echoing in my ears, the iPod so loud that I couldn't hear anything else, urging myself to not clock-watch at least until the song was over, I felt such a swell of pride, because I knew even before the song was halfway done, that I'd managed to run for longer than I have in so many years. I hesitate to say, "I felt great!" because I haven't felt good, let alone great for a very long time. I'm going to post something next week about that, something I've been working on writing for a few weeks, and I don't want to get into all the details of that right now. But I felt pretty damn good when the program on the treadmill had run its 40 minute course. While stretching, I was thinking about going back for some more running, when the remix of Prince's "Let's Go Crazy" popped up on the iPod. Which, really, WTH? I haven't ever wanted to run.


Slow steps, but progress. I like that. Finally!

Running Down A Dream

Before I get to my usual Tuesday Brain Dump, I need to point your attention to this piece on NPR, heartbreaking in its simplicity, about the shootings yesterday at Virginia Tech. Audio isn't available as I am writing this post, but will be later today. Judith Miller says so eloquently what I struggle to put into words. Give it a listen.





I'm thinking today about running, and the 'runner's high'

I'm still only able to run for 10 minutes out of the 35 that I'm on the treadmill. Some days are easier than others. I don't know why. My routine varies only by a small amount each day; get up, get dressed, go to the gym, come home, shower, get dressed for work, work, drive home, dinner, write, bed. Tuesdays and Thursdays there's an exercise class in between dinner and writing. That's about it. I drink a ton of water each day. I'm watching my portions and eating healthy. So why is it that some days are super easy and some so incredibly tough? I wish I understood.

I have been a runner for a very long time, but taken very long breaks in between times when I run and times when I don't. I was on the track team in junior high school, 7th grade? Or was it 8th? Too long ago to remember now. The junior high school in my hometown was on a tree-lined street, which has about 10 century houses on it, and in fact the original portion of the school is a historic building as well, was at one time a private college. A very, very, very small one. At the end of the school's street is a forest preserve, 243 acres of wild lands. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, and for conditioning for track, they'd have us run from the school, to the preserve, around the loop trail in the preserve, and back up to school. Then we'd have practice. I'm not really sure of the distance. Maybe 3 total miles, maybe less. It was tough, I'd get to the practice field dead tired, panting, and in no mood to do time trials or sprints. I hated it, but kept pushing myself because I wanted desperately to fit in somewhere, and since one of my closest friends at the time was a track star, I thought that this might be my niche. It wasn't.

I'm not a good runner, or a fast one. They stuck me with running the 400, and I never won. I did it for only one season of track, I remember saying frequently at the time that "The only GOOD thing about running is when you stop." I never felt that endorphin high that everyone talked about.

In the spring of the year I lived in Sweden, my best friend and I looked at ourselves and realized we'd gained some weight over the winter. Which is really ridiculous, she was 5'7" and weighed maybe 140 and I was 5'2" and didn't weigh over 100, but I was 17 and she was 19 and we thought we were 'fat'. We embarked on a very ambitious journey, swimming 2 kilometers in the community pool after school on Mondays and Wednesdays, and running between 2 and 5 kilometers on Tuesdays and Thursdays. Fridays and Saturdays we drank. Sundays we recovered.

We made a list, that I still have, of things we agreed to not eat. Nothing fried. No more stopping for something to eat on the way home from the clubs on Saturday nights. The town's cafe/bakery made these donut sort of things called munkar, which were square, filled with a wonderful apple/sugar/cinnamon blend, and I agreed to stop buying them when I got out of school every afternoon. No ice cream.

We did get into better shape, but what I remember most is coming to the back door of my host family's house, panting, opening the door and calling out to my host-mum, Snalla, kan vi har lite vatern? (Please, can we get some water?) We weren't allowed into the house without taking off shoes, and we'd stretch in the backyard before going inside. The route that we ran took us though farm country, and I had to really work to get the mud off of those running shoes. I still hated it, and I remember mamman asking me why we didn't just walk if we hated it so much. I would tell her how we'd look so cute in our bathing suits during the coming summer and she would roll her eyes at me. She ought to have smacked me one, considering what I weighed and my body image at the time. Not that it would have smacked some sense into me, but still, I wince when thinking about how I used to whine about being fat at 17. Someone really should have given me a beat-down.

Through most of my college years, I lifted weights, but did very little cardio, and my weight gain really escalated after I got married. Sure, I walked in our old neighborhood from time to time. I exercised never, though. I joined a series of gyms, but never really got off the couch. The thing that's different this time around is that I now recognize and understand that the working out has to be part of my life every day for the rest of my life, that once I've gotten to the goal, I can't just stop doing whatever finally works to get the rest of the weight off. I might be able to do 3 days a week at the gym instead of 6, but it has to be a part of who I am and what I do for the rest of the time I'm on this earth.

And I finally get that runner's high. Each day, when I manage to get to the ten full minutes running, I feel like raising my hands over my head and cheering. I want to jump up and down and shout "LOOK!! I did it! Ten minutes!!! GO ME!" I restrain the impulse, but it is there.

I'm still having trouble with cramping in the tibia muscles, and it hurts when I stop running. Which is a complete 180 degree turn from where I was, that it was good to stop. I have been trying for about a week to get up over ten minutes (woot! 11 whole minutes!!) but I can't quite get there. It will come, I know. Patience has NEVER been my strong suit.

What I love about running is that it is now very meditative for me. I can't focus on anything else but breathing and putting one foot in front of the other. I can't think about anything else, and considering the craziness that is going on in my life right now, a blank slate, a clear head, is a wonderful thing. It doesn't last for but a few minutes after I get off the treadmill, but it is nice to experience while it does last.

I was out of bed at 4 this morning, giving up the battle to sleep even a few minutes longer after watching the clock from 3:17 AM on. Can't sleep, can't focus, don't want to do anything, endless circles of the same thoughts chasing around and around in my head. I was at Dr. Hottie's office last week, and he encouraged me to continue to use the Ambien to get the sleep I need. Muscle repair and your body's regeneration happens in stage 4 sleep, and I'm not getting even a minute of that. Dreams occur during REM sleep, stage two. I have very little of those, either. The sleeping pill gives me exceedingly weird, disjointed dreams, but also about 5 hours of sleep as opposed to the three or so I get without help.

So I'm continuing to chase after that elusive fitness goal, and a good night's sleep. But looking in the mirror this morning, I can finally see some muscle definition in my shoulders, and when I turn around and look at my back, there are two fewer rolls of fat. Twenty-two pounds lighter, and that's all the difference I can see. Guess my self-image still needs some work.

Finally, I'm jumping on a bandwagon that I've just discovered. Searching for new music to run to on iTunes the other day, I found Podrunner, produced by LA's DJ Steveboy. Once upon a time, dance hall and trip-hop was all I listened to. And then I figured out that it can get pretty damn annoying. But I'm in love with the mixes that Steveboy produces. I'm gooving to Paintshaker, which was featured the week that Podrunner had its four MILLIONTH download. So yeah, I'm behind the times a wee bit. I haven't subscribed to the podcast yet because I'm running out of space on my iPod, a project for the coming weekend is to delete everything that I haven't listened to since uploading most of my music library in January.

I hope your Tuesday doesn't suck out loud.

Slim Goodbody

Remember the public television show of the late 70s/early 80s? With the guy dressed in a spandex suit printed with the organs of the human body? I remember how much it grossed me out.

Now, however, I am amazed, astonished, and also considerably annoyed by the miracle that is the human body. Yesterday was a rough day for my fitness regimen. I had terrible, awful, painful cramps. Of the womanly variety. I know, I know, way TMI, but if I just said cramps, you might think I meant simple muscle cramps.

Any-way, moving on. I was on the treadmill and hurting. That's been a bit of a theme recently, hasn't it? Instead of the "we were so drunk AND..." stories of my youth, now it is "I was on the treadmill and my (whatever) hurt and...." Getting old is a bitch, y'all. I stopped the treadmill when I got to a mile and a half, which is about half or three quarters the amount of distance I usually do every day. I hurt so badly that instead of doing my usual stretches and then the requisite charting that I do to keep track of my progress, I left and went home for a hot, hot, hot shower. Which didn't help much. Neither did the three ibuprofens I took.

When I finally managed to drag myself into work, I took two Aleve, which eventually, about 3 hours later, eased the pain a bit. I hadn't been able to do the amount of running on the treadmill that I'm trying to do every day either. Which left me feeling a bit like the workout had been not exactly a failure, but inadequate. That's frustrating.

I've been staying off of the scale, knowing that it will only piss me off. I can tell that I'm in better shape than I have been in years and years and years, by the way that the workouts don't make me all winded. The fact that I can now run for longer periods of time before I feel that I'm-so-exhausted-I-can't-do-this-for-one-more-second feeling is another positive sign. I'm pushing myself further and further, every single day. But the results are just not what I'm looking for.

I want to be super-skinny, like I was at 17. That's such an unrealistic goal that I'm dooming myself to failure before I even get halfway there. I have curves these days that I never had at 17. I also happen to be taller, I continued to grow until about 19, an unusual phenomenon that seems to occur on my dad's side of the family. At 17, I was about 5'1". Today I am about 5'4". Not a huge difference, but at 17, I really and truly weighed about 98 pounds. Friends have told me that they thought I was anorexic. I wasn't, and when they told me that story when we were 26 or 27, I laughingly reminded them of the boxes of Fudge Rounds I used to eat, the fried chicken we used to get at the mall on Saturdays, the huge amounts of junk food that were present at every single sleep-over we had. What I wouldn't give to have that metabolism back!

In stark contrast from yesterday's workout, though, today's was excellent. I felt fantastic leaving the gym. When I first started trying to run weeks ago, I'd amp up the speed on the treadmill and watch the clock, thinking, I'll run for one minute. Then back to walking. Periodically, I'd try to increase the amount of time I was running, and eventually, I was able to get where I am now, which is about 10 minutes of the 35 that I'm on the treadmill. The eventual goal is to run the entire program, with the exception of the 5 minute cool down.

My body has adapted well to this, and I'm amazed at what I've been able to accomplish. I watch my heart rate closely, mostly because I'm a geek obsessed with stats, but also because I want to see if my resting heart rate will go down, as it should, when I'm in 'good' shape. I've got great definition on my leg muscles. You should see my calves, and my shin muscles are a beautiful thing. I am thinner than when I started working out 6 days a week back in October. But I'm not satisfied at all with the pace of the weight loss. I'm also very annoyed that I don't yet have a six-pack, and that I think my arms are as flabby as ever. They're not, and I know that because I can fit into jackets and shirts that I haven't worn in a long time, but my perception is that I've made very little progress. My thighs aren't any smaller, either. Dammit.

It is astonishing to me that one day I can barely do what I need to and the next I feel like a million bucks. If one day I had eaten a bunch of junk food, or had lots to drink, I could understand. I went out drinking with some friends last Friday, and Saturday's early morning Yoga class was a real bitch. But the major difference between yesterday and today? I have no idea.

I'm eating right, not snacking on the junk food that ABOUNDS at my office, severely limiting my caffeine intake, I'm drinking a ton of water, trying desperately to get enough sleep, and none of it seems to be making a difference. I've given up coffee, and don't drink soda unless I'm drinking which I don't do often. You would never seem me running around with a diet Coke in my hand. I don't eat red meat, I don't eat pork, I am eating two hateful bananas every day to keep my potassium levels elevated for the running, and what? Nothing. No results. Honesty compels me to revise that. Not no results but perhaps less result than I was expecting.

"Hateful bananas" because I really don't like them. Ugh. I choke them down, though, because I firmly believe that we should get most of our nutrients from real food, not from supplements. I was having trouble with muscle cramping about two months ago, and when I explained to the trainer what was happening, she told me that it was clear to her that my potassium levels were low, and the best way to fix that was to eat two bananas a day. Yuck!

There must be something missing. Some missing link. Something that I've overlooked, something that will turn the key and make everything work. I know that the only way to truly do weight loss is to put in the hard work and the time. That's why I'm not 'dieting', but watching what I eat very closely. I could never stick to Adkins or South Beach or any of the other myriad promised quick fixes out there. Been there, done that. Bought the t-shirt. Long term weight loss and overall health only comes from doing it the right way, watching calories and exercising. I'm doing all that. What's missing?

Monster. Asthma. Synonymous .

Tuesday, and time for another installment in my Brain Dump series.

I am an asthmatic. I was diagnosed with asthma at 19 years old, and it has always seemed odd to me that no one picked it up before then. The very first time I thought the asthma might be something other than a hyper-sensitivity to environmental irritants, I was out to dinner with my parents, and this was before Ohio passed the smoking ban. We were in a small, family-owned restaurant, and someone near us lit up a cigar. I hacked, and hacked, and hacked some more, and both parents insisted that I make an appointment to see our cute family doctor.

When I got in to see him, Dr. Hottie had me breathe into a tube (which tests lung capacity), gave me a breathing treatment, had me breathe into a tube again, and just like that, I was slapped with the label of asthmatic. I got a prescription for Proventil as an added bonus. Yay.

Through my 20s, I would sometimes control the asthma better than other times. At various junctures, I had prescriptions for: Advair, Allegra, Allegra D, Proventil, and another allergy med that starts with a P that I can't even remember. Proventil is a rescue inhaler, you are supposed to use it when an asthma attack overwhelms you. I despise the side effects of Proventil, so I've always been very stubborn about using it. Unless I cannot breathe at all, I refuse to use it. It makes my heart race, gives me the shakes and makes me more jittery than a 13-year-old on a sugar rush. It ain't pretty.

When I have an asthma attack, it sounds as if I'm dying. I've told close friends over and over that unless I actually fall over and start turning blue from lack of oxygen, they are to ignore the hacking cough and wheezing that accompanies an attack. They're pretty good about doing just that, much to my relief. I like the spotlight, yeah, but not when I am gasping for breath with tears streaming from my eyes and my nose running, from the sheer force of the coughing.

I'd like to be able to completely ignore the fact that I have this condition, but it has been very difficult to do that over about the past two weeks. Living in Ohio means that we have 4 distinct seasons, a very clear differentiation between winter, spring, summer and fall, and whenever the seasons change, the monster comes out to play. The worst transitional times are from winter to spring and summer to fall, as each time the pollen counts, mold counts, and other allergens are out in full force.

There are more than a few types of asthma, exercise-induced, environmentally-induced, et cetera, but mine seems to be mostly related to environmental factors, like allergens. Besides the blooming trees and flowers and mold and dust, cigarette smoke really bothers me and sets off the monster. Cigar smoke is worse. Makes you wonder how on earth I ever smoked, but I did, from about 16 until about 18. I am really glad that I no longer have that habit.

Big temperature changes, going from a well-heated building to outside in the cold, or walking into a really warm, damp room after being someplace cold and dry will also set it off.

The attacks start out as a little tickle in the back of my throat, as if I've swallowed a small bit of goose down. Sometimes, swallowing hard will get rid of it. Sometimes a sip of really cold or really hot water will soothe it. The urge to cough to get rid of whatever 'it' is becomes stronger if the water tricks don't work. Taking a deep breath becomes difficult, it catches in my throat and then I've got no choice but to cough, a ragged, deep, drawn out hacking bark of a cough, that sounds like perhaps a chunk of my lung might be expelled soon. I can exhale all I want, as I cough, but taking a breath in is like sipping air through a straw. After you've just finished running a marathon.

That's where the wheeze comes in. As my lungs scream for more air, the rest of my body is still being wracked by deep coughs, and a little, tiny sip of air is all I can get in. It makes a small noise, a wheeze that can sound like a death rattle. Which will further convince the uninformed observer that I'm about to die, because it can also sound like an injured animal's last cries.

Bad asthma attacks (as opposed to 'good' ones? No, as opposed to mild ones.) are painful, causing aching abdominal muscles from the coughing, and a tightness in the chest. An invisible giant's hand is squeezing your lungs for all he's worth, and then when he suddenly lets go, and you're able to breathe, the tightness relaxes after a few normal breaths. It only disappears after the attack is completely over, usually ten minutes or so later.

The last time the asthma was badly out of control for me was October of last year, when the last vestiges of Indian Summer finally died away and the leaves began to fall from the trees. The temperature changed from hot and humid to cool and then chilly. I'd have terrible attacks on the way to the gym every morning, after leaving my nice warm bed and heading out into the cool, pre-dawn chill.

Because I got really damn tired of starting my workouts short of breath, I called the doctor's office and requested an appointment with our family doctor. Dr. Hottie gave me Singulair, Xopenex, and Advair that time, and after using each for about a week as prescribed, I ditched the Xopenex (another rescue inhaler) and the Advair, and took the Singulair daily until the weather finally decided to just be fall, instead of jumping back and forth from summer to fall to summer to winter to fall again.

When the very first signs of spring began appearing, daffodils and other early spring flowers pushing themselves up through the snow, I began taking the Singulair again every day. That was about three weeks ago, and over the past week we've seen outdoor temperatures range from 13 to 70F, about -10 to 21C. Trees are blooming, flowers too, and my allergies are bad, making me want to scratch out my eyes and find some perfect cure for the raw skin around my poor nose. The monster is always just out of sight, hiding on my shoulder or behind my ear (he's little, you see, until a really severe attack, which makes him grow to gargantuan proportions) when he decides that he wants some attention, and then he harasses me.

My mind is seriously in the gutter, because re-reading that bit about the monster growing has me thinking about other things that start small and grow large quickly...uh. If I have to 'splain it to y'all, it loses some of the funny, so moving on....

When I'm working out each morning, the last thing I want is to have an attack happen on the treadmill. I could fall and hurt myself, yes, that's a concern, but more than that, it attracts unwanted attention from the other early-morning gym rats that make me feel like I've got a flashing neon "check out the freak" sign over my head.

Here's a cheerful thought about asthma. There is no cure. All I can do, besides taking medication daily when symptoms are bad, is increase my lung capacity through cardiovascular exercise, and perhaps move into the middle of the desert, where there's little or no pollen.

Most of the time, it doesn't bother me. I don't think about it every day, nor do I dwell on it when it isn't acting up. I refuse to carry around a rescue inhaler because it isn't that severe for me, and I'm too stubborn. I don't wander around wearing a badge that says, "I have asthma!!! Feel sorry for me!!!" And that's because until it rears its ugly little head, I mostly forget it is there.

Last Tuesday I wrote a post about OCD. Asthma today. Y'all are going to really think I'm falling apart, a mess, or truly in need of intense therapy, as my own mother suggested the other day. I simply prefer to think of myself as one of those eccentric geniuses. At least I entertain myself, cause it makes me giggle, describing myself as both eccentric and genius.
(Heavy on the sarcasm there, in case it doesn't translate to the written word.)

Empowered. Empowerment. Strength. Brought to you by a Christina Aguilera video.

I was on the treadmill today, as usual, and watching MTV or VH1 without any sound, as I do each morning. It entertains me a great deal to be watching a video for, say, Nellie Furtado while I'm listening to The Beastie Boys. Or listening to The Angel while bubblegum pop is on the TV screen. Disconcerting, and funny as hell. Oh, and the mystery of when does MTV really play music videos? Solved. At 05.30 in the morning, they're playing top 20 stuff.

Christina Aguilera's "Candyman" came on, and I watched the whole video, something I rarely do. I'm usually looking around, or if I'm running, my eyes are unfocused and I'm concentrating on my breathing, trying to keep the asthma monster at bay. But I love this video. Christina looks fabulous. The video makes me think of several things, all tied to female empowerment (I know, if you've seen it you're thinking....WHAT? With the WHAT?) and the inherent strength in femininity.

The song, if you haven't heard it, is reminiscent of that bugle boy song from the 40's, Boogie Woogie Bugle Boy. I love swing and jazz, and big band sounds too, so every time swing makes a resurgence, I'm happy about it. When I watch this video, I think of the women of my grandmother's generation, who went to work while 'the boys' were overseas in WWII, paving the way for the women's movement of the 60s and 70s. The art director, or costuming folks, did a good job of choosing wardrobe for her, especially when they've got her in a pair of capri-length jeans and button down shirt, with her hair wrapped in a kerchief. Somewhere in my family archives is a pic of my paternal grandmother in a very similar outfit, from about 1940.

So why does something intended to be so incredibly sexy, and overtly sexual, make me think of female empowerment? Because I think that Christina is one very smart lady. Who knows that sex sells, and she's done an amazing job making men want her and women want to be her. Even though each character she plays in the vid is being objectified through what she's got on, or how she's dancing, she's in control. She's in charge. Every single eye in the room is on her. That's power.

A while back, on another feminist's blog, I left a comment talking about 'owning the pink', much like taking back the word 'bitch', I think we ought to take ownership of the pretty pink boxes that the world would like us to fit into. There's a dress that Christina wears in the video that looks like maybe it is made out of pink cashmere, but a cashmere skirt wouldn't flare the way that one does, so I have no idea what it is made of. Anyway, she's got on this cute, very short, very pink dress, and she's rocking it like no one's business. She's also got on one sweet pair of bad-ass Mary-Janes, you know, catholic school girl shoes? These are spiky and high heeled, and I want a pair. A look around the net for them finds me stunned to discover that they're nearly $900 a pair. So much for that. I may spend silly amounts of money on shoes, but that's out of my reach for a single pair.

Sidetracked! That happens with me and shoes. Regardless, I was talking about the contrast between the shoes and the dress. The shoes are like a great "screw you" contrast to the uber-pink dress.

I know that I'm probably attributing much more thought than what actually went into a three minute music video, but I know that Christina knows she's a role model for young girls everywhere, and I think that by being strong, sexual, provocative, and even a lot flirtatious, she's showing that you can be pink & pretty and be powerful at the same time.

I remember an interview with Madonna, years and years ago, when Dick Clark asked her what her ambitions were, where she wanted to go from AT40 fame, what she wanted to do with her career. She chuckled a little bit and said, "To rule the world."

Watching this particular video makes ME feel strong, makes ME feel like I can get out there and rule the world, and that's powerful stuff. Dare I say it? Empowering.

On Rude Behavior

I was on the treadmill at the gym, trying hard to keep distracted, when I came across an article in Details magazine about being a gentleman. Now, most of the 'Lad Mag' genre is icky, and articles about how to jazz up your pickup game don't do much for me, but this one got me to thinking about rude behavior that I encounter on a daily basis, and some that I participate in, embarrassingly enough.

The article in question can be found here, but be warned the site froze my laptop for no apparent reason.

The author talks about the lost art of being a gentleman, about knowing how to order a bottle of wine, how to turn off your cel phone, keep your pants on, and tellingly, "let the ladies go first". I'm all for most of that behavior...as the author rightly points out, dudeus americanus is an idiot who needs to clean up his act.

As I read this, the woman on the treadmill next to me got a telephone call. Her screechy conversation was about her daughter's troubles with attendance at school and how she was apparently in danger of being booted off of danceline as a result. It was annoying.

Normally, I am at the gym every morning when the doors open at 05.30. Yes, 5:30 AM. Until very recently, I thought the gym was pretty busy at that hour. This week, with the return to my sleeping pill prescription, I've had a more difficult time getting out of bed, and so have been dragging myself to the gym after work. I hate missing that early morning workout, because the gym is not only NOT crowded at all at that hour, contrary to my impression, but the people there at 05.30 are much more civilized.

Earlier this week, the man on the treadmill next to me was sweating so profusely that I was getting rained on. I can't even tell you how grossed out I was by that. I couldn't move to another treadmill because there wasn't one to spare. There were people waiting, like swarming sharks, for a treadmill to open up, so I stayed with Mr. Raindrop.

Another day, and this is petty and really obnoxious of me, the guy next to me kept coughing, and it irritated me so much that I kept turning up my iPod to block it out. And then I got a phone call of my own.

About 99.99% of the time, I don't even have the phone with me at the gym, nor do I take my work-mandated pager into the gym. If they can't be without me for an hour a day, well, the whole world is then totally fucked and I can't do anything to fix it. So the pager, phone, PDA and other gadgetry are usually in the car, or at home while I'm running. But I had called a friend on the way to the gym and requested a call back as soon as she got the message, so I took the phone into the gym.

I don't know if I've blogged before about my hearing loss, so bear with me while I explain that I am very hard of hearing, having destroyed it in my teens by clubbing, concert-going, and listening to my Walkman much too loudly back in the days before iPods. I have about a 40% hearing loss in my left ear, and about a 15% in my right ear. If you're not facing me, I can't hear you. If you whisper, I can't hear you unless you're whispering directly into my right ear. Yeah, I know how smart this makes me when I continue to listen to the iPod and turn it up too. Anyway, I told you all that so that you understand why the ring tone on my mobile phone is set to the "deafening" setting. 'Cause I can't hear it otherwise.

Back to the gym, where I'm running along on the treadmill, and the annoying older fella next to me is hacking, hacking, hacking and I'm turning the iPod up, and up, and up to tune him out. So loudly that I don't hear my phone ring, rather I see it vibrating and the lights flashing. I answer it, and have about a 20 minute loud conversation with my friend about cute gay boys that she's met, the actor that I think is cute, the fan forums, the hot guy who walked into the gym in front of me, my hormone levels, her lover, so, in short, sex.

When I hung up the phone, I resumed running (I had slowed to a brisk walk to be able to talk) turned the iPod back up, and stopped myself from belting out the chorus to Saliva's "Click...Click...BOOM". I try really hard to not sing out loud when I have the iPod on, but is is tough. (Great song to run to, BTW.)

It was a day or so later that I read the Details article, and the screechy woman next to me regaled her friend with her screechy opinion about her daughter's spot on danceline. Again, I was turning the iPod up, but I couldn't block her out entirely, she was too loud. I was starting to get seriously pissed off when I realized that Mr. Cough next to me earlier in the week probably hadn't appreciated Lucy's Frank Talk About Sex and Homosexuality any more than I was appreciating her diatribe. Oops.

As I continued to read the advice of Details to twentysomething guys on how to behave themselves and have some class, I was suddenly reminded of my mother's English friend, B. B was someone my mum ran around with about 20 years ago, and the first time I met her, at about 11, I was transfixed by her accent, the first one I'd ever heard in real life. B was (and probably still is) one very classy dame. I watched her every move, trying to figure out just what, exactly, made her so graceful and refined. She was never standoffish, rude, or snobby. She had the incredible gift of making everyone around her feel very comfortable.

Class is something that you either have, or you don't, and no amount of schoolin' is going to make someone like Paris Hilton classy. But class is also about a set of societal norms that we're supposed to conform to, yet another thing that tries to squeeze women into a nice tidy little box, prepared to be a doormat for the world to politely wipe its feet on, on the way to bigger and better things.

There isn't anything wrong with polite behavior. I think the world could use lots more excuse me's, please's and thank-you's, not to mention the fact that we have to now be 'told' when to turn off our mobile phones, because we can't figure that one out on our own anymore. Dude, were you born in a barn? The lack of manners, backsliding into an ever-increasing laissez-fare attitude to public behavior isn't a good thing. But a return to 1950s style societal norms isn't a great idea either.

I'm really on the fence with this one, can you tell? Years ago, I read an article in *cringe* Reader's Digest about rudeness, and the writer rather eloquently told a story about being bullied in a department store and then seeing something similar happen to her three year old niece on the playground. She wanted to rush in, protect the girl from the bully, but instead, she stood back and waited to see what the child would do. Out of the mouths of babes, y'all, because the little girl put her hands on her hips and said to the bully, "You. Are. Rude." And the boor backed up, blinked, and said, "I'm sorry."

Huh. Too bad if we did that to other adults we might get shot. Because it sounds like a great idea to me. You. Are. Rude. Pointing out the behavior just might get someone to recognize their own boorishness and stop and think for a second. In my fantasy, everyone-is-as-nice-as-me world.