Fretting the Small Stuff

Prima Balle-freakin'-Rina

Yes, that right.  I'm the epitome of Grace.  Just ask Lorraine and Ted.  They'll tell you.  I decided to "ramp up" my work out by adding Pilates into the mix.  I know, you're saying:  You look perfect just as you are!  As a two year old, you were stunning!  You worked that thin hair.  Thank you and I know.   But seriously, being a woman with an insanely slow metabolism, I needed MORE.  So Pilates it is.

I went to to Pilates a couple years ago and got stuck with the Pilates Drill Sergeant.  Of course the class was in the dark and she was going 5,000 miles a minute.  There I was, doing the seal rocking exercise, when I nearly rolled back into the poor man behind me.  The same poor man who helped me get set up with my five different sized balls, mats, and scary rubber stretchy things that if had been invented back then, could have been used as a medieval torture device.  Let's just say that I did not return to that class.  It was too humiliating and by the time I got accustomed to the dark, I realized everyone was glaring at my Pilates incompetence.

This brings us to Saturday when I decided to try  Pilates again.  Instead of rolling into the advance class and having not a clue, I decided to take the Beginner Pilates class.  I showed up just as the fancy advanced class was concluding.  The instructor was darling petite woman with dark hair and toned!  Like perfect arms toned.  I wanted her to become my mentor and have her say to me:  "Grasshopper, your time will come.  The Hundred will speak to you if you have patience."  But she was not my instructor so I must wait until I make it to the advanced class. 

Instead, a very tall and approachable woman was my instructor.  And I say "my" instructor because at the YMCA, we're all fancy and sh*t.  We have private lessons.  In fact, my last swimming lesson was private.  My Beginner Pilates class?  Also private.  Well, okay, it's not supposed to be private.  No one else showed up.  At first, I was all like:  this is totally embarrassing.  She'll see what a clod I am and tell me they have no pre-beginner class and ask me to leave.  But oh no no no.   I  kicked Pilates ASS!  Or at least I did in my own mind.

We did all the basic moves:  The Hundred, Seal Roll - which to me sounds like a horrible sushi dish PETA would totally protest, Single Leg Stretch and Circles, Criss Cross, Double Back Kick, and a bunch of other back and leg things I can't remember now.  I kept my toes pointed, I had balance, grace and strength!  I didn't roll arse over head when we did the rocking seal!  At the end of the class, I totally expected her to tell me how much talent I had and ask me if I had once been a dancer.  Of course, I would blush demurely and answer, why yes!  I dance for six years at the O'Brien's Dance Studio in Vermont and then for two year in college for the dance company my gym credits. 

And then she would reply: Oh my!  I've heard great things about that dance studio in that ballet mistress's lady's basement lower level of her home.  I believe many young girls one boy continued to dance on stage with the New York City Ballet Company. 

I would answer:  Sadly, my brilliant career ended early at the tender age of nine.

Her face, showing shock that such a talent could be cut off so early, perhaps a tear formed in her eye thinking about the brilliance that the dancing world missed in me: What happened?  Did you get dropped when you were lifted for a Fish Dive?

I would shake my head:  No.  Much worse.  I tripped over a balloon string in my living room and broke my foot.

(Silence)

Her eyes would squint as she tried to wrap her head around this fact.  And yes, I did break my foot tripping over a balloon string in my living room when I was nine or ten thereby leading to the nickname, Grace given by my mean loving older sister.

Instead, she told me I did a good job throughout the class, most likely under the snickering.  At one point, I had a view in the mirror of my derrière while lying in the pigeon pose and let me tell you:  it ain't a pretty vision.  So no Advanced Pilates for me yet.  I'll continue with my Beginner Pilates until I reach the comfort level to join the others who rock the seal roll. 

I'm No Amanda Beard

By Andrea

It shocks you.  Doesn't it?  So PG and I started our swim classes on Tuesday at the good ol' YMCA.   Why am I using the word "ol'".  I'm suddenly country today.  Howdy y'all!  Or Southern.  Or on Hee Haw.  But without the straw hat.  Damn I could use a straw hat!

Earlier last year, I started swimming laps with the Prof.  I know how to swim, I can swim relatively fast, and I don't sink to the bottom.  All the extra blubber keeps me afloat.  Beached whale!  The one thing I realized is that my technique is, let's just say, inefficient.  Of course I have no idea why.  I took swim lessons when I was eight in my pool.  Then I spent 90.34% of my summers in said pool.  Nice in-ground pool.  Miss my nice in-ground pool...

But who cares.  I could swim and as a kid I was faster than my friend who was on a swim team.  So there!  I think that deserves some bragging, no?  But let's focus on now.  As I stated on Monday, I tried to teach PG to swim.  She won't drown when she gets in the water but her swimming style is not the best.  After we finished our pathetic short bus laps in the kiddy pool, we signed up for a swim class. 

When we first arrived, there were a ton of children, some preteens, and two other adults.  The last thing I wanted was to swim with a bunch of giggly preteens.  No offense to them but I meant business.  It turned out there are five of us in the class and four of us showed up.  The instructor brought over kick boards and flotation devices that you wear around you waist.

Shit, I thought.  I signed up for the wrong class.  But no, the instructor assured me, all levels are taught. 

We began by doing kicking exercises.  The other couple were complete beginners and the husband had a terrible fear of water.  After I demonstrated that I can kick appropriately, the instructor, who probably is the next Amanda Beard, let me do a few other exercises and then the crawl.  I thought that I was not completely bad at it but it turns out I'm as uptight and stiff in water as I am out on land.  Yes, I'm an uptight prude.  Lorraine (Sistah has a name!) can attest to this.  Apparently one has to rotate back and forth.  I kind of get it but luckily I have another six weeks to work on my technique.  I'm sure I'll need the full six weeks.

Also, I mistakingly told PG not to blow air out of her nose the whole time she is underwater.  I totally thought I was correct because we all know I am 200 percent of the time.  But guess what?  I'm not.  It turns out you are supposed to blow air out of your nose.  PG enjoyed immensely telling me how wrong I was.  However, at least when I was on the kick board, I did not go backwards!  Yes, the delightfully funny PG went backwards for some reason but only with the kick board.  Although it is incorrect technique, I actually find that to be a talent she could probably use in the future.  Don't ask me where though. 

The class sped by because I was laughing at PG who was cracking jokes and generally being her entertaining self.  Plus, the man who feared water put his face in underwater and swam about twelve feet to the side of the pool.  Everyone applauded.  Although he joked about his fear, he looked to be in his late forties or early fifties and I could tell this was a proud moment for both him and his wife.

PG and I plan to swim this weekend so hopefully I can practice my stroke.  Perhaps my loosening up in the water will translate off land.  Nah.

Weight Weight Don't Tell Me

One of the things I've been contemplating is whether or not to share my actual weight.  There are friends of mine who read this blog and I am not sure I am 100% confident or comfortable with sharing the numbers.  Why?  Because I'm embarrassed.  I hate that I got to this point and desperately wish I was slender, trim, and fit.  But hell, I'm not so let's just deal with it, okay?  Fine.  Let's just say I am 5'5", weight less than 200 but more than 150 and my goal is to lose 30 pounds.  The pictures I promise to post (yeah yeah, she's said that before) should demonstrate why I need to lose 30 pounds (at least).  Ack!

The Biggest Fatty

So I watched part of the The Biggest Loser last night and it got me thinking, Fretful, you're fat.  Yes, fat.  Not chubby, plump, squishy, but f-a-t fat.   And no, I have not taken pictures as a before because THE WIDE LENS HAS NOT COME IN YET.  Now you are thinking, well stop whining and get a crane to lift your large arse off the chair.  And put the bonbons down!  You're right, as usual.  I do complain about my weight and don't do enough about it but watching these large ladies on TV look so stunning after losing so much weight (they were actually stunning before too) made me realize I need to do it too.  And yes, I know, you don't want to hear about all my weight "issues" (in quotations, of course) but I am reaching critical mass (ha! witty Fretful!).  I need to do something especially with some future events in the near future.  As opposed to that FAR FAR away future.  Ahem. 

So what's a big girl supposed to do?  Well get off her arse, that's what!  And I will, I promise!  I want to be one of those success stories!  I want to have my before and after picture and I want to leap through the giant image of me slouched with stomach hangeth over.  I will enter the spotlight in a tiny dress or cute little expensive jeans and fitted t-shirt (and not the kind bad kind of "fitted" due to large size squeezed into little size).  My fans (right) will cheer and wave signs with my name.  The Prof will be beaming at my success and my family will wave flowers and jump up and down.   Is that too much to ask?  If I do it, will you be there to cheer me on?  Please?

Getting Biggy

Holy crap I've gotten large (and not so much in charge).  Here's a poem of sorts:

My clothes are tight,

my thighs are huge,

I think my stomach is just ew. 

Enough with that silliness!  So now that I have a job with reasonable hours and I can just zip over to the gym, I've made a pledge to myself to really this time get in shape.  Not, oh yeah, blah blah blah, I'll run yeah and then swim for like two weeks and then I'm all set.  Eh.  So sad.  This time, THIS TIME, I repeat, I will get fit.  Not super thin or ready to climb a 90 foot rock wall, but fit.  Like, fit in my clothes fit and not have el muffino top.  Right, okay.  You are all with me.  So I have a routine.  A real one that is reasonable and realistic. 

1. Don't eat like a hog.  No extra sweets or treats at work.
2. Body pump twice a week (weight training)
3. Spinning twice a week (cardio and I am pretty sure I can't break anything on a stationary bike.)
4. Swimming on Sunday.

We'll see what happens but since I am not going away for the holidays, I will be by the gym and I will be not tempted by Ma's awesome baking and cooking.  So that stops the extra 5er that creeps around this type of year  AND I won't have my routine interrupted with travel.  So hurray! 

In the summer or spring, whenever the snow goes away, I'll start outdoor activities like running, roller blading and maybe biking (with much padding). 

And, just to motivate myself, I will be posting a photo a week to show what I look like now (bleck) and how it goes so that should motivate me.  Maybe?   Perhaps I can find a posse of bloggers who care to join me?  Anyone?  Who's up for it? Huh? HUH?   

More Thinnerer

In my quest to drop thirty pounds, I started doing an exercise "regime".  I put regime in quotation marks because I am not so sure how regime-y my plan really is.  Last year, after I busted my wrist in half, I decided running would be safe as I wouldn't fall as fast or hard as I did biking because let's face it, I am not fast.  So I ran two 5k's, it got cold, and icy, and slippery which led to me concluded hell no am I running on a slippery surface where I can fall down and go splat.  Plus my iPod froze so that too ended the running outside in the cold winter.  Brrrr. 

Here's my geeky calculation courtesy of having a wicked smart scientist husband:  If temp </= 20 F then no run; if temp >32 F then run you lazy schlump, but if temp <32 F but > 20 F then maybe/maybe not run. I guess if you are really smart then change temperatures into Kelvin.

So then I began swimming which is another treat when you have big thighs, arms, legs, rear, okay, BODY.  Fortunately, there was no priest there to jump up and yell "Whale Watch!" when I jumped into the pool.  That's another story for another time and occasion.  Swimming is good because I float really well and can hold my breath for seconds upon seconds.  And I guess I actually swim pretty damn good.  But swimming was put on hold when I went on vacation and then didn't feel like going again because it is a pain to go in the locker room to change.  And open and close a locker.  It's hard work being me, okay?  Don't judge.  So then I found out my friend started running so we started running, running, running together.  She was not one for exercise but man, she caught on to running. 

We did another 5k race together where I had my personal best time but it still sucked because I had some breathing issues.  I even tried my mantras such as "Almost there I'm a bear" to get me through and it did not work.  No matter how much you try to convince yourself you are a bear, it still won't overcome the feeling of suffocation or shortness of breath.  Damn cold weather.  DAMN YOU!

So, I stopped  running for a while because I give up easily, I admit it.  Plus my running partner needed a break and of course I couldn't run alone.  Nuh uh.  Well now we are running again and I am going to teach her to swim, so to speak.  Well the proper way to swim, with tea and crumpets and an elaborate swimming cap.  To prove that I am a running star, here are some pictures.  Don't point and laugh.  It's rude.