Wednesday, June 29, 2011
No, no. I'm not really surprised. And I certainly didn't expect to be acclimated to hot yoga in such a short amount of time! That would be ridiculous! What kind of corkbrain would think that???
Okay, maybe I thought it a little. What? Oh, sure. You're so much more realistic, aren't you? Pfft.
Anyway. Hot yoga continues to kick my sizable ass and I'm not loving that. I do recognize that exercise and I have a profound hatred for one another, and I should not expect to coexist cordially with it, but enough is enough. I need to investigate other options.
Many, many people, most of them extremely annoying, have given me the wise suggestion to find "something I like to do" for exercise. These are the same Negative Nellies who poo-pooed my idea of aerobic eating, so I think that should be taken into account when viewing this advice. Oh, and neither a book nor a remote counts as "weight." Horribly unreasonable.
The problem with this clever idea is I don't like exercise in any form. It's icky. Yes, that is the technical term. And when I sweat [because I'm not southern and I do that] my skin gets irritated. The only solution I can come up with is finding an activity I enjoy.
Yes, I realize it's just a different word choice. Work with me.
Most of my activities are sedentary, so unless high-impact knitting becomes a possibility, I'm going to have to find something new. Yes. New. Gah. The difficult thing will finding this new thing. While perusing the Internet, AKA trying to avoid work, I read a little bit about kayaking.
Kayaking could be a great activity for me. Lots of upper body work, time in the great outdoors [should that be capitalized?] and enjoying the scenic wonders of the Pacific Northwest. There are, however, a few downsides.
Cost. I could just run out and buy a kayak. And paddles. And "a proper-fitting life jacket (PFD) and helmet, and a spray skirt." Sure. Right after I sell a kidney. And unless the water comes to me, I will have to transport said kayak to whichever lake, river, bay or ocean I plan on paddling around. I promise, that would only be via car. I am not strapping a kayak to a bicycle trailer and pedaling before paddling.
Physical benefit. Sure my upper body would get a whole lot out of propelling myself around Puget Sound in a kayak, but my lower body would be just hanging out. Relatively and/or figuratively speaking, of course.
Proximity. I don't think the puppy wading pool in the backyard is going to hold a kayak. Sooner or later, if I'm going to kayak, I'm going to have to leave the house. Possibly the county.
Fit. Given the pear-on-steroids shape of me, I don't know how easy it would be to find a kayak that would accommodate my derriere. I fear it would be the same quandary that scuba diving presented; where does one find a comfort-fit wetsuit? I haven't seen a lot of plus-sized kayaks, either. And I do want to feel that I would be able to extract my butt from the kayak with very little effort. It's bad enough getting stuck in a dress in a store fitting room. Stuck in a kayak...no.
While the idea of slapping a kayak on the roof of the Volvo and trotting off to the water, paddling around fish and water plants and orcas who magically did not wish to kill me is vastly appealing, I fear it is not my best option.
A dear friend, dear to me despite his almost terrifying fitness, told me I needed to take a different approach to my weight loss quest. He told me to run. Just get out there and run. Run until I threw up. Then run some more. Run!
I think I have to hold out for aerobic eating.
Saturday, June 25, 2011
Horribly. Not stated for dramatic effect. Horribly.
As my head was being achy and badly behaved most of yesterday, I was able to get a nap in before doing the midnight airport run to pick up darling Hope. Please rest assured, invisible dear one, that the dogs were able to get enough sleep, too, allowing them to lose their freaking minds when we came home with Hope in tow.
Lose their FREAKING minds. Not employing hyperbole for emphasis.
After being thoroughly sniffed by Tuppence Marie, Maddie Mae, Beagle Bailey AND Big Head Ted, we tucked Hope up in my room. [The guest area in the basement is overrun with donations for the 3-Day Walk yard sale and is not fit for human consumption.] Roommate and I had performed the world's fastest room-tidy/bedding change in history, so Hope did not have to be housed in squalor.
Don't judge me. I haven't been in the mood to tidy my room lately. Oh, like you're any better. Pfft.
Anyway. Roommate took both beagles and the terrier to her room and Big Head Ted and I camped out in the living room. I had blankets and a pillow on the couch, and I pulled over the enormous dog bed for BHT, so he could be close to me.
A total waste of time.
Big Head Ted, AKA Bed Hog Ted, decided that he needed to be on the couch with me. I would have been better off sleeping on the dog bed myself...no, Ted would have joined me there, too. Regardless, I woke up with another screaming headache. It was super.
Roommate and wee beasties got up around seven-ish and the dogs raced into the living room and clambered all over me. Mostly my head. Of course, mostly my head. After being shuttled outside to do their business, all four dogs felt the need to snuggle up with me as I lay on the couch, waiting for the Excederin to do its job and allow me to go to work. Again, super. Super. BHT pinned my lower legs, Bailey cuddled between my upper legs [yeah, he's a guy], Maddie laid alongside my side and Tuppence draped herself over my chest.
Yes. Over my chest. Claiming me as her own. If she had a flag, she probably would have planted it.
HRHTM: This is MY mommy!
Other dogs: Well....she's our Lisa Marie, too, you know.
HRHTM: Really? Do you have a flag?
[Thank you, Eddie Izzard!]
But I do need to be grateful, I do. It's not a migraine. It's just a headache. Btw,
Lisa Marie Translation Guide
Headache: a pain in the head, occasionally accompanied by nausea,
that can potentially ruin one's day.
Migraine: when the idea of taking a power drill and putting holes in
one's skull to relieve the pressure starts to seem reasonable.
In case you wondered.
Gah. Happy Saturday.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
"You don't look like your normal cheerful, happy self," she said.
Obviously, I looked around to see to whom she was speaking, but as the maximum occupancy of the Break Closet is only 2.5, it was a pretty safe bet she meant me. No, I don't know if she's being medicated or not. Or maybe she was mocking me. Shockingly, some people do. But, assuming the best of her, I took her words at face value and responded.
Two words for you," I said. "Hot. Yoga."
She responded appropriately, with horror and distress. I followed up with two more words.
"Ohhh," she sighed. "I don't think it's working for you. You aura is all gray." Vague, circular hand motions accompanied this pronouncement.
We'll pause for a moment, allowing anyone who needs it time to snort with disdain. Or vomit. Or chortle. Chortling is a particularly mocking type of laughter, I find.
If we divest the good doctor's statement of crystals and energy candles, I think we'll find the heart of the comment to be accurate. Hot yoga this morning was especially hideous, and I have no idea why. Actually, now that I think of it, each class has been more awful than the last. You may wonder, darling invisible one, why I continue.
Again, I have no idea why.
I think it's a little like visiting family one doesn't like all that well. One feels one ought to go, and the concept seems good. One knows it will not be a romp in the forest, with bluebirds of happiness chirping a joyful little tune around one's head, but surely, one might think, it cannot be so terribly bad. If nothing else, one reasons, it will be brief.
In this case, one would be dead wrong.
Ah, well. I can always just blame Roommate. She's good for that.
Five classes down. Five to go. I have no idea why I'm still doing this.
Monday, June 20, 2011
I found myself thinking about what to blog today and the first thing that popped into my Dorito-starved brain was a detailed list of what I've eaten today. I know. I know. And you're right, it's a stupid thing to do. But that's what I wanted to do.
I can't speak for other women. I have no clue why they do this, too, but I have a theory. It's based mostly on me.
Yes, me. Because it's my blog. Oh, just play along, would you?
Here's my theory: Dieting rots the brain.
Oh, excuse me. Lifestyle change. Sigh. But it does! It makes us crazy. We think of it constantly, whether we're tracking Points or counting calories and obeying Zone percentages like they're the Word of the Lord. We measure, we weigh, we estimate, we fudge.
Ooo! Fudge! [SMACK!!!] Ow...
Anyway. It's what we talk about. It's what we think about. It takes over our lives. I hate that.
I can't count the number of times I, or friends of mine, have raced into a room, shrieking about whatever food item we'd just discovered that falls into our diet's parameters. Roommate met me at the door once with a bag of salt and pepper flavored mini rice cakes. [Roommate has a deep and meaningful affection for salt and pepper potato chips. The super crispy, kettle chips. Yeah. Don't get your hand near the bag. I'm just saying.]
"Look what I found." She waved the bag in front of me.
I tried one. "Mmm," I agreed. "Kind of like the chips."
"I know!" She nodded. "And they don't suck."
It reminded me of my dear friend Carla, calling me with her latest discovery. "It'f ketta cown!"
"Kettle corn?" I translated. "Yum."
"Tuh grah of fad!"
"Only two grams of fat? Wow!"
These were the days when fat was the evil empire. Fat Vader. Or Darth Fat. Which was his name? Anyway, like the guy in the black cape. But shinier. Fat was to be destroyed. Avoided at all costs. Substituted with chemicals. Bad, bad chemicals.They were, too. Bad. Hey, anything that makes potato chip manufacturers print on packaging, "MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE" is a bad, bad thing.
I can only say this. Forgive us for our limited conversation. Please. Because we live in a world that makes us hungrier than women have ever been and then punishes us if we don't have the jackrabbit metabolism to handle all we eat. A world that judges us and teaches us to judge ourselves to the point that we consider eating fake-fat potato chips with warnings like "MAY CAUSE ANAL LEAKAGE" on the packaging. Because we want to tell you what we ate, so we'll feel better about it, or so we can celebrate it, or so we know we're not alone in our hunger.
Then tell us we're beautiful.
Hey, it's the next best thing to chocolate.
Saturday, June 18, 2011
Me: So, how long have you been keeping company with that handsome guy?
Patient: Fifty-one and a half years.
Me: Oh, that's wonderful. How did you two meet?
Patient: At work. He was my boss.
Me: [laugh/pretend gasp] You naughty lady! You dated the boss!
Patient: Yes, I married "The Boss." Guess how long that lasted?
Heh. Heh heh heh.
Thursday, June 16, 2011
Of course, I'm impressed with the Canucks' season. Please don't think I judge them. But oh...I'm so sad that they didn't win the Cup.
I'm also horrified and disgusted that this particular Bruins team is allowed in the same room with the Stanley Cup, much less to hoist it over their heads as victors. After the bad behavior, the inflicted injuries that were never acknowledged, the discipline that was never meted out...to win? Sigh.
This goes beyond the Omnipotent Comedian's sick sense of humor. This is just wrong.
Must go cry. Again.
Tuesday, June 14, 2011
Monday, June 13, 2011
You know, darling invisible friend, I just don't think it's healthy or right to loathe one's job as profoundly as I do. I don't. I wake up every workday with a feeling of despair and hatred. Sure, it makes for some amusing blogs, but this isn't about your needs.
As usual, it's about mine.
I must find different work. I simply must. It's awful enough to be the bad guy for every patient, but you mix in the stunning thrill of explaining how to collect urine, sputum, stool or semen specimens in an appropriate manner on a daily basis, and it just becomes less fun. And then there's the management.
Well. We've discussed this.
Anyway, I've been saying for ages that my dream job is one that allows me to have a small room with a door. A door that shuts. It could be a very small and windowless room. After more than two decades in labs, I'm okay with small and windowless. But a door. A door that shuts is essential.
In this tiny room with a shutting door that exists in my dreams of a better job, there is a desk. On the desk is an inbox and an outbox. In the fantasy I've constructed, I walk into my doored cubbyhole in the morning, close the door, and work through the pile in the inbox, placing pile pieces in the outbox when I'm done. What precisely I would do, I do not know, nor do I really care. That's irrelevant. What is relevant is that my phone rarely rings. Almost no one stops by. I'm valued for my efficiency and attention to detail and left to do the exacting work no one else wants to address.
If I really feel wild and crazy in my daydream, I imagine that there's a place in my closed room for a dog bed. And nobody minds my wee beastie coming to work with me.
Sadly, I have not found this dream job yet. I'm getting a teensy bit desperate. In the meantime, I've come up with another dream job.
Royal Food Tester.
I think this would be an awesome job for me. I would get to try all the delicious food prepared for someone with more money than I will ever see in a lifetime, so odds are it'd be pretty good food. Not that I'm picky. Just saying. And I have a gut of iron, so it's safe to say I'd be able to eat as large a volume as needed, without getting an upset stomach. This is important during feasts.
I'm not denying the downsides of the job. I wouldn't get to choose what I wanted to eat. It's entirely possible that the royal whoever would want to eat the five things on the planet I do not eat. It's not like I could eat as much as I want of the royal buffet, either. And naturally, there's the whole death thing if the monarch/pasha/czar's enemies succeed in poisoning the food. But at least I'd get a good snack in first.
And nobody would make me do hot yoga.
Dammit, I hate dieting.
Strangely, not as much as I hate my job. Huh. Just realized that. Go figure.
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Wednesday, June 8, 2011
All right. We weren't actually in Hell, per se. We were in a hot yoga class. At 0600. That's right. Six freaking AM.
Hot yoga is exactly what it sounds like. It's yoga. And it's...hot. Fires-of-hell hot. Dear-God-kill-me-now hot. And they do it this way on purpose. Because, you know, yoga isn't freaking hard enough. Pfft.
The room is heated to a cozy 105 degrees Fahrenheit. To make it more enjoyable for every one, this room also has a humidity level of 40-60%. On purpose!!! At one point, a delicate waft of slightly cooler air brushed against my arm. I felt myself go deeply still, to feel it again, to encourage it to return. It took me quite a while to figure out that it was the cooler stream of air Roommate was breathing out, as she deepened her breathing.
Cooler. The breath from inside her lungs was cooler than the room. Gah!
I have been told many things about this deliberate flameless bonfire, reasons for this version of the Pit. One: it's supposed to mimic the conditions in India, where yoga was invented.
[Note to self: Google this later. See if it's actually crap.]
Two: the heat and humidity are supposed to facilitate the stretching by gently warming the muscles.
That's right. "Gently." Uh huh.
Three: the heat and humidity increase perspiration [No! Really? I am stunned.] which helps the body rid itself of toxins.
Because I am apparently the human equivalent of a toxic waste dump. The toxins must be burned out of me. You know, I bet the Puritans would have loved this crap. Other than the skimpy clothing and awareness of the body stuff.
Puritans were such party animals.
Purge with the fires of Hell! Burn out the sins!!!
--Random Puritan Minister
But back to my visit to Perdition. I don't know if any of the above "reasoning" is correct. I don't know if I actually burned 400-1200 calories during today's session. I do know that Roommate and I signed up for the trial offer of 10 classes for $10. Considering a single class costs $18, this is quite the bargain. Almost too good to be true, in fact.
Which brings us to Today's Cliche!
When something seems too good to be true, it usually is.
Allow me to reassure you, dear invisible one, that despite the crack-dealing aspect of the bargain trial offer, nothing about this experience makes me want to race back to the yoga studio, AKA Fires of Hades, shrieking with delight and anticipation. I can think of it only with fear. Trepidation. A teensy bit of nausea. A nagging headache.
Now, why did my mother just pop into my head?
Anyway. They don't have clocks in the studio itself, so I have no idea how long I actually lasted before I dissolved onto my mat like a huge melted flesh-toned marshmallow. I only know that if I had spotted two gigantic graham crackers and a mammoth piece of chocolate, I would have felt right at home. I attempted twice to return to doing the poses. I lasted...oh...a solid fifteen seconds. The last time I flopped to the floor, onto my sweat-soaked towel-covered mat, I was done. When the instructor passed by Roommate [who, despite doing far better than I on this visit to The Dark Place, was also prone, sweat-soaked and gasping on the mat next to mine] and me and said to us, "You can just stay like this for the rest of the class."
Really, Demon Girl? Thanks. Super of you to say so. 'Cause I was this close to leaping to my feet to continue.
Class ended. Roommate and I staggered to the door and the sweet coolness of a rainy Pacific Northwest morning. We had 55 minutes for me to get home, get showered and dressed and get to work. I made it. On time.
But it wasn't pretty.
No, I do not know what I was thinking.
Yes, I am blaming Roommate.
Monday, June 6, 2011
Hello, darling one. I'm so sorry I've been silent, especially during the Stanley Cup finals. But I was on the other coast, visiting the VNP. It was nice, thank you for asking! Sadly, I didn't get to do the things I wanted in terms of museum addiction, but it was nice.
On the up side, VNP recognized the necessity of my watching both of the games that were played while I was there. I believe he enjoyed them, too, almost as much as he enjoyed my reactions to the games.
Evidently, I am entertaining. Roommate has been known to chuckle at me, too, as I watch hockey. I am dimly aware of this and completely unfazed by it. And so long as the dogs are not disturbed, I can squeal and bounce as much as I please.
I heard that.
Anyway. During Game One, Patrice Bergeron of the Boston Bruins and Alexandre Burrows of the Vancouver Canucks had a small disagreement. I know. I was stunned, too. Who'da thunk it? At a hockey game, no less. But really, stranger things have happened. In fact, stranger things happened that very night, during that very discussion.
While being separated by an official, Patrice Bergeron reached around said official and shoved his gloved hand into Alex Burrows mouth. No, he did. He did, too! Look:
This wasn't terrific, but the fact that Patrice went to the officials after the argument was terminated and complained about Alex Burrows biting him was a wee bit ridiculous.
Hey, princess...if you don't want to be bitten, don't put your hand in anyone's mouth.
And he had a freaking hockey glove on! Fer chrissakes. How much of a bite could it be????
During last night's game, plenty of the Bruins were waving fingers and hands in Burrows' face. That's adorable, boys. Really. Tell you what, why not try that with me? As a woman who has spent years building fat through focused and excessive eating, I can show you what a real bite is.
Hey, I'm just happy to be able to help.
Wednesday, June 1, 2011
I missed the first two periods because I was flying east to see a Very Nice Person, but he kindly whisked me from the airport to a lovely sports bar. Yummy food, big screen televisions and the only goal of the game scored in the last minute!!!!!!!!!!!!!
The fact that we went from a record heat wave to air conditoning was a bonus.
What a freaking game.