Are you trying to get in shape for a public event? Like, um, say a wedding, or a class reunion, or a Britney Spears concert? Me too! And to help me in my feat, I picked up all three of the new Jillian Michaels workout DVDs. If this chick can whip the Biggest Loser contestants into shape, imagine what's in store for little old young me? Fab-u-lous-ness.I did my first workout last night and learned a very valuable lesson. FYI...1 piece of New York cheesecake + 1 Jillian Michaels Banish Fat Boost Metabolism DVD = vomitI never was one for math problems. But Jillian, you just might want to add this disclaimer to your DVD intro.
Location: Walking Trail
Time: 7 pm
Me: [Trying not to laugh] "Paul darling, that's quite the walking outfit you have on there. Suede jacket, black t-shirt, jeans, white sneakers and sun glasses. You look like a member of the mob."
Paul: "Then what does that make you?"
Me: "Embarrassed."
And then we both collapse into fits of laughter.
Remember what happened the last time I went skating?
What do you mean you haven't memorized every single one of my posts??? And you call yourself a reader. Pffft!
Ok, so let me refresh your memory.
Some staffers at work (including yours truly) have decided to head to the local rink every Thursday for some lunch time triple axles. Yesterday was our first outing. I'm rustier (if that's even a word) than the last time.
I cautiously wobbled my way onto the ice (kind of like a new born baby fawn or colt or spider) shouting, "I'm gonna break a hip!" only to notice the rink was full of old people. And I'm not talking 50 year olds...I mean old...like 70. Somehow I don't think they appreciated my sense of humor.
[Note to self: it's uncomfortable when you put your foot in your mouth, especially when wearing skates. Don't make fun of old people. They have enough to worry about, like breaking a hip].
I managed to stay upright for 28 of the 30 minutes. I was distracted by the old people skating circles around me. Literally. And they're so cute too...skating around, arm in arm. Like little shriveled up dancers. But with mittens. When I did fall, it was a wipe-out of epic proportions. A collective "Ooooo" rose up from my crowd of fellow skaters. A sweet old man stopped to pick me up. He said something sweet and old-man-ish. I smiled and said something sweet and redhead-next-door-ish. We parted ways as I began to dust the massive amounts of snow and ice shavings off my ass.
My pants were soaked. I probably looked like I peed myself. I bet those old people were pitying me. Not because of my lack of skating ability, but because they know how uncomfortable it is when you pee your pants.
Paul and I braved the heat to tackle some wilderness hiking at a place called Devil's Bend [note: it's not just a name and in fact should be renamed "Feels Like The Devil's Bent You Over" by the time your done].
The hike took us hundreds of feet/meters/felt like miles...up. And then down. And back up. Etc etc etc. 6 whole kilometers worth.
We did pack: 2 liters of water (which had to be rationed) because the hike was actually 6km to the waterfall and 6km back, and 12 condoms.
We didn't pack: batteries (keep reading), bug spray (probably have west nile now), sun screen, a change of clothes (sweated our own body weight worth), and food (save for one banana and strawberry runner's gel pack which had similar consistency to ejaculation with the same salty after taste).
As all newly minted couples do, we took many photos during our trek (see above, which we will refer to as, exhibit A). The scenery was breathtaking [and I mean more than just my décolletage].
Unfortunately the camera batteries died as we reached the waterfall. So now we have vowed to one day go back just to get pictures of us by the cascading water. Or perhaps a cardboard cut out will do.
Paul downloaded the pics today and sent them to me. And that's when I discovered a picture can be worth three words...I look pregnant.
Ugh. (See exhibit B, above)
Nothing like seeing yourself looking as though your 3-4 months pregnant to spurn you into a major workout fest.
Today's question comes from Anonymous, whom I've affectionately dubbed Phil. He writes: "How do you recommend approaching women like you who run or go to the gym? (By the way, I am a charter pilot, we pilots have a hard time meeting women)."
My answer: With caution.
It's hard to approach a woman at the gym. We're usually focused on the task at hand and in quite precarious poses (on the pilates ball, doing a dead lift, etc). And we naturally assume that guys are ogling our tits and asses. Therefore, guys who do approach us at the gym seem kind of creepy (though I'm sure you are the exception to the rule Phil ;) Besides, we want to get in and out without guys noticing that we're not wearing makeup, have a wedgie (or worse...camel toe) and a bad case of boob sweat.
It's much easier to approach a woman runner (from behind) and say something complimentary like "You've got a great pace". But only if she doesn't have an MP3 player or else she might mistakenly assume you're a mugger and go Taebo on your ass. And naturally, we'll still assume that you were ogling our asses.
It's a dating jungle gym out there. There's no "right way" anymore when it comes to dating and mating. There is however the "gentlemanly way", the "jerkoff way" and the "have been in prison too long" way. I find being irresistibly charming and direct always works.
Hope this helps Phil!
Today it was refreshing to find myself [wait...there's more]
Today it was refreshing to find myself chatting to a single guy [wait...there's more]
Today it was refreshing to find myself chatting to a single guy who, like me, is an avid runner. It doesn't happen very often (unless you count the guys who "run" to the liquor store).
And he was witty to boot. Teasing me about my "batman belt" aka my fuel belt. Alas, the only crime I'm fighting right now is that I'm single.
It reminded me how much I'm attracted to guys who are physical (and not in the way that you're thinking about. Ok...maybe a bit of that too ;) I like guys who are rugged and like camping. Can handle a canoe. Build a fire. Carries me over his shoulder to the bedroom while calling to his jungle friends (loincloth optional).
Runners. Surfers. Skiers. It doesn't matter as long as it's physical. And he's got skills (or at least pretends to). Confidence is another thing I'm attracted to.
You would think in this day and age, finding a physical guy would be easy. It's about as easy as doing what's on page 20 of the Kama Sutra. Case in point: I run on the same trail every night and I come across lots of other runners. And you know what, they're all women. We knowingly nod in passing, as if we're all members of the same club.
Perhaps I need to start running somewhere new if I expect to run into Mr. Right.
"Zen" noun. A school of Mahayana Buddhism that asserts that enlightenment can be attained through meditation, self-contemplation, and intuition rather than through faith and devotion.
"Date" noun. A particular point or period of time at which something happened or existed, or is expected to happen.
I've decided to get more "in touch" with [i.e. develop] my "spiritual side" [i.e. besides the occasional glass of rum. Oh who am I kidding?! The multiple glasses of rum. There!].
By reconnecting with the earth (or some kind of nonsense hippie crap like that) I will draw a more spiritually centered man into my life. I've become quite good at attracting wankers (ok, and the occasional good guy with the worst possible timing). I now feel ready to open my [well defined] arms to a man who has obtained a higher state of enlightenment.
After all, like attracts like. Except when opposites attract.
So, I made a list of things to incorporate into my daily life that will attract every priest within a 50 km radius (and hopefully a few non-denominational men who are not bound by a life of celibacy):
- increase yoga/ meditation practice
- buy new yoga outfit
- read back issues of Oprah magazine
- cry (probably while reading back issues of Oprah magazine)
- lay in a field of grass
- pray...when on the way to hospital after laying in field of grass without remembering to take allergy medication - up consumption of green tea from zero to 1
- week-long detox program
According to my calculations, in no time, me and my spiritually inclined manswich will be doing partner yoga like nobody's business. Just like this...
Yesterday I went for a run to get my timing/distance/total body conditioning/chance of cardiac arrest up to par for my upcoming marathon next Sunday. I was joined by my 10-year-old son (via his bike).
It was hot by Canadian standards (30 C), so I found myself taking more-frequent-than-usual water breaks.
On one such break, I replaced my mini-water bottle back on my fuel belt. Then decided to make an adjustment to my panties. Normally I do a quick peripheral scan to make sure I don't have an audience and then "adjust". But for whatever reason yesterday, I did not. After taking care of my wedgie, I was passed by a fellow jogger (details: guy, tanned, hot, sweaty, no shirt, amazing....er, stride). Despite being hot from running, I could still feel my cheeks burn just a little more from slight embarassment. I mean, it's not like I was digging for gold or anything. It was, in my opinion, a lady-like wedgie removal (if there ever is such a thing). Besides, once you give birth via hospital delivery room with about 10 strangers viewing you in all your stirrup glory, only slight embarrassment can exist after that.
Reality check: there is one less guy in the world that will be asking me out.
I ran to catch up with my son, who continued to ride his bike and was about 8 meters ahead of me. As I came up along side of him, he turned to me and said, "Mum, you're beautiful."
My timing may be way off, but my son's is spot on.
Undercover Mother and I were chatting away at work yesterday, discussing her daughter Bridget's most recent object of malefection (i.e. male eye-candy). Let's call him Ted.
Bridget is using a rarely used but powerful technique to get Ted's attention...she's using the laws of ass-traction. Much like the laws of attraction, ass-traction specifically uses the hypnotic powers of the gluteus maximus, much like the effect of a tractor beam on Star Trek, men (and aliens alike) are defenseless.
This technique is especially useful during spinning class, as long as your bike is within ass-traction range.
Employed and enjoyed by men and women, the ass-traction should not be attempted by amateurs. You must be willing to put your money where your ass is (via a few trips to the gym to first make sure you're in prime ass-traction condition). Coordination and tight fitting shorts are a must.
Use at your own discretion.
[
Smooth and authoritative sounding announcer voice]:"Folks, I'm Frank Jones and welcome to another edition of ABC's "Skating With The Blogger Stars".
"Tonight, we'll see how The Redhead-Next-Door fairs after taking a 5 year break from skating. Will she return better than ever? Or will daydreaming about potential mates have her thinking about life off the ice? And, more importantly, what will she be wearing."
"Here she is...let's watch."
Enter me, onto the ice. A bit more wobbly than anticipated.
Ah, best to warm up so to avoid...too late too bloody late! Charlie horse, charlie horse, G**D*** charlie horse. Breathe in. Breathe out. Maintain composure. People are watching...including two cute guys.
Ok, that's better. Hey, is that music playing? Yes, yes it is! It's Car Wash (the original track). [Gives attitude to self] "Alright girl get your figure skating groove on!"
While doing an on-ice version of the hustle...receive racing challenge. From an 8 year old little boy named Jaden. Gleefully accept challenge. This will be like taking candy from a baby. But on skates. And, there's no candy involved. (What, do you think I'm some kind of person that would give candy to kids?) Or a baby (What kind of parent would take their baby skating - that's dangerous!)
The race begins. That little bugger's legs can move fast. Hey, he's cheating already! Must. skate. faster.
And then...
Something that oddly looks a bit like this.
But less co-ordinated. And instead of falling backward, I went forward. Much like when a baseball player is sliding into homeplate. But without the cushiony dirt.
And I had on a pair of jeans and a sweater instead of sequins and nylons.
So really, nothing much like this picture. But I'm sure we both hurt the same afterwards, albeit in much different places.
How to recover from potentially [actually] embarassing fall? Hmmm, what would Brian Boitano do?
So, I got up. Dusted the ice shavings off. And smiled at the two cute guys.
Then did a little twirl.
When out of visual and audio range, I asked my friend Terri if she knew first aid (she does). Then I told her that her son Jaden was racing round the rink - it's against rink rules! ;) In the end, I always win. Bruuuuhaha.
I'm not sure why, but anytime I gain weight it goes straight to the T&A area. Yes, you read me right...the T&A area. You know...the headlights & bumper, the jigs & reel, the alter & pew, etc etc.
When my "condition" flares up, eventually I become motivated to get back into my workout regimen [tae bo, roller skating, jello wrestling, jogging]. Lately I've noticed that jogging has become, shall we say, uncomfortable. My sports bra puts in a good effort but there's a bit too much forceful bouncing going on.
Naturally this reminds me of the slow-mo running down the beach rescue sequences from Baywatch. How did Pamela Anderson, who is a few sizes (a dozen?) larger than my modest C cup, run in a bathsuit which offers almost zero support? Maybe if you're paid a high salary running foot loose and chesty free doesn't bother you.
Maybe you do it because your male director told you to.
What if when guys gained weight, it went right to your round and wrinklies? I bet that male director wouldn't be up for some running then. Unless he was carefully cradled in a Speedo. But then that would remind me of this...
And I would forget the point of this blog post...if there was one.
[to the tune of "Winter Wonderland"...}
Lunch bell rings...are you listenin'?
In the coffee shop, bagels glisten.
A beautiful sight, we're carb loading tonight.
I should be walking instead of sittin' on my ass.
Yes, dear readers. THAT picture (extreme right) was taken during our annual Supervisors Breakfast in October and provided the inspiration for the little didi I wrote above. Not that I didn't lick my lips at the pancakes and sausage and bacon (oh my!). I did. Should I have had seconds? Um, probably not.
I already have holiday eaters guilt and it isn't even December! I want to cringe instead of Kringle. [sigh] Sadly, now I am thinking of Pringles.
I guess it doesn't help that I'm heading into this holiday season single, with "D" day fast approaching. For all you marrieds and/or those in a committed shagging relationship, you might not know about D day (no no, not that one). For singles, D day usually falls at the end of the first week in December. We singles know that if we have not had at least a second date with someone by then, we will be officially single for the entire holiday season. That's Christmas AND New Year's Eve. That means no exchanging meaningless presents with a [could be special some day if one/both of you don't *** it up] someone, no groping about at office holiday parties, no playing sit on Santa's knee...er, you get the idea.
Not that I'm looking about anyway. You know, I'm working on the list and all that.
I've just been slightly unfocused lately. Which is so unlike me.
I guess I've got things on my mind. Like why my computer speakers no longer work for sound but will emit one side of a CB radio conversation. FYI - they say 10-4 a lot. And who will win the tacky-as-hell Dancing With the Stars trophy (please please be Mario). And how to forget about the sassy little size 5 black dress (maybe size 7 if I keep eating those bagels) that's just calling my name at Smart Set.
Plus, there's the whole novel thingy that I'm supposed to have half-way completed.
I guess there's only one thing I can do...
Bartender! I'll have a whiskey sour. And make it a double.**
** The Redhead-Next-Door does not condone drinking as a way to solve and/or forget about world problems/life concerns/fantasies about coworkers. But approves of drinking for it's intended medicinal use - writing an ok blog post.**
Ah, yes. The smell of fall is in the air. Either it's fall or...nevermind. It's crisp, it's fresh. There's just somethin' about it. Fall is my favorite time of year (apart from New Year's, my birthday, summer rain, Johnny Miles Marathon Weekend, the first snow fall and when Justin Timberlake releases his next album *ahem*).
For me, fall means many things, like back to school (horray!). Just kidding. Ok, I'm slightly serious. Fall is an exciting time, a switching of gears. The camis, capris, sun dresses and sexy sling-backs are packed away (at least they are when you live in Canada). And out comes the wool sweaters, corduroy jumpers, tweed mini-skirts, leather platform boots and ever-so-sexy long johns.
Despite the fact that during fall us Candians bundle up, I find it the most enticing time of year. Summer's too sluty. Everything's "out there". But fall, ah, now there's when the imagination has to get you going. You have to wonder just what's under that camel skin-cotton-cashmere blend sweater.
Personally, I think there's nothing sexier than a guy in a wool sweater. Ok, maybe not a wool sweater because I'm allergic to wool. But a thick cable-knit sweater, or turtleneck. Mmmmmm...turtleneck. Um, not sure what my point was here. Ah yes, it's that leaving something to the imagination is good. You may never know what's under there. Or, you might. You tease.
And don't even get me started on hot chocolate by a roaring fire.
#17. Join a "non-competitive" sports team (but secretly play competitively). COMPLETED
I did it. Or rather, I'm doing it [no, not that - the list remember?]. You are reading the blog of the newest addition to the women's slow-pitch "twilight" league aka "softball for moms", of which there are three teams. My team, is the Short Stops. We certainly stopped short of using any form of creativity to carefully choose a winning team name. One that would instill fear in the women we faced. Why couldn't we have been the PMS'ers? Or Charlie's Hormonal Angels. Anything! But alas, I can't be expected to do all the thinking.
Our coach Larry is in his 80's, though you'd never know it. You know how Bob Barker is like 100? Well this guy is the Bob Barker of women's softball. Larry and his son, Gary (a young stud in his late 50's) spent two weeks teaching us gals the basics. How to throw (shoulder squared off facing the target), how to hit with the bat (don't forget to step forward with your leading foot!). It was a beautiful sight; a sea of white balls being womanhandled - a real "Bad News Bears" meets the "Mighty Ducks" kind of moment. Oddly enough you can get skilled with some basic instruction. But how the h*** did I not make the softball team in high school? Yes Mr. Stewart...I'm talking to you! Who knew I was such a gifted softballer. Ok, I had a feeling.
Picking up the lingo is taking a bit more time. I went around for days proudly announcing my position was "back catcher" ie. the person who catches the ball behind the person at bat.
[note to non-softballers...it's just called "catcher"].
[note to self...proudly announcing you're a back catcher results in sly smiles from guys].
On our last night of practise before starting our weekly scrimmages, we were taking turns catching fly-balls in the outfield. I was running to get into proper catching position but couldn't run fast enough to get under the ball. So what's a girl to do? I made a ballet-like leap through the air and yes...I caught the ball! Enjoyed cheers from teammates before realizing I'd torn a muscle and could barely walk. I attempted to continue on but got struck out twice because I couldn't run fast enough to first base. My son, Aidan, was my mini-crutch and had to lift my leg in and out of the car. Fade to rubbing A535 and downing anti-inflamatories.
I healed nicely in time for our first official game, against the Blue Jays (*not the real ones*). We lost 7-2. Slightly embarasing? Absolutely. But am I having fun? You betcha. Now it's time to kick some a**.
