First off, God love you if you're still following these posts. I know there are few things more boring than listening to someone tell you about how they went to the gym, so I dread to think how much worse reading about it must be. It's even more boring than hearing about people's dreams, so bless you. I promise February will be better, as you'll get to watch me suffer through a whole month without makeup.
But anyhow, today was day five of Gymuary. My evil conjoined erotica-writing twin has a release out today (not a plug—don't read her book, it's filthy and full of swears and naughty bits being ground together) and was driving me up the wall with her spastic lack of concentration, so heading to the Y for a good brain-wiping workout was just the ticket. I decided to set a little goal within my greater Gymuary goal. Since it's January 5, I ran a 5K on the treadmill. Then, on January 31, I'll run another 3.1 miles (that's how far 5K is, if you didn't know) and I'll see if I can top today's time.
I'd hoped to run it in under 30 minutes, which was a bit of challenge as I underestimated how, um, effective a workout Zumba is. Dude, my ass was grass. But, with the help of a lung-bursting final quarter mile…
Today's 5K time—29:31
That's an average speed of 6.4 miles an hour.
My goal for January 31—28:30 (or better)
That'd be an average speed of just under 6.6 mph. Doesn't sound like a huge leap, but I'm pretty sure it'll suck. Which is good. Fitness goals always suck while you're meeting them, though they do rule afterward.
Now, must shower.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Heavy Metal Penguin
My thanks to Kramy at City Dangers for the heads-up. We have a rockhopper penguin at the New England Aquarium who used to do this on occasion, back when I was a regular pengo volunteer. We called it Noir's Happy Dance. How silly I feel now, to realize he was just moshing.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Zumba'd!!
Gymuary, day four. Quick note to say I succeeded in not psyching myself out and finding an excuse to not go to a Zumba class today. All of my first-timer anxiety was ill-founded, as of the eight or so women taking part, I believe four of us had never done a real class before, and everyone was at a different level of fitness and coordination. So I looked no more a clumsy clod than most anyone else might have, plus I'm sure everyone was only paying attention to their own moves or the instructor's. As long you have fun and keep moving, you're doing it right. Participating also made me feel I'm taking better advantage of my gym membership, instead of just treating it like a big room full of home exercise equipment. Oh and a bonus—I finally get to make more use of the spendy aerobic dance shoes I invested in when I took a Latin dance course a few years back (though don't let that trick you into thinking I'm especially good at Latin dance).
I'd recommend Zumba to people interested in a fast-paced workout that flies right by. I don't particularly recommended the official Zumba DVDs—they're pricey and really boring compared to a real class, and the instructions aren't especially easy to follow, if you're looking to learn the basics. I'll be reselling my set soon. The interwebs in general also makes Zumba look like something only Fly Girls and seasoned salsa dancers are into, but my class was very low-key and consisted mainly of middle-aged women. If you're curious, look for an intro class, or just toss yourself into a regular class and risk looking foolish. I promise you'll be fine.
Today's class was forty-five minutes long and I really liked the instructor, so I'm going to check out her hour-long class tomorrow, bright and early. For now, I've earned a shower and some lunch.
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Not my actual Y, but this is very much what the class looked like. |
Today's class was forty-five minutes long and I really liked the instructor, so I'm going to check out her hour-long class tomorrow, bright and early. For now, I've earned a shower and some lunch.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Sugar Rush, Humble Pie
It's Gymuary, day three! Nearly ten percent done with this first of the twelve month-long experiments comprising Discipline Year. I took it fairly easy today—forty minutes on the elliptical while I caught up with a bunch of Archers podcasts. I did a lot of it in the backward motion and now my butt feels funny. Good funny. Burned about five hundred calories if you count the walk to and from, and just in time. Waiting for me when I got home was my pen pal Gerry's Christmas package from New Zealand, and it was stuffed with Almond Gold bars of various sizes—my favorite Kiwi candy bar, which he sends me dutifully a few times a year. I ate about a quarter pound's worth just now. That may even be an underestimation, sad but true. Very dangerous to get candy in the mail when your body's begging for carbs.
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Also from the pen pal, this excellent retro Kiwi tee-shirt. |
So tomorrow I've resolved to finally go to my first real group Zumba class, whether I'm prepared or not. I attended an intro class a month ago and did a few sessions with DVDs, but a large part of me is still suffering from the old fear of looking foolish, unable to keep up. That class moves quick and they won't explain the steps as they did in the intro. But Gymuary for me is more about intention and follow-through than getting in shape. I'm already in reasonably decent shape, a shape that demands a level of maintenance I know I can comfortably fit into my life. This month is simply about making the decision to go each and every day, and doing what I set out to. And, trying new things and stepping out of my comfort zone. So, ready or not, I'm off to Zumba tomorrow, bright and early. More than likely, since it's resolution time, I won't be the only amateur fumbling through the steps. Plus it's not like anything bad will happen if I do look like as asshole in a class full of perky experts. No one will point or laugh, and I'll end the session a bit better at it, and bit less intimidated for the next one. So there but for the gracelessness of my legs go I.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
Just a tiny bit extraordinary…
Gymuary, day two of thirty-one.
Resolution-makers were out in full force today, which was nice to see. I like that my gym—it's a YMCA—is so unpretentious. We've got body-builders and the usual sporty, perky young women with bouncing ponytails and distinctly un-bouncing bodies, but also eighty-year-old men who walk on the treadmill at two miles an hour in khakis and suspenders and boat shoes, excitable senior ladies who gab in the locker room in their dripping swimsuits after a water aerobics class. We've got people of all races and ages and sizes, who nearly all adhere to the rule about wiping down the machines when they're done with them.
Then there's me. Unremarkable. Short brown hair, not quite five-foot-six, size eight in both jeans and shoes, 140 pounds, just about textbook averageness in every physical sense. Except maybe my boobs. They're sort of average and a half. I'm thirty-one, an age at which no new privileges are granted and people no longer ask what you think you'd like to do with your life. These aren't complaints, mind you. Average is a nice enough thing to be.
But for ten minutes each day, I can make myself feel exceptional. Before I do, I spend thirty or forty minutes on the most central elliptical machine I can find. I scout. The row in front of the ellipticals is treadmills, with big screens and large red numbers displaying the incline and speed and time and such of the people using them. I scout for a pace car, usually a twenty-something guy, and I try to spy on him and see how fast he runs. I pick a guy, because the women who run have an eerie synchronicity in which they all seem to top off at six miles an hour. As though they were all made privy to some stone tablet passed down from on high that proclaims 6.0 to be the optimum and perfect setting for every woman. But usually there will be a fit guy that hits seven or faster, and he is my pace car.
After the elliptical-slash-voyeurism portion of my workout is done, I've already burned a few hundred calories and my heart is going at a nice fat-burning pace and my muscles are warm and primed. I switch to a treadmill and set it for ten or fifteen minutes. I pick the interval workout setting, which asks you to enter your jogging speed and your running speed. I enter six and seven. I cue up Kylie Minogue's "Get Outta My Way" and "Aphrodite" and for ten minutes, I am a tiny bit extraordinary. Well, I feel like I am. It's mostly the music and the adrenaline, but when I hit the interval button and it goes to run-mode, I feel like an Olympian. If I saw a guy running at 7.2 during my stake-out, I make it a point to nudge myself up to 7.5 for sixty seconds toward the end. Finish strong, the cheesy inspirational poster on the wall tells me. Okay, I will, I say.
I'm not a distance runner. When I run outside I rarely go more than three miles, because I hate carrying water and my knees just aren't the marathon types. But for ten minutes, I can run my ass off. For ten minutes, I can run as fast as a college guy. And for ten minutes, in a gym full of relative strangers who probably aren't paying me any attention, I feel pretty exceptional. I pump my arms and sprint as though I'm in a character in a movie, sequestered in an underground training bunker, taking some high-tech stress test with electrodes taped to my vital bits. The white noise of the popular media that's always buzzing in the back of my Western brain, always murmuring to me about thinness and grooming and brand names is utterly drowned out, and I don't care that I'm stinky or red in the face or what my little pockets of excess may look like to an observer. I don't care that my track pants and tee-shirt and bandanna make me look like a frump compared to that trim woman in the form-fitting, matching work-out gear. I don't care if anything's jiggling because I am running an eight-minute mile, and I just blew right past all those pointless voices, too quick to hear.
When I am done, I am sweaty and pink and probably not attractive beyond the pheromonal level, but it is the best and most desirable I will feel all day. High on endorphins, I do an A+ job of wiping down the machine, even the parts I didn't touch, and for this short sliver of my time on the planet, I am damn-near perfect.
Resolution-makers were out in full force today, which was nice to see. I like that my gym—it's a YMCA—is so unpretentious. We've got body-builders and the usual sporty, perky young women with bouncing ponytails and distinctly un-bouncing bodies, but also eighty-year-old men who walk on the treadmill at two miles an hour in khakis and suspenders and boat shoes, excitable senior ladies who gab in the locker room in their dripping swimsuits after a water aerobics class. We've got people of all races and ages and sizes, who nearly all adhere to the rule about wiping down the machines when they're done with them.
Then there's me. Unremarkable. Short brown hair, not quite five-foot-six, size eight in both jeans and shoes, 140 pounds, just about textbook averageness in every physical sense. Except maybe my boobs. They're sort of average and a half. I'm thirty-one, an age at which no new privileges are granted and people no longer ask what you think you'd like to do with your life. These aren't complaints, mind you. Average is a nice enough thing to be.
But for ten minutes each day, I can make myself feel exceptional. Before I do, I spend thirty or forty minutes on the most central elliptical machine I can find. I scout. The row in front of the ellipticals is treadmills, with big screens and large red numbers displaying the incline and speed and time and such of the people using them. I scout for a pace car, usually a twenty-something guy, and I try to spy on him and see how fast he runs. I pick a guy, because the women who run have an eerie synchronicity in which they all seem to top off at six miles an hour. As though they were all made privy to some stone tablet passed down from on high that proclaims 6.0 to be the optimum and perfect setting for every woman. But usually there will be a fit guy that hits seven or faster, and he is my pace car.
After the elliptical-slash-voyeurism portion of my workout is done, I've already burned a few hundred calories and my heart is going at a nice fat-burning pace and my muscles are warm and primed. I switch to a treadmill and set it for ten or fifteen minutes. I pick the interval workout setting, which asks you to enter your jogging speed and your running speed. I enter six and seven. I cue up Kylie Minogue's "Get Outta My Way" and "Aphrodite" and for ten minutes, I am a tiny bit extraordinary. Well, I feel like I am. It's mostly the music and the adrenaline, but when I hit the interval button and it goes to run-mode, I feel like an Olympian. If I saw a guy running at 7.2 during my stake-out, I make it a point to nudge myself up to 7.5 for sixty seconds toward the end. Finish strong, the cheesy inspirational poster on the wall tells me. Okay, I will, I say.
I'm not a distance runner. When I run outside I rarely go more than three miles, because I hate carrying water and my knees just aren't the marathon types. But for ten minutes, I can run my ass off. For ten minutes, I can run as fast as a college guy. And for ten minutes, in a gym full of relative strangers who probably aren't paying me any attention, I feel pretty exceptional. I pump my arms and sprint as though I'm in a character in a movie, sequestered in an underground training bunker, taking some high-tech stress test with electrodes taped to my vital bits. The white noise of the popular media that's always buzzing in the back of my Western brain, always murmuring to me about thinness and grooming and brand names is utterly drowned out, and I don't care that I'm stinky or red in the face or what my little pockets of excess may look like to an observer. I don't care that my track pants and tee-shirt and bandanna make me look like a frump compared to that trim woman in the form-fitting, matching work-out gear. I don't care if anything's jiggling because I am running an eight-minute mile, and I just blew right past all those pointless voices, too quick to hear.
When I am done, I am sweaty and pink and probably not attractive beyond the pheromonal level, but it is the best and most desirable I will feel all day. High on endorphins, I do an A+ job of wiping down the machine, even the parts I didn't touch, and for this short sliver of my time on the planet, I am damn-near perfect.
Sunday Puzzle
It's Sunday again, and you know what that means—time for me to rip off the puzzle segment from NPR's Weekend Edition Sunday!
If you're a newcomer, each week on Weekend Edition Sunday, Will Shortz (the hardcore crossword puzzlers' almighty God) comes on the radio to do three things: share the solution to the previous week's puzzle, invite a winner who entered the correct answer to play another puzzle (usually word-related) on the air for word-nerdy prizes, and present everyone with the next week's puzzle (answers due in by Thursday afternoon via the WES website if you want a chance to play on the air).
Note: I never post the solutions on this blog…at least not before the submission deadline. I see lots of keyword traffic coming from people looking for the answers, which is at best impatient, and at worst, cheating. For shame.
Now without further ado, here's this week's new puzzle:
From Mark Leeper of Matawan, N.J.: Take a plural noun that ends with the letter S. Insert a space somewhere in this word, retaining the order of the letters. The result will be a two-word phrase that has the same meaning as the original word, except in the singular. What word is this?
Click here to see the original puzzle posting, check the answer to last week's challenge, listen to the segment, or find the link to enter your answer.
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Mustachioed enigmatologist extraordinaire, Will Shortz |
Note: I never post the solutions on this blog…at least not before the submission deadline. I see lots of keyword traffic coming from people looking for the answers, which is at best impatient, and at worst, cheating. For shame.
Now without further ado, here's this week's new puzzle:
From Mark Leeper of Matawan, N.J.: Take a plural noun that ends with the letter S. Insert a space somewhere in this word, retaining the order of the letters. The result will be a two-word phrase that has the same meaning as the original word, except in the singular. What word is this?
Click here to see the original puzzle posting, check the answer to last week's challenge, listen to the segment, or find the link to enter your answer.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
1-1-11
Happy New Year!
I came home from a family New Year's party around two a.m. to some unexpected but very welcome news in my inbox. My Samhain editor had written to offer me a contract for another romance, called Trespass—my eleventh sale right on the cusp of 2011. She'd sent the e-mail on December 31, but I received it on January 1, so it was either a happy cap on the end of 2010 or a fortuitous start to the new year. I'll go with both. I think I better wait to celebrate though, as I can still feel last night's champagne pumping where my blood ought to be.
I also gained about four pounds in pure cheese at that party, so good thing it's Gymuary, day one! Let Discipline Year begin! The only catch is that I don't actually know if my gym is open today, which would be a bit of a false start to my plan to go every single day this month… But still, I got up and put on a jog bra, and later I will walk to my gym to literally fulfill my plan to "go to the gym", even if it's locked when I arrive.
Addendum!
The gym was open, and it was hoppin'! I guess people are eager to make good on those fitness resolutions, as every single elliptical machine was being used, which is very abnormal. I'd hoped to snag one to ease my hungover self gently into Gymuary, but alas. I ran for a half hour on a treadmill instead and sweated mightily, and wine-pickled or not I did not fall off or pass out. Actually I think it squeezed all the party toxins from my system, as I feel much better now.
So Gymuary Day One—check.
I came home from a family New Year's party around two a.m. to some unexpected but very welcome news in my inbox. My Samhain editor had written to offer me a contract for another romance, called Trespass—my eleventh sale right on the cusp of 2011. She'd sent the e-mail on December 31, but I received it on January 1, so it was either a happy cap on the end of 2010 or a fortuitous start to the new year. I'll go with both. I think I better wait to celebrate though, as I can still feel last night's champagne pumping where my blood ought to be.
I also gained about four pounds in pure cheese at that party, so good thing it's Gymuary, day one! Let Discipline Year begin! The only catch is that I don't actually know if my gym is open today, which would be a bit of a false start to my plan to go every single day this month… But still, I got up and put on a jog bra, and later I will walk to my gym to literally fulfill my plan to "go to the gym", even if it's locked when I arrive.
Addendum!
The gym was open, and it was hoppin'! I guess people are eager to make good on those fitness resolutions, as every single elliptical machine was being used, which is very abnormal. I'd hoped to snag one to ease my hungover self gently into Gymuary, but alas. I ran for a half hour on a treadmill instead and sweated mightily, and wine-pickled or not I did not fall off or pass out. Actually I think it squeezed all the party toxins from my system, as I feel much better now.
So Gymuary Day One—check.
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