Tag: working out

Swim, Swam, Swum

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I got in the pool for the first time in 8 weeks today. The minute I was submerged, I just relaxed.  I heard myself sigh underwater and felt my muscles go slack as they were bouyed up.  The water was cold and the pool had recently been cleaned.  When I opened my eyes, through my goggles,  I could see the lane ahead stretching out ahead of me, urging me to it’s depths. 

In the water, I am weightless.  I am unfettered. Everything slides away except my focus to breathe, kick, and stroke.  I am thinking when I begin, but a shift occurs when the brain and the long muscles of my body undergo a changing of the guard.

I  was so excited.  I just sunk, literally and figuratively, into the water and felt it embrace me, envelope me, a chilly reunion to be sure.  I just felt so good as I began my warm up.  When that was done, I readjusted my goggles, giddily pushing off from the wall.

I felt strong.

I felt my shoulders and my arms working in harmony.  I felt my legs moving, churning in synchronicity.  In my minds eye,  I could see the tendons extending and flexing. I could see the muscles tighten and relax, feel them swell with energy.  Everything was working as it should.

I felt strong.

With each lap completed, I felt like I could do anything. I saw myself cutting through the water, the rotator cuff of my shoulder, vigorous and hard.  My hands sliced through that surface, pulled down  down towards my thighs as I propelled myself forward, forward, forward.  I pushed my face further into the water, breaking waves over my head, adding to my speed.  Faint, but present, was my instructor’s voice in my head reminding me to cup my hands just slightly, to kick with my whole leg, to breathe every third stroke, a subtle soundtrack that centered my focus.  The unity with which my body was moving, I felt like I could have chopped down a forest, busted down a brick wall, lifted a car off of a trapped child.  I could do some amazing feat of strength because I . . .because I could. 

I could.
I felt strong.

After 8 weeks of recuperating and taking it slow, I got the clearance to swim.  Three weeks ago, my doc said I could any type of physical activity except swim (wound healing). 

“I know you want to swim, but let’s wait on that. You can start running again!”

But I don’t want to run!  I mean, running is great exercise, but I don’t want to.  I’m afraid. I’m afraid of falling. I’m afraid of tearing something, ripping something, undoing all of this hard work.  When I’m in the water, submerged in that chlorinated embrace, everything is strong, nothing is broken, nothing is lacerated or shattered or less than. 

I just — I can do anything.

My lungs were burning for oxygen, my nose was burning from some inhaled chlorine. Sure, I scuffed up my pedicure trying to navigate a flip turn, but I don’t care. My eyes were raccoon ringed from the pressure of my goggles and my hair is in need of a deep condition, but I don’t care.

I was moving through the water, cutting down the lane like the prow of a ship. I felt strong. I haven’t felt that way in a while.

When I came out, I was tired.  I was hungry. I was cold and wet.   I  pushed myself, pushed my muscles and relied on their memory to keep me from sinking down, down, down.  I was glad of that. 

I felt strong.

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IN: ON: September 4, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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recipes

Recipe Friday: Snack Attack

I do my best to make healthful food choices, but at the end of the day (literally) I cannot help but stuff my face with sweet treats once the girls are in bed and the sun goes down.  I know that I don’t bring the stuff in the house, then it won’t get consumed.  The thing is, I have a wicked sweet tooth, and he likes to come out at night.

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It usurps my brain power when I’m doing the grocery shopping.  In my head, I see myself buying more fruit and veggies to snack on.  I see a plate with hummus and a few pita chips, maybe small bowl of raw cashews and almonds.  When I’m under the sale banners and fluorescent lights,  however, the sweet tooth takes over.

I’m not buying Tasty Cakes, Ding Dongs, and Little Debbie snack packs, but there are a few ice cream treats, gourmet dark chocolate squares, and the occasional piece of Ukrop’s cake in between the packages of free range chicken breasts and organic baby lettuces.

I’m on My Fitness Pal, a web and smartphone app that helps you track what you’re putting in your bod, your physical activity and so forth as you get in shape.  Several friend of mine are on it as well, and it’s a great way to see what you’re eating, how much, and how many calories are exchanged on a daily basis.  Right now, I’m working on maintenance, so my calorie alotment has been higher than usual.  Since I’ve not been working out, though, it dropped back down a bit.  Regardless, a typical food journal entry for me looks like this:

Breakfast
3/4 C Special K
3/4 Milk
Coffee with 1 packet of Truvia and 2 tbs. of Coffee Mate

Lunch
Big salad (at least 3 cups of lettuce, shredded carrots, grape tomato, sliced red onion, sliced english cucumber)
3 oz. pan seared seasoned chicken breast
1 oz. of chips, crackers or tortillas (I need something crunchy)

Snacks
AM: Navel orange
PM: Second cup of coffee and 2 graham crackers

Dinner
Usually same as lunch, while the Hubs and the girls get pasta, chicken with rice/potato/starch, or some other kind of #omnomnom dinner I’ve found on Pinterest.

Then comes the post-bedtime routine cool-down.  The sun has set, the house is quiet, the washing machine is chugging in time with the purr of the dryer.  The counters have been wiped down, the floor has been swept and I’m flipping through the channels in search of something that has nothing to do with Housewives, Baby Mamas, Pregnant teenagers or Honey Boo-Boo.  My sweet tooth and my tummy text each other and the next thing I know, I’m standing in front of the pantry looking, looking, looking for the Holy Grail of snacks to quell the borborygmi reaching a full crescendo in my tummy.

My sweet tooth is nocturnal.  That’s not to say I’d turn down a cupcake or a piece of chocolate during the day, but I”m more likely to pass on it when the sun is out than when the moon is high.  Besides, the idea of salty snacks before bedtime doesn’t really go with the idea of “Sweet Dreams”.   Here’s a dish of potato chips, dear! Salty Dreams! 

Anyway, most nights, I end up with two squares of Lindt’s Dark Chocolate with Sea Salt and a glass of wine.  Some nights, I add two of those yummy hazelnut pirouline cookies instead of the chocolate. Some nights I add the cookies in addition to the chocolate.  I’m wild.  Some nights, I got back after I’ve already eaten two squares and two cookies and get two more squares and two more cookies.  I tell you, that sweet tooth just has been in it’s grasp.

 It’s just so sweet!
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How can I resist? 
Sure, I could leave you with a healthful recipe that involves fruit or something, but let’s be real.  I could do that and still be in the pantry looking for the chocolate come 8pm tonight.  So instead, here’s a recipe for a  frozen treat that is calorie friendly, provided you just eat the serving size.  Baby steps, little grasshoppers.  Baby steps. 

recipe found here
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Ingredients:

1 (8 ounce) container fat-free cool whip
1/3 cup reduced-fat creamy peanut butter
1/4 cup fat free chocolate syrup

Directions:
1. Mix cool whip and peanut butter together until well blended and smooth.
2. Drop into a 12 cup muffin tin lined with foil liners.
3. Drizzle chocolate sauce on top of each cup with 1 teaspoons of chocolate sauce.
4. Best served cold, so chill in freezer for 30 minutes.

Happy Friday, y’all!
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IN: recipes ON: July 14, 2013 TAGS: , , , , , , BY: Hilary
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Get That Lady a Towel

I go to the Y at least four times a week.  I am for five, but I too, am just a mere mortal.  I have been doing my time on the elliptical, pumping a few weights, and doing a few planks.  I hit the pool twice a week and have really enjoyed the work that goes into propelling myself down and back in the lane.    Not to break my own arm patting myself on the back, but I’m pretty proud of myself for taking the lessons and being committed to suiting up fairly regularly.   Swimming has been really good for me, both physically and mentally.

What hasn’t been good for me, however, is the ladies locker room.  I’ve talked about this before, several times, in fact, but it bears repeating. 

Given my propensity towards less than stellar body image, it’s a surprise that I’m pretty cavalier when it comes to the locker rooms and showers at the gym.  Honestly, I don’t really think about it. I’m there to hose off, dry off and get on with my day.  There just happen to be a motley crue of women of varying ethnictities, ages, and body types walking around like they’re in their own private homes. At our last gym, the showers were in fact communal showers. It was a large room, dotted with shower heads.  There were two stalls with doors towards the entrance, but the cleanliness of those was debatable.  For the most part, ladies came into the shower, showered up and went to get dressed.  At my current gym, there are shower stalls, but instead of a door, there is a billowy curtain that you can drag across.  In my mind, this curtain is more for decoration because 1) none of them close all the way, 2) anyone walking by — either to or from the pool via the locker room proper — causes a breeze that pushes the curtain onto your showering body or away from its purpose of shielding your showering body. 

I definitely exercise some modesty and decorum when it comes to dressing, undressing and entering/exiting the showers.  In the communal shower, I never, never, never engaged someone in conversation and if repeatedly chatted up by someone, I looked in their eyes, keeping my answers brief and to the point.

The locker room at my current gym is very reminiscent of dorm life, what with the number of people coming in and out, the hair dryers buzzing in the background and so on.  Most ladies wrap a towel around themselves, grab their toilette gear and shower up.  There are a few that go totally “bucket nekkid”, and hey, good for them.  After inadvertently casting my eyes upon a woman so wrinkled, I wanted to run up to her with a hot iron, I quickly learned to focus my eyes on where the ceiling meets the wall or the wall meets the floor.

The showers are clean, though you will see random wads of hair on the floor and just yesterday, I did see enough hair stuck to the wall of the shower stall, it looked like a trompe l’oeil.   It’s definitely not my shower at home, so I’m super careful not to lean up against any walls or curtains.  And I absolutely, positively wear some shower shoes. I’ve got a pair of flip flops that I keep in my gym bag for this express purpose.  They are gym shower shoes. That’s it. And I wear them every.single.time.  No shoes? Not likely, since they stay in the bag, but in the off chance that they weren’t there, well then, sorry, John Q. Public. You’re going have to deal with my funk until I can get home.

Sadly, I am in the minority when it comes to this particular matter.  Scads of women roll through that place barefoot. 
On top of that, some of the older ladies leave the curtain open so they can continue their conversations while scrubbing up (and down. and parts in between).  I don’t want to see your version of Royal Dancer as you try to get your bar of Dial between your first and second toes.

In the locker room, there’s tile floor in the “wet areas” (toilets, shower, pool area) and there’s carpet in the “dry areas” (lockers, ingress and egress, hair dryer stations). Both the wet and dry areas are clean, but not so clean that I’d pad around with nothing protecting my feet.  *shudder*.  Again, I’m in the minority here. 

Who knows what kind of germ-fest is going on around there. Sure, you want to wash all parts possible in the shower.  So, balance on one flip flopped foot and scrub the other. Switch. Repeat as necessary. What’s the point of scrubbing your feet, and then walking out across the tiles and floor barefoot? You’re just picking that junk right back up (and maybe a few other things, too).

*blech* and don’t even get me started about dropping the soap or, God forbid, your towel on the floor.

Yesterday, several women and I were finishing up our toilette, jostling for space on the benches that run in front of the lockers.  The seniors water fitness class had just let out and about a dozen blue-hairs came in various states of undress.  I’m pretty sure one woman just left the pool, stripped down in front of the swimsuit water extractor machine to wring out her suit and then strolled on over to her locker.  She had her hair twisted up in a towel and save that, she was naked.  I know, we’re in the locker room, but she was all Lady Godiva up in that camp and there were too many of us for her to be taking up real estate for that foolishness.  She must have felt a little cramped herself, because she pulled a stunt that sent ladies, young and old, careening to the corners of the room.

She opened her locker and as she twisted the lock, she let her bathing suit slip from her fingers.  Then she BENT OVER AT THE WAIST (hello, she’s naked) to pick it up. 

I am now blind in one eye and I can’t see out the other. 

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IN: ON: May 22, 2013 TAGS: , , , BY: Hilary
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Isn’t this Ab-tastic

I recently read an article about Diastasis Recti, or the separation of the abdominal muscles due to weakened core, pregnancy or hormonal changes. I had heard of this condition before; basically, the sheet of abdominal muscles separates.  It’s not life threatening (at least, nothing I read said that it was), but you are supposed to use caution when doing crunches and sit-ups in the off chance that your cause further separatation of the mucles. 

From what I remember from anatompy and phys., of the multiple sets of abdnominal muscles you have, your rectus abdominis is the sheet of muscles that is where you get your six pack.  The muslces are connected by a tendon that runs down the middle.  The tendon has no elasticity in it, which means if you put on a lot of weight (as in the case with a pregnancy), the muscles separate, the tendon gets stretched.  After you lose the weight, the muscles, which have elasticity, retract, but the tendon is still in the same stretched out shape it was in when you put the weight on, thereby causing the gap between the muscles.  Here’s a pictorial representaiton.

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So, why am I talking about this, you ask? Well, I’m at the gym pretty much five days a week, just working on my fitness.  I’m trying to maintain the level of health that I currently enjoy as well as keep my pants buttoned without too much discomfort.  Truth be told, I enjoy working out. I like putting in work, sweating, feeling my muscles engage and all of that. Since my injury, I’m limited to the eliptical, the Nordic track, and sometimes the stair climber. I throw in some weights and I recently started swimming twice a week to mix things up. I don’t know if I’ll ever get back on the treadmill or actually pound pavement outside. I’m a little skittish about how well I can get my legs pumping in rhythm such that I won’t fall flat on my face.  After I do my time on the machines, I do the weights, some squats and recently, some ab work.

I’m in my 30s. I’m pretty sure that unless I go gluten-free, sugar-free, white flour free, and taste free, the weight I’m carrying now is mine to keep. I can feel my abs (serrator anterior, specifically), underneath the layers, but because I’m not going to wear a corset day and night for three months straight á la Jessica Alba, I’m just going to have to content myself with knowing that they’re there.  So, I figured I’d get them as firmed up as possible. I found a series of ab exceries during my recent combing of the Internet, which lead me to find this article about the diastasis recti. 

After I had had Mo, I participated in a Mommy-and-Me type exercise program several days a week.  We pushed the stollers around the mall, did resistance band type exercises and ended with ab work. The instructor often spoke of diastasis recti, encouraging those of us who had it to modify the ab work until our cores were stronger.  She even taught us how to diagnosis whether or not we had it.  Then, as with now, I’m no doctor, so I never really thought I was checking properly and just kept on working on my reverse crunches and bicycles.  Then I read this article which talked about how to check if you’ve got it.

“To check yourself for diastasis, lie on your back with your knees bent.  With your fingers pointing down toward your feet, hold two fingers flat on your bellybutton.  Press your fingers down as you slowly lift your head (keep your shoulders on the ground).  Do you feel a gully between the two muscles?  Measure how many fingers wide it is (mine is about 2.5 fingers wide).  If you can fit two or more fingers inside, you should not do crunches or sit ups.  If this is you, I would recommend halting all traditional abdominal exercises and doing the workout on this page until your separation heals.” — taken from Dear Diastasis Recti, I’m so over you by insperedrd on June 19, 2012

The earliest chance I got, I’m on the floor with my knees bent, fingers in my belly button. I’m kind of thinking whatever’s about to happen is going to make me less than pleased, but I soldier on. I start to slowly lift my head and let me tell you, my abs parted like the Red Sea and my fingers were Noah.  Sweet fancy Moses! I’m pretty sure I could have pulled Jimmy Hoffa, Ameila Earheart, and the Holy Grail out of the gap between the muscles. 

*le sigh* Ultimately, the gap is what contributes to the nefarious “mommy pooch”, and apparently it can be overcome by strengthening the core.  So, what’s a girl to do? No crunches, apparently.  The website provided a list of alternative exercises to do to strengthen the muscles, but I honestly don’t believe a gap like mine or the ones described can just be “healed” (their word, not mine).  I picture one of those holy roller type of churches where the pastor with the big Chicklet teeth smacks you on the forehead and says, “Be Healed!” right before you collapse into the waiting arms of church elder as other congregants dance in the aisles and sing songs of praise. 

Yes, I’m a cynic.

I’m also kind of tired, which is why I started in one direction and now find myself over here. 

You know how there are times in your life when you see something or hear sometihng or experience something that is so off=putting or weird that you keep re-visiting it? Or that you want to share it with someone else so that they’ll be as put off as you? Like, my brother used to pull off his sweaty gym socks after football practice, take a big whiff of the sock (I have no idea why) and say, “Oh my God, this smells so bad. C’mere and smell this!”

And yes, you know I smelled it because I was young and thought my brother spat nickles and farted rainbows.

Well, the gully in my gut is just like that. I’m disgusted and intrigued and totally want everyone to stick their fingers in my belly button so I can sit up and be like, “See, what I’m talking about? I get nauseous every time I do it!”

It is what it is, which is part of the fabric of who I am.  Once I stop messing with it — because I check it like every five minutes to marvel at how my body has changed yet again — it’ll be no big deal.  I’ll probably look into incorporating some of the non-crunch core moves into my routine at some point.  Or maybe I’ll look for a corset afterall. . .

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IN: ON: May 9, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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With(hold) Your Compliments

I honestly don’t know what to make of this.  So, over the week-end, the Hubs and I took the girls to a birthday party.  We were greeted by the birthday girls’ mom and shown into the main part of the house where a number of the activities were going on. As we walked in, our hostess mentioned that a mutual friend of ours was here.  We hadn’t seen this person in a while and as we approached, she opened her arms to give me a hug.  As she did so, she exclaimed, “Oh my gosh, look at you! You’re so skinny, you whore!” and then she flashed me a giant mega-watt smile.

The Hubs had been waylaid into a conversation with the birthday girl’s grandfather and simulatneously trying to keep Vivi from gouging out the old man’s eyeballs.  He says given those circumstances, he didn’t hear our friend say that, even though he was standing right at my elbow.

I heard it for damn sure, and was thoroughly taken aback because, I’ve never been called “whore” before, in all seriousness or in jest.  I  was stunned that she said that, especially after having been called a “skinny bitch” just a few weeks ago.  I mean, I know I’ve been amping up my work-outs, but I didn’t think it warrants this kind of feedback! It was surprising and off-putting, coupled with the fact that she followed it up with a big ass smile.  The smile was the gesticular eqvuivalent of saying “Bless your heart”.   It’s a Southern mannerism, saying “bless your heart” whereby you can get away with saying some downright nasty things about someone so long as you add that key phrase somewhere in the mix (i.e. Oh, Mary Sue’s little girl looks like she hit every branch falling out of the ugly tree, bless her heart!).

I had done quite a bit of reading recently about Mommy Wars and the ways in which we as women pull eachother down, crabs in a bucket style.   Why do we think we’re doing eachother a favor by complimenting one another in such a backhanded fashion?  It’s so two-faced and back stabby.  Personally,  I’d rather you just keep it to yourself. I appreciate someone complimenting me on how I look; that’s nice, but let me have the compliment in it’s entirety.  Don’t tell me I look good, and then diffuse or downplay the good feeling I’m bound to get by calling me a whore as a followup.  The take away of the exchange is not that it’s good to see me, or even that I look skinny (thank you very much), but that I’m a whore (for looking skinny in comparison to you). 

Think of it from this perspective.  What if I was naturally a Rachel Zoe or Nicole Richie size?  Then, the next time you saw me, I was looking healthy, more Christina Hendricks-esque.  I don’t think anyone would say, “Oh my God! Look at you! You’re so curvy,  you whore!”

Sounds ridiculous, right? So don’t do it.

I guess it goes back to my expectations of other people.  I don’t behave in a certain way and I expect other people to behave the way I do.  It’s not that difficult.  I’m not Mother Teresa or Ghandi, so I think my behaviors are pretty attainable.  I mean, if you boil it down, it’s all about the golden rule.  If someone looks good, then I’ll tell them so and leave it at that.   I don’t need to undercut the positivity. I have a problem with using “bitch”, “whore”, “skank” or even “cunt in jest.   Whore is kind of strong, you know? And yes, I understand about reclaiming the word to take the explosiveness out of it, but I’m not buying that.   I’m hard pressed to think of an example where dudes do this to one another.  I mean you might know of some guy that is always calling someone a “douchebag” or  a “ball sack” or whatever guys call eachother, but it’s never in the context that women choose to express themselves.

I’ve never heard a guy compliment a guy on the way he looks, so maybe right there lies the difference.  But even still, imagine two male contestants on Top Chef complimenting eachother.

Hey Joel, that chilean sea bass with bacon foam was delicious, you douche-bag!
C’mon, Michael! Your roasted corn and saffron sea scallops were righteous, you f-cking nut sack!

I kind of laughed a little to myself just then because it sounds SO outrageous!

Going back to the mommy war part of it, I think it’s no longer the mothers who work outside of the home versus the mothers who work inside the home. It’s now the stay at home moms versus other stay at home mom’s.  It’s about the mom’s competing against one another about who’s taken the most Pilates and barre classes. Who spends the most time in the gym, who gives their kids the most unique, non-traditional, gender neutral name, and has the most pairs of Tory Burch shoes.  All of the things that make these women caricatures are being held up as some kind of brass ring to strive for and yet, I don’t remember signing up for that contest.  Hell, I didn’t even know there was a contest.  I’m not trying to be about that.  

It’s hard enough being a woman,
and a wife,
and a mother. 

It can be very lonely and isolating.  When I make friends, I don’ t want the kind that call me a whore because they think we’re in competition for some grand prize.   I’m not competing against you or anyone else. I’m just trying to get to the end of the day. . .

. . .and keep the top button of my pants buttoned. 

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IN: ON: March 27, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Hurts So Good

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When it comes to working out, I’ve been advised by my doctor not to do any exercises that force me to pull up on the top of my foot and potentially cause more damage to my tendons.  Basically, don’t insert your foot into anything that has a strap across the top (peace out, spinning!).  I’ve been practically living on the elliptical machine since I’d been given clearance to work out, but it was getting boring.  I kept seeing people working themselves into a lather on the stair climbers.  The gym has 4 brand-new ones that are in constant use.  I figured if one ever opened up, I’d give it a go.

Let me tell you, that stair climber is no joke!  I set a personal goal of 30 minute or 300 calories, whichever came first. By the end of the first song on my work-out mix, I had talked myself down to 3 minutes, which was the duration of the next song!  Seriously, I tried slowing down the pace, but that was making me snag my foot on the lip of the next step.  Not wanting to faceplant and then bodysurf down the treads, I upped the pace, but my arms were the ones getting the workout, since I was holding on for dear life.  The woman next to me started to alternate walking up the stairs in a traditional manner, then walking up the stairs leading with her left foot in a side step, then rotating and leading with her right foot.  I was waiting to see if she was going to do it backwards, but she must have been fearing the faceplant/bodysurf combo and changed her mind.

I will say, I was in a flop sweat almost immediately and that, to me, is always a good judge of how well and how hard I’ve work out.  So, I decided to keep the stair climber in the mix.  It’s been a few weeks, and I’m getting bored again.  I haven’t been back to kettlebells, I doubt I’ll go back to the studio.  When the weather gets warmer, I’ll swing my own bells like I was doing before.  In the interim, I’m looking for something else to work multiple muscle groups at once.  I tried doing one of those barre classes; there was a Groupon for three classes for the price of one.  It was a good deal, but I ended up losing money because I had to hire a sitter to keep the wee one so I could go to class.  Not cost effective.  Plus, we’re already paying for a gym that has childcare; I needed to find something else.

I was chatting with a friend of mine who had done both kettlebell and barre with me.  She mentioned how she took up swimming after a serious injury. Swimming. . .interesting.

Now, I do know how to swim. I was never one of those girls growing up who was afraid of getting her hair wet and never learned. I did take lessons. We belonged to the community pool and I fought long and hard to pass the requisite levels so I could move from kiddie pool, to mid pool, to full access.  There was a badge system in place – yellow, purple, and red.  You had to wear your badge on your suit and the lifeguards were eagle eyed about it.  If you were a yellow badge in the deep end? Forget it! Automatic whistle blow and swim of shame to shallower waters.  So, I worked hard to get that red badge for all access. I can remember treading water like my life depended on it.  Actually, it did; I’d just swum across the length of the pool after diving in.  If I couldn’t keep my head up, it was going to be back to purple badge-dom.

Fast forward to college. I took scuba diving as my phys ed. requirement.  Not a lot of “our kind of people” in that class, let me tell you.  Our dives were limited to the pool in Kinesiology building, but it was still a great experience.  Somewhere along the way, I retained enough information to keep myself safe in the water.

After the girls were of an age, I wanted them to be good swimmers, too.  It’s not about being an Olympian, though that would be nice (I’m sure there are lots of scholarships for Black swimmers). It’s not about flipping around in the pool during the summer and playing Marco Polo with your friends.   It’s a a life skill that they need to have, plain and simple.  So, summer after summer, I signed them up for lessons.  You can imagine how that went.

We’re at the point where I’ll ask them what they plan to do if they go to a pool party and everyone else is in the water.  Mo’s response, “I’ll read a book on the side.”

Oy.

Well, after some thought, I realized, I need to lead by example.  My godmother had never learned how to swim and after she retired, at age 65, she learned.  Started from scratch with lessons.  So, I followed her lead. I signed myself up for some lessons and had my first one yesterday.  The thing is, I can swim.  I can keep myself afloat, I can get to the edge. I’m not going to win any races, and I’m not going to win any prizes for gracefulness, but I can do it.  I just want to do it better.  My instructor says I have a good basis; I need to fine tune some things, but the foundation is there.

Today, I am aching in places I haven’t thought about since anatomy class (gracilis, anyone?).  But it’s good, it’s very good.  I ran into my instructor on the way to the car as I was leaving the gym today and introduced her to Mo, who is home with me on Spring Break.   As we were buckling up, Mo was incredulous that I was taking swimming lessons.  I reminded her that we’ll be able to go to the pool this summer and swim together, to which she replied, “I’m just going to sit on the side and read a book.”

This kid. . .

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IN: ON: March 14, 2013 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Manners

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I don’t have very pretty feet.  I know that about myself.  I’m pretty rough on them, too.  I like shoes with high heels and pointy toe boxes.  I like flip-flops. I put moisturizer on my feet at night, slip on some socks and get in the bed, but inevitably, I wake up with one sock on, one sock off and the sockless foot poking out from underneath the comforter (you know that’s how you keep cool at  night, too!).  I work out hard and I’ve gotten blisters, a corn, and the start of a nasty bunion. When I’m swinging kettle bells, I’m barefoot and trying not to drop 16kg of weight on my feet. . .though I wonder if that might straighten out some toes. . . .

Anyway, my feet need TLC from time to time and I am not opposed to having someone else slough off the wear and tear on my tootsies.  I look forward to a pedicure, not only because my toes end up looking way better than when I walked in, but it’s a chance for me to just sit back and do nothing but flip through my Entertainment Weekly and my People magazine.

That was plan for yesterday. Notice, I said “was”.  See, after I worked out, I went right to the nail shop with my mags in my bag, ready to sit back and just veg out.  I selected my color, hopped up in the chair, smiled at the tech and exchanged a few pleasantries.  She bustled about getting her supplies and checking the water.  She left with a quiet, “I’ll be right back,” and so I pulled out my magazine, turned on the massaging chair and started to relax.

In the nail shop, when you walk in, there are at least a dozen stations where the techs are doing nails.  As you head to the back, the room opens into another room whose walls are lined with pedicure chairs. Easily, there are ten chairs on each side.  At any given time, I’d say half of the chairs are full — men and women, young and old.  And all kinds of feet monstrosities like I’ve never seen before!  I mean, my feet are tough, but when the tech breaks out the battery powered sander and props your leg up on her knee for leverage. . .whoa.

But I digress.  The point was, there were a handful of other people getting pedicures, all of whom were bent over magazines while their respective techs buffed and polished their toes.  My tech comes back and decides that whir of the jetted tub and the gentle sshhk, ssshhk, sshhk  of nails being filed needs to be broken with her prattle about the weather, the cooking show on TV that’s making her hungry, whether or not it’s my day off, and so forth.

So, that brings me to why I entitled this post “Manners”.  I mean, I’ve got manners. I write thank you notes. I say “please” and “thank you”.  I put the toilet seat down, you know, all those good things.  I speak when spoken to.  I’m courteous to those who deserve it, especially people in the service industry, like my pedicure pal here.  However, yesterday (actually most days I get a pedicure), I don’t really want to talk to anyone. I just want to sit and be taken care of, chip-chop-chip! The tech, however, was not to be deterred and I was getting exasperated.

Truly, I just wanted to say, “Hey! Chatty Cathy!  Enough with the banter. I’m trying to read for a few minutes. I appreciate you taking my bear claw into your hands and making it pretty again, but really? Can I just get a break?”  But, because I have manners, I didn’t say that. I answered her questions. I even kept the conversation going by asking her how busy it had been that day!  Darn you, Manners!  I should have just popped my ear buds in and closed my eyes.  But, Manners wouldn’t allow it.

In the end, it all worked out; the magazines got read, my feet got all purty, and the tech got a very nice tip.  Afterall, Manners doesn’t like stingy tippers.

What about you? Do you chat up the mani/pedi tech/waxer/spray tanner/masseuse/esthetician?

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IN: ON: August 7, 2012 TAGS: , , , , BY: Hilary
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