Tag: working out

Hurts So Good

(image)

by the way, I am such a sucker for packaging.
I  love, love, love this
and almost clotheslined the whole
 first aid line into my purse when I saw it at Target.

Oh and it is a mother!  Right where my index finger meets my palm, and it’s as big and bulbous as a hot air balloon.  I feel like if I were to make a fist, the whole thing would explode like the blister on the guy’s foot in “Run, Fat Boy, Run.”

Hilarious scene, but not for the faint of stomach.  You go watch, I’ll wait. . .

Yeah, the blister on my hand feels like that, but really, it’s no bigger than the head of a pencil eraser.  It’s not like I’ve been chopping wood or clearing weeds or any other manner of yard work.

I’ve been practicing kettlebells twice, a week every week, since August. It’s awesome and I always feel “strong like ox” whenever I’m done.  My muscles are getting stronger, I’m getting a good cardio boost, but my hands have taken a serious beating.  My palms are so calloused, my callouses have callouses.  I haven’t gone as far as taking a nail file to them, but the temptation is there.

I’ve tried taping them, bandaging them, chalking up and wearing gloves.  Nothing’s worked.   I’ve tried to switch up my routine so that my hands don’t get a constant thrashing every time I go.  I’ve been doing all manner of squats, swings, and lifts, and the callouses kept on coming.  The blisters joined the party after I added another piece to my bank of RKC moves:  the high pull.  There is nothing quite as exhilarating as swinging 25 lbs. of weight up in the air and then pulling it back towards your face as if you were doing a one-handed lat pull.  Yes, I know exactly how crazy that sounds.

I was trying to explain kettlebells to my mother and as soon as I said the words “swinging” and “weights”, I could read the worry on her face as if she’s written it there with a sharpie.

“But what if you drop it on your foot?” she asked, clearly trying to find a dissuade me from throwing around heavy, metal objects.

“Have you seen my feet? That would totally be an improvement.”

She was not amused.

In any event, I’m going to keeping swinging my bells, and proudly wear my callouses and blisters. I just have to remember to be careful when I try to give the girls some lovin’ that involves my hands on their faces.

“Ouch, Mommy!” Mo said after I patted her on the cheek, “Your hands feel like Daddy’s feet!”

Ouch, indeed.

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IN: ON: March 14, 2012 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Something New

I’ve gotten bored with running.  I came up with a pretty good circuit around the neighborhood, but now, I’m getting tired of passing the same ol’ mailboxes and what not.  Don’t even get me started on the Y. I mean, I really like the Zumba classes that I’ve been taking, but on the off days, trying to get on a treadmill is like standing in line for bread during the Depression.  I burn more calories trying to will people off the machines than I do actually moving my bod.

I’ve been driving around town (quelle surprise), and I kept passing the shopping center up the block from our house.  I noticed that one of the end units is undergoing some kind of renovation.  “Another restaurant,” I mused.  On one of my runs, which takes me past said shopping center, I saw they’d hung a banner in the window: www.richmondkettlebellclub.com

Hmmmm. . .consider my curiosity piqued.

I visited the website, and after a quick read through of the various tabs.  Here’s my Cliff-Noted version: Russian based physical training program involving a cannonball with a handle.

Oh, I’m totally all over that. And yes, I know, I know, I’m tardy to the party.  But, like with my forays into Pilates, P90X and Zumba, better late than never.

I called them up and inquired about their free trial class, which I will be trying out this Saturday.  Sunday, I’ll probably be trying out Ben-Gay and Icy-Hot in various applications.  No pain, no gain, right?

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IN: ON: September 1, 2011 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Nightmare On My Street

So, since I’ve hung up my P90X bands, I’ve started running in the mornings.  My running partner and I have yet to work out a system beyond late night texting to let one another know whether or not it’ll be pairs or singles.  Unfortunately, this particular morning, I missed the text and waited like a weirdo in front of her house for 10 minutes before setting off on my own.  When the newspaper delivery person rode through and chucked the paper at the house, she gave me a wide walk before hustling double time back to her car.  What can I say? I’m a menace in my Nikes and my head scarf.

Of course, I know that a single female running in the dark is a bad idea. I’m by no means invincible, but seriously? It’s 5:50 in the morning. I strongly doubt that any ne’er do wells have set their alarm clocks to leap out of the bushes at me as I trot through a residential neighborhood.  Besides, I’m really stubborn and if I’ve gotten up, gotten dressed, and gone outside, I’m going running.

So, I start my route, sticking to well lit streets and pretty even terrain.  There was a little haze burning off from the streets since the air was warm and the ground was cool from the previous nights rain.    The sky was dark, tinged with pink around the edges and the autumn were leaves sticking to the ground like post-its reminding me that fall is indeed here (you like the image I’m setting up here, don’t you?).  

I like to run in the middle of the street so that I can keep an eye out for people, dogs, and other neighborhood flotsam and jetsam.  Even in daylight hours, I play this game with myself where I mentally call out the make and model of the car I’m approaching so that if, God forbid, someone throws open a car door and makes a grab at me, I’ll at least know what kind of trunk I’m being stuffed into. 

I’m moving right along, not quite race pace, but steady just the same. I don’t have my iPod with me, I’m just listening to my own breath and the throbbing of my blood in my veins.  As I’m going, I keep hearing this “thwup, thwup, thwup,” behind me.  I slow up a bit looking behind me, immediately thinking, “No, dummy! Turning around slows you down. Didn’t you see ‘Scream’?”  I cast a quick, furtive glance over my shoulder.  Nothing.  My heart starts pumping a little faster, my strides become a little quicker, and my brain calls roll for all the whack-a-doos it can name — Michael Meyers, Freddie Kruger, Chuckie. . .

But the thing is, no one was there.

I think all the Halloween paraphernalia placed on neighborhood lawns is getting to me.  I keep moving, but again, I hear, “thwup, thwup, thwup.”  It’s coming at some odd intervals and now, I’m really starting to freak out.   Maybe I should pick up the pace a bit. I could see one of the ROTC units from ODU up a head doing their 5 miles.  If I hurry, I can catch up with the stragglers and use them for cover. Maybe trip one of them, sacrifice the youth for my own survival.  I kick it up a bit.

Thwup, thwup, thwup. 

Short of stopping dead in my tracks and turning in a circle à la Jennifer Love Hewitt in “I Know What You Did Last Summer”, I pump my legs a little harder, mentally recalculate the shortest distance between where I am and the house.  I bee-line it for the front door.

Thwup, thwup thwup.

I’m headed home, all but in a dead sprint when I realize that yes, I’m being followed, but not by someone. It’s something. It’s something far more scary than a man with a hook for a hand or a hockey mask over his face.

It was my own backside.

A sweat-induced booty clapping chasing me down the street.

I’m still having nightmares.









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IN: ON: October 28, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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Staying Motivated

So, I’m still in the throes of this P90X.  I want to stop, but it’s like I’m conditioned to get up and get working now.  In part, I’m afraid of what’ll happen if I stop. I know, I know, I’m too hard on myself and I’m being ridiculous. A lot of people say that doing DVDs and tapes at home gets boring after a while and I do think I’ve hit that point. Still, I like the results I’ve gotten.  Plus,  I do have a tendency to “belly up to the trough” at dinner time, so I have to balance things out.

I was finishing up the legs and back routine this morning, seriously contemplating just stopping mid- exercise when I thought, “Well, I did eat that bag of Sweet Moments last night. . and I don’t want to end up like the Juicy Woman”.

Ahhh, the Juicy Woman. I know I’ve told some of you this story shortly after it happened, but it’s a classic and bears repeating.

About a year or two ago, my dad and I had gone out to Target to pick up some odds and ends. My dad was still relatively new to the area having recently moved down from MA. He insisted on driving so that he could get a lay of the land and learn the routes from his house to various points of interest and so forth. So, we are leaving the Target and he’s behind the wheel, hands firmly at ten and two.

In the shopping center, there are a lot of speed bumps to slow folks down, but they are spaced about two feet apart, so getting from the parking lot to the main drag can take a few minutes. We’re creeping along, shoppers are circulating in the lot and in and out of the shops, life is humming all around us.

My dad pulls up to a speed bump just as a person emerges from Party City carrying an enormous bouquet of balloons. So many balloons, in fact, all you can see are her pink sweat-pants and sneakers hanging out of the bottom. We pause to let her cross in front of us and as she makes her way to her car, she turns her back to us. She’s built like a pear — narrow waist, with wide hips and buns. Written across the back of her pants are the letters, “J”, “U”, “C”, “Y”.

My dad hunches up over the wheel to get a good look, his nose all but touching the windshield (*smh*). He turns to me and asks, “What is jew-kee?”

I look over at the woman, now bent in double trying to jam the mass of balloons into her car without popping or losing any of them. The letters are jiggling with her motions, and I can’t help but laugh.

“It’s not jew-kee, Dad,” I tell him. “It’s says Juicy. Her crack just swallowed the “I”.

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IN: ON: July 23, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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Bringing the Racquet Like Venus and Serena

Awwww, yeah.  The Golden Girls were not ready for me yesterday.  Finally, after the longest week ever, I came off the bench and was ready to play some tennis.  What made my return even sweeter is that for Mother’s Day, DH and the girls got me the racquet that I have been coveting for the past several months .

Say “Hello” to my little friend.  I haven’t had a new racquet since the mid 1990’s and even that was only the second racquet I’ve ever had.  I was long overdue.  This racquet, the Wilson K Factor KBlade is the triple truth!  Combined with the fact that I’m retaining and actually using the pointers I’ve picked up in my lessons, I had those biddies thinking twice about having me run back an forth all over the court.  
One of the ladies, easily in her late 60’s tried to get cute and slam a return of serve right in my face, but I took a slight side step, pronated my wrist and punched the ball back out of her reach down the alley.  I suppose turn about is fair play because she was gunning for me on the next point.  My partner served the ball, the old broad returned it to my partner who does nothing but lob.  She sent it soft, slow and easy over the net where my opponent had enough time to file her nails, re-tie her shoes, and adjust her Depends before smacking the crap out of the ball . . .right. . .at. . .me.  Somehow, she sliced at it, so the ball dropped, but it didn’t lose speed.  Too bad for me, I mis-judged the angle and moved my racquet to the right instead of the left. That joint where your ankle and foot meet?  Yeah, it’s been tattooed with Dunlap 4.  
I keep telling folks, don’t sleep on these older ladies.  They like to play and more importantly, they like to  win. They do what they have to in order to do both.  That’s the last time I buy that, “I just got off my oxygen” bullshiggity!

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IN: ON: May 19, 2010 TAGS: , , BY: Hilary
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It’s Been Brought’n

DH and I have recently secured our seats on the crazy train by starting the P90X training program.  I know, I know, it’s that incessant infomercial with Tony Horton demanding that you “Bring It!!” in order to get that ridiculously ripped physique you’ve been hiding behind those extra pounds from last years  Christmas/Kwanzaa/Hanukkah.
At first I was a huge skeptic.  I mean, I got taken by Billy Blanks and Tae Bo.  I did The Firm — I mean, an alum from my high school was one of the testimonials!  And those things do work. Just not when you’re downing margaritas, grilled ribeye fajitas, and guacamole a couple of times a week — not that I would ever do that (now).  My allegiance has been to the double W and the YMCA.  However, after all of that, I do find that my clothes continue to shrink from non-use.  DH had reached his own max tolerance level and suffice it to say, we’d reached a point where enough was enough. 
My brother, in his infinite wisdom, stared doing P90X without reading the materials. He hooked himself up with a guy at his gym who had read all the stuff and somehow they’ve forged an unlikely alliance where they do the routines. Anyway, by the time we decided to get in on the action, my brother was well into his 90 days.  He thoroughly enjoyed telling us how relentlessly Tony Horton pushes you to “Bring It”,  how your body will sue you for alienation of affection, and how pylometrics is nothing short of walking on broken glass with a hot poker shoved up your kiester.  
There’s a guy who does the jump training video, and he has a prosthetic leg  A prosthetic leg! 
I fully expected to drop dead after the first day. 
Thankfully, my body has responded to the hours I’ve logged in at the Y, in particular at Ginny’s step aerobics class.  I’m not saying that I didn’t break a sweat during that first go round of Chest and Back, but I seriously considered putting my Y membership and my tennis membership on hold until the 90 days was up.  There was no way I could do all that.
DH and I are doing this madness together, which is nice.  We boost each other up, we egg each other on. We tease each other when certain noxious gases rip out during squats and sit-ups.  I had to stop in the midst of the Ab Ripper X routine because every time DH did a sit up, he let out this groan that sounded like a rusty nail being scraped down the side of an aluminum washboard.  My abs were sore from the laughter, not the Mason Twists.  And when the decline pushups smacked me around so that I literally landed on my face,  my arms quivering (I was fully prepared to spend the rest of my life inhaling carpet fibers in exchange for regaining use of my arms), DH was there to gently assist in lifting and lowering me so I could finish the set.  My goal is 5 reps and oh, I loathe each and every friggin’ one. 
Anyway, the one downside I’ve found is the time of day we’ve chosen to do this thing.  In order for us to do this together, we’ve decided to get up at 4:40am and just hit it.  Ugh, it’s ugly.  I’m on autopilot at that ungodly hour.  Somehow, I manage to get a sports bra on the right way, my feet in my cross-trainers and my body down the stairs in one piece.  By the time we’re done, all my pistons are firing, the girls get up and we get our day going. 
By 11am, I’m usually ready to hibernate. 
The other day, I dropped the girls at school and ran some errands.  The sun was shining, the sunroof was open, and I had about 10 minutes of limbo time between the end of one errand and the time I had to scoop up Coever.  I was getting kind of sleepy — all that Vitamin D coming through the windows and all.  I tipped my head back a bit, and few minutes later, I sneak a peek at my watch.  15 minutes had gone by!  I motored in to get Coever, kicking myself for nodding off.
“Hey,” says her teacher, “Did you go tan today?” 
“What?”
“Your face!  It’s so tanned and flushed.  Looks good.”
Uh-oh.  Once, we get back to the car, I sneak a peek in the mirror.  Not quite raccoon-esque, but falling asleep in the sun for even 15 minutes can do a number on your face.  
Note to self: If you’re going to bring it in the morning, make sure you bring the sunscreen for the afternoon car catnap. 

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IN: ON: April 23, 2010 TAGS: , BY: Hilary
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