Thursday, September 15, 2011


184 lbs. Okay

Editorial Note: I received an email pointing out that my piece on Annoyed Sigh Marinade failed to mention locally produced raw honey or the reasons for including it in the recipe, said email referring to a conversation in which the advocate for bee vomit said locally produced raw honey would aid with the abatement of allergies, as locally produced raw bee vomit is made from the very plants that cause one’s eyes to swell and nose to run. (If one is allergic to cats, dogs or pine trees or mold, you’re on your own getting honey out of those things.) This theory, while appealing, overlooks the notion that the COOKING PROCESS is akin to pasteurization and would therefore negate the RAW element. The pointer pretty much gave me the “Bah, details” when I pointed out that the issues with sugar consumption are more wide-ranging than merely calories, sweeteners having an inflammatory effect on certain organs. To that unnamed individual: there. Happy now? It’s in.

But, Annoyed Sigh Marinade does make chicken quite tasty. Just don’t prepare it while irked (not with above situation; something else entirely) as I inadvertently dumped a lot of olive oil into the marinating vessel that I had planned to use for salad dressing.

For the first time in what feels like months, I not only got in my weight training but I had the time and knee strength for an hour on the elliptical cross-trainer afterwards and that did more for boosting my morale than a Greek chorus standing behind me singing, “You’re doing great” in four part harmony. That and getting hit on (maybe) whilst working out…

I had just begun my hour-long odyssey (I had forgotten my faithful Zune. Yes, Zune. It was going to be a long hour) when a guy who looked to be late twenties or early thirties jumped on to the machine next to me. We did that “I see you out of the corner of my eye” polite, acknowledging nod and I turned my attention back to watching Dr. Oz without sound (much better that way) when he tapped my arm and said, “You know, you smell really great.”

Wow. I smell great. To a younger man. In a gym. I’ll take it.

Anyway, I thanked him and he told me the benefits of slowing down the heart rate for fat burn* v. cardio  (*I could have taken this as a gross insult, but  the guy had just told me I smelled great and, well, keep reading). He told me he’d just lost 45 lbs. and was clearly feeling so good about this and how he’d figured out how achieve it that he wanted to share the info. We chatted for a bit and I kept my hands on the heartbeat monitor pads to incorporate his suggestion into the workout (burn fat v. sugar? Yes, I believe I would rather do that). Since he never tried to sell me life insurance, an Amway dealership or Jesus, I figure the interest was genuine. [Internal giggle]

He noticed that I was slowing down to  slow the heart rate and get the lights into the fat burning zone (think of it as a weird sort of video game. “Pong.” Not a gamer, can you tell?) Here’s the priceless  moment (someone please tell either Steve Carell or “The Office” writers, should you know those fine people. Carell is a fellow citizen of Red Sox Nation, therefore a fine person. Suck it, Adam Sandler, you lover of pinstripes): My little flashing lights were stubbornly stuck higher than I wanted (gee, an analogy to the purpose for being on the elliptical in the first place) and I was told, “Once it’s up, it’s tough to get it down again.”

That’s what he said.

Anyway, we continued working and occasionally chatting until the hour was up. He thanked me for helping the time pass and I thanked him for the information (it contradicts what Torquemada told me, but hey, it’s worth a try).

The experience was pleasant enough that it got me thinking about trying the EHarmony route again. I have done the dating site (not the paid ones) and found a bunch of guys who just wanted to cheat on someone else. That’s not me. I need to matter to someone if I’m going to spend time with that person.

There is a term from the pre-Luther Catholic church, back in the Middle Ages: anchorite or anchoress. This was a monk or a nun opting to be walled into his/her cell (not completely; the wall came up about waist-high, sort of like Mr. Ed’s stall. Meals were passed in and…ahem…”stuff” was passed out when the space needed cleaning) as a means of devoting one’s life to God and he/she was confined to that one space for the remainder of life. We speak of “living like a nun” or “living like a monk” as means of conveying little or no social life, especially not a sexual one. These guys makes that statement look like 70s swingers at Studio 54.

I can relate.

Since July, I’ve had more to do out and about with other people more than I have in 10 – 20 years, I am not exaggerating. Back in 2002 -2003, I was part of a really great, tight sketch group, the core of which is still great friends today. With my wandering work/life style, I’ve been away from the group for most activities (except the annual Oscar costume party. I’m always a contender for top prize). Since I’m pretty much stable in my current location, I’ve been able to accept the invitations to parties, etc. Wicked cool. Well, there is a guy who has been at a couple of these things who seems like a great guy. I haven’t talked to him a lot, but when I look up, he seems to be watching me. Since I know I haven’t had boogers hanging from my nose, spinach in my teeth or skirt stuck in the pantyhose, I’m thinking he may be interested. I feel like dancing on my toes. We’ll see what happens. Nobody has said to me, “Psst. **** wants to know if you like him.” Not yet, but we’ll see.

In the meantime, I’ll just keep pushing. Oh, and the knee/back situation? In the middle of yoga today, I got a truly profound pop out of my spine. We’ll see what Dr. Best does with it tomorrow (I still refuse to accept the “osteo arthritis” possibility. Nuh uh. I can tell myself that maybe the hot flashes are flushing from new supplements I’m taking (and they could be), but I since I had a random guy tell me I smell great (It’s a start), I refuse to change out for Ben Gay.

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