I need camouflage yoga pants

We had a substitute in Pilates today for the usual, gentle, sweet, undemanding instructor. Pay attention to the adjectives: they'll be important.

The lady who showed up today had leopard print cat's-eye glasses, curly hair and reminded me of several art teachers I've had going through grade school and high school (the idealists who got over it after a few years of dealing with Vermont kids to whom high art was Leroy Neiman). She announced that the class was going to work each "skeletal group."

She wasn't kidding.

Whereas I thought I was getting a pretty good Sunday working with the usual instructor, I have since changed my mind. Today, we were sweetly (and with a bit of an accent) told a brief history of Pilates (developed after WWI to help injured soldiers rehab) and that the Marines were now using it to condition the grunts. Red flag.

I have never before had the shit kicked out of me in such a pleasant fashion.

The core muscles got worked to the point of screaming (and when mine get overworked, they hold my intestines hostage and threaten a gas attack if I don't knock it the hell off). I learned some things I can do daily to work triceps, etc. (If I can remember them. Menopause BLOWS). There were balance moves (and we know from yoga that balance is not my strong point. I need to get my ears to a doctor; they're constantly full of fluid. No wonder I'm cranky). I began to resent the phrase "Okay, five more!" BITCH, YOU LIE!!!!!

This was at 10 AM. It's almost 7 PM and my arms are still screaming at me. Dear Triceps, you had it coming.

As we were once again working the core muscles while trying to balance (a lost cause for me. Ears), I developed a theory that this woman had been a drill instructor in the Israeli Army and had reduced those soldiers to tears and vomiting.


I survived. Barely.  A couple of the girls from class told me that there was "a lot less of me" than had been there before. The uplift from these comments sustained me through the workout.

To the men who may be reading this and dismissing Pilates as "sissy stuff": I got a chance to talk to her after class and I wasn't too far off the mark. Israeli Army: yes. Drill instructor: No, or so she claims (I have my doubts). She may be have been actually on loan to the USMC at Parris Island or Camp Pendleton and it's just a matter of semantics.

And I double dog dare you to try.

No, Mr. Belly, I Expect You to Collapse (Read. You'll Get It)

179.8 lbs. About GD time. Mind over matter.

I have this movie scene playing out in my mind, something out of James Bond (probably because USA Network has been playing James Bond movies every day. Yesterday was “Goldfinger,” THE James Bond movie, I don’t care how dated. But, as usual, I digress). My body (especially the Great White Belly) is the villain in this piece and looks like Gert Frobe (Goldfinger. He was not an attractive man in my opinion) and my brain is Bond tied down to the table with the laser beam headed for his favorite parts (Sigh. Sean Connery. I had a thing for Timothy Dalton for years, but Connery is The Man. Even if Daniel Craig in a bathing suit makes me go stupid. By the way, that takes a lot). There’s that immortal exchange, “Do you expect me to talk, Goldfinger?”

“No, Mr. Bond, I expect you to die.”

Without the zingy John Barry score, my brain managed to escape from the death trap and force the body into giving back 1.4 lbs. of the 2.4 it was hoarding. I didn’t have James Bond’s nifty swell gadgets, either. Nope. Because the scale read 181.2 on Friday, I push it into a Monster Burn: one and a quarter hours on weight training, 45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death and an hour on the elliptical, pushing it. This was good for 1962 calories and I was on the first weight machine at 5:15 AM.

And yet, despite all that work, the scale did not move yesterday. Ask me if I was angry (pissed off is just high level annoyance. I prefer to be annoyed in those cases). Go on.

Yeah. Oh, yeah. So, given the body’s intransigence, I socked it with a cardio session at 8:30 PM. Rotating Staircase of Death, Baby.

Goldfinger sucked out of the plane. However, not being gay, I will not sleep with Pussy Galore.

Today was Pilates day and (brace yourselves), not only did I complete a Pilates Roll-up, but I DID ALL OF THE ONES REQUIRED IN CLASS. LEVEL 2!!! AND LEVEL 3!!!! Huzzah! AND I was able to perform most of the other exercises at the intermediate level!

There was one low point (my fault): we were doing a squat series of exercises and my back and my butt were both complaining loudly to me. The instructor (the usual sweet, kind lady, not the JMPD from last week) told us to “push our tushies” down a bit more. I said, “My tushy hates you right now.” Fortunately, she forgave me, but this is not the first time the ass had an exercise opinion.

I used to live in Concord, New Hampshire and had started walking daily with one of my friends. We’ll call her Sally (she looks like she could be named Sally). Concord (pronounced “CONkerd.” Martin Sheen never quite got it right on “West Wing” and he was supposed to be FROM there) is hilly. We got to the worst on the walk (I cannot remember the street name, but it ran up by the hospital) and she was way ahead of me. She was ahead of me because I had to stop, bend over and not barf while puffing and panting. Sally turned to call back and see if I was okay. I told her, “My ass hates you and so do I.” Fortunately, she did not take offense and we are still friends. Of course, we haven’t really seen each other in a few years.

With success (sustained success, even) at the Pilates Roll-up, this only leaves sustained jogging and the Push-up as the remaining activities to be conquered. I discovered during class today that my right side (from the hip down) is not as strong as my left side and I’m pretty sure it’s because of the knee (and I do admit to babying it). That may present an obstacle to running/jogging, we’ll see.

I was talking to another friend last night, Annie, who just had surgery to repair the meniscus in her left knee. She had expected to get off the operating table and a day later, be able to get into her high heels and life would go on as before. It’s been quite a rude shock to her that she must now undergo physical therapy and it’s challenging. I was telling her about Pilates and my challenges and now, the gauntlet has been thrown down: I am now to work on mastering the “Man” push-up while she sticks with her PT and doesn’t expect to jump up and run. And believe me, there will be monitoring.

Ay yi yi.

The Part of the 179 lbs Woman Will Be Played by A 181 lb. Woman Today

181.4 lbs. No explosion. I think I know where I went off the rails. Damn you, sodium! Plenty of water down the hatch. Grumble. Grumble.

Two firsts yesterday (3 if you count the Mavs winning the NBA Championship. I want one of those “Cavs for Mavs” T shirts that they have in Cleveland). I tried kale and I walked out of Pilates class. We’ll take these occurences in chronological order.

After putting in my hour of cardio, I changed shoes, grabbed yoga mat and headed for Pilates class, anticipating the usual teacher. She wasn’t there. Instead, we got a substitute with JMPD (Jillian Michaels Personality Disorder). First things first; she headed for the cabinet to strap on the wireless mike (Red Flag) and started up some energetic music (Another red flag). Anus (not her real name) announced that she didn’t conduct traditional Pilates; she teaches something called “Piyo” (bright pink flag) and it was very popular in her home gym (Big whoop). We were told Piyo was very athletic, combining the most challenging elements of Pilates and Yoga (to quote Denis Leary “thus the fucking name.” He was talking about Dunkin Donuts, what so proudly I hail. Best iced coffee on the planet). We were going to sweat and be tired. Lady (and I use the term loosely), I already sweat and get tired in a standard Pilates class. I do not give a rat’s, Mickey’s, Minnie’s or Mighty Mouse’s ass if half the room had just finished up the Body Pump class. I regard these hybrids with the same lack of respect I have for designer dogs (Puggle? Chiweenie? IT’S A FRIGGIN’ MUTT!!!! ESPECIALLY IF IT HAS BEAGLE IN IT OR THE BLEND RESULTS IN A TRULY STUPID NAME!!!!! GO TO THE SHELTER!) and fusion cuisine (Deep fried sushi? Pass). Another regular started rolling her mat. She had just finished the Body Pump class (this is a very fit lady) and we both figured that this wasn’t our bag. This was right after Anus announced that she had subbed our class a couple of weeks before and gotten “very positive reviews” (Yeah, by the sweat junkies. I was out that day: jewelry making class). I reviewed with my feet. Now is not such a good time for me to raise bail because I had punched a PiYo instructor in the face. Of course, I might have been able to get a recommendation on a good one: there are a couple of guys with T shirts from bail bondsmen and probable prison tats. I’m thinking frequent fliers: 5 bonds, no skip, you earn the T shirt.

The other first was just about equal in the success department: kale. I had picked up a bag at Trader Joe’s, having heard good things about it and we all need to eat our dark leafy greens. The bag described the contents as a “wild cabbage” that was suitable for eating in salad or sautéing (instructions on bag). I pulled out a leaf and gave it a nibble. Tasted like cabbage. Okay, I can work with this. I dug out a pot, added a half tablespoon of olive oil and commenced to sautéing (with plenty of garlic. Garlic is our friend, especially when it comes to camouflage. However, some combinations have explosive potential and perhaps should be preceded by a good dose of Beano. Interesting fact: many cabbage dishes contain caraway seeds because caraway lessens the gas generated by cabbage). I dumped some chicken into a dish and awaited the kale’s complete wilting.

Perhaps I should have waited longer. To say the stems were tough is an understatement. It was like trying to bite a redwood. The flavor was changed by the cooking process and the tough, chewy texture was not an enhancement. I’m thinking next time, remove the leaves from the stems. It may work as part of a salad mix or be more palatable as just leaves. Warning: kale seems to have a lot of naturally occurring sodium. Proceed accordingly. I will be examining the recipes for Portuguese kale soup. Sounds like a viable alternative.

Today was weight training and an hour of cardio. The cardio would have been at least 45 minutes on the Rotating Staircase of Death except that my right kneecap said, “Oh, no you don’t, Bitch” while I was on the abductor (outer thigh) machine. My right kneecap does not care for pressure and while I was moving boxes on Saturday, I managed to give it a good, solid head-on whack against. This means stopping still, clenching jaws like a Great White Shark with a mouthful of Robert Shaw and willing myself not to cry. It passes, but this shit hurts. It hurts a lot and is very defensive for a few days afterwards. No stairs, no treadmills. Elliptical, it is (I’m psyching myself up for another shot at the spinning).

A curious thing happened yesterday and today: I got so wrapped up in my music and keeping up with it that I forgot to watch the timer on the machine. Net result was rather than carefully timed 6 minute extra effort burns, I was doing 20 minutes at an accelerated pace. Yeah: one-third of the total workout sustained at a more intense pace without breaks in between intervals.

I used to have a pair of inline skates. And I was afraid of them. Well, afraid of falling off of them (and this was before the doctor who told me I was “too old and too top-heavy” for inline skating). One Sunday, I took them down to the parking lot of a local business that I knew wasn’t open. At first, I was tentative and my skating was choppy and erratic. Then, as I was trying again, my mind started to wander to some pressing issues I needed to resolve. I was so focused on those problems that I wasn’t paying attention to my skating. When I came back to reality (so to speak), I was skating with smooth, strong strokes and maintaining my balance without a problem.

The same thing happened yesterday and today with the elliptical:  I was so focused on something else and rather distracted that I didn’t notice I was working harder than usual and maintaining the harder pace. John Mayer’s cover of “Route 66” (from the “Cars” soundtrack. What’s your point?) and Van Halen (Diamond Dave) had me going and going hard. Torquemada saw me and gave me a thumbs up (she loves to see me suffering).

I’ve got your PiYo right here.

Going, Going, Gone

185 lbs. Plateau broken! Woo and Hoo! You can’t see it, but I’m dancing like Snoopy. Elation may help you lose weight.

.4 lbs. stand between being down 40 lbs. and me. Those four tenths of a pound should watch their ass; it’s in my sights.

Douchebags in the steam room (what else is new): Right under the sign that says, “Don’t pour water on the thermostat,” he was pouring water on the thermostat. Doesn’t give a shit if it’s shut down for days because of his actions. The other douchebags left their towels lying behind. I called out to one “Hey, you forgot your towel” and got “That’s okay.” I don’t understand how grown adults, not in their own homes, feel no sense of responsibility for cleaning up after themselves. I can understand and forgive a forgotten water bottle or towel, but sticking your gum to the underside of a piece of workout gear (not yours) is unsanitary and childish. Leaving weights in a heap away from the racks is inexcusable.

I get a chuckle out of the competition for parking spaces in front of the doors. This includes seemingly healthy and sound bodies (body builders, even) emerging from cars with handicapped parking hang tags. Just can’t take those extra steps ore else it’s too much exercise.

I ran out of the Air Detox that I had been using on my sneakers. I had shifted to the Whole Foods answer to Febreze. The problem is that the more natural stuff is vetiver scented (look it up). Effective, yes, but my feet smelled like incense, which doesn’t quite jive with a gung ho effort to move and be active. I’m going with the real deal. This may not be earth shattering, but stinky sneakers are no joke. I could have won the annual Rotten Sneaker contest put on by Odor Eaters.

I’m still jazzed from yesterday’s encounter with the smaller jeans and with the plateau break this morning, I’m, well, I’m dancing like Snoopy (The Christmas special). Normally, when I embark on a big project or journey (like moving across country), I know I’m on the right track if I ask myself “What the hell am I doing?” I’ll make an exception for the weight loss project and the blog. For once, I’m finding the validation within myself. I can look in the mirror and see that I’m doing a good job. I’m hesitant to say I’m proud of myself or I love myself, although that’s essentially self-esteem. There’s a fine line between having a healthy self-image or self-confidence and being a narcissist or egomaniac. The former is essential to taking proper care of oneself and functioning effectively in the world. The latter is usually a cover for low self-esteem. There’s also a fine line between being excited over an accomplishment and sharing that excitement and talking about yourself exclusively.

An interesting development from Pilates class today. If you’re squeamish, this is your exit. Now, in Yoga class, there is a move to stretch the spine: you’re on your back, you spread your arms out . Now bend one knee and lower it across your other leg ( It’s still stretched out and keep your shoulders on the mat) so that you’re twisted in the midriff. When I used to do this move with Denise Austin, my cats would jump off the couch to roll and stretch on the floor with me. Lila the yoga instructor tells us that this move massages the internal organs.

Apparently, the Pilates 100 move will do the same thing. Okay, a Pilates 100 is where you’re on your back, legs in the air (knees bent in Level 1, legs straight up in the air in Level 2 and legs held at an angle in Level 3) and while you’re lying in this pose, you beat (gently) your arms up and down at your sides, inhaling on a five count and exhaling on a five count. You do this twenty times, hence the name of the exercise. Oh yes, and your “core must be engaged” meaning you’re sucking in your gut. Abdominal muscles that have been on an extended vacation hate Pilates. I have proof.

Today, while performing Pilates 100 (and the other two exercises that accompany it), in addition to “feeling the burn,” I also felt my stomach growling and gurgling like I hadn’t eaten in three days and just got a whiff of good barbecue. I was getting nauseated (Not nauseous. If you’re nauseous, you make other people sick. Look it up) and it cut into the effectiveness of my workout. (Here’s the gross part) When I got home, I couldn’t get to the bathroom fast enough and I think anything that had been hanging out in my colon for the past 5 years made like Elvis and left the building. Right now, I feel as cleaned out as Filene’s Basement after a bridal gown sale.

I still can’t execute a damned Pilates roll-up, though.

Rotten to the Core

198.2 lbs. I am tired of this bullshit. 2 lbs. on overnight is water weight. 2 lbs. up overnight and it plateaus for 4 days DESPITE days with yoga and cardio, weight training and cardio and Pilates and cardio is an indicator that something isn’t working right. If the scale doesn’t go down tomorrow morning, we’re going back to doing the eating my way. Fuck oatmeal.

To the heavily tattooed chick in the locker room complaining about the difficulty of getting together money for dental work: Not to judge, Sweetheart, but if you’d maybe skipped a couple of those big pieces, masterworks though they are, you might could afford the dentists, some health insurance and the doctor bills that are going to come with your looming hepatitis. And, 20 years down the road, you wouldn’t be covered in unrecognizable runny ink. Just an idea, you know. Maybe a shift in priorities is in order. Part of being a grown-up and all that.

 I had (as requested by Torquemada) done 30 minutes of interval training on a treadmill that slowly bucked. Grade up to 18.5% then down to 3% and a few stops in between.  I was supposed to be dripping in sweat. I complied. And then headed into a class.  Hey, I have a request from the trainer.

Today was the first time I’ve ever taken a Pilates class (outside of a DVD and Amy’s yoga with a layer of Pilates).  It’s quiet and subtle.  You work your muscles deeply. It’s about balance and strengthening your core. The instructor asked us to grab some light weights to use. In hind sight, she should have asked us for a safety word.

There is no “Child’s Pose” in Pilates where one can park and silently whimper. Just a nice, sweet-faced lady at the front of the room telling you go from flat on your back up and over all the way to touch the toes of your outstretched legs. This is a Pilates Roll-Up. I couldn’t even do one of those bastards modified. We are talking serious shame. One woman gave me a “you don’t belong in this class” look. I’ve got news for you, Sister! Yoga and Pilates have given you a great body: too bad it ends at the neck, BUTTERFACE.

But I hung in there. I’m mopping the floor like it’s the 1986 NBA playoffs in the Boston Garden (then, it was condensation from the ice below. Now, it’s sweat. Mine. I should have collected a jar of it for Torquemada as proof), but I do as much as I can of the exercises. It is not much, but I’m working it.

I thought my abs and glutes hated me after the Friday training session. We are talking torched tushie here. Burning buns. 

I am good at focusing during exercise until we get to the point where the blood flow to my brain is diminished. When Paula (the instructor) told us to flex our feet and pound pizza dough towards the ceiling: “Little kicks, little kicks,” my mind went to “Seinfeld” and Elaine Benis’s dancing. Paula said something about little donkey kicks. I have been kicked by a horse (okay, so it wasn’t a donkey, but it was an equine) and there was nothing little about it (Damned horse was out to get me. I was moving in on her head to grab her bridle and she spun around and got me with both back SHOD feet. This horse, previously called “Lass” became known as “Lasshole.”  I did it. True story). Same with these. If you are on all fours, then remove a “corner” and while keeping your leg in the air, knee bent and kicking upwards, it’s brutal. NB: Do not eat a burrito prior to Pilates class. Your classmates will thank you.

I keep checking the clock like I’m back in Algebra at Proctor High School (I got bad grades in Algebra). You know how time flies when you’re having fun? It drags when you’re wondering whether barfing is in your immediate future. (There is a special Vomit Corollary to the Theory of Relativity)

I will return to this class, mostly out of spite (Not directed at the instructor, you understand. The abs and glutes need to be taught a lesson. They’re very bad abs and glutes and time outs just don’t work. In fact, time outs just enable their bad behavior).

As noted, I’ve been stuck on an undesirable plateau since Thursday (and an even longer one prior to that, not quite so undesirable, but still). For the first time since I started using the, the progress line on my weight loss chart on My Net Diary is even with the projected progress line. I’ve been ahead of it all along, but this, this is not acceptable.  I have old friends in storage waiting for me and this nonsense delays the reunion. Friends like two pairs of 501 jeans  and Ann Taylor turtlenecks. A black velvet dress (strapless, sweetheart neckline, ballerina skirt) that went to see Luciano Pavarotti in concert. I want to see these again.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to go shotgun a sweet potato. No eating after 7 PM.