Duh, Winning

176  lbs. BUT…

Operation Overlord (aka D Day, June 6, 1944 aka the first 20 minutes of “Saving Private Ryan”) did not end World War II. Neither did Midway, Guadalcanal, the Battle of the Bulge or the Battle of Britain. However, combined, they won the war (anybody piping up with Hiroshima or Nagasaki at this point just to be a smartass, shut up. I’m making a point). Let me share some of the victories in my campaign:

-          Lila the yoga teacher keeps calling me “The Incredible Shrinking Woman.”   : )

-          I am wearing a cashmere sweater that has been too small for over 8 years. There’s a little room in it.

-          While the scale number is stuck, strength is manifesting itself in the following ways:

I was able to complete the Half Moon pose (foot on the floor and the hand on the same side as the foot diagonal from it with opposite foot in the air and opposite hand on hip.  See photo) Up until VERY recently, I had to have both hands on the ground.

I don’t have to modify Plank. A back issue of “Self” magazine, Julianne Hough said something about Plank being her favorite core workout. Dawn suddenly broke over Marblehead (meaning, I saw the light) and I’m working Plank with gusto. Those abs are going down.

I didn’t have to stay on one knee for Crescent pose. And the beat-up right knee is holding up.

And as for Dancing Warrior: I lasted 5 times longer than I used to! 5 seconds v. 1. Yeah, it’s going to take a lot of work.

Not so much on the yoga push-up, either. However, the triceps have been getting my attention, as have the obliques.

                I didn’t feel like I was going to die while I was digging around in the storage unit the other day.  I  was moving stuff by myself

I can stand to look at myself in the mirror. Not necessarily naked (still see a big “apron” of fat around the middle that I don’t want to look at), but I can see a jawline and skin tightening up. I will never be mistaken for Michelle Pfeiffer (damn), but I look okay.

A lot of experts will tell you that it’s necessary to love yourself and to have a positive body image in order to improve the shape/condition of your body. I found it extremely difficult to love myself when sedentary and eating without regard to what or how much. The fact that I get antsy if I don’t go work out, take care over what I eat and measure my portions tells me I care more about myself than I did before I started. (By the way, to the “fat activist” who’s a proponent of Health At Every Size: I think it undermines your message of dignity and respect for all if you refer to overweight people as “fatties,” a term used for emotional and verbal abuse).

As I am strengthening the core muscles (think of a cummerbund), I’m finding that the back issues are clearing up, even those up in the shoulders. Tripping, falling, hitting head on sidewalk kind of set me back a week, but progress is still being made.

I’ll have those damned 501s on my butt by the end of January.

Inside the Mind of a Yogi (or a Boo Boo)

185.2 lbs. I earned it.

These are some of the thoughts that go through my mind in yoga class. During Downward Dog and Plank:

If they were still with me, these two would be leading a pararde (there were others) back and forth under me. They did it in life. I have witnesses. And I can feel them doing it, even though they're long gone.

And while I'm in Down Dog, I think it's a very good thing I like  the smell of my fabric softener because I spend a lot of with my shirt sliding over my head.

On attempting Tree Pose:

He makes it look so easy. Bastard.

The Angels fan, normally a very cute, agreeable guy, just decided to bait me...

Creative visualization during meditation. Keeps me at peace.

Uttanasana (Forward Fold). With a little gentle pushing, I can just about get my nose to my kneecap. If I ever get the leg behind the ear, I'm signing up for E Harmony.

Ah, yes, a twist. It must be working because my spine sounds like so much bubble wrap. And feels it.

Dolphin pose: Downward Dog on your forearms instead of on your wrists (I slipped and fell on my way to class and the left wrist took the impact).

I DON'T SEE YOU DOING THIS, FLIPPER! (And I actually took that picture. I'm very proud of it).

Yoga push-up. Yeah, sure. Start me on the ground, I can do the "up." Coming back down, not so much. Dear Flappy Triceps: you are on the radar.

The spinal release at the end of class. I used to work out to the Callanetics video tapes and they had a similar twist (twist leg and trunk in one direction, keep other leg straight and shoulders on the floor). I always had help:

 Yup. These two would jump off the couch and do this whenever I got on the floor and stretched. Leave it to the pros to show you how it's done.

And the final relaxation/reward:

A Day in the Life

179.8 lbs. Let’s see, South Beach, Atkins, Cabbage Soup, Beverly Hills Fruit Bat…nope. Can’t find the rules for the Tasmanian Devil Plateau Buster Diet. How am I supposed to know how much dynamite to swallow?

Saw some interesting clothing at the gym today, both on men. One was a guy in solid blue from head to foot, all the same shade. Either he’s a huge Dodgers fan or really, really anxious for the new Smurf movie (may it crash and burn. Those little blue bastards give me the creeps. Smurf them). The other guy was wearing a San Francisco Giants cap, but the cap was made in Dodger colors. Obviously, camouflage. Hey, it could save his life. It works for chameleons.

Despite the current plateau, I felt bold enough to wear a sun dress out in public today. Granted, I’m not happy about the bra straps on display (they’re nude, but I’m the whitest woman in captivity, so pretty much anything shows). Nobody stopped me. As far as I know, there was no snickering behind my back. The cops didn’t stop me (maybe my time spent the other day served a purpose. We shall see). I was rewarded for going out on this particular limb by not encountering any resistance to me wearing what I want. And yes, when somebody mocks your clothing choices, they are resisting your choices. Even me when I talk about women wearing big furry white boots over skintight leggings (or dainty, lacy tops over big, leather boots. I still don’t get that one). Be that as it may, I feel it is our fashion duty to resist all Ed Hardy clothing. Initially, it was intriguing to see tattoo designs incorporated into fashion, but it was over-licensed and as quickly over-exposed  and old hat as “The Macarena,” Smurfs and the cast of “Jersey Shore.”

For the record, some of the gentler Beatles tunes and especially "Here Comes the Sun" work nicely as yoga background.

And no, I’m not wearing any shaping garments except for the afore-mentioned bra. It’s supposed to be in the high 90s over the next few days and that is just begging for a truly hellacious rash. Granted, it could be argued that a girdle could lead to weight loss under such circumstances, but I wouldn’t do except on a $1,000 bet. Go ahead, bet me: I could use the dough.

The Greek chorus in my head (which is also the one that I’ve recently stopped from telling me I need to put on lipstick and mascara before leaving the house. It’s a feminine chorus.) is scandalized at my audacity. How dare I walk around with being reined in (BTW: I keep seeing that term misspelled by professional writers on websites such as CNN, MSNBC and the LA Times. The LA Times is particularly bad with such matters, as well as factual errors by their bloggers). How dare I expose my arms? Ugh, the world will end.

Well, my wearing a sun dress ended the world about as effectively as the Rapture prediction for May 21. Of course, that guy has amended his timetable to October 21 (the Mayans are suing because that screws up THEIR end of the world prediction. This is like all the state primaries piling onto February and March to steal a march (bad pun) on New Hampshire, which has a law that states its primary shall be first in the nation. These friggin’ people give me a headache, but I digress). Maybe my wearing the sun dress precipitates it. I’ve got the power (which reminds me of some more songs to add to the “Workout Tuneage” playlist).

It was Yoga Day and (per the orders of Torquemada. I’m not afraid of much, but the Pushy Peanut is high on the list) I also put in some quality cardio time. I found one of the newer yoga regulars on the treadmill next to me and as we were discussing how much we love Lila and her class, the guy on the other side of me started quizzing us about the class. Seems he’s wanted to give it a try, but was intimidated by the notion of practicing among advanced students (like me. Right. Some of those poses, I make a yak on ice skates look graceful). WE assured him that Lila was the way to go and in fact, the classmate had joined because he’d been urged and pushed to do so by one of the other guys in the class because, well, it’s mostly women and testosterone evaporates in the presence of overwhelming estrogen. There’s scientific evidence. (On the flip side, I’ve done stand-up comedy…surprised?...in lineups so testosterone heavy that I was able to call up meaningless sports statistics during the night. We’ll see if the new guy shows up.

Oh, yeah: I managed to actually JOG for over 5 minutes. This is progress.

I’m still having issues with the balance poses IF I keep my feet together as I’m supposed to do. If I widen the stance, I do better, but the one-legged stuff still needs work. Never mind the forest: if this Tree falls over in yoga class, it makes a noise. In fact, it makes a lot of noise that sounds like George Carlin’s “Seven Words You Can’t Say on Television.” (Interesting fact: in the law text book that covered the Supreme Court case included those seven words in a footnote. It would have been cheaper just to buy his album).

One of the other regulars, a nice lady with shoulder issues (we both have to modify quite a bit) and I got into a bit of trouble at the beginning of the class when we were working core muscles (the new buzz term for abdominals, lower back and butt) in the Boat pose (balance on your butt with your legs in the air and reach up with your arms) and both of our Boats kept capsizing. This wouldn’t have been a problem except that we’d catch each other’s eye and giggle.  At the end of class, she told me I had very beautiful legs. That was nice. (By the way, Guys? Women can tell each other we look good or we admire various body parts or clothing without thinking it makes us sexually attracted to the complimentee).

On top of these good little bits that happened today, I’ve also got a new job (Yea! And that’s the correct spelling by the way) that will allow me to continue my intense physical training schedule. That and the fact that the gym is open 24/7 (it’s part of the name).

I need to look into whether it is possible to tighten skin after a substantial loss without the help of a plastic surgeon (which I may need anyway due to the nascent turkey wattle (aka a Reagan) under my chin. I’ll find out who took care of Ann Coulter’s). I’ve been watching “Extreme Makeover: Weight Loss Edition” and those folks are undergoing the program with an eye towards earning skin removal surgery. Of course, they’re starting out from weights like 651 lbs. and 500 lbs., so the skin’s been stretched pretty far. Now that I type it, it seems a little squicky that people would compete for such a thing, but the guy who was featured last night said that he’d like to inspire people who watch the show. I give him credit for dropping 300 + lbs. in 12 months. He literally worked his ass off despite  a very prominent abdominal hernia on display on top of a week in the hospital to deal with pneumonia. He wanted the  new body enough to just keep pushing.

And so do I.

Amazingly Enough, My Scale is Still In One Piece

187.2 lbs. God, it is rumored that You have created Man in Your own image. Is this Your way of telling me You have a fat ass? Or are You jealous of me getting into those 501 jeans? Huh?

As a “fuck you” gesture to the 2.2 lbs. of water weight stowing away on my body, I just ate a Chocolate Almond Horn. This still has me with a 1602 calorie loss for the day, so no apologies.

Patience may be a virtue, but it’s not one of mine. Insert annoyed sigh. Torquemada just shrugged and said, "That's the name of the game." Oh, really? You mean, if I do this the way everyone says I should, it's reasonable for it NOT to work? Is that what you're saying? Fuck that noise.

Yoganesia (yo-GUH-neezha): (noun) The syndrome in which the yoga instructor completes a series of poses for one side of the body and completely forgets the other side of the body.

Despite yesterday’s post about being angry at the 2.2 lbs. (which I still am because the little fuckers haven’t left), I am not hormonal. It is not “that time of the month,” nor am I 1)with child, 2) freshly dumped or 3) recently insulted by a cheerleader. Sometimes, a chocolate almond horn is just a chocolate almond horn.

The only thing mitigating my anger at the moment is the Red Sox are winning. Against the Yankees (aka The Forces of Darkness).  However, as the great Yogi Berra (the only NY Yankee I ever liked. We are not discussing members of the local Tee Ball team here) said, “It ain’t over til it’s over.”

1400 calorie burn yesterday was not enough to budge things downward. Fine. Plan B is another big burn tomorrow (I would have done an hour of elliptical today, but I took too long to get to the gym before yoga class) BUT tomorrow’s food is going to be mostly protein. We’ll see if replacing more meals with the protein shake makes a difference.

It would be nice to wake up to a lower number on the scale tomorrow. Yes, I feel entitled. I’ve put the work in on it. And while we’re at it, a winning Mega Millions ticket and George Clooney’s phone number would also be nice. As Yul Brynner said (seemingly every 10 minutes in “The Ten Commandments”), “So let it be written, so let it be done.”

In a shocking development today, just before the start of yoga, I was describing Pilates class to a well-built young gentleman (yoga regular and damned good at it, too) and especially the dreaded Pilates roll up which, as of Sunday, was still beyond my abilities, I don’t care how you modify the fucking thing. He didn’t know what I was talking about so I demonstrated it for him…

And completed the Pilates roll up. How the hell did that happen? I tried it couple of more times and did it pretty easily. I began to hear the “Twilight Zone” theme.

I held a Tree Pose for more than a nanosecond today. On each side. It was an out of body experience because CLEARLY this was not my body doing these things. You know, when the aliens abduct you and do their experiments, you never remember it. Somebody swapped my body with that of a much fitter person. Who is probably pissed off. My body is probably running from Marvin the Martian right now, holding the Illudium Q 37 Exploding Space Modulator  (Bugs Bunny stole the Q 36 version. Steven Jobs is hinting that the IQ 38 may be introduced in time for Black Monday Christmas shopping. Or it may be delayed, something to do with an unstable supply of instant Martians).

Have I reached critical mass, though? Has the Great White Belly shrunk enough to permit (duhn duhn duhn) PAINTING MY OWN TOENAILS????? Between the yoga and the shrinking belly, could be. God knows, I think I’ve learned the Vietnamese for “Okay, I think I have the winner in today’s biggest feet pool!” (Size 9.5 or 10, depending on the shoe) and “Have you ever seen such weird toes?” (I have Roman toes, meaning the second toe is longer than the big toe. Marilyn Monroe had Roman toes. We also share June 1 as our birthday) or “I bet she can pick up a dime with these toes!” (No, I can’t. But I did win a contest with my younger sister one time by picking up car keys, an emery board, a quarter and a nickel. It was her idea)

I had that day last month where I dropped 5 lbs. overnight. That was a great day. I’d like to have another one. Every day or week is too much, but I don’t see a problem with once a month. Well, how about that; it’s a new month!  What are the odds?

Despite the most recent setback, I’m feeling good enough that I would hit on Hugh Jackman. I have a short list of men from whose wives I would fully accept an ass-kicking in exchange for knowing their men in the Biblical sense. Mrs. Jackman is Number One on the list, mostly because there is no Mrs. George Clooney. I would accept a gang beatdown by the wives and girlfriends of the men from “300” (chick flick) provided the men were whipped back into cape and loincloth shape.

But I digress. Pardon me while I wipe some drool from the corner of my mouth.

This gain plus plateau is getting busted, one way or another, and getting busted to my liking. I am getting my ass into those jeans, dammit.

Confessions

186.6 lbs. yesterday and today.  PLATEAU BROKEN!  And new one established (God, I hope not)  The Red Sox lost yesterday and  today, the White Sox are in the process of beating the snot out of them.   I volunteer to do their losing for Boston this season. I am that dedicated a fan.

So, 6 day plateau broken and that was by reducing my water intake from a volume equivalent to half of Lake Superior (sans  whitefish and the wreck of the Edmund Fitzgerald) to 8 glasses. A friend who consumes a lot of water out of medical necessity explained the weight of water and the costs of retention. Ha! 2 more pounds and another decade mark down. I will not be denied.

When all the Rapture nonsense was getting attention, my first thought (and a selfish one it was) was “Oh, crap. I’m finally on the way to getting in shape and the world is going to end before I hit my goal weight. They don’t let fat people into heaven. That’s why Gluttony is one of the Big Seven.”  According to the latter day Oracle of Delphi (who must have been working from a lunar calendar. L’Chaim.), October 21, 2011 is when it all ends. God, that really screws up the timetable for getting to my goal weight. My second thought was, “Well, more cheese for me.”

One of the original little Asian ladies  from yoga class with the pile of designer accessories next to her mat told me I looked like I had lost a lot of weight! Yea! I almost hugged her, but she said her shoulders were bothering her. But, still…

I found it necessary to revisit the confessional.

“Bless Me, Father for I have sinned.”

“You again? Go away.”

“No, really, I need absolution.”

“You need to be Catholic to do this. Why aren’t you?”

“That whole transubstantiation thing. I don’t believe Welch’s grape juice and Pepperidge Farm bread becomes the blood and body of Christ. It’s a symbolic act.”

“Aw, Jeez…”

“What? Like you’ve got something better to do? You don’t exactly need reservations to get in here.”

“My head, I’m getting such a headache.”

“I happen to know you sit in there and do Sudoku most of the time.”

“I do not.”

“Right. It’s baseball season. You’re listening to the game in there.”

“Hey, can’t beat the reception in here.”

“Can we get to it?”

“Did you just stick a 20 through the screen?”

“It’s not a bribe if you give me a receipt. Bless me, Father…:

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, cut to the chase.”

“I cheated, Father.”

“What, another hot dog? Big whoop.”

“No, I cheated at yoga.”

“How the hell do you cheat at yoga?”

“Father! Language!”

“Just answer the question.”

“The teacher thinks I pulled off the vinyasa.”

“Is that like one of those mattress tags?”

“No, it’s a flowing series of poses to transition from one to another. You’re supposed to do a push up , then bend upward into a Up Dog.”

“And? I’m just dying from the suspense.”

“Leave the sarcasm to me, Father. I only went halfway down on the push up before I went to the Up Dog. She just saw me in the Upward Dog and congratulated me on my progress. I feel guilty.”

“Wait, so you only got halfway down on the pushup, then did the whatever?”

“Yes.”

“That’s acceptable. I used to watch Lillias! Yoga and You” on WGBH all the time. That’s not cheating.”

“But I’m not getting into the balance poses fully.”

“Well, you’re a top heavy klutz.”

“You want me to come through that screen, Father? I can take you.”

“Sorry. Lillias had a term for not fully getting into the balance poses. It’s called ‘modification.’ You do what you can. My God, that woman was limber.”

“Father!”

“Sorry. What else have you got?”

“I’ve had bad thoughts.”

“Impure thoughts, you mean? Lust?”

“Not really, Father, unless I’m watching “300”. No, I’m talking hateful thoughts.”

“HOME RUN, ANDRE ETHIER! SUCK ON IT, LINCECUM!”

“Father! Focus!”

“Hateful thoughts. I’m listening.”

“The people on their cell phones in the gym, the people wearing their funky gym clothes into the steam room…”

“I noticed your sneakers are minty fresh.”

“It’s an obsession, Father. No stinky feet. I just want to slap them all. And Axl Rose, Jillian Michaels and Ryan Reynolds.”

“Okay, Rose and Michaels, I get, but Ryan Reynolds?”

“I know. Something about him just bugs the shit out of me. “

“Really, is that all you have?”

“Well, there is one more thing…”

“How did I know?”

“I cheated with respect to food.”

“How?”

“At a Memorial Day party. I had a brownie.”

“Gluttony’s a sin, my child. One of the Big Seven. This is serious and you wasted it on a mere brownie?”

“Well, it was a special occasion, Father.  My birthday.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa. Get back, Loretta. Your birthday is June 1. Saturday was May 28. That was just plain cheating.”

“No, Father. This was not a mere brownie. This was a Mandicake brownie.”

“Oooh, the blondie?”

“Nonono, the dark chocolate…”

“Oh, yeah, you mean the one with the…”

“Yeah, and the…”

“Ah, I love those. How many did you scarf?”

“Just one, Father and I counted it in the food diary.”

“Anything else/”

“Two glasses of rose wine.”

“Odd combination.”

“I was channeling a couple of friends who couldn’t be at the party.”

“Ah hah! So it was your own act of communion, my child! You have not sinned!”

“What?”

“Loophole. Hey, I studied law before I entered the seminary.”

“No penance?”

“Just that Chair Pose in yoga. Hint to the wise: don’t eat Mexican before yoga class.”

Bits and Pieces

187.8 lbs. Okay, I think we need to get clear on what it means to bust a plateau. Going in the opposite direction is not what I had in mind.

GWB: Great White Belly, George W. Bush. Hmm. I don’t like either one. Coincidence? I think not.

To the woman who attempted to use and flush an entire box of toilet seat covers: If you are that fearful of germs, perhaps you should just remain in your plastic bubble.

To the sister of the woman who was on the elliptical machine next to me: Ma’am, we’ve never met, but I am truly sorry to hear about your raging yeast infection and money problems. In case you haven’t heard it already, your sister thinks you’re lazy and she’s not going to loan you any more money despite your gross infection.

1.2 lbs. up overnight. Obsession is not just a lousy fragrance by Calvin Klein. I am told that it’s food that your body has not processed yet. If I made my body work 1733 calories yesterday, then something is slowing down the works. The only things I’ve changed since last week (foodwise) are the CORRECT amount of flaxseed oil (2 grams v. the 20 I was ingesting) and the new brand of protein powder. We’ll give it until the end of the week and then decide whether to keep it or ditch it.

Today was yoga with Lila and gym management was on patrol to remove those who weren’t participating in the class. Before anyone gets huffy out there: If you behave like a child, expect to be treated accordingly.

With the weight training and cardio, I’m seeing performance improvement. As far as I can tell, I haven’t really improved in yoga (and in fact, today Plank utterly killed my shoulders. They had better recover in time for tomorrow’s weight training session). Lila, was demonstrating the “Balance on One Foot While Holding the Other One Extended” pose (I have no idea what the Sanskrit translation for THAT is, but I’ll bet it’s as long as a Thai or Sri Lankan last name. Or Welsh village), when someone asked about how long it took to develop enough flexibility to do that. She smiled and said, “Oh, maybe a thousand years.” Ah HA! So it’s not just me.

We’ve all seen the footage of a newborn foal getting to its feet and wobbling about for the first time. However, within a day or two, it’s pretty sturdy and maybe even playing with other youngsters in the paddock. The improvement comes from the legs getting stronger which also improves balance.

I know that my legs are stronger than when I started yoga in April. I would think there would be a corresponding improvement in balance. I have yet to see it. They tremble and I fall over very quickly. It takes longer for particles to travel through the Large Hadron Collider.

I refuse to be defeated by my own body. I WILL get to Tree Pose and whatever the hell you call the Grab Your Big Toe and Hold Your Leg in the Air Poe.

Dr. Oz interviewed mothers and obese children today. I only caught part of the show, but there was a woman in the audience who represents a No Fat Kids group. One of the mothers on stage was talking about the difficulties of raising an obese child and how they “stick out” if the other kids are getting treats and the fat kid doesn’t. The No Fat Kids woman wants the issue to be treated as child abuse. That’s a bit extreme. However, to the lady who can’t say “No” to her child, in the case of “every other kid gets ice cream but mine”: Hey, Lady. If your child was diabetic, would you allow her to have the ice cream just so she wouldn’t feel self-conscious? How about allergic or lactose intolerant? Would you ignore those conditions so your kid is socially acceptable? You know what? Tell the kid no ice cream so she’ll have something to tell the therapist.

I am working up the courage to take pictures in my gym clothes to post. I have shoulders that would not shame me in an off the shoulder dress. The arms aren’t flapping so much. These moments must be recorded for posterity.

By the way, my birthday is Wednesday, June 1 and I’d still like to punch Jillian Michaels in the face. I’ll be fair and not wear my biggest rings, but if someone could arrange that, I’d appreciate it and so would a number of other people.

There are actually muscles under that bubble of fat you call an ass

197.8 lbs. Okay.  2 days to drop the excess 2.4, but okay.

Susan Powter, as loud and obnoxious as she was, (and, according to some, a fraud. It’s the American way. Donald Trump was actually born in Canada. You heard it here first) had a good summary for her philosophy “Eat, Breathe, Move.”  Choose the correct fuel (although her fondness for carbohydrates translated into bigger clothes for me), provide plenty of oxygen so that your internal combustion engine (your metabolism) can burn the fuel and actually make the engine work.

 I’ve worked diligently on the choice and amount of food (although some days, cheese just solves all your problems).  The closest  I’ve come to processed food was buying guacamole from Whole Foods.

As for the breathing, I find that eliminating gluten has helped with that. No shit: since my teens, I was constantly doing battle with my sinuses. Since I’ve pretty much eliminated wheat and gluten from the diet, I’m breathing freely. EVEN AT NIGHT. I used to wake up to full consciousness (of which I was aware) at least once or twice a night and some days, I was dragging my tail feathers so badly, it felt like I had gray fog instead of gray matter between the ears. Unless I’ve had more than  10 cups of water the previous day, I am sleeping through the night like I did as a child. It’s wonderful. The first couple of nights this happened (as a grown-up), I almost cried. I’m still grateful every morning.

As for the move, well...

There’s an infomercial for some exercise program that emphasizes “muscle confusion” as part of the program to get results. My muscles are confused by  being asked to move. I don’t think I’m in the target demographic.

I start tomorrow with a personal trainer. I was very clear about my goals: 125 lbs. by December 31, 2011 (and that was NOT my New Year’s resolution. My only New Year’s resolution was to Bedazzle something. I still have to do that, but I’m leaning towards a jean jacket. Just have to get the jacket and starter kit), learn strength training exercises for upper and lower body, learn the correct form (highly important), establish an exercise regimen that includes cardio work, yoga (for stretching and strength) and resistance. Hey, I’m turning 50 in less than 2 months. I don’t have a family history of osteoporosis, but I don’t want to become physically helpless because my body isn’t strong enough. And, as I have said before, those of you who think I am too old to do this stuff, I have an upraised middle finger with your name on it (and a very large blue topaz ring. Emphasis).

No more arm flaps. I’m not shooting for a set of guns like Madonna (those are scary) or even the First Lady, but when it’s 90 plus degrees in L.A., you want to have the sleeveless option. I prefer sleeveless without feeling like total strangers are criticizing me. You may point out that it’s unlikely people are actually judging and making comments, but I remind you of the following:  1) I have a family history of precisely this kind of behavior, 2) this is Los Angeles, where looks matter.  I’ve had total strangers call me “big and angry” (I’ve also gotten “fat fucking whore” but that was online from someone who didn’t want girls in the Red Sox group on Myspace. Ironically, he had 3 chins according to his picture. And you ask why I’m not dating? Can I trust anyone? I don’t think so) and 3) this is my neurosis, not yours. Plus, upper body strength means better support for the White Mountains (Not my idea. One of my friends from law school came up with that one) and fewer back aches. Biceps and triceps and delts, oh my! There will be reports.

I went to yoga again today. This time, no raging hormones or cramps, but no Lila, either. Phooey. We had Amy.  Amy told us she’d be teaching a combination of Pilates and yoga. My back went up (well, literally, it went up later when we did Cat pose). I was there for yoga, dammit, not the LA Combo platter. Really, how good is the workout going to be if you don’t stick with one thing and teach THAT?

She kicked my ass. Sweetly and emphasizing focus on breathing, she kicked my ass. I’m lucky I have the strength to lift my arms.

I was ready for battle when she walked in. On my way to class (well, Target to get a yoga mat), an LAPD cop car followed me into the parking lot and the officers wanted to know how long I’ve had my car and have I let anyone else drive it. Frankly, I think this was bullshit because when I asked why (TWICE), they continued to say “There’s a warrant for it in connection with a crime.” What crime? More “there’s a warrant.” Finally, I am told that they had run the plate (more bullshit. They were in traffic behind me for less than 2 minutes, including being 2 lanes over at a stop light. I wasn’t doing anything). I am told, get this, that there is an outstanding warrant for driving on a suspended license. But not me. No. They claim the plate came up in connection with…a black male. No names, no dates, no other details. I once wrote a comedy sketch about the LAPD hassling a white female commuter just to prove that they weren’t targeting and profiling by race. I guess I got to live it today.

I needed the stress relief from yoga. I really needed it.

Today, my third session, we got into a balance pose. Umm. I have inner ear trouble stemming from some Godzilla sized earaches that went pretty much untreated (that’s a whole other blog). Suffice to say, I have a ringing in my right ear and looking up will cause my head to swim. I can walk a straight line, but between the vertigo and the midriff Michelin, balance was going to be a challenge. She chose…Tree Pose. For the yoga novice, Tree is the one where you stand on one foot with your other foot balanced somewhere on your leg, depending on your level. As a teenager, in shorts, I would stand in this pose (arms at side, though) for no other reason than it felt comfortable and I could (sole of foot to skin on calf/thigh has pretty good traction). My mother would ask me if I was a Masai tribesman. Hey, it was comfortable. I can still do it, providing I’m wearing shorts.

I wasn’t wearing shorts in class. I thought I caught a “neener neener” kind of look from Amy as she saw me struggle, but when I went to “balance on right foot”, I nailed it and changed my mind about writing in this space about  the name tattooed on her foot being hers and draw your own conclusions.

Unlike the previous two classes, I felt a profound relaxation (except for the muscles that will be protesting later) and felt like I had really worked hard.  Of course, last time, I was so hormonal, I would have pinched the head off a panda (good thing I was nowhere near the San Diego Zoo). I will return.

Twist and Shout

199 lbs. since Saturday. This is one plateau with no complaints.

In order to escape the excruciating pain that was yesterday’s Red Sox game (Rays 16, Sox 5), I rejoined the a gym. That should give you an indicator of how bad the pain was.

Los Angeles is the Universe’s center of self-centered behavior, okay? Parking over two spaces to keep your 93 Camry from getting dinged is a daily occurrence. Interrupting an in-progress retail transaction to ask a long question or bitch is part of the scene. Today, though, I believe a new standard was set: a woman was giving herself a full pedicure in the locker room. She had a towel spread out, tools spread out on said towel and completely oblivious to the women trying to get into their lockers, which they couldn’t because she had the area blocked. And this was Northridge, not even Encino, Calabasas or Brentwood.

There will be more about yesterday back in the gym and other dragons slain, but today, something came up: Yoga class.

I took a yoga course over twenty years ago. I’ve bought a few DVDs and watched Rodney Yee. Didn’t actually get down and perform the moves because I was watching Rodney Yee.  I’ve spent the better part of a VInyasa Flow yoga class in the child’s pose (a polite term for fetal position)  while watching guys do amazing things while balanced on the tips of their fingers. Centered show-offs.

When you get right down to it, the most successful pose for me has been the Corpse Pose. You just lie there. My kind of action.

I’ve been considering enrolling at a yoga/pilates studio, but the cost is prohibitive compared to a full-service gym.  At a full-service gym, you may or may not have the best  experience and the skill levels in the classes are mixed. Yoga is something I want to do right and possibly master (and anybody who tells me “forget it, you’re too old” I have a raised middle finger with your name on it).

I went to the gym this morning expecting to just hop on an elliptical machine for a half-hour. However, the class schedule indicated that a yoga class was starting shortly and I thought “Why not? The Universe must want me to go to this class.”

The Universe has a peculiar and cruel sense of humor.

For starters, I am self-conscious about certain things: following instructions (although, when I was in kindergarten, our evil teacher, Mrs. Simons – and yes, she was evil. Just ask anyone from Brattleboro, VT who either had kids in her class or attended it – told us to draw a brown bear with a black outline. I drew a brown bear with a blue outline. I was 5, not a fashionista and had not learned that you don’t mix brown and blue. Nevertheless, this set off the first of many parent-teacher conferences with my mother), looking bad in an exercise class and looking out of place (see comment  about looking bad in exercise class).

The previous night, the line for yoga class was so long, you’d have thought the IPad 3 was being distributed by the teacher. Today, I was lucky, it was a small class. I would be able to : hear and see.

Small class, all right.  A small group of Asian women with Louis Vuitton exercise mats. Oh, yeah. I blended, especially with one of the gym’s black foam mat. Did I mention I wasn’t expecting to go bend and breathe today?

However, the instructor, Buddha bless her, was not a chirpy little 22 year old vegan with a fake rack. Nice lady about my age (Never mind what THAT number is) and a sweet face. I figured “Okay, I can do this. I will NOT spend most of the class in Child Pose. And I will learn something.

Yeah, I learned that I need to see what the instructor is doing. There’s a matter of trust, certainly. For all I know, this woman is calm, centered and balanced because she’s sneaking Ho-Hos while we all have our eyes closed. Or vodka. Or both.

Beyond that, in these classes, I work on the “monkey see, monkey do” principle to learn moves. “Drop your head and focus on your toes” impedes learning unless the instructor is positioned between said toes (which need a pedicure).  I find myself sneaking looks at what she’s doing and hearing “Drop your heads.” Okay, that’s directed at me, but at least I saw what we’re supposed to be doing…

Sit up straight, butt bones on the floor and breathe. I can do this, except…ah yes, my old arch-enemy, The Great White Belly, raises its ugly head (seriously, it IS ugly. Rubens would have said, “Oh, HELL no” to painting it). My lower back, which has been abused by carrying this sack of crap around for over twenty years, protests LOUDLY over the position. Muscles threaten to spasm.  And this is just sitting. Okay, maybe not the best sign…

She tells us to relax our chins (in my case, all of them0 and breathe deeply through our noses. She tells us to relax our foreheads, especially the space between our eyebrows. I stifle a giggle. This is L.A., land of Botox. I’m willing to bet some of those foreheads haven’t been unrelaxed since the stuff got FDA approval.

We begin to move into other poses, including Child’s Pose. I WILL stick to my plan and not just hang out in this pose and whimper. Especially not the whimpering.

Plank: the GWB (Great White Belly) not only has the back muscles threatening to spasm, but the whole body is shaking. I drop to my knees. NO CHILD POSE!! I WON’T, I WON’T, I WON’T!!!! (Okay, so the attitude is childish, but the pose is not. It is modified Plank).

Downward Dog, the clichéd yoga pose. It’s easier for me than Plank. The stress is on the legs and butt, which have been subjected to MBT (the original toning sneakers) for 2 years, so they’re up to the task. I can do this all day. I’d say I can do it standing on my head, but that’s a different, more advanced pose and you have to travel to India to learn it.

Things are going well until Lila, the instructor (whom I have decided I like and I will follow) puts us in a pose with our feet turned out and then announces we’re doing yoga ballet. Wha…what…WHAT?  BALLET?  DO I LOOK LIKE NATALIE FUCKING PORTMAN? YOGA BALLET? What the hell? The last time I did ballet, I was six, I sucked at it (and tap) and I’m pretty sure I drove the teacher to drink because my idea of learning steps was to SEE WHAT THE OTHER KIDS WERE DOING. However, back to 2011, we are instructed to do a plie and breathe deeply. Lila asks us if we’re sweating, which is good because it’s our bodies getting rid of toxins. I’m not sweating, but I I am suppressing a sudden onset fart storm.  We all have our own ways of expelling toxins and there’s no music to cover the potential noise. As we bend into the pose, my knees, snap like rifle shots. Lila just smiles and says, “That’s natural. It’s okay.” Really? I’ve got something else natural I can do, but I don’t think you want it. My butt cheeks stay clenched for the remainder of the class.

This is followed by putting us back on all fours. Okay. Yeah, I like this lady. I can do this. Now extend your right leg and left arm. Aw, Jeez. You know, balance has never been my long suit, really. I mean, I tripped and fell crossing a street here a couple of weeks ago. My right knee has asphalt embedded in it from Revere Beach Boulevard (yes, Revere, Mass.) when I tried to cross it on a rainy day. I went down, the light turned green and I still can’t tell you how I finished crossing, but crawling was involved. I just stuck with Downward Dog and Modified Plank. Lila says something about “Yogi’s Choice” and the phrase “Hey, Boo Boo!” flashes through my head.

I’m doing okay, feeling confident even though apparently I DON’T actually remember a sun salutation.  Then we get to Warrior Pose.

Ah yes, the Warrior. Downward Dog is clichéd for its name, Warrior is clichéd for its look. Anyone trying to sell you a yoga studio or class will inevitably have a lithe young(ish) woman in Warrior on the brochure cover or posters. Or both. And there’s not just one Warrior, oh no. There’s Two. And Three. Three is where you lift your back foot off the damn ground. Warrior Four is only taught in a certain monastery on the border with Tibet. In that one, you lift both feet off the ground.

I manage to get into Warrior One, shaky but there. The mat doesn’t help. It’s plastic, it’s slick, I slide, I fall out of Warrior Pose. Lila takes away my mat. The back muscles and the abdominal muscles are now conspiring against me. However, I go back to Warrior One. Fuck my muscles. I’m in charge and I say they’re going to do this. Without the slippery mat, I manage to hold the pose and breathe. Ha! Still not in Child’s Pose.  I know I’m going to hurt like nobody’s business, but I’m still not in Child’s Pose. AND Lila walks by me without comment or correction as she patrols the floor. I can do this. I can do this.

Finally, we get to the slowdown portion and sitting again. Lila tells us to feel the energy coming through the floor. Since the treadmills are outside the door, I thought the vibration was the thundering herd that has been running hard for over an hour, but who am I to argue with a yogi?

Yoga gentle? I feel like Mahatma Gandhi has kicked my ass.

She smiles, tells me I did well (yea!) and then advises all of us that drinking a lot of water will help to prevent subsequent pain.  That’s the theory. Uh huh. Well, so will drinking a lot of Maker’s Mark and that one’s been proven.