I Flew to Arizona Yesterday

I had a 6am flight yesterday for a quarterly meeting at the Big Client's office in Arizona. I stressed myself out about waking up at 4:15, but mainly I was a little nervous about flying - again. I had spent twelve hours telling myself flying is no big deal. Pff. It's the take off, mainly, isn't it? And the landing? Oh and any turbulence in between. So, the take off was ok. I tried to read through it, but found myself putting the paper down and burrowing deeply into my mind; snuggling as far down as possible. While escaping the surface thoughts, it's interesting what I came up with. In the brief ten minutes I was mentally deep-sea diving, I managed to come up with a clear-cut family budget revision and a three-year life plan. The rest of the flight was uneventful though I did have the where-with-all to WRITE down the plan my mind had just handed to me. For the flight home, I walked onto the plane confidently. I told myself that there was no need to freak out about the take off. I'm fine. Which kinda worked. Until we hit some turbulence on the initial decent into LA an hour later. I was sitting in the aisle seat next to two big young men possibly on their way to a Laker game. When the turbulence hit -- a nice initial jolt, then more -- I reactively kicked the guy in the middle. His friend at the window seat jarred awake and grabbed the middle guy's arm. We had made him into a turbulence sandwich of our fear. The middle guy joked to his friend, "Dang, man, why are you screaming?" The Window Guy looked at me and said, "I didn't scream, did I? Tell me I didn't scream." I smiled, "No. And sorry I kicked you, Middle Guy." I spent the last 15 minutes of the flight mentally screaming for the plane to get me home. It took a lot of restraint not to let it slip from my lips. The moment we landed, Husband text me, "Are you Ok baby?" Which I thought was generously sweet until he text: "You didn't hear about the plane that went down in NY, did you?" Uh no. I hadn't. I may still be in Arizona now if I had. Hey, guess what I bought and sold at work today? Crime-scene evidence bags. Mmmhmm, the kind you put shell casings and pubic hair in. Rob said, "I wonder if they want us to source fingernails and semen with these?" Why did we buy and sell these bags? We don't ask. 

Bike, Cooking, Bike, Cooking

My flow is shot. My words have run dry, but I'll work through it, choppily, if you let me. * I hardly drive my car anymore, but I drove to the Co-op at lunch break because Maya had to use my bike yesterday. While driving I felt I was in the middle of swirling, heavy, metallic chaos that is barely contained by lines and rules. It's nutz out there! I never feel this way on a bike, which is ironic, considering the metallic chaos could f up my world in a heartbeat. But no, no such feelings when riding. * While driving, I saw a bicyclist on the corner waiting for the light to change. He looked like a sales guy who I had hired to work for my company a lifetime ago. I laughed out loud remembering some of his stories like when he came in on Halloween dressed in a bike helmet, short button-down white shirt, skinny black tie, slacks and a pegged pant cuff. He was a Mormon, but the best part was that he had his 11 year old son wear the same exact thing and that's how they went around together trick o' treating. Or the time he got so drunk while at a party with his wife that he passed out when they got home, naked in the shower after turning on the water. He went down in a way where his left face cheek was covering the drain and water was starting fill the shower unable to go down the drain. His wife couldn't lift him because of drunk-guy-dead-weight syndrome and plus is face was suctioned to the drain. Firefighters had to come and unsuck his face before he drowned. * I've been working a lot lately. Enough where I feel like a robot, a work robot, and it's kind of deaden my brain. I've taken on more work at the job, and after I took it on, I wondered why. It doesn't promise more money, certainly not more praise. The driving force was that I knew I could do it. I knew I could help straighten out the account I primarily work on, and I was tired of it getting so screwed up. But the price has been higher than I thought. I feel numb, like a machine. I wake in the morning and do five million things until I lay my head back down at night. I'm not sure what to feel about this. Because my brain is dead. RIP, brain. * Husband came home the other night and Maya, Mina and I were all sitting on the same chair. Not a love seat or sofa and though it's a big chair, it's still a chair. More funny was that the pugs were trying to squeeze up with us too. Dog-pile on Mami (I won't say literally.) * I went to a 4th Grade Parent Meet Up last night where only the parents of Mina's class got together to get to know each other. A lot of us already know each other from past years, but I met a new mom last night, new to the school. She's a scientist at UCLA where she teaches geology and researches cool stuff like planets under pressure. Then I realized I know three scientists that work at UCLA, two of them women, which gave me an instant pang of pride, oddly. So the cool scientist and I talked about earthquakes and minerals (a little) and then cooking. I'm proud to say I restrained from bringing up my bike. In my mind, I was thinking, Don't do it. Don't talk about biking; don't, goddamn it. But SHE brought up Top Chef so, cool. * I want you to know that of all the people in the world -- grown or not grown --, I would most like to share my chair with the girls. And my bike.

The Work Work-Out

I am fully aware of the benefits of "strength training". I get it. I understand that it is soooo necessary for oh so many reasons such as: So your bones don't crumble inside of your body reducing you to a skin sack. And because it helps your triceps from turning into propelling devices, bat wings or arm capes. It helps prevent your butt cheeks from dragging on the ground and helps your stomach from turning into a lava-like substance that can only be contained behind tight, high pants.

Strength training also keeps you from embarrassing yourself in the following situation: You are carrying groceries to your car, maybe three bags in tow. In the parking lot, you drop your keys and when you squat down to pick them up you feel like you have two grown men on your shoulders when you try to raise back up. You try to get up all smooth and graceful-like because you want to pretend -- for the shoppers around you -- that you are not struggling nor are you as weak as you feel; this all resulting in a pulled hamstring.

I am an expert in Knowing One Needs to Strength Train. Just ask me. But for ME to actually consistently weight train falls into the Amnesia portion of my psyche. I am constantly telling myself, "Ok, gotta hit the weights, yes." Weeks later, "Whoa, gotta do some sqauts here." More weeks pass, "Ok, what was I doing with these weights. I know they are good for me." "Today, I will start weight training immediately." And so forth.

Getting to the gym is hard. And carving it into your schedule; writing it on your calendar; pinning a note to your lapel in the morning is the only way to move working out OUT of the Amnesia part of the brain and into the section called Routine. And I had to do that with my strength training - before I forgot.

At work, Kim has made a back office into a great little make-shift gym. She bought equipment on eBay and out of the Recycler and we've all pitched in bringing hand weights and resistance bands. I even brought in a paint-splattered radio with a broken antenna that I bought in 1992 that has sat in my garage for 10 years because the CD player doesn't work. I'm a giver . . . So, when the gym was finished, about a week after I started working there, I knew it was God's way of saying, Get your ass in there 'cause the weights ain't gonna lift themselves. It couldn't have been a more blatant sign if Kim had built the gym right in my cubicle. And I made a commitment to myself to get in that little gym twice a week, during lunch and push some weights around.

Excuse #1: Here is an audio reel that runs in my head every second of my weight routine: One, two -- is ten reps enough? Ok, twelve then. Is this weight heavy enough? I hate when the weight is too heavy? Do I really have to do another set? GOD THIS IS BORING. Ok, six, seven -- ug. What am I going to do next? Will two exercises be enough? One for legs, one for arms? nine, ten. That's good enough . . . It's near torture for me. And I realized (I am constantly realizing) that I can't think, I have to put my mind on mute and just do it for 30 minutes, twice a week. 30 MINUTES. I CAN DO 30 MINUTES, if I don't talk to myself. 'Cause I really can talk myself in and out of anything and if it's remotely a drag, I'm talking to get out. And if it's about eating a COOKIE, I'm talking myself in. So, sshhh, mind, sshh.

Excuse #2: Our adorable little work gym is the hottest room -- in the world. It's like walking on the face of the sun. It is the only office in the building that gets no air conditioning, and when you open the door you see mirages off the carpet. You enter and your face melts. I'm like, "Kim, why do you have us working out in Satan's sauna?" And poor Kim felt so badly she brought in two huge industrial fans that just blow around the swirling heat gasses, but they really do help. Especially when you stand right in front of them. The first day I worked out in there, I did my lunges right in front of a humongous fan; as I counted my reps, my voice warbled and vibrated, that's how close I was to the fan. Kim peeked in. She said, "What? Are you shooting a workout video in here?" I then realized how Beyonce I looked with the hair blowing a la music video and me trying to keep perfect form, and of course I was talking to myself which probably looked like I was lip synching.








Here I am working out.








I've been going. To our little hot gym. Two times a week; Tuesday and Thursday at noon for 30 minutes. Because I just have to. I can do 30 minutes and whine and talk all I want, but I just have to like having to do laundry. I don't want to do laundry so often, but I have to. So, I've been keeping my commitment to my strength training regime. Me and my coworker, Teri; we've been diligent. Teri's got her own staunch commitment that she's sticking to. Maybe not the exact as mine, but I'm sure they are similar. We're not necessarily work-out buddies, but we find comfort in the fact that someone else Means It This Time. We talk a little, but not much, and we lift away. Teri's driven by her own goals, and I try to engage my core and reel in my swinging triceps and pull up my butt that was looking sad . . .Don't be sad, butt because I think I'm on track to finally making this Routine.