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.

Day 2 of Turbo Test 2005

Yesterday, still high on my commitment to TT05, I did near perfectly. AnnaRita may comment that I had a tad too much fruit or not enough protein or a half a cup of coffee that she's just gonna have to pry from my dead, cold hands, but I did not eat the following:

* A bag of Michelles' chocolate chip cookies
* A bag of Uncle Eddies Peanut Butter Chocolate Chip Vegan cookies
* A large bar of Orange Zest Carob
* A bag of Hav A Chips
* Four pounds of malt-barley sweetened chocolate almonds

Not one morsel did I have of the above.

I drank lots of water.

And I took Wiggy Terri's Hip Hop class last night.

Today was my oldest daughter's playoff basketball game leaving me no time to get Day 2's workout in. On TT05, I have to workout every day for 10days. But Papi offered to be late to work and take the girls to school so I could take COC's 6am class. (Yes, she has a 6am class because she has scheduled classes before and after work with this whole "No Excuses" theory in mind - whatever, I have plenty more excuses than just time constraints.)

I got up at 5:30 this morning and hauled ass to a gym in Rancho Santa Margarita because this is where the Turbo Cult Headquarters is. But I was ready to get my turbo on, looking shitty, quite possibly smelly and probably mismatched. But there was no 6am class. There was no class because dumbass (me) didn't look at the schedule to confirm that 6am classes are given every day, which apparently they are not. COC is peppy but even Kelly Ripa needs a break or two. I practically yell FUCK at the counter scaring the early-morning towel boy . . .and I go workout anyway. But let me tell you how over the whole gym experience I am. . .

I'm sick of free weights and self motivation, of women in their 50's with hard-ass titties and micro outfits grinding against their trainers. I'm sick of trainers. I'm sick of brain-dead treadmilling and watching the brain-dead news while doing so. I'm sick of germ-infested benches because god knows when the last time they sanitized them from every single person in RSM's DNA. I'm sick of meat heads burning a hole in me with their very subtle stares as I try to do some squats. I'm really sick of said meat heads trying to talk to me as I huff and puff on the stairmaster -- though I never get sick of telling them, Beat it! I'm sick of watching every . . .single . . .second . . .click . . .by . . . on the treadmill/stairmaster/elliptical bringing me closer to the end of the mind-numbing work out. I am sick of talking myself through the entire cardio ride - "Ten more minutes, you can make that." "Ok, I lied, three more minutes until ten more minutes, but think of how good you'll feel when you get to five more minutes, or five minutes until five more minutes . . ." "Please machine, break down, please break down. I will thee to break down . . ."

I did work out though. For a fucking hour with no caffeine and no walkman and no COC just telling me what to do to some rad hip hop mix. All at 6am. After the workout, I felt good and relaxed -- until it took me a goddamn hour to get from Rancho Santa Margarita to Irvine because every SUV in world rests and hides out in RSM and Coto de Caza until they all awaken at 7:30am with a fury and clog all the streets of the OC. An hour, which I did not take well. I became a rag doll flopping forward hitting my head on the steering wheel and flopping back with slack jaw hitting the head rest. And I did a lot of yelling.

So, I can't really say that today's workout was stress relieving.
But there's only 5 days left of the Turbo Test - actually 3 more days until 5 days left, but I am in it to win it.

The Ghost of Workout Past, Present and Future

I saw this guy watering his lawn a couple weekends ago. He was a couple notches above Normal Guy but he wasn't weird chiseled, shaved-chest cockhead. He was normal in that he was doing a chore and his hair was blowing around, but not intentionally gel'ed into perfect messiness. He was wearing long baggy cargo shorts, barefoot and no shirt on a beautifully built, but still somehow Normal-Guy chest. Like he was lying on the couch and during halftime of a basketball game he thought, Shit maybe I should do a chore, like one chore at least today. So, when I saw him he was slightly bent over watering under some bushes. I almost crashed the car. He was gorgeous in his normalness but you could tell he had put some time into his beautifully built, but not too perfect body. And right in that second as I swerved to straighten out the car, I thought I want to go to the gym. I want to work out more.

I was in the best shape of my adulthood last October, before The Holiday Gorge, when I was taking real kickboxing where they tape your hands and put gloves on you and you get to open a can of whoop-ass on a bag. It was mind-blowingly hard. Want-to-puke hard. I loved it. It was fun and different. AAaaannnddd, only taught by the most gorgeous dude ever. Gorgeous in that he was close to 40, 6'3" and he was a chiseled, shaved-chest cockhead; black belt in something, came in third in the Ironman, leapt tall buildings while filing his manly, lightly buffed nails. And you could see some grey in his hair. Hot. So hot I barely knew his name because I just called him Hot Stuff. Practically to his face. He flirted so hard with me that I literally couldn't keep up. Usually I am very game for some this-is-going-nowhere flirting, but holy shit this guy was a pro. I arrived early to the gym once and watched Hot Stuff spar some guy in judisu. After he annihilated the guy, he looked at me, sweating, kneeling, panting, barefoot and in a twisted gi, and he said quietly, "You wanna be next?" I may have shouted, "GOTTA GO" before I sprinted to my assigned punching bag. Other times, in front of me he would wipe sweat off his brow with the bottom of his shirt exposing a fat-free 12 pack with a baby treasure trail. And when I would look up all flustered -- forgetting the boxing combo -- he would just burrow a stare into me. I awkwardly would look away reminding myself, He's gotta do this to everyone considering some of the bimbo stripper types that come in here. Which was true because the gym was owned by a guy that also owned a local strip joint called Captain Cream's. I'm talking high brow here. Anyway, I was so stressed and thrilled by Hot Stuff and tried to show off so much that I got into sick shape. Then Hot Stuff got transferred to another gym and the guy they brought in as a replacement was boring as shit, not to mention not hot. I stopped going all together telling everyone I was burnt out from kickboxing.

Lately, I started taking again a dance-type “kickboxing” class from a teacher I like to call Cheerleader On Crack. I used to judge Cheerleader On Crack because she was the bubbliest, blondest, most energetic and most adorable little piece of Orange County perfection. But after one really hard class and after I got over my hateration, I realized she was the most kick-ass teacher only ever. She’s a teaching genius. She has us all under her spell. She's the type that will pinpoint the one grandma in the back of the room who's had a shitty day out of 5,000 people in her class and say, "Great energy Mildred." She just knows your name like a jedi master training us for a Cheerleader On Crack Tournament. The first time she called out my name -- and I stand in the back of the class for fear of getting round-housed by the first-chair kickboxers -- I was floored. I was like, Did she just say my name? That's amazing -- mainly because of the fact that she had enough wind to still speak after her gut -wrenching combo.

And then there’s my new love, Salsa Cardio with my girl, Terri the Wig Wearer. I can’t really express how much I love her.

My goal is to get a least four days of cardio going and two days of strength training because there is no way women can not strength train especially as we get older. Recently, I went to a "Super Sculpt Class" where you lift weights in an aeobics class setting. WEAK. That's what I am. WIZ-NEAK. The 80 year old lady to my right said, Do you want me to help you with the 3lbs dumbbells? And the 5 year old to my left observed, Take breaks when you need . . . Actually, there was no 80 year old and no 5 year old and no one said anything to me because I could tell everyone in the class was struggling within the realms of their own weakness whether they were wrestling with the 5lb weights or lifting 20lbs barbells but looking at themselves in the mirror wondering why their ass was still sagging 2 inches below where it used to in high school.

I’ve realized - again, because I'm sure I've had this realization at least 432x's in my life -- that I don't need to work out to lose weight; I need to work out for my mental health. I need it to not slip into any kind of depression. I need it for stress management. I need it to feel good. I need to do it now and always.

Salsa Cardio!

In an effort to keep working out consistently, I tried a new class on Saturday. I had intentionally not taken this class in the past. The name of it stood out off my gym's schedule, and I dismissed it as too gimmicky and quite frankly, maybe beneath me. (Good for me.) The class is called Tango Salsa Cardio. Not kidding. In my head, the class is pronounced in an exaggeratedly Antonio Banderas accent: "Tan-go y Saall-sa . . .Cardio!" I amuse myself every time I think of it. But I went on Saturday because, what the fuck already with me. The class is at a perfect time slot for me and judging by the name should play my most favorite music ever. So, Qual es mi problema already . . . ?

I arrived a little late to the class and much to my surprise (not sure why I was surprised), the class was PACKED. I had to find a tiny spot in the back corner. The instructor's name is Terri, a tall black woman that has the body of a track star (where she can reach over shoulder and pull her wallet from her back pocket), and I've actually taken a step class from her before. From what I remember, she teaches a really tough class; loud and bossy, but pushes you to aggravatingly new physical limits. She seems a tad crazy and pretty self absorbed - not in a look at me I'm perfect way -- but I'm kinda caught up in my own world and you better try to keep up with my routine. And the sister was wearing a wig. A medium-auburn with subtle highlights wig that was fastened in place by the madonnaesque microphone headset that instructors wear now. I was like, This lady is out of her gourd, and I really, really like that about her. I spot the favorite regulars immediately, front and center. A girl wearing a bandana and braids and a half top (there's always one of those), a former ballerina (you can tell by how she stands and rolls her pants down and her shirt up in a Fame kinda way) and the resident hot Latina that has almost Orange-Countied all the latina right out of herself. She's got the ass and the gorgeous face naturally, but the light blonde highlights and the bolt-on titties were disturbing. She was pretty in a way that she'd claw your eyes out if you even THINK you are finer than her.

I thought to myself, I so got this. Terri asked, "Anyone new to this class?" And through the forest of about 30-35 women, I shot my hand up from the back. She said, "Ok, well welcome," she looked around the class. "I am a very calm and demure teacher." The class roared with laughter. I chuckled and thought, Bring It On, Wiggy.

Basically the class is a standard dance class with latin flavor and if you have no dance background you are lost in the first nanoseconds. She taught a routine with ass-shaking, shimmying, hip-thrusting, sexy walking, . . . we all but ripped off our tops and threw them to the ground. And I could not have been more thrilled. I was like, THIS is my kind of class. I am not a technical dancer. I can't kick my leg near ear or do the splits on command, but I am gritty and sweaty and if anything, I can shake and shimmy and thrust and sexy walk some front-row bitches to blush. They ignored me, but when Terri told the class to check out the Ballerina for the ass-shaking portion of the program (apparently she's the best Ass Shaker) Terri said, "Wait, check her out (me). I like that!" I said, "MmHmm," and embarrassingly I may have smacked my own ass, but hey, I was in the moment. I have to say, I was completely winded after the many repetitions of the routine. As I gasped for air, I'd hear Terri yell again, "5! 6! 7! 8! . . ." I even sat out one of the many repetitions which for me is unheard of because there is not much I love more than to show off all my above-stated skills.

I was sorry after class. I was sorry that I ever doubted the class just because of the ridiculous name. I was sorry the class was over though I was drenched and in need of an oxygen mask. And I was sorry for the front-row favorites because once I have enough stamina, I'll be taking their spot.