I’m Melting….

“Let’s open a store called FOREVER 39.  We can sell wine and yoga pants.”

As often as possible, I attend a yoga class.  Though I never thought of myself as the type of person who could ever achieve a zen-like state….I’m pretty wound….all the time….I have to admit that yoga does wonders for me.

When I really focus in on the practice, I can feel the stress and frustrations of the day, or week, melt away….and I get my best night’s sleep post class.  At least I did until yesterday, when I discovered that my face is falling off my head.

If you’ve ever been to a gym before, you might have noticed that the regulars tend to have a favored spot, or bike, or other piece of equipment they gravitate toward.

My gym is no different, but no one is a bitch about it.  So, when I arrived for yoga last night and found a new person in my typical spot, I just chose another, settled into Lotus pose and waited for class to begin.

My usual spot is near a half wall, that’s kind of like a long, narrow shelf.  I like it there, because I can use the wall to cheat during some of the balance poses.

My new location was directly beside a wall of mirrors that runs the entire length of one side of the gym.  I didn’t think much of it until I found myself in Prasarita Padottansana, which is a wide-legged forward bend.

We can pretend this is me….she’s OK….I guess.

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Typically, I keep my eyes closed during my practice, unless otherwise instructed to open them.  It helps me to block out the activity around me so that I can fully concentrate.

For some reason though, I decided to open them while bent over with the mirror at my back.  The first thing I noticed was that the position made my ass look like a billboard and I wondered for a moment if it would be possible to write supercalifragilisticexpialidocious across my rear.

The second thing I noticed was that my cheeks (face cheeks) appeared to be on my forehead.  It was legit frightening and after I gasped in horror, I did what women have been doing for centuries….I took a look around the room and compared myself to the other women.

This was only moderately helpful, since I was flanked by two, fresh faced twenty-somethings.  But, I did notice that a few other ladies had pools of skin dangling from their hairlines as well, so I was at least relieved to know that the only thing dying was my youth.

Yes, I am aware that things change as we age, it’s just that I would prefer to defy nature….because I like to set goals that are high and largely unattainable.

Having lost all ability to focus on the original intention of my practice that evening, I settled on a new one.  Trying to force my skin back into its original location by making a series of faces.  This did not work.

Then, I was reminded of the Golden Girls and that episode where Blanche, Dorothy and Sophia are discussing how long each woman waited to have sex with someone new, after their husbands were no longer in the picture.

Dorothy says, “You know, when you’re twenty, everything stays where it’s supposed to.  Now, when you lean over, it looks like somebody’s let the air out of your face.”  

#TRUTH

Dorothy then challenges an incredulous Blanche to look over a mirror and see the effect for herself, which she does with comical results.

Anyway, I’m not sure what to do about this.  I’ve seen too many seasons of The Real Housewives of (insert any city) and the evolution of Kim Kardashian’s face, to go anywhere near Botox.

So, is there some kind of fruit, or plant, or cream I can use that will magically turn back time?   I’m looking for a relatively inexpensive, quick fix.  I’ll even accept a potion brewed by the devil, whatever is going to work.

But if there is nothing that can be done that does not involve a scalpel, or a needle….if I am to accept that this is just the natural order of things….then I guess I’ll have to accept it.

But you can bet your ass I’ll bitch slap the new girl at yoga for my spot back.

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The Gazelle….

“Running is fun!” ~Psychopaths

About three years ago, I joined a women’s only fitness studio and truly, it changed my life.  I have always enjoyed physical activity, but in the past, I had a habit of joining big gyms, for like five minutes.

Then, I would get super bored, because I didn’t know what I was doing, and then I would quit….four years later….because canceling a gym membership is the tenth circle of hell.

But after I had my son and completed my cancer treatments, my body felt like it had been run over by a truck.  In addition, my anxiety, which had been a minor issue for me all of my life, suddenly started to attack more often and more viciously than it ever had before.

quote-anxietyI talked about it with my doctors and also a therapist I had been seeing for a while.  It was normal and typical for cancer survivors to experience symptoms of PTSD and anxiety.  Medication was an option, but I didn’t feel like it was a good option for me.

I just needed some way to release that energy from my body.  I began to recognize its build up.  I could feel that it was trapped, but I didn’t know how to go about getting it out and it made me feel manic.

On the advice of my Oncologist and my Cardiologist, I decided to start working out again.  Their suggestion was based more on the physical benefits I would get from regular exercise, but I thought maybe it might be a good way to exorcise some crazy while I was at it.

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At first, I bought the book, Fitness for Dummies, thinking it would help me understand how to properly use the equipment at the gym and create a worthwhile routine for myself.  And yes, I could have just asked someone, but no I could not.  (See post, I’m Known as the Death of the Party).

Anyway, I quickly realized that I was just on my way to falling into the same old failed routine I had gotten myself into so many times before.  So, instead, I turned to my community Facebook page for local moms….because if you want to know anything from where to get a good bikini wax, to what that noise was over on Main Street at 4:37am, that’s where you go….and I posted something like the following:

“Hey ladies.  I’m looking to join a new gym.  Somewhere with maybe small group classes and trainers who tell me what to do.  And if they are mean, even better.  I need someone to shout my ass back into shape.  Thanks!”

Within minutes, I began to receive a flood of responses. Eventually, I chose a new, women’s only fitness studio that had been open for just a few months.  I chose them, because I loved their body positive message.

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After my first class, I knew this time would be different.  Exercise has been a game changer for me, both physically and mentally and it’s a literal lifeline I can’t do without. And it was thanks to joining my gym, that I came to know my friend Gazelle.  (I call her this, because she has the body of Gisele, minus the height, and she runs like some kind of prancing, dainty, woodland creature).

Gazelle doesn’t teach at my studio. I know her through a game of six degrees of separation that includes both a personal and exercise related connection.  It was through that combination that I came to attend a cardio-kickboxing class she was hosting to raise money for charity.

The class kicked my ass.  In a good way.   So I began following her around to other gyms, where I take her class as a drop-in whenever possible.  She’s amazing.

Fitness is her full time job.  She has a degree in Exercise Physiology, but instead of working in a clinical setting, she likes to teach.  She gets up most mornings around 4:00am to begin her day, which includes a variety of classes taught at several different gyms.  I’ve seen here around noon-time when she’s already five classes into her day and you’d never know it.

In addition to her workload, she’s an avid runner and she’s constantly trying to get me to take it up.

“Hey, want to go for a run today?  It’s going to be so nice out!”  she texts.

“No.  Running is dangerous.”  I say.

“Running isn’t dangerous! What are you talking about?” 

“Um, have you never seen Dateline?  Or 48 Hours Investigates? There’s like a 90% chance I’ll be murdered.”  I tell her.

“We’ll be together though.”  She says.

“No, we won’t. I’ll quit after three minutes and tell you I’ll catch up. And by the time I’m attacked, you’ll be too far away for me to trip you as a sacrifice to save myself.”  


“Want to go for a run?  The foliage is beautiful!”  She tries again.

“Imagine how much better I’ll be able to see it while walking.”  I say.


“Let’s go for a run today!  Just a short one!”  She begs.

“I’d love to but I can’t.  Oh wait.  No, I wouldn’t love to.”


“Ok, I know you’ll probably say no, but how about you give running a chance today?”

“No.”


“Run?”

“I can’t, I hate it.”  

“Have you ever tried it?  Like REALLY tried it?”  

“Yes, that’s how I know that with every stride, a part of my soul dies.”

“You are so dramatic.”

“I know.”  


“Hey friend, great day for a run!”

“Evolution.”

“What?”

“If God wanted us to run, he would not have killed off the Dinosaurs.”

“That makes zero sense.”

“It makes perfect sense.  Think about it while you’re running today.  Alone.”


I’m just not a runner.

There have been many times I’ve gone out and invested in expensive, top of the line running shoes, devised a training plan and envisioned myself crossing the finish line of the Boston marathon.  But then, I just end up gardening in my expensive, top of the line running shoes and watching the marathon from a bar on Beacon Street.

And I can always tell who the real runners are vs. the people like me who go out thinking, I’m going to pound out some miles and then end up walking three minutes in, because running is stupid.

Real runners seem to glide, their strides steady and light, their facial expressions stoic, their breathing, steady.

When I run, I look like a sack full of rocks being dragged across a bumpy road as I desperately suck wind.  My facial expression says, “This sucks, I’m bored, I hate every minute of this and it’s only been half a block.”

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I will hike for dozens/hundreds of miles carrying a 20 pound backpack up and down mountains for days and I won’t complain, even once.  I will bike ride for hours.  I will Spin and Barre and Booty Build and Muscle Pump and Namaste every day of the week….but I cannot bring myself to jog a lap, let alone a mile.

So I will keep on telling my friend no.  And she will continue to ask.

I will offer to drive alongside her in my car, while she runs.  Promising to shout out inspirational quotes, throw paper cups of water at her and play Eye of the Tiger at the highest volume setting for as long as her little legs will go.

And she will attempt to trick me into running by using words like “fun run” and promising a “yummy lunch” afterward.  And I will tell her that her idea of “yummy” includes a plate of twigs and crab grass and my idea of “yummy” includes cheesecake.

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Though it probably doesn’t sound like it, I do appreciate her persistence.  I know that it comes from a good place.  She’s rooting me on, because she thinks I can do it.  She has faith in me and my abilities.  Running is a passion of hers and she wants to share it with me.  Motivation is part of her job and she is really good at it.

It’s just that in my case, there is no will to find the way.  But her constant nagging has encouraged me.  I work out harder, because of her.  I push myself every workout and when I think I’m at my max, I push just a little bit more.

But if you ever see me running, you should probably start running too….because chances are, a zombie, or a serial killer is gaining on me.
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Flashback Friday….That Time I Tried Atkins

“Nothing tastes as good as skinny feels.” ~ Kate Moss

Personally, I think her bony ass is full of shit….but, it took me awhile to figure that out.

Throughout my twenties, I did my fair share of fad dieting.  The South Beach Diet, the Cleveland Clinic Diet, Slim Fast and the Hydroxycut and Coffee diet I invented myself.  Which was kind of my take on the Super Model diet (champagne and cocaine), but since I couldn’t afford cocaine, or champagne, I doubled down on the uppers and I’ll be honest, how I didn’t die of a massive heart attack, I’ll never know.

If I could go back in time, I’d just smack the post closing time Taco Bell, taco supreme out of my hand and suggest fewer buttery nipple shooters, in lieu of torturing myself during day time hours.  But, wisdom comes with age, or so they say.

I began my journey of unsustainable dieting after gaining a few pounds at my first office job post college.  I didn’t make a lot of money and so my food options were pretty limited.

Most of the time, I lived off Ramen Noodles, or Spaghetti noodles with butter.  When I had a little extra cash, I bought a few Banquet TV dinners and ninety-nine cent frozen pizza’s.  I ate whatever was cheapest, which meant I mostly ate crap.

The office was relatively small and the owner of the business liked to take us out for lunch a few times a week.  I quickly learned that if I ordered intelligently, I could squeeze several meals out of the leftovers.

This meant, I almost always ordered a hearty pasta dish, since the servings are typically larger compared to that of a salad or sandwich.  I also learned I could steal other people’s leftovers.

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Every Friday, the office supplied bagels from a fancy bagel shop, along with a selection of gourmet cream cheeses.  I took my morning bagel and then casually returned to the kitchenette to snatch up the extra’s for home; hiding them behind piles of paper I had clutched to my chest and in my purse while trying to make it look like I was just on my way to/from the bathroom.

Once, I pulled a container of cream cheese, with approximately one tablespoon of Pumpkin Spice remaining in it, out of the trash….because that’s wasteful and I had no shame.

And then there were the birthday celebrations and the grocery store sheet cakes that came along with them.

After the “party,” I liked to volunteer to clean-up the break room, not because I liked to be helpful, but because I could wrap up the rest of the sheet cake and take it home with me.

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So yeah, it didn’t take long before the one pair of Jaclyn Smith black work pants I owned, started crying at the seams.

One of my co-workers, Ned, a middle aged guy with horribly bad breath, suggested I give Atkins a try.  The fact that a middle-aged man I worked with commented on my expanding waistline, is a whole other thing.

Anyway, he’d been an Atkins devotee for most of his adult life….long before the diet peaked in popularity.

I was immediately lured in by the idea that I could go to McDonald’s, order a whole bunch of cheeseburgers, and all I would have to sacrifice would be the bun.

So….what you’re saying is that I can fry up a package of discount hamburger from Aldi’s, smother it in cheese and eat the whole thing in one sitting?  

I could eat an ENTIRE carton of eggs?

ALL the bacon?

It sounded so easy and I was all about easy.

I never made it to ketosis.

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Shortly after I started the induction phase, Ned was hospitalized with a serious illness that had something to do with his butt-hole falling out.  Apparently, he wasn’t properly supplementing his fiber intake all those years on Atkins and the result was, Butt-Hole Fall-Outis.

I’m sure there was an actual medical term for whatever was happening and I’m sure there was more to the story, but all I heard was “Its like his butt-hole is falling out.”

Even though I didn’t really give much thought to my own butt-hole on a regular basis, it seemed the kind of body part a person would like to keep and so that was enough for me to hop off the Atkins bandwagon….immediately.

On my way home from work, I stopped in at the grocery store for a family sized can of  Beefaroni and a bunch of banana’s, that I began to devour the second I got into my car,  while clenching my butt cheeks together.

But still, it took years of fad dieting and failure, before I discovered that weight loss/maintaining a healthy weight did not have to include suffering and/or the elimination of food groups.

Eventually, I discovered simple calorie counting and for me, it’s made all the difference.  Setting a reasonable and HEALTHY, per day caloric intake….along with exercise….has been key in helping me to maintain a healthy weight.  It’s also significantly improved my overall energy level.

Knowing  that I can essentially eat whatever I want….so long as I stick to my daily goal….helps me make better choices throughout the day (most of the time) and it allows me some slack when I want to indulge….all without sabotaging my efforts and throwing my bodily functions off track.

I’ve also learned a lot about food in recent years….the differences between calories, carbohydrates and cholesterol….and the best way to give my body the fuel it needs to properly function.

But let me be clear….ABSOLUTELY NOTHING, I have written here should be considered, or taken as advice.  I don’t know anything.

I’m a cancer survivor and one of the benefits of that, includes a team of doctors and nutritionists who have given me new insights and instructions regarding my overall health these last six years.  I do what they tell me, because cancer sucked.  And whatever I have to do to prevent getting it again, I’ll do.

But, if you are on the look-out for great recipes that are healthy and don’t taste like cardboard, I am a huge fan of this lady:  Skinnytaste.

I don’t personally know the author at Skinnytaste.  No funds, or food, or favors of any kind have been exchanged for my referencing here here….I just really love her recipes and when I get compliments on her meals, I take all the credit, which is easier to do when you don’t actually know the other person.

Bon apetit!

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This Beach Body Runs on Taco’s….

“Here at Globo Gym we’re better than you.  And we know it.”
~
White Goodman, Dodgeball

After my lay-off, my first order of unemployed business, was to cryptically post my change of employment status across my social media accounts.

This, so that all of the people I don’t actually keep in touch with, could shower me with attention in the form of, “What happened!?” and “Are you going to be OK?”….because I didn’t get enough attention as a child, that’s why.

I’ll admit, I was genuinely touched by the number of people who offered to put me in touch with someone they knew who was hiring.

And, I was flattered when I began receiving regular phone calls and messages from hiring managers who said, “I see that you’re now available and I’d love to talk to you about an exciting opportunity at my company.”  As though they had just been waiting for me, which was crap, but still, I ate that shit up.  It’s nice to be wanted.

Of course, I then had to come clean and explain that I wasn’t actually looking for work.  That I had other plans.  To which they responded with, “Ok, deadbeat.”

Actually, no one said that, but it’s what I would have said.

After about a month or so, most of the calls and condolences dried up and I was busy moving on with my life.

Then, I got a message from an old high school acquaintance, via FB Messenger.  It started out with, Hey girly!

Important side-note here.  The only person who should address me with a “Hey girly” is a shirtless Ryan Gosling.  He should be holding a skinny vanilla late and asking if I’d like to watch The Notebook.  End, side-note.

Anyway, here’s the message:

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By “page,” I can only assume she meant my Facebook page.  So, I immediately went there to scrub out whatever might have led her to believe that I would be interested in being an online health and fitness coach.

Here’s the thing, I love to work out.  A few years ago, I joined a women’s only fitness studio after spending years joining traditional gyms where I spent my time trying to look like I knew how to use the equipment, while trying to dodge the hardcore sales tactics of gym employees, while also trying not to lose a finger in all the gym equipment I didn’t know how to use.

I would go faithfully for approximately one month.  Then, I would stop going, but continue to pay for my membership for at least a year before working up the guts to face the fifth layer of hell.  Also known as….trying to cancel your gym membership.

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Then, I got cancer and I had a baby….all at the same time….and I decided that my fitness goals were all wrong.  For years, I had been studying the body parts of other women and wishing I could make them mine.

Come on fitness equipment machine!  Give me JLo’s ass and abs….Jennifer Anniston’s arms….legs like Carrie Underwood! 

And of course, it never worked.

So, after life smacked me in the face, I decided I should be grateful I still had a living body and perhaps I should just learn to work with it.  I found my current gym and I love it.  It’s small, with a variety of classes and a body positive message and I’ve seen great results.

I’ll never have a six-pack, because I refuse to make the dietary sacrifices it would require, but I’m fit and in far better shape at 38, than I ever was in my 20’s.  Of course, in my 20’s, I lived off Ramen Noodles and the occasional, post closing time trip to Taco Bell, so….

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My point….I love to work out, but a scroll through my Facebook page would lead most to believe I hate it….when I even mention it all.  In the beginning, I checked-in for my daily 5:30am workout’s.  I mean, I’m working out at 5:30am!  Praise me!

But for the most part, my posts were snarky and complaint-like, because obviously, I was being forced into working out.  And eventually, it got old, for all involved.  (Read: I no longer needed the praise and validation of Facebook).

So, I couldn’t figure out exactly what she was seeing that would lead her to believe I would make a good fitness coach.  I decided to just ignore the message and hope she’d go away.

Two days later:

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Argh!  So, I responded with what I thought was a polite no.

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The irony of my misspelling “jam-packed” as “ham-packed,” is not lost on me.

And I wasn’t lying about the work thing.  For years, my husband and I had been talking about starting a small business.  When I learned my job was going to be eliminated, it seemed as good a time as any to give it a go.  So yeah, I’m busy.  But apparently, that wasn’t the right answer.

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Seriously?  Is it me, or are there a lot of assumptions being made here?

Like:

1.  We feel exactly the same way.

Nope, Sarah.  I don’t think we do.  I feel like YOU are sort of a self-righteous asshole, if you want to know the truth.


2.  That when I’m sitting on the couch watching my favorite show, I’m wasting my time.

I am fairly certain that the good doctors of Grey Sloan Memorial Hospital have earned my undivided attention.  It’s thanks to them that I am so confident at making self-diagnoses.

And, I’ll have you know that sometimes, my computer is present.  How else am I supposed to further research the historical figures portrayed in Victoria, or collect screen grabs from various segments of This Old House?

I’m exercising my mind, Sarah!


3.  That I have debt to pay off and cannot take care of my children.

I was raised to believe two things:  That I wouldn’t amount to anything and that it was rude to discuss politics, religion and money, uninvited.


4.  That I have any desire to understand your business.

Sarah, Sarah, Sarah….I think YOU are selling people a load of crap.

Here, drink this shake!  Work out to the same series of video’s that’ll only cost you $19.99 a month for infinity months.  And be sure you buy the $400 worth of cheap, shitty fitness equipment you could pick up for $20 at Target.  The pounds will melt away and you’ll get a daily inspirational message from me to keep you going!

In a word.  No.

I’m not a healthcare professional and I’m certainly not an authority on diet or exercise.

Earlier this week, I ate a great breakfast consisting of an egg white, on some kind of fancy-pants Whole Foods bread, topped with Avocado and a small dish of strawberries.

Yesterday, I ate an entire bag of dill pickle potato chips and a roll of fruit Mento’s.  What about that says, “This person is totally qualified to give diet advice.”

And sure, I can be all Rah, Rah!  You can do it!

But, I don’t actually know if some stranger I’ve never met, CAN do it.  Maybe there’s a health or mental issue that needs to be addressed, so that I don’t rah, rah some poor woman into cardiac arrest, or a nervous breakdown.

Isn’t that sort of why actual trainers become certified?

I know someone who has PH.D in exercise!  It’s called something else, I just don’t know how to spell it, but she’s legit.  I am not.  I’m in no way qualified to determine whether this crap is the right program for anyone.

And really?  How is it possible that you are properly supervising 515 other so called “Health and Fitness Coaches?”  It sounds to me like you are just sitting on-top of some kind of Ponzi-Scheme.

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5.  That I did not notice that the only thing you talked about was YOURSELF.

I spend a lot of time at the gym.  The various fitness instructors I work out with, all talk about how much they love helping people.  None of them, talk about how much money they are making off of them.

In fact, most come directly from their full time day jobs and they just teach classes on the side.  While we work out, they correct my form, they know what exercises to modify in order to accommodate physical limitations.  They know the names of the muscles I’m working and they know if my aches and pains are just a product of being sore, or a possible sign of injury.

I’m sure the extra money is nice, but I know what an instructor makes per class at my gym and it’s not enough to retire at 40 and then continue to work their day job just for shits and giggles.

So again, thanks but no thanks, Sarah.

And yes, I know exactly where to find you.  On social media:

Posing in a sports bra and yoga pants for before and after photo’s that always look suspiciously staged.

Snapping a selfie with your logo’d plastic bottle full of whatever that shake is.

And in the video’s with the hashtag, what’s your excuse that showcase your workout routine while your kids crawl all over the place in the background.

But trust me, I won’t be looking anytime soon.