Tuesday Mornings

Tuesday mornings carry some weight in our little family.  My husband works a later day and is home with E until late morning.  They call these mornings, “Toast Tuesdays.”  C makes a mound of toast with grape jelly and then he and E sit together over the ottoman and eat their toast while watching Sports Center and or listening to music and dancing (because E has developed quite a knack for eating and dancing at the same time). 

My Tuesday mornings literally mean that I carry weight(s) around while doing ridiculous movements with my body.  I believe some call this exercise.  For those of you who can’t quite believe what you’ve just read, yes, you are correct in your understanding: I have begun to exercise.  But let me make sure that you understand what I mean by exercise: one half hour in which I doggedly follow the commands of a personal trainer whose training philosophy is rooted in muscle confusion.  One half hour in which my muscles and brain become so confused that they begin to do–against everything that seems logical to me–whatever they are told despite the level of pain, absurd amount of grunting in pain, and the seeming impossibility of my trainer’s commands.

Yeah, I work out.  

This was on my de-stress to do list, remember?  And I’ve done it.  Huzzah, check it off the list.  Pardon the sarcasm, but this work out thing is way more difficult than I thought it would be.

Actually, I’m finally exercising (read muscle-freakin’-confusion) because it all came together so nicely and easily, as if it just fell into my lap, as if it were providential.  A coworker friend is a fitness instructor in her time off (who has the energy for all of this!?) at a new gym.  This gym is 5 minutes from work,  has a brand new shower, and free parking.  And one of the most popular trainers in the city.  

This trainer has worked wonders for so many folks, surely, he could work wonders with me.  

I went on a tour with my friend and met the trainer and he said such wonderful, motivational things: that I could do it, that he just wanted to show me I could do it (I didn’t realize at the time that he meant 30 minutes of crushing muscle-freakin-confusing exercise…I just thought he meant plain, old-fashioned exercise.  Like a few reps with weights, a short stretch of cardio, and some fun cool down exercises, with lots of breaks for water and chatting.  That’s what I thought he meant.).  I told him (so that he wouldn’t get any crazy ideas in his head, so that he would realize that I didn’t really want to be challenged, just a little breathless, kind of fit, you know, just a nice runner’s high) that I needed more energy, to work off my stress and maybe lose some weight (because I’m a perfect 10 feminist, right?  That weight-loss is just a nice bonus.  Right?).  Just a little bit of that, some of this.  

Maybe I looked terrified or sounded non-committal (because I totally was), so he said the final magical thing: I’ll give you a free session.  One handshake later and I was out of there with plans to start that same week.  

It’s been a month (and now I’ve thrown a spinning class into the mix.  How is this happening?  Am I doing this to myself?  Am I being drugged and a maniacal sadist is dragging me to this gym?) and I still haven’t dared to watch myself in the huge mirrors.  I can feel that I’m dying, that I’m drenched in sweat, that my face is fire-engine red, that my pre-pregnancy sports bra squeezes everything out of the top AND bottom.  No need to watch this as it’s happening.   

I remember thinking during my second session I can do this, it’s not bad, this is going very well.  

During the last session, I was laughing (silently, of course, not out loud because my abdominal muscles were too contorted at the time while attempting to plank that they couldn’t be begged to engage in crazed laughter) at those thoughts and at the woman who thought those silly thoughts.  Who was that woman and where did she go?  Cuz, right now, I’m the woman yelling out I freakin’ gave birth, I should be able to this!  But I can’t.

I was attempting to do some weird type of sit up in which I had to simultaneously sit up and punch the open hands of my trainer.  Twenty times.  I couldn’t.  He said, alright, give me 5 more.  I couldn’t.  He said alright, just touch your fingertips to my hands.  That’s when I yelled, I freakin gave birth…and touched his hands with my fingertips 2-3 more times (I don’t remember how many, it was a blur.  I was confused.).  I did IT.

It feels great.  I’m serious, it feels great.  I die every Tuesday morning and my trainer makes sure that I know that I can do it.  My stress is lifting, my energy levels are up for a couple of days, my mood is drastically improving and–wait for it–I have muscles again!  This work out is absolutely intense and absolutely worth it.    

(And if anyone wants to join me–mwahaha–click here for more information and be confused and ecstatic with me.)

Calgon, Take Me Away

Bath salts, essential oils, eucalyptus and spearmint soap and I’m taking a relaxing soak.  To draw the stress toxins (that nasty cortisol) out of my body, to try to realign my spirit, self, mind, emotions.  I want this bath to be a step out of time, purely pleasure and restorative, purely sensory.

It’s not. (Most of you, I’m sure, were already laughing before the end of the paragraph: of course, it’s not, girl!  That would be too easy!)  I think about taking a week off of work this week, a whole week to be free, a slip of a woman, going in and out of my home, doing what I want, spending time with E, having to time for “activities of daily living” and enjoying those activities of daily living.  Planting flowers and weeding. Finishing 1Q84 and starting on the Hunger Games. Trying out all the Pinterest projects that I have backlogged: perfect-fit-waistband-for-jeans, clean-the-house-with-vinegar, all-day-cake-recipe, organize-your-toddler’s-closet….  Quitting my job and starting a free-lance career (sigh, but not in that particular order).

My thoughts seemed very profound in the bath, even life-changing.  Like I could be renewed.  I thought: I’m healed and I’m healing, both are true.  Both seemed very possible in the bath.  I love my life and I want more in my life.  My life can be shalom.  A vision I’ve had of my adult life is this:

large farmhouse or cabin on a hill out in the country, a home office that overlooks the woods at the bottom of the hill and a kitchen sink that overlooks our small (very small) farm.  My husband and I are outside (I don’t know, maybe unloading groceries, raking and mowing, putting down mulch) and start to run around with our children.  And then the sun begins to set and we go inside for dinner.  Something a little like this: Furr.

  The end.  

(We can all agree, right, that this vision is sentimental and utopian?  Okay.  Instead of a vision, then, let’s call it a glimpse.  Or context.  A space my husband and I can create in which to “raise our children up as gently as we please,” to at least attempt to live a life in balance and wholeness.)

But then I have to get out of the bathtub, put on my ratty robe and go about the rest of the evening, otherwise known as living.  Gulp down my now cold herbal tea, attempt to do some house work, attempt to do some blogging in the midst of toddler, cat, partner and TV, be sure to prepare clothes, lunch, and schedule for tomorrow.  

And it’s already changed, that profound time is already gone, I’m out of the tub and out of that time, no longer that woman.  The oh so profound thoughts now seem more like titles from the self-help bestseller’s list.  The night is gone.  Tomorrow is another day.

What do I do with my vision (er, glimpse)?  My life–wonderful as it is–is somewhat willy-nilly.  I’m making it work until what I want comes along or money drops into my lap from somewhere and I get to pursue what I want.  I’ve never been a 5-year-life-plan type of person; I barely even plan my weekends well.  But I’m now at a point in life (read: I don’t like my job and what it does to me and my family) where I need to make the decision.

What do I do with this vision for my life?  I guess I make a life-plan and work really hard at it…right?  Things to do:

• eliminate stressors
• take better care of my whole self
• quit my job (…wait, no, not quite, can’t do that yet.  Get therapy to help me deal with my job.)
• invest in friendships
• prioritize life around my family
• figure out how to make money as a writer
• hmmm, clean my house? (just throwing this in for good measure)
• um…work out (for real?)
• er, take supplements (In case the whole “take better care of self” thing doesn’t work out and I remain an emotional eater, which is a nice way of saying I eat crap when I’m stressed and lately I’m always stressed)
• go to bed early  (But then how do I get all of the above accomplished?)
• or, yes, here it is: drink heavily.

So not a plan so much as a goal…or not even a real goal, but something to strive for, right?  How does one embark on a new plan, path, journey, life?  Having just read the titles of self-help books and not the books themselves, I have no idea (like this one: No Excuses: 9 Ways Women Can Change How We think About Power or this one: The Custom-Fit Workplace: Choose When, Where and How to Work and Boost Your Bottom Line).

Instead, I’m just complaining about  it all in a blog post.  And seriously hoping that you have ideas.