Tag Archives: gym

Smelly, Happy Violet

6 May

I’m officially addicted to the gym.

Every morning, before work, I head to the gym at 5:00 am. I do a bit of cardio, then some weight training, before I head to the locker room to shower and dress for the day. Last week, I slept through my alarm and woke up with just enough time to shower and dress before work, and I had to miss the gym. It ruined my whole day: I was irritable and tired because I didn’t get my morning adrenaline rush.

I love my private time at the gym. (And not just because I can shower without a toddler whining in the background.) My work outs put me in touch with my body. I feel every stretch, strain, and ache. I can feel my endurance picking up. I used to hate with a passion dislike running. I would fast-walk on an incline on the treadmill, but if I tried to run, I’d last MAYBE a minute. Maybe. Yesterday, after 30 minutes of high-intensity cardio on the elliptical machine, I headed over to the treadmill for what I thought would be my cool-down. I was bored at my medium walking pace, so I upped the ante and started running. I kept my finger on the speed button, assuming that I’d need to slow down after a minute or so. Three minutes later, I was still running strong. Two minutes after that, I felt a little tired and reduced my speed, but that only lasted a minute or two. I was in awe of myself. Never in my life could I do that before.

In my pre-baby days, I was a gym rat. I had a personal trainer for a while, and I’d go to the gym religiously after work. (Back then, I would sleep until the absolute last minute before I had to get up and go to work. Morning workouts were for early birds and dedicated people, of which I was neither.) The staff all knew me on a first-name basis. I was fit and healthy. (But I still couldn’t run.) When I learned I was pregnant, my OB put me on “pelvic rest” because Pterodactyl hadn’t implanted correctly, and at the top of the No-No List was working out. Once I received clearance to return to my exercise routine, I was so out-of-shape and under-motivated that I just quit. That’s how I managed to gain 51 pounds during my pregnancy; I was a slug. My couch cushions had a better workout than me by simply supporting my fat ass. I’ve been fighting my body all 12 months of the baby’s life to get back into my stylish pre-pregnancy clothes. I’m finally winning.

The gym is my place, during my time. I’m nobody’s mother, wife, teacher, or friend. I’m just me. I can read my Kindle while doing my cardio without interruption. I can focus on my needs entirely, even if it’s just for an hour a day. I sweat, I stink, and I smile.

What do you do when you need “Me Time?” Do you exercise like me? Do you scrapbook/knit/paint? Shop?

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A Salute to the Chubsters at My Gym

19 Mar

This morning, while running on the elliptical machine at my gym, I was sandwiched between two rather large women. They were both working up a huge sweat, and after a little nosy snooping, I noticed that they were running on higher inclines and higher resistance levels than I was. It took every ounce of class in me not to lean over and give them each a high five. Here’s why:

If there’s anything America has an excess of, it’s victims and fatties. Often, these two characteristics are found within the same person. We love our McDonalds, our frozen dinners filled to the brim with preservatives, and our Lays potato chips. Americans live to eat, as opposed to many other people groups, who eat to live. We’re also a bunch of victims. We whine when our own decisions render us in bad circumstances and seek to blame everyone else for our misfortunes. How did we become so sue-happy? Because some asshole with no hand-eye coordination spilled some McDonalds (See? There it is again!) coffee on her lap. We’re the nation that reminds people that our overactive thyroid/bum knee/whatever prevents us from exercising and making healthy food choices. I loathe these people. My daddy, The Irreverent Reptile, and I, even have a game where we make fun of the Victimology of America.

But those plump women in the gym? They’re doing something about it. They’re not in line for the passive yoga class; they’re pumping iron in the free-weight section. They’re running like the cops are chasing ‘em on the treadmills. They’re taking control of their lives and opposing the victim culture so many people embrace.

You go, Chubby Chicks. You kick ass in kickboxing, and show me what’s up at the bench press. You continue defying stereotypes. Get rid of that fat, and show the world that you’re not just another statistic.

High fucking five!

(Oh, and I want to give a little shout out to the massively pregnant woman I saw there, too. I quit the gym at the beginning of my third trimester, but this bitch was running at full-speed with her tight little baby bump bouncing in rhythm to the music on her iPod. Rock on, Mommy!)


© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

Conversations with Myself or Schizophrenics with a Bitchy Voice

12 Mar

With my birthday looming around the corner, I’m starting to feel the full weight of my adult self. This will be my first birthday as a Mommy; the first birthday I celebrate around a baby’s bedtime routine. Even last year, toward the end of my third trimester, my birthday plans focused on my favorite meals at my favorite restaurant. Granted, I required three Oompa-Loompas to roll me to my table, but it was still MY birthday dinner at MY favorite adult restaurant.

Ten years ago, I was a carefree teenager. Daisy and I were causing enough trouble to render us “rebellious.” I was filling out college applications, and my biggest stressor was my SAT scores. I thought I was really cool. Now, I know I’m about as lame as they come. As a matter-of-fact, I’ve recently visited with 17-year-old Violet, and she’s pissed. She doesn’t like me at all. She thinks I’m a sell-out suburban Mommy, and has threatened, on more than one occasion, to kick my plump, dorky ass. When I asked her to explain to me why she has so much beef with present-day Violet, the little bitch actually produced a list.

  • I’m not nearly as impassioned by politics as she was. I’m more moderate, where as she was a bit of an extremist. She read several newspapers online daily and watched the news religiously. I, on the other hand, learned that Davey Jones died through my Facebook feed.
  • She has always hated minivans. The ultimate sell-out machine, she believed minivans were for boring soccer moms with 8 kids. She scorns me for wanting one really, really badly. I fear that when the day comes that I trade in my fuel-efficient coupe for my Mommy-mobile, she might hunt me down and slap me.
  • The other day, I caught her eavesdropping on my phone call to Daisy. She later chastised me for the content of our conversation. See, she regularly talks to 17-year-old Daisy about INTERESTING things, like boys, school, music, boys, shopping, entertainment, boys, and our favorite bad behaviors. When she heard us discussing couponing for two hours (and don’t get her started on my use of the word “coupon” as a verb!), our favorite recipes, and baby poop, she put her head in her hands and wept.
  • 17-year-old Violet was a girl who embraced literature. She loved Austen, Shakespeare, Orwell, and Eliot. I had to plead with her not to tear up my English degree when she noticed me reading a trashy Chick Lit book.
  • Young Violet actually skipped school on a regular basis to go to the gym. (And not just because the sexy actor “The Rock” worked out at the same gym between noon and two p.m., either.) While never “skinny,” she was svelte, sexy, and in great shape. She saw the tags in my jeans, noted the double-digit size, and cried. I tried to explain to her that my body changed with pregnancy; that exercise requires time I just don’t have. She wouldn’t hear of it.

It’s hard living with the ghost of your teenage self. The bitch leaves dishes everywhere, makeup on the counters, and stays up until dawn listening to music and talking on the phone. I can’t even get her to chip in for utilities! I’m going to have to kick her out soon, and I’m not looking forward to it. If she can’t deal with the fact that my life revolves around my kid; that I get a little high off of great savings through coupons; that my dream car has a third row, and that my favorite radio station is now NPR….
Well, she’ll just have to fuck off.

© Daisy and Violet 2012. All Rights Reserved.

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