Betcha can't name that movie. First one to name the movie in the comments section gets an all expenses paid trip to the closest 7-11 of your choice. And no googling! Cheaters stink.
So, I'm in a bit of a slump, emotionally and physically. The drama continues, regardless of my involvement or not, and it is taxing. I have a cold that won't go away, with the occasional coughing fits. The UK Wildcats are not in the top 25. Barry Zito is now a Giant. David M. and I worked out how much that cat will make. If he pitches 30 games a season, 100 pitches per game, that's $6,000 per pitch. for a better-than-average leftie with a killer curveball.
I made the wrong career choice.
Can someone get me some cheese? Something that compliments my whine...
I really should count my blessings. I am not separated from my friends and family by thousands of miles of ocean and sand, in the thick of a war that we can't win. I'm not huddled on the corner of some downtown street, collecting warmth from the nearest vent grate, stuffing newspapers in my clothing for insulation. I am warm, fed and clothed; in a house that I own in a great neighborhood, sustained by a wife who loves me and children whom I adore. I have the opportunity to spend time with close friends, and, most of all, I enjoy a relationship with my God that does not fail and is as real to me as breathing.
They tiptoe quietly into the room; one more ounce of excitement will cause their little hearts to explode. They've been downstairs, seen the tree, the stockings, the twinkling tree-lights reflected off red gift wrap. They've counted, juuuuust to make sure everything is even. They've tested weight, consistency, density, and dimensions; all the things you can do before breaking the magic seal. They've waited a reasonable time; Mom and Dad must get up Now.
The grins on their faces are impossible to remove. Dad snores and mutters something in his sleep; Chili's little head is poking out of the covers, he makes little old man sounds as Mom rolls over and disturbs his repose. Mom is the first one to wake up and realize that they are there; she always is. She smiles at them through her sleep-haze, tells them to be quiet, it's only 5:30. Dad wakes up just enough to notice that something is happening in the vicinity of his sleep. It isn't important enough to actually open his eyes and acknowledge it. Not yet, anyway. It's only 5:30.
"One more hour, girls. Just give us one more hour."
They go back downstairs, go through the entire present-rattling ritual again. One hour is a long time. They play guessing games; watch bad morning TV. They sit in front of the tree and just stare at the lights as they twinkle off the gold, silver and glass adornments. Time to count them again. Okay, it's still even.
Tick.
Tock.
Tick.
FINALLY, the hour is up. Grandma is downstairs already, time for Mom and Dad to get out of bed. Not-so-quietly this time, they rush into the room. Dad is as awake as he can be without a hot caffeinated beverage. Mom is too warm to get up, but does it anyway. The lights in their eyes and smiles more than compensate for the sleep-deprived state of being. Slippers and robes are found, put on, taken off, turned right-side out, and put on again.
So, for those who don't know, the anatomy of a spin class is something like this:
Everybody shows up 30 minutes early to claim their bike. This means staking it with a water bottle and a towel. Some people adjust the bike, some don't (maybe that is, in fact, THEIR bike?).
The bikes are sort of like a road bike on stands. You can clip into the pedals, everything is adjustable, and the wheel you spin is a metal disc with a tensioner that you can adjust to make it harder or easier.
IMPORTANT NOTE: Adjusting the tension isn't up to you. that's what the instructor is for.
So, ~5-7 minutes before the class begins, everyone shows up, gets their bikes/water/shoes/whatever ready...this time is largely social, and newcomers feel like they are intruding on some special club. All these people know each other. They were all also at last night's yoga class, and the pilates class held every Thursday...you get the picture.
3 minutes before start time, the INCREDIBLY FIT instructor walks in, with her headset and her 2.5% body fat. Lucky for you, there is also a 70 year old grandma on the bike next to you, so the intimidation factor isn't as high.
Don't forget the guy in the front of the class wearing the Mt. Tam double century jersey. Showoff.
Class begins. This is where it is supposed to get "fun."
The "fun" lasts 55 minutes. 55 MINUTES. Fifty Five Minutes. Three Thousand Three Hundred Seconds. Are you getting a sense of time?
During that enormous amount of time, you are punished. You are told to spin at ~100 rpm, nice and easy. Flat road. Here comes a hill! Crank down your tensioner and get out of the saddle for 3 minutes. Watch that heart rate shoot to the moon. Okay, hill has tapered to a false flat, back in the saddle, ease off on the tension. Flat road again, spin easy at race pace (120 rpm). REPEAT UNTIL DEAD.
I find myself staring at the sweat droplets that roll off the end of my nose onto the bike frame. My focus narrows tightly to that droplet's splash pattern. It's like my own private Rorschach study. Did I mention that this was 55 minutes long? I'm 20 minutes into the exercise routine and I just might not make it. But, then again, there's that 70 year old lady next to me, pedaling like the wind. I will not give up.
Class over! Stretch for 5 minutes and stumble out of the room, after wiping down the bike with the antibacterial wipes. Everyone has the same glazed look on their face, the same stringy wet hair.
Except that Mt. Tam guy. He is still spinning. Blech.
Here's the funny thing. After all of that, I will be going back. It's punishing, but great exercise.
200 pounds, you better run and hide, cause I'm coming to get you.
Okay, so I have made the triple chocolate bark with the cherries and the spiced pecans. It was most excellent, and the associated gifts have been delivered to our neighbors. I hope they like it as much as I like it. it is very tasty. Tonight I'll make the cocoa/marshmallow things. There maybe someone who is reading this who is destined to receive said bounty. If that's the case, sorry I spoiled the surprise. You'll still like it, I hope.
I am not exercising like I should. I know I mentioned this in an earlier post, but it is really bugging me. I keep saying, "Tomorrow." So far, that strategy isn't working for me. I need to absolutely drop 30 pounds. Some of that is vanity, I know. However, the ultimate goal is to feel good about myself; which I don't really, especially when I look down at my protruding gut. I should diet. By "diet," I mean eat better. No processed foods, limit the intake of animal fats and refined sugars. Eat whole grains, lots more veggies (my achilles heel), and satsify my meat craving with turkey, chicken and fish. And stop making desserts for people. Cause when I make one, I eat some. However, this might be a bit weird...while I'm cooking, I don't like to eat or taste along the way. I know cooks are supposed to taste in order to adjust seasoning, if necessary. I don't do it, usually. And when I do, it's a conscious effort. I guess at seasoning amounts (unless I'm baking with spices; that can get you into trouble), and almost all of the time it turns out okay. You always here about the cook getting to eat first (while they are cooking); I never do. I always eat last.
Okay, so 30 pounds it is. Right now I weigh...*goes to scale*...230 pounds. So, 200 pounds is my goal. At 200, I should be able to ride like the wind for a guy my size. Maybe, someday, I'll beat my buddy Dave to the top of a climb. But I needs to get crackin. So, no more tomorrows. Today is the day I go to the gym. Tomorrow I will go back again. And Saturday, too. I think I will try a spin class, see how that goes. I feel like I need someone else motivating me to do this stuff...on my own, I feel really lazy.
