Getting Along

Tags

Confessional, elliptical, exercise, jealousy, kisa

We had our first joint workout, the Kisa and us – me, myself and moi. Kisa, visiting New Guinea and me…thrashing away on the elliptical from hell. I say thrashing only because I’m still not completely comfortable with the mechanics of the machine. Okay, I admit it. It’s only my second go at it, but I feel downright silly ellipticalling (my word) away. Everything about it is unnatural to me. Maybe Kisa sensed this. “Put your feet closer to the front and you will mimic stair stepping” came his all-knowing advice. Oh great, something from my days in the gym with the Wanker. Not that I need reminders of those days. No StairMaster stepping for me, thank you. “Put your feet further away and you’ll glide more like running” came Kisa’s next advice. Glide as g-l-i-d-e? Okay. I’ll take it. I took the advice and ran with it. Sorta. Kinda. Maybe. Not. It was nothing like running. Even though I got a decent work out, sweat and red face and all I still envied Kisa. Kisa over there with New Guinea having a blast.

In all fairness, aside from my raging jealousy the workout was a success in almost every other way. Kisa watched his sports shows – you know the ones where they talk, talk, talk about the same things over and over (thankfully the Tebow thing is winding down), while I plugged into the iPod and rocked out to the usual suspects. Cream. Stevie Wonder. Maroon 5. Joplin, Pearl Jam. Even a little Duran Duran. As my jealousy kept spying on Kisa I noticed that one of New Guinea’s cup holders is deep enough to hold the remote. Good to know.

The workout would have been a complete success if we had officially moved everything to its rightful place. As it is we haven’t created enough space for two workout mats, two stability balls, yoga mats, that sort of thing. There isn’t room for two people to properly stretch after working out…yet. So the space is still awkward to me. But, it will get there and at least Kisa and I are getting along.

Naked Already

Tags

Walking, charity, Confessional, Just Cause, training

I forgot my pedometer today. This may not seem like a big deal, but to me, myself and moi, we were naked without it. Naked. All day. Very, very unsettling.

This will be my fourth year walking for Just ‘Cause. In academic years I guess that would make me a senior this year. Yay me. Every year I get a little better at training. I know that sounds silly to say. Who trains to put one foot in front of the other? I do. My first year with Just ‘Cause was a disaster. I signed up with less than six weeks to train, six weeks to raise $1,000. Mistake. Myself thought me nuts. To say nothing of moi. It was kind of nuts. After the sixty miles I limped away with a crazy red rash on my shins and ankles and more stiff muscles than I cared to count. The second year I obtained a little more knowledge and trained a little wiser. Did you catch that? I said a little wiser. This time I blistered my feet so bad that blisters were on top of blisters. Blisters that formed little communities on the soles of my feet. I was hobbling by the end of day three/mile sixty and I picked at dead skin for months afterwards. Year three (I guess I would be a junior at this point) I learned much more and set about training in a whole new way. Five miles a day on weekdays. Nothing more, nothing less. Weekends were reserved for “long walks” much like a runner has their long run. Only I needed to make sure I had two long walks in succession. The philosophy is if you can do two days of walk-walk-walk back to back you shouldn’t have a problem adding a third day when it’s time to do the real thing. It’s true. Back to back is the same as back to back to back.

Anyway, so starting 1/1/2012 I started walking five miles a day. Faithfully. Pedometer always on the right hip, always one inch away from the bone. It’s superstition but the right hip has always been my troublemaker. I started wearing the pedometer over it like a bandage. Cover the hurt that could come at any minute. Except today. Somehow I walked out the door without it. It’s unsettling. Maybe I should keep a spare at my office?

Foreign Territory

Tags

cats, Confessional, kisa, running, treadmill

I ran on the new treadmill last night. I walked away from walking after 2.5 miles and decided running was where I needed to be. Running was what I needed. Period. It’s only right. What other way would I want to break in a new tread? By walking? How ridiculous is that? So I ran. Ran not so far away. But, but. But! I ran. 3.16 miles. The whole experience was beyond bizarre in every way. For starters there were my new surroundings to negotiate. I ran with my left side verrry close to a big dark green wall. I’m used to a white closet door on my right, one that I can push closed if it starts to crowd me. In this new space I felt like I could send a picture of Ramirez flying at any second. Instead of a letter from President Bush in front of me I stared at football players. I couldn’t read the words, “we, a grateful nation…” I need to consider my inspiration. Instead of floor lamps in corners the new room was all around brighter. And Kisa was there on the computer. And the cats, chasing each other. Weird. Distracting. I found myself yelling at Jones to cut it out from time to time. Because I had an audience I felt as though I had to keep my emotions in check. I still talked to me, myself and moi, though.

Then there was the new gerbil cage, which I’m calling “New Guinea” by the way. Get it? Anyway, Instead of plugging in an iPod and shutting the world out with ear buds I listened to Wolf Mother, 10,000 Maniacs, Rolling Stones, Tori Amos, and Stevie Wonder through speakers. Instead of overheating and sweating I had a fan blowing on my face. Instead of one screen of statistics I had three to play with. Instead of bouncing on a too-loose belt my footfalls were firm beneath me. Everything was different about this cage and yet I was right at home. I didn’t expect romance at first run, but there you have it. Welcome to New Guinea.

Now It’s Your Turn, Girl

Tags

Confessional, eulogy, insane moments, memories, treadmill

I have that 1980s Journey song, you know the one, “Now it’s your turn, girl to cry. Na na na na na…” going through my head. Taunting me. It’s my turn to cry. The old gerbil cage is going bye-bye. As early as today. I didn’t think I would take it so hard. For all it’s quirks I loved this machine. And as I stand in front of it I think maybe, just maybe, it loved me. Really, honestly I wish it could talk. We spent a lot of time together. I’ve shed tears on it. Almost puked on it.

I was user 2. But only when I ran. When I walked I was user 1, stealing Kisa’s numbers and walk, I did. Miles and miles. That is, when I remembered to be a user at all. We logged 1,000 miles between user 1 and user 2′s stats. The incline button was worn through to the mesh and didn’t work all the time. The machine protested any include over 5% as it was. The custom program was broken. It wanted me to use program 8 every time it was turned on. (what’s so special about program 8?) The date was perpetually January 5th and the time, always 1:01 in the morning. No amount of resetting could set it straight. It was constantly asking for a relube of the belt. The motor squealed after an hour. I swore I heard swearing. That’s okay. I swore, too.

The cup holder! Before they came for my gerbil cage I had to call Kisa to make sure he cleaned out the cup holder. It was too shallow for the humungous water bottle I insisted on using so instead the cup holder became the place for earrings, ear buds, hair ties, lint, rings, old gum. Anything I decided to discard mid-stride. Remember the puke? That’s where it would have gone. In the cup holder. One time I insisted on running with a cold. The cup holder faithfully held my snot laden tissues until I remembered to throw them out a week later.

And the stickers! Purple Rolling Stones lips honoring a man who gave me my first heartbeat to run with, a bright yellow Phish begging me to run like an antelope (or at least try), two Hike for Mikes to remind me to be humble, a Portland tattoo parlor I have yet to try. Three years of Just ‘Cause. Three years running, I mean walking. There is a story in all this – these mementos.

In the end I know all things must die. Change is good. If there is anything to be learned from this it’s respect. I respected the gerbil cage. I never ever once used it as a coat rack or a laundry basket. It didn’t gather dust. Okay, I did try to get Jones to move his 18lb heft on it once. As a joke. A cat on a treadmill – that has the potential to be hilarious, right? It didn’t last long. Honestly, it ceased to be even remotely funny when he fell off the back with a resounding thud. And yes, I admit the gerbil cage did provide brief entertainment for my five year old nephew last Thanksgiving. He has the attention span of a flee so like I said, it was brief. But really, for the most part I treated the gerbil cage with almost holy devotion.

I don’t know where treadmills go to die but I will miss my cage. Rest in peace, my friend.

Heavy Lifting

Tags

Confessional, insane moments, kisa, life, marriage, moving

We moved the futon out of Man Town last night. First it needed to come apart in order to maneuver it up the stairs and around tight corners. Was it with a heavy heart that Kisa twisted the allen wrench or did I just imagine that? No matter how carefully I watched his face I couldn’t read it. Piece by piece we carried the dismantled futon to the now “spare” room. No longer a work out room, we weren’t sure how to refer to it. In the end it was deemed Red. The Red Room Kisa called it. I agreed, but was that bitterness in his voice? No matter how carefully I listened I couldn’t hear it. My mind was (still!) playing tricks on me.
Later we moved a big green armchair. You know, the one I can never sit in properly. Usually I lounge sidewise, held in a strange big-armed embrace. I love this chair. I almost hated to move it. As I hoisted it up Kisa asked, “now where is this going again?” Suddenly it was clear to me – the big picture was never clear to him. He agreed to something he couldn’t quite see.
Later we were talking about the phone. He had assumed I wanted to take that, too. For work, he explained. Again I got the feeling he had been moving things and agreeing to things without understanding the final destination. Where, exactly, did he put his map? Right at that moment I knew I needed to retrace my steps, catch him up to where I thought we were going. Are we chickens or are we nuts? Maybe a little of both.
By the end of the discussion the paranoia had lifted. The Red Sox weren’t leaving town. Neither were the Bruins, Patriots, Celtics, or Broncos. Sakic is safe. Light sabres and drum kits. Terrible towels and phishing gear. Skeletons and roses. That was never in the plan. Everything that makes this room “dude” is staying. No need for anymore heavy lifting.

Not that Woman

Tags

compromise, Confessional, elliptical, insane moments, kisa, marriage, treadmill, wife

I am hypersensitive to certain situations. I never, ever want to be accused of being a nagging housewife. I never, ever want to referred to as a ball and chain. I never, ever want Kisa’s friends to ask, “do you think your wife will let you —?” I never, ever want to be that woman. Controlling. Conniving. I’m borderline paranoid about being perceived as such. I can’t be thought of that way and yet, last night I found myself defending my character of such things.

It started innocently enough. Kisa and I were having that mundane AndHowWasYourDay discussion over dinner when he stated matter-of-factually, “Ed can’t believe I’m giving up my Man Town for this workout room.” There. It was out. The very thing I had been dreading. I’m making my husband give something up to make me happy. Never mind the hours we spent talking, talking, talking about it. Never mind that we painstakingly went over every pro and con to moving the gym equipment to the room otherwise known as “Dude.” Never mind the fact we measured and the numbers supported the move. Never mind that he had agreed; agreed that everything I wanted made sense. Now all I could hear were the words “I’m giving up” and in an instant I became that woman. My blood literally ran cold. I’m sure my eyes bugged out. It’s an irrational fear and Kisa knew it for he quickly said, “this isn’t a chicken situation.” But, all I could think was, “Yes! it is!” How could it not be?

My sister is divorced because she and her husband drifted into two different lifestyles without consulting the other. It was if they bought a farm together only he thought it was a nut farm and she envisioned chickens. They were on such different paths it was as if they woke up one day and couldn’t remember the other’s name or recognize their face. No amount of But-I-Thought-That’s-What-You-Wanted could put their marriage back together.

I totally see this gym situation as a chicken one. With an Insert Paranoia Here twist.

Realizing the Reality

Tags

running, treadmill, kisa, Hilltop, training, home gym, elliptical

I can convince myself to be afraid of nearly anything if I push my mind to it. Lately I have been fixated on my treadmill. Although this isn’t the first time. When we first moved it into Hilltop I was convinced the floor wouldn’t support it and right in the middle of mile five I would go crashing through the ceiling of Kisa’s “man town.” For weeks I listened for floor joists to creak, beams to crack, anything that would indicate a structural weakness. It never happened. It was all in my head.
More recently my fear is about the treadmill itself. It doesn’t recognize a good lube – lube belt! lube belt! it cries, it protests an incline more than 5% with fits and groans and on some days it really wants me to workout on “Program 8″ when I push quick start. I’m waiting for a catastrophic motor malfunction that will send me sprawling. Kisa assures me it’s the computer chip and not the heart of the beast. Oh great, the brains of the operation. What happens when it stops suddenly? An inquiring and fearful mind wants to know. I’m imaging the weeks of walking I will do on this thing, this thing with a mental issue.

Kisa must have realized my reality, as skewed as it was, for the very next weekend we went to a reputable sporting goods store and bought a new treadmill. Just like that. New. Not a used up floor model like the gerbil cage I have now. We didn’t go high-end nor low-end. We chose a Live Strong right in the middle. And then. And then we went further and bought an elliptical. Same thing. Not high nor low end. Another Live Strong right in the middle. The behemoths both are to be delivered this week.

Hate to Bother

Tags

communication, Confessional, friendship, insane moments, relationships

I hate to bother you, but I can’t get a word in.

A few years ago I was talking with a new boyfriend in a crowded bar. Music was blaring and he was talking, talking, talking. I could tell by the puppy dog look on his face that he was trying to be oh so sincere about something. He was pouring out his heart and asking me to sop up his every word. Except. I didn’t hear a one. He talked and talked and I couldn’t hear him. La la la went the loud lounge singer. Blah, blah, blah, went my blithe boyfriend. On and on and on he went. I nodded politely, smiled sweetly all the while not understanding a single syllable. He could have been telling me he was an axe murderer. He could have been telling me he fathered twenty children. He could have been proposing. He could have been trying to leave our newly forged union. I have no clue. I never said a word.

Some time ago I was standing in a field with bags of farm fresh vegetables heavy on each arm, talking to a friend. The bags of parsnips and potatoes pulled on my shoulders and strained my hands. My friend talked, talked, talked about her near-ending relationship; the break-up that was coming soon. Impending. Any day he would ask her to leave. He would leave her. My friend was convinced of this and anguished and excited all at once to share it. On and on and on she went, lamenting the wrongs that so outweighed the rights. The bags on my shoulders grew heavier and heavier. An arm fell asleep then two. Hands tingling, I never said a word.

A short while ago I was on the phone with a friend. Me in my rocking chair by the fire. She in a Rocky Mountain town possibly by hers. I could tell her news was urgent. Desperate to share she started in when suddenly and without warning the phone cut out. Silence. Silence that lasted long enough for her to come back and say, “I just don’t know what to do.” Somehow I had missed the meat of the misery. Our connection was cut just long enough for me to not understand a single word. Before I could tell her I couldn’t help her she launched into another tale; one that clearly hinged on the first. On and on and on she went. I let it go. I never learned of her dilemma. I never said a word.

I hate to bother you, but I can’t get a word in.

To Resolve or Not to Resolve?

Tags

insane moments, Confessional, life, stress, happy, resolutions

I hate resolutions. Especially those made on January first of any given year. Why do we do it? Why must we clasp our hands together, naive eyes wide (blinkety-blink) and proclaim with such optimistic certainty, “this year I resolve to…” (blink-blink). Lose weight. Save money. Sleep eight hours. Floss. Whatever.

I remember many years ago talking with a friend who wished out loud she had more time for yoga. As I started to count the ways she could possibly find the time she interrupted with, “the truth is I don’t want to. I mean, if I really wanted to spend more time doing yoga I would have done it by now. Dontcha think?” Huh. She had a point. A really good point.

I have never forgotten that conversation. And yet, on my birthday (to avoid the cliche of New Year’s Resolutions) I find myself resolving, year after year, to make myself into something I’m not; to do something I can’t; to like or love something I won’t. Not this year. This year is going to be different. If you are keeping up with me you  already know I resolved (on the LunaSea side) to read differently. So what about the JustCause side?

The Nonresolution Resolutions (in no particular order):

1. Continue the Book Lust Challenge
2. Go to Monhegan at least once in 2012
3. Do one amazing thing in Hawaii
4. See my family on a regular basis
5. Cook 4-5 homemade, everything from scratch, meals a week (no shortcuts)
6. Write letters, send cards, blog
7. Carry a camera
8. Find the one good thing to be grateful for each and every day.
9. Walk the Just ‘Cause Cancer walk every year until I can’t
10. Spazz out whenever I want, however I want.

There. That’s it. Nothing earth shaking or shattering. Nothing high pressure. Things I’m already doing but could be done with a little more awareness. Not quite sure how to spazz out with more awareness, but there it is.

Politics of Presents

Tags

christmas, Confessional, family, giving, Holidays, insane moments

Every year I have this inner battle with myself and moi. We go ’round and ’round about the same damned thing: to give or not to give. The politics of presents has really gotten out of hand. Several years ago, six to be exact, the in-laws decided they were done with gift giving. Christmas is for kids, they announced emphatically. Grandkids, specifically. Okay. Let’s be really specific here – one grandkid. singular. The Kisa and I rejoiced with skepticism. It didn’t seem possible to buy for just one niece (although that would make shopping a breeze, at least that’s what we thought). But, what were we planning to do, all sit around and watch one kid open a crapload of gifts? Yup. That’s exactly what happens. Our new dilemma became What Do You Get the Kid Who Has Everything? Until this year. My sister-in-law plops a gift in my lap and laments, “I know. I know. We said no gifts.” “But!” she adds brightly, “I saw this and just had to get it for you!” I could only stare at her in dismay. Kisa shrugs. Hello awkward moment.

Then there’s my side of the family that never sticks to anything serious. We say we won’t buy for the adults but inevitably there will be presents and stocking-stuffers both. Oodles of cash spent on chintzy things, tacky things, totally unnecessary things. World class lying on all our parts. So, it’s not about not buying gifts, because we know we just will. It’s about the dollar amount. Two years ago the Kisa and I were given life preserver looks because we went way overboard in the spending department. It was embarrassing. For every gift we received we had given three at least in return. What was I thinking? I’m not sure but myself was pissed at me. We created an uncomfortable situation without even trying.

Here we are again. Kisa and I bought one gift for my mother. One gift. It’s practical. It’s something she needs. She’ll appreciate it. And yet. Yet, I find myself worrying it’s not enough. She could always use another fill-in-the-blank. There’s room for one more insert-present-here.

I don’t know when I’ll figure this out, but guess what? I have always, always been like this. I say I won’t send holiday cards to those humbugs who haven’t sent me one in the last five years. I say I won’t bother with writing a real greeting to those who simply stuff a silly photo-card in a printer-labeled envelope. Why bother with the ones that can’t be bothered with me? Why put pen to paper when there are some who can’t even sign their names? I don’t have the answer. I haven’t figured out the politics of presents.