Kicking Back

For the past 2 years or so I have been in a kind of Fitness Protection Program- whereby I was protecting myself from any further pain by simply avoiding the punishment of a workout.

I know they say 'No pain, No gain', however I have been in so much pain that there wasn't anything to gain from going to the gym and putting myself through it.

But I couldn't justify keeping my gym membership going unless I was going to the gym. For something other than saunas at any rate. So I checked out the program for something to ease myself back into it, and hopefully start strengthening and toning again.

Before the surgical mishap, and after an inauspicious start to my yoga career, I was finally getting the hang of it and didn't overbalance or embarrass myself anywhere near as much as I used to. I even felt better for it.  And just quietly, liked the look of my yoga pants too.

But after almost 2 years away from exercise equipment of any kind, it was with great fear and trepidation that I set foot back in the gym.

Yogalates promised to provide a good mix of both Yoga and Pilates and proposed that even beginners could carry out the routine.

Having been a copywriter myself for many years, I know only too well that the product doesn't always live up to the promotion. And so it was with my first foray into Yogalates.

The first hurdle was getting into my tights, after so long a break. Sad to say sitting on the couch doesn't cut it for keeping one in shape. (Unless of course the shape is a sphere. It's plenty good for that.)

I was also thankful that I chose to attend this class alone, and didn't phone a friend beforehand. That way I was only embarrassing myself in a roomful of strangers. Albeit fit, toned, and strangely flexible strangers.

I even tried to choose a spot at the back of the room, well away from any mirrors. But avoiding mirrors at the gym is like avoiding those who like looking into them, so I still saw myself from a number of unflattering angles as I tried to keep up with the class. This was a lot harder than I expected, and hurt a lot more too.

Long story short, 40 minutes later when the instructor asked us to take to our mat for relaxation, I gladly hit the floor. Only to find, to my horror, that my body was nowhere near as relaxed as I wanted to be.

After all the strenuous activity, I found my muscles twitching and shaking in a kind of post-traumatic shock. While everyone else was calmly stretching, my legs kept kicking in a crazy beat that would leave Michael Flatley for dead and he has the honour of setting a record for having the fastest feet!

Trying to be more mindful than manic, I had stern words with myself and eventually started to calm down. Just in time for the class to be over and we all had to get back up again to go home.

Shakily, I rolled up my mat, thanked the instructor and ensured her that I hadn't found it too difficult, and would be back soon (fingers firmly crossed behind my back, which now I think about it, probably wouldn't work in a room full of mirrors).

Then made my way to the car for a quiet sit down before I was able to drive home again.

Yet I have promised myself that I will get back to the gym...as soon as I am certain it's not gonna hurt me to do so.

In the meantime, I'm going to forgo the Yogalates and just stick to Lattés instead.

Jx

©2012

Lonely Hearts

As the weather warms up I am reminded that Spring has sprung and love is in the air. The wedding season is hitting full swing, and romance is everywhere.

Makes me ponder how long it'll be before my Beloved and I are meeting our offspring's prospective partners. Or chasing them off.  (I swear, as soon as he saw we were having a girl, my Beloved considered getting a gun!)

Both kids are still young enough that their thoughts haven't turned to romance just yet. Some of their friends have ventured down that track. But my little girl is still happy playing with dolls and my little boy is still happy with his first love: his mum.

It's adorable really, as the saying goes: a mother is her son's first friend, first kiss, and first love.  And we've all heard that old chestnut about girls marrying their father in a Freudian kind of way (Guilty, as charged).

And while people seem to be getting younger and younger when they start all this dating and more, we are sure (or maybe just hopeful) that ours aren't old enough just yet.

Like a lot of other stuff that's been around for centuries, the youth of today think they've discovered friendship and love, and created the language to go with it, what with all the BFFs, LOLs, LMAOs, and ROFLs (although I must admit to wishing I was still young enough myself to actually physically Roll on the Floor to Laugh, without the worry of whether I could get back up again). But OMG, for example, first appeared in 1917. British admiral John Arbuthnot Fisher first penned the acronym in a letter to the then-UK PM Winston Churchill.  I guess long hand was a bit of a bother with quills and things.

And since Newspaper classifieds charge by the word, people were being inventive back when they first started spruiking themselves in the Singles section of the paper. For those who've never had the need, or the novelty of reading them here's a bit of shorthand for what people want:

SW/M (or F) = Single White Male (or Female)

GSOH = Good Sense of Humour

DDF = Drug & Disease Free

BBW = Big Breasted Woman (well we know who'd be writing that one, don't we, since there's no alternative saying BPM?!)

IPT = Is Partial To

WLTM = Would Like To Meet

AL = Animal Lover

NK = No kids

NSA = No Strings Attached

Even the head of the Holy Catholic Church has had first (ok second) hand experience with the Singles section of the paper... I read recently that Pope Benedict XVI and his brother, 82 year old Father Georg Ratzinger, were surprised to learn that their parents met through an ad their father had placed in local Catholic weekly, Liebfraubote, if you can believe the London Times.

According to the report, Joseph Ratzinger Senior's July 1920 ad read: “Middle-ranking civil servant, single, Catholic, 43, immaculate past, from the country, is looking for a good Catholic, pure girl who can cook well, tackle all household chores, with a talent for sewing and homemaking with a view to marriage as soon as possible. Fortune desirable but not a precondition.”

36 year old Maria Peintner, an illegitimate baker’s daughter and a trained cook, replied. Word is she did not have a fortune, but they married four months later anyway. No mention was made of whether she was a BBW or not.

On a side note: I do wonder what it says that both their offspring chose the celibate life of the clergy...

And dating sites have been around almost since Adam was a baby. I am sure I saw an ancient cave drawing that seemed to suggest 'SW/M WTLM AL, to go Clubbing with'. (Insert groans here.)

So I shouldn't have been surprised when my son said: "You're my ideal woman. If you and I both went on eharmony.com you would be the first match they recommend for me."

My Beloved was flabbergasted that our boy knew what eHarmony was - he obviously hasn't spent as much 'quality time' in front of the television as I have with the kids. (Seriously, between ads for dating services and funeral plans, it's a wonder there's time for any actual programming on TV!)

After the laughter (from me) and the accusations of hurt feelings (from my son) died down I explained that it would be highly unlikely that both of us would be on any dating site at the same time, seeing how I'm already married....to his father!  Besides that, the age difference could prove a problem (for the record, my son says he wouldn't mind that, as long as she was like me. I see trouble with Cougars in our future).

For now all I can do is wait and see if my son does find someone like me to marry. And I can pray that he doesn't. Because I'm not sure she and me would get along.

And if my daughter marries a man like her father, well I'll be wishing her luck and keep the box of bandaids handy.

I'll keep 'em next to the shotgun.

Jx

©2012

Incy Wincy

I wish my bladder would respect my bedtime.

Not long ago- and not for the first time- there I was, middle of winter in the middle of the night, facing a big and hairy scary thing when I should have been snug as a bug in bed.

I was under the false apprehension that creepy crawlies had gone into hibernation for the wintertime.  And since it had been a mighty cold winter, I, like other ophidiophobes (and arachnophobes) was feeling relatively confident that we wouldn't be crossing paths anytime soon.

My mistake.

On a regular trip to the wheelie bin with some household waste I encountered an eerie little 8 legged critter residing right under the lid I lifted. And despite the chill in the air, and the aforementioned myth that the larger species of snakes and spiders go to sleep in the winter, 

I can assure you, Incy Wincy it wasn't!

I don't know who was more startled- or indeed who moved faster- Mr Hairylegs or me. Might've been a dead heat, actually. Moving in opposite directions, of course.

So you can appreciate my reaction on a night-time trip to the toilet not long afterwards.

I don't know about you but when nature calls in the night, I try not to wake anyone else. I crawl out of bed, tiptoe around to the ensuite bathroom, and ever so quietly slide the door open and shut, lift the lid and go about my business. I even installed a phosphorescent toilet seat so I can be guided by the glow to where I need to go. Saves turning on the light. Saves a bit of my power bill.

There is a downside to this, as I have previously discovered.

My Beloved, on the other hand, has no such qualms. Throws the covers off, rolls out of bed, slams open the sliding door, slams it shut again, flings up the toilet seat, and goes about his business. Then slams everything shut again and bounces back into bed; almost bouncing me out the other side (note to self: we REALLY need a new mattress).

After recent events I won't be quite so diligent.

Usual story, I am rudely awakened from unconscious bliss by my bladder, but being chilly I chuck on my slippers before hitting the tiles. I head into the bathroom when I spy out of the corner of my still half-asleep eyes, a dark fuzzy shape on the floor by the bowl. So, slipper in hand, I most valiantly and enthusiastically kill....my hair elastic.

Yep I well and truly whacked the crap out of a hair band that had in fact fallen out of my hair en route to the loo in the dark. But I am proud to report not a single squeak came from my mouth during the entire episode (thankfully, none of my other body parts betrayed themselves either).

Not that it matters, as my Beloved has been known to sleep through thunderstorms, phone calls, fire alarms, one time he even slept soundly as a neighbour banged on the window right above his head!  And how many times did he wake refreshed in the morning after I'd been up all night with a crying baby. Must be part of the Y chromosome, as it's a skill set most fathers seem to possess (leaving most mothers saying: "Why?!")

It's just as well I am not one of those helpless females who need their white knight to ride to her rescue when it comes to creepy crawlies. Or anything that goes bump in the night, for that matter. Many a time I have ventured forth from the bedroom to investigate a mysterious sound without  a man to hide behind. In fact my man is behind in bed, no doubt being all brave and manly in dreamland!

Yes, yes, I know the number one rule of horror films: don't go out there alone. But sometimes you don't have the choice (and happy to say most times, there isn't any bogeyman waiting in the wings).

Spiders, though, that's another story.

I've often encountered the little critters on their night-time hunting, while I do the protector thing and check on my children.  I even keep a can of spray handy for times I need to defend life and limb as quietly as possible (after all, this is Australia, home to some of the world's most poisonous species).

But I've never had to kill a hair band before.

Chance are, I never will again.

Jx

©2012

Kodak Moments

A picture is worth a thousand words. Some pictures leave you speechless. Then there are those that make you laugh so hard you cannot breathe, let alone speak.

They used to be called Kodak Moments, after the major player in the photography field. (Might have to explain that to the younger readers.)

With the recent passing of my father we inherited a few bits and pieces; a computer desk and laptop among them.

I was both happy and sad to see some photos of dad that I'd never seen before, on the disk drive of his computer.

And both sad and happy to have to find room in the cluttered corner of our lounge room we call an 'office', to fit the desk in.

As with any modern family, the amount of actual photographic images is far out of proportion with the number of shots we snap at any given time. These days the visit to the camera shop to develop and print pictures is a forgotten journey, and the trip down memory lane is a lot faster thanks to Instagram and the like. Digital cameras can run off several shots per second, and you can immediately see whose head was cut off, whose finger was over the lens, or even who forgot to take the lens cap off, which happened a lot in the good old days.

To me it means that the photos of old, taken on honest-to-goodness film, are a lot more precious than ever before. It was expensive to print pictures back in the day, and the shots you got were worth every cent. In some cases- priceless (like the picture of my sister and her man all fitted out for a fancy dress ball, but the only thing mum managed to get in frame was their heads)!

I wouldn't even begin to explain 'slide nights' to the current generation. They were even a little before my time.

Now it's just point and shoot and a lot of shots don't make it out of the camera, let alone into an album.  If you're lucky (or just plain organised) you download them to a disk.

So it was when my family started shuffling things around in the lounge room to fit dad's desk in.  In amidst the mess my Beloved discovered a CD of photos that his mother had sent us- going back to pictures taken when he was but a babe in arms.

Our boychild, who had been given the job of checking any such disks for important info, started to laugh at the thought of seeing his father as a baby. My Beloved took this as an insult and came into the next room where our girlchild and I were sitting.

"He doesn't believe that there are photos of 'young daddy'!" says the man of the moment, in a huff

"There are?" exclaims our daughter

"Because cameras weren't invented when daddy was a bub" says I, tongue-in-cheek

"No, I didn't think so" replies our girl, in all seriousness.

I won't go into the full reply that was given to us by the man of the house, suffice to say he was even less impressed, and amongst his mutterings about photography having been around for close to 200 years now and he wasn't that old yet, my daughter turns to me and says:

"What does it mean when daddy sticks his two fingers up?"

"It means he's not happy with us" I say

More mirth from me, and more grumblings from my man later, and the children finally took a look at their father in his youth.  And got the giggles again.

Needless to say my Beloved won't be lining us up for any slide nights in the foreseeable future.

The look on his face was a Kodak Moment for sure.

I just wish I'd had my camera handy.

Jx

©2012