Raising the Barre

My gym is now open 24 hours a day. 

Now if I’m going to be completely honest, it’s been about 17,520 hours (or 730 days) since I’ve been to said gym.

There are almost as many reasons why:

• I have a son with multiple chronic illnesses.
• I suffer chronic pain myself.
• I also have a teenage daughter with a demanding extra curricula activity schedule.
• Plus a husband who does shift work.
• And now 2 new furry family members (more on those at another time).
•  I now work fulltime, with a daily commute of 3 hours round trip, up to 6 days a week.
• I am basically broke.
• I am permanently exhausted.
• Plus, up until now, the gym hours did not synchronise with my schedule of spare time (whatever that is).

Nonetheless this morning, on my 1 day off in 13, I awoke at my regular hour of stupid o’clock, up before the birds, the dogs, and the rest of my family.

In my enthusiasm (or perhaps delirium) I decided that it was about time I went back to the gym, and today was the best time to do it.

So I dug out my gym bag, struggled into a pair of tights (which were by definition and demeanour quite tight), borrowed my girlchild’s water bottle and headed for the home of pain and torture, otherwise known as my fitness club.

After finding out with some delight my membership card still scanned and let me past the gates guarded by electronics, only to find no human guardian waiting on the other side, I walked confidently into the workout room, with hope in my heart that I could in fact make it through a work out.

I was the first one there, aside from the instructor, and was relatively hopeful that it being so early on a Sunday morning, there would be more people worshipping at the altar of their chosen religion, or still asleep, and there would be few people to see my attempt at getting fit (because it’s worked so well in the past for me as evidenced here, and also here)

Unfortunately, by the time I checked in with the trainer and discussed both my physical difficulties and desire to overcome them, the room had filled, and there were any number of fit looking females taking up position at the Barre.  Here I should mention that this particular class I was venturing into was somewhat scarily entitled Barre Attack, and involved the trainer attacking our muscles with the use of a good old fashioned ballet barre.

She said it was best for me to grab a spot at the back of the room so I could see her in the reflection while also keeping an eye on myself, to check I was doing it right. Now I don’t like looking at myself in a mirror at the best of times, let alone hot and sweaty and ridiculously uncoordinated both physically and fashion-wise (yes, I did indeed notice after looking at my reflection that my ensemble was nowhere near as on-trend as the others in the room). 

It was even worse when the trainer declared it was a barefoot class, and I was aware as soon as I took my shoes off, of just how long I’ve left my toenail polish on (it was like a reverse French pedi just so you know, with the tips of my toes showing a mere shadow of colour, with the rest of my nail the shade of white only my bare skin seems to bear).

At this point I also realised the error of my ways leaving my ankle brace at home when she declared it was ‘leg day’ and the majority of the workout would be working on our lower extremities. With bonus ball work. What joy.

And so it begins...

I was almost over my shock of confronting myself in the mirror in such a brightly lit room when she asked if we had warmed up enough to put the fans on, “Yes” I either gasped or rasped, with both my breath and my voice already giving up the ghost.  I then noticed in my haste to be as close to the door as possible in order to make a hasty escape if necessary, I was nowhere near a fan … leaving me looking longingly at the breeze blowing straight over my head, and onto every other person in the room except me.

Once we’d warmed up (darn near overheated in my case) she instructed us to put our left side to the Barre. I was happy with this instruction as it meant I was at the back of the row and able to watch the others carry out the movements, as I still had no clue about the full range of techniques we were attacking at the barre.  Halfway through the pliés my legs were pleading to stop the torture, and it was with all the grace of a dying swan (literally not classically speaking) I tried to keep up with the class to my front.

When she then turned us all around to face the opposite side I realised the entire class was now facing my backside, and my wobbly attempts at the kick-and-curtsey combo were also in full view.  While the instructor reminded us that the barre was there for support if needed, and most of the class were gracefully holding their arms in beautiful imitations of First and Fifth positions whilst hoisting the ball above their heads, I was managing a mangled Third with extreme barre-o-metric pressure as I hung onto it for dear life for fear of falling over on my unsteady feet.  Thankfully I could hear no laughter over the sound of my own ragged breathing.  I couldn't believe it when she said it was good to see us still smiling, while seemingly looking straight at me - clearly she mistook my grimace for a grin.

After a few more minutes of my inadequate inelegance, the trainer said it was time to go to the floor. “Sweet relief, it’s cool down time” thought both my legs and I in agreement, until she decided there was more torture to endure.  I swear if my legs weren’t shaking so much I would’ve burst the ball I was gripping the thing so tight in my state of tension, as it was it was so sweaty by this stage it’s a miracle the thing didn’t squeeze out and shoot across the room.

I can’t even recall what went on for the remainder of the class itself, as I fear I had an out-of-body experience; anything to not experience the pain my body was in.

At least I wasn’t alone, and the others who had put in even harder yards than I had, given their experience and fitness level, appeared to be equally exhausted.

It wasn’t until a random cockroach crawled out from behind the mirror and scuttled across the floor (thankfully nowhere near me, I’ve had my share of those creepy crawly critters thankyou) that we all found our energy reserve and leaped up away from the thing; the instructor included, so she concluded the class.

I had survived my return to the gym.

I wasn’t barred from the Barre!

I even resisted to urge to attack some sugar on my way home.

And if my legs ever forgive me, I might even make it back for an encore performance next weekend.

Jx

©22 January 2017

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

It’s Life, Gym, But Not as We Know it

Some might call it a mid-life crisis.

Now, considering that I have just fallen face first into my forties… some could be forgiven for calling it that.

I have taken my life into my own hands and joined a gym.

And just so’s I don’t pike out on my promise to get back into some semblance of the shape I was in in my 20s and 30s, I made it a 12 month membership, minimum. Yay me.

Now all I have to do, is go!

The great thing about this gym is that it promises plenty of space to work out in peace, without competing for mirror space with the narcissists in the room, and without being stuck in front of a window where anyone passing by gets a good look at your…technique, so to speak. It also offers a kids class free for members’ children. That’s a bonus, as my kids and I can use each other as motivation to get moving at least once a week.

There’s also a sauna, a coffee shop, child care, and massage rooms. There’s even talk of a potential pool onsite, in case one needs any more enticement.

Recently, there was an Open Day to show off their wares. It appeared the world and his wife went in to check it out.

There were gym staff cavorting about dressed like superheroes (with requisite underwear on the outside), there were kids hanging off the boxing bags, couples having quiet cuppas while considering cutting carbs, plus the offer of trial mini massage.

Since it was free, I thought I’d line up for one too.

So that was how I came to find myself perched in a position a contortionist or exotic dancer could be proud of, on this funny contraption loosely based on a chair- with my face poking into an alleged breathing hole cut into said chair, all while kinda falling forward onto my knees. While I was there, I thought I may as well take advantage of the position and offer up a quick prayer that I would in fact be able to get up again once it was over.

After a few initial swipes of the shoulders the female masseuse realized just what a challenge my muscles presented and was working up a sweat of her own trying to loosen things up. Any attempts at polite conversation gave way to her doing a close rendition of Monica Seles in full form with little grunts coming over my shoulder as she really got stuck into my Trapezius. Didn’t take too long before she decided the 5 minute mini massage was not going to cut it with me, and I was enthusiastically offered a discount on a full hour-long session.

Seems my impromptu prayers were answered at least, and I was able to extract myself from the massage chair without too much embarrassment, and after saving Spiderman from my offspring it was back to reality and we headed on home.

After all that exertion we felt fully justified in doing so via the closest fast food factory, which just happens to be right alongside the gym in question.

Yes like doctors offering lollies at the end of an appointment to keep their dentistry friends in business, it seems that the Colonel is in cahoots with the consortium that owns the fitness centre and keeps the clients coming with 11 secret herbs and spices.

*sighs*

Just as well I’ve got 12 months to work it off…

Jx
©2010

We Wanna, We Wanna, We Wanna Wee

I had that dream again last night.

The one where no matter what you’re doing (and let’s face it, in our subconscious nocturnal wanderings we can be doing some pretty crazy stuff) your bladder butts in and you decide that you need to pee. So naturally, given the freedom of a human mind not tethered by the restraints of time and space, you simply conjure up a handy bathroom, search out a stall, and feel free to relieve yourself. If you’re lucky (or able to regain control of that wayward vision) you wake up before you actually follow through for real.

I hate that dream.

If you can believe “Zoo Weekly” magazine (and who wouldn’t seeing how it’s such a fine piece of journalistic veracity and integrity) 1% of adults wet their beds on a regular basis.

They probably had that dream.

According to much more reputable sources (scientific journals and parenting magazines- heck, even Wikipedia agrees and we all know how reliable that is!) if you’re a female of child-bearing age and you did that child bearing the way God intended, you’re twice as likely to suffer from pelvic floor muscle weakness and an occasionally leaky bladder. Especially if you laugh, cough, sneeze, exercise, are startled, or make any other sudden movement (gee you guys get it good sometimes). And it gets even worse with age (oh joy- something for us all to look forward to)!

It’s called Urinary Incontinence. What a delightful little term that is.

But it’s better than the other types of incontinence one can suffer from. And in the interests of good taste (also lest I somehow jinx myself) I am not going any further down that track in this little blog of mine (for those who really must know, read the opening par on that Wikipedia page, but don’t say I didn’t warn you).

And it’s a profitable business, this incontinence. Take a look at all the products offered in the Health & Beauty aisle at the supermarket next time, if you don’t believe me. Seriously, aside from all of us having that dream at one time or another over the course of our lives, what sort of person sits down and says “I’m going to get rich by selling diapers to grown-ups!”

It’s obvious that someone did. I mean, we all know that even Archimedes had to attend to health and hygiene, what with him having his ‘Eureka!’ moment in the bathtub and all; I just wonder what type of entrepreneur set out to make a fortune out of unfortunate bodily functions. (I'm also suspicious of the inspiration behind the Nintendo® Wii™, just quietly.)

The simple fact that I’m sitting here alone at my dining table typing a blog that may only ever amuse myself and my mother (my most loyal fan, thanks Ma!), in the vain hope that someone someday will stumble across my musings and decide I was the Next Big Thing of the literary world…shows that I have not had any such epiphany of the money-making kind. But, as usual, I digress.

It’s days like these- the morning after the night before, when one has had the misfortune to come this close to convincing their subconscious that they are appropriately placed for nocturnal encounters of the urinary kind- that I up the ante on the pelvic floor exercises, in the hope that even if the spirit is willing the flesh isn’t weak enough to follow through (or to put it terms the men in the audience might understand: the prostate doesn’t perform whilst prostrate).

And as I squeeze/hold/release, I also ponder the person who made the effort to elaborate on exercises purely designed to strengthen the muscles put into play when one pees. And consequently made their mark and their money out of it.

Some bloke by the name of Kegel, if I recall rightly.

I betcha he had that dream too.

Jx
©2010

How Much can a Yogi Bear?

I’ve heard heaps about what Yoga can do for you.

Since I’ve had a lot of trouble getting moving over the past couple of years, I was happy to join in when a couple of mums from school suggested we give it a go. There’s safety in numbers after all.

The workout started with me wriggling into gym tights that have sat on the shelf a little too long, if you know what I mean. I’d already worked up a small sweat just pulling the leggings up, but at least I got a head start on the warm up routine.

The first inkling that the class itself was going to prove interesting was when the lady alongside us asked that we move our mats over in case anyone got kicked in the head. I thought that was rather ambitious, as the chances of me getting my legs higher than my own knees were a whole lot slimmer than the lady making the request (I didn’t realise I’d signed up for the skinny minny class- my bad).

Unfortunately, the subsequent shift to the left parked me right alongside the abandoned bags and footwear of the other participants; a fact which became painfully obvious as soon as we started the deep breathing exercises. Someone needed some odour eaters, and how!

If my eyes weren’t watering from the very effort of putting myself into the positions being ably demonstrated up the front of the room, they certainly were whenever the instructor said ”Now roll your head over to the left and take a deep breath in.”

By the time we reached the part where we tried breathing through alternate nostrils (to involve the mind and invoke a better intake of oxygen, don’t you know)- I found it easier to only partake of half the exercise, inhaling only on one side…the one farthest from the shoes.

So there was great rejoicing on my part when we moved from the floor to our feet, and even the indignity of being the only one needing to call out “Timber!” whilst in the tree position didn’t worry me nearly as much as the thought of more mat work.

I must admit, I was feeling pretty good about myself as the class progressed- I even managed to touch my toes at one stage which proved highly motivational for someone who has trouble seeing her feet from time to time. It’s reassuring to know they’re still there, at any rate.

But my confidence only went so far, and at one point I felt I was channelling Yoda moreso than doing Yoga: getting everything backwards I was.

While I was leaning to the left everyone else was off to the right. Or I was saluting the sun while the rest of them were doing the downward dog. Worst was when I was bum up while all the others were head down. Not a good look for a beginner, I can tell you, especially in tight tights.

I bravely struggled through, and am proud to say I completed the entire hour and a half without once whimpering out loud.

Even though by the end of class, I was half passed out from the chloroform effect of the joggers beside me, yet barely able to move myself away from the offending odours, as my lower back reminded me of why I was there in the first place- it seized up and I found myself still making like a snake long after everyone else was upright.

I’m happy to report though, that I completed the class and even earned congratulations from the instructor.

I was happier still when the others suggested we hit the closest café for coffee and cake.

So, home I come, feeling better for giving it a go and able to report that I am feeling the effects already- even if it’s pain instead of pleasure at this stage.

Who knows, by this time next year, I might be flexible enough to kick that lady in the head after all. Especially if I find out it was her shoes alongside me.

Jx
©2009

One Small Step for Womankind

I’ve been chiding myself for being too physically inactive lately.

Oh I had good reason after I was injured in a car accident late in 2007, but I’m almost walking without a limp these days and really should be fitter. But I have to admit it’s been quite a while since I’ve been intimately acquainted with a gym, a pool, or even the local jogging trail. It’s even longer since I took part in team sports of any sort (that one’s definitely back in the days BC…before children that is).

So I was thinking I should take up something, anything, in order to enhance my endurance, and reduce the risk of some certain diseases (I’ve recently had reason to reflect on same, thanks to nasty things happening- thankfully to other people).

But after this past week, I’m starting to think that maybe I do get enough exercise after all, just by being a mother. Cool.

Now, it’s not like my son doesn’t have enough medical appointments to keep us busy already, but since he happened to break yet another bone after yet another incident with a chair (oh, don’t ask), it was back to the hospital again.

Our local hospital is a 'teaching hospital', so it’s pretty darn big. To entertain myself (and take my mind off even more medical bills) I started counting our footsteps, just to see how much ground we covered in the almost 3.5 hours we were there.

OK, so from car to the clinic (to see the doctor) = 257 steps.

The clinic to X Ray department (to check for fractures) = 583 steps.

X Ray back to Clinic (to get results) = 583 steps.

Clinic to Physio (to see a therapist who wasn’t even there, d’oh) = 186 steps.

Physio to OT (to get measured for a splint he couldn’t wear) = 112 steps.

OT to the Pharmacy (to put in script for chemo drugs) = 259 steps.

Pharmacy to cafeteria (purely killing time by filling up the boy) = 368 steps (would’ve been more if we took the stairs).

Cafeteria to Physio (to apply plaster) = 432 steps.

Physio to the Pharmacy (to pick up medications) = 287 steps.

Pharmacy back to car (to collapse) = 225 steps.

Total = 3292 steps! Even more, if you count the pacing back and forth I did whilst waiting for doctors, radiographers, therapists, and pharmacists, and just plain old stressing out.

Yep, seems I got a decent workout after all, simply by having a son have yet another altercation with a chair (no really, don’t ask). Not that I’d recommend it as a motivation to get moving.

Oh and with all that exercise, I didn’t feel at all guilty for the pizza we picked up on the way home for dinner that night.

Next time I think I’ll wear a pedometer to the supermarket … with a bit of luck it’ll cancel out the calories of the confectionary aisle.

Jx
©2009