Filed under: Exercise, Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, bra, clothing, Exercise, gym, health, humor, Middle-Age, sports, sports bras, sportswear, subourbonmom
As I continue my journey back to moderate fitness so I can flail around in an inner tube all summer with my cup of bourbon, I have come to the realization that my old school sports bras are holding me back – not up.
Everyone moans and groans about the hardships of exercising – the exhaustion, frustration, injuries and limited food choices, but women don’t usually address one of the most difficult post-exercise struggles that many of us face:
Removing that sweaty sports bra.
Let me begin by explaining that I’ve had my four sports bras for at least 5 years, which is longer than I’ve stuck with most t.v. shows and celebrity crushes. And I’m told it’s probably not a good thing – they are designed to keep The Girls contained, and to prevent the pain of all the independent jumping about they like to do. I’m pretty sure at this point those old sports bras are not doing much more for me than keeping everyone from realizing it takes me at least 15 minutes to warm up when the gym thermostat is set to “arctic.”
Oh they’re comfortable enough, like my fave pair of sweat pants – soft and stretchy. But they also have that irritating habit of turning into a boa constrictor-like leviathan I can’t remove once I’m done punishing myself for eating that entire pan of Rice Krispie treats.
And if you’re changing in a gym locker room, it’s even worse – there are witnesses to the absurdity that happens after every workout.
After every session I try to let myself cool down as much as possible before turning myself into a pretzel in order to get that stretchy monkey off my back. It never works, but I do have a system:
Step 1: Try in vain to pull the sports bra over my head by grasping the sides, like you would a t-shirt.
Step 2: Succeed in twisting the bra into a tourniquet, where it becomes stuck, wrapped around my upper chest like my own hand-made mammogram.
Step 3: Proceed to thank God for my inhaler that allows me to breathe during this most difficult part of my workout.
Step 4: Bend over at the waist and scrabble at the back of the sports bra with two hands to try and pull the damn thing off.
Step 5: Curse my stiff shoulders and vow to do more stretching.
Step 6: Get one arm out, accidentally getting a whiff of my armpit and the nasty, sweaty bra at the same time.
Step 7: Gag.
Step 8: Pull bra over my head while exhaling and fling it across the room in victory.
Step 9: Swear (again) that I will splurge and actually buy a quality, zip-shut sports bra.
I can’t even imagine what it must be like for my friends who are more…buxom, and have to “double bag” The Girls every time they work out. Taking off two of these Lycra straightjackets would be enough to make me give up on the whole exercise thing together.
In case these struggles are preventing you from exercising, don’t worry – they make snap- and zip-front sports bras, an sexy ones, too. Apparently this is not a new phenomenon – others had these struggles as well, and shopped for sports bras more recently than 2005. But until I can get to the store, I’ll push (or pull) on, trusting that I’m building triceps every time I get undressed after a workout.
Filed under: Exercise, Food/Drink, Middle Age, Posts, Spring Break | Tags: adulthood, bikini, bourbon, Exercise, gym, health, humor, menopause, Middle-Age, mom, Running, Running Tourette's, south, southern, Spring Break, subourbonmom, summer, treadmill, Virginia, weight loss, winter
After walking around all winter grumbling about how I hate the way my stomach has started moving independently of the rest of my body, I finally realized I was actually going to have to do something about it.
I was going to have to start…dare I say it?
Exercising.
And even worse… Eating Better.
So I did what I always do when I realize Virginia winters don’t require the amount of extra insulation I’ve been building up. I tried a few things, and quickly realized my intentions do not match the reality of the situation.
Intention: I am trying to eat 5 fruits and veggies a day and limiting bread to get more good carbs and limit the bad.
Reality: My body went into a fiber-induced shock. Apparently, granola is not everybody’s friend, at least not at first.
Intention: I am limiting alcohol – and by that I mean I am only having drinks Thursday through Saturday. (Some folks asked me “why include Thursday?” Well duh…because Thursday is “Little Friday!”)
Reality: Middle Age takes care of some of that desire; I now have a whole list of drinks that make me have hot flashes, so I’m definitely weighing my choices more carefully – is it really worth having to change out of my sweat-soaked my PJs at 3:00am to have that glass of wine? Nope.
Intention: I bought a few Clean Eating and exercise magazines to give me inspiration and ideas.
Reality: They make me feel like I am being healthy without actually being healthy…until I look at the 20-year-olds in the pictures who clearly have never had children and don’t sit in an office cube all day like a veal. I also refuse to spend a lot of money on special spices and high-end oils that those Clean Eating magazines seem to demand. And, I have never once tried any of the exercises in the fitness mags – mostly because I couldn’t follow the diagrams any more than I can put together anything that says “some assembly required.”
Intention: I am regularly exercising at the office gym, mostly doing ab work and cardio to get the weight off as fast as I can.
Reality: Running on the treadmill comes with two hazards I wasn’t expecting:
1. Watching my reflection in the windows as I run makes me unbalanced – I had to grab the rails before I shot off the back of the machine like a sweaty, horizontal human waterfall;
2. I thought my new cheap headphones were mildly electrocuting me every few seconds, until I realized that in the winter treadmills acquire a lot of static electricity. So, every 3rd or 4th step I had to slap the metal rail with my hand to prevent the static zap from reaching my headphones and inner ear. I don’t know what the people walking by the gym window thought, but I’m pretty sure I looked like I had a case of Running Tourette’s.
Intention: I am going to look awesome in a bikini this summer.
Reality: I will once again spend too much money on a conservative tankini that my mother will approve of.
But in the meantime, I’m going to be burning those extra calories flailing at the metal treadmill rails – maybe those expended calories will turn into that bikini body I remember. Or maybe they’ll just let me eat that extra helping of summertime happy hour appetizers.
Filed under: Posts | Tags: adulthood, business, business etiquette, business travel, conferences, Exercise, gym, hotels, humor, office etiquette, seminars, sports, subourbonmom, travel
- Guys, don’t try and join the few women who actually attended the conference in the one section of comfy chairs we claimed as our own, and then ask whether sending flowers to your angry girlfriend is the correct course of action. Here’s why:
- We obviously want some girl time in a male-dominated environment;
- Your creepy designer jeans and big gold chain scream out, “I’m trying to hook up while I’m out of town” and troll in the Holiday Inn Lounge on a Tuesday night; and
- You clearly suck as a boyfriend, so why would we be interested anyway? (And by the way, creepy-guy-who-did-that, texting you’re sorry to your “girlfriend” doesn’t cut it either.)
- We obviously want some girl time in a male-dominated environment;
- The GYM, Part 1: When you go to the gym, remember that you’ll be seeing half those people again while you’re sitting in a lecture—that awesome pilates move where you throw your legs over your head? They’re going to remember that and look at you funny later.
- The GYM, Part 2: Wear yoga or sweat pants—and I mean everyone—I don’t want to see your junk hanging out of your swishy running shorts, Dude-on-the-Treadmill. I have to look at you later, too.
- Ask at the desk if there will be a karaoke night while you’re there—then make sure your room is not directly above the caterwauling.
- Make sure “just a couple of blocks” means the same thing in the conference city as it does in yours.
- Ask the questions you think are too dumb to say out loud—chances are, you’re not the only one who feels that way or wants to know.
- You can tell the level of confidence the conference sponsors have in their speakers by how cold they’ve set the room temperatures: cold = snoozeville.
- Bring a travel mug—the tiny little dollhouse cups they provide hold exactly three swallows of coffee, and after sitting in a conference room the same temperature as, say, Boston this week, you need something warm with you at all times.
- Sometimes that $14 bourbon from the hotel bar (on my personal card and after classes were done, Mr. CFO) is worth it.
- It’s not cool to go back to work in the dead of winter with a tan on your face and arms–some people find that irritating.
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Exercise, gym, humor, Middle-Age, mom, southern, sports, workouts
In my quest to keep myself occupied at the gym, I have started playing the game, “What animal does he/she look like?” Most of the time the people look like what they are—overweight homo sapiens. Occasionally, though, some stand out. Here are a few:
The Gerbil (this would be me): I didn’t realize I look like one until a guy walked by grinning and making gerbil hand motions at me as I powered through on the I-limp-and-drool. There are a lot of us doing this, so I didn’t feel too bad, but it did cross my mind that if Obama is looking for alternative energy sources, he could just hook something up to the gym machines in America. Of course, there would have to be tax incentives.
The Sloth: These people trudge into the gym, wearing the same expression one has when sitting down in a chair to read a book, which is what the Gym Sloths do. They bring a book/magazine/iPad to a recumbent machine and proceed to slowly pedal for a good 45 minutes. They rarely break a sweat and are in zero danger of causing undo stress on their heart or joints. But hey—they’re not sitting on the couch.
The Peacock: These members are usually dressed in some form of spandex or lycra, and deserve to wear it. They preen and pose and flex as they work out, glancing around to see who is watching. (In the gym I go to, these folks don’t show up until after 5:00 p.m., when happy hour is fueled by exercise endorphins, instead of cheap alcohol.) What’s fun is watching one peacock show off for another, only to have the one they are trying to attract start preening for someone else. Not much different than a club, or a henhouse, I suspect.
The Magpies: These are the moms who show up in groups or meet there for some much-needed adult chat. They frequently climb on the treadmills or the I-limp-and-drools and chirp away, moving at a pace fast enough to justify being there but not so fast they gasp as they gossip. While they exercise, their bodies pop up and down, heads bobbing, looking like birds in a nest (or whack-a-mole).
The Chameleon: (me again) This person begins their workout with a normal skin tone, probably a little pale from pecking away in a cube all day. However, as their cardio workout progresses, their face and body language undergo some changes. First, their cheeks get pink, then red, until their faces turn into something resembling a rare tuna steak. At this stage, blood vessels burst and sweat drips onto the machinery. Controlled movements become a weak flailing, and their breathing sounds like a locomotive, or the puffing one hears during Lamaze class. While their appearance isn’t intended to serve as a form of camouflage, their ability to change appearance is remarkable.
The Cat: These women come to the gym dressed in sleek, black spandex yoga pants and fitted tops. There is not a panty line in sight. They are generally long and lean, and attract the envy of the other women, and the lust of everybody else. Men actually stop what they are doing to watch as these cat-like creatures slink through their routines. They slowly bend and stretch, demonstrating their flexibility and toned musculature. Having the grace of a hippopotamus, I’m totally jealous. Meow.
The Chicken: These male gym creatures come in all ages. They spend most of their time doing upper body work, and have the bulging pecs, biceps and triceps to prove it. However, they neglect the lower half of their bodies. Below their workout shorts emerge two spindly legs, looking remarkably like two pieces of kindling, or chicken legs.
Who knew the gym was such a wealth of entertainment? It’s my own personal version of Animal Planet.
Filed under: Exercise | Tags: Garlic Man, gym, humor, southern, The Sprinkler, workouts
Everyone knows that going to the gym will make you happier, healthier and less stressed. Everyone also knows that when you go to the gym there’s a certain amount of grossness you have to put up with. And because gyms are so full of random body fluids, they’re a great way to build up your immune system. I know that when I go, I most likely haven’t showered yet, and I was probably melting in a soccer-mom chair the day before watching Daughter #1 elbow, trip and push other girls for 90 minutes, or I was at a barn with Daughter #2 getting horse sweat all over me. So God only knows what comes off of me as I hit high gear on the elliptical (a.k.a. the “I-limp-and-drool machine”). But nothing at the gym can compete with Garlic Man and The Sprinkler.
Garlic Man is there everyday for at least an hour. He wears Middle-Age-Man’s uniform: too-long shorts with the wife-beater-that-looks-professional-so-it-must-be-workout attire-shirt. The wife-beater shows off arms that look like duck pin balls have been stuffed under his skin. Out of the too-long shorts poke hairy little toothpicks. His legs have been ignore, I assume, because the gym mirrors only go to knee-height. With skinny chicken-legs and a massive upper body, Garlic Man resembles Sponge Bob, minus the tie and the irritating laugh that goes straight through your spinal cord.
But the worst aspect of Garlic Man, as you can guess, is that he REEKS. No matter when I go, he is there, and he always manages to get on the I-limp-and-drool next to me. Ten minutes later, I am annoyed. The acrid smell of recycled garlic wafts across the eighteen inches of space separating us. After twenty minutes, Garlic Man has a miasma of funk surrounding him. My eyes water, my nose involuntarily wrinkles up, and I do a double check just to make sure it’s not me. Eventually, I am forced to hold my breath and retreat, leaving numerous casualties behind flailing at the arm-thingies on their I-limp-and-drools as they gasp for air.
Second only to Garlic Man is The Sprinkler. He looks innocuous enough: a mid-fifties, Flashdance-headband-wearing guy who probably works a lot from home. I give him that polite elevator smile as he climbs onto the machine beside me, then tune him out. At first I try to convince myself it’s someone using the disinfectant spray (and by the way, no one in the world is going to convince me that leaving ionized water on sweat-soaked hand thingies for 10 seconds is going to disinfect them!), but a quick glance shows no one is wiping anything down.
That can only mean one thing: The Sprinkler is beside me.
I look over and see sweat droplets pop off of his body, landing on my arms, the floor, his equipment, and the people in surrounding counties. If we could make all The Sprinklers from all the local gyms exercise in Lake Chesdin each summer, there would no longer be pontoon boats mired in the droughty mud–just a new brackish ecosystem.
Gagging, I leap from the I-limp-and-drool, hastily spray the useless disinfectant all over myself and the machine and huff over to the mats. I add my nastiness to several other layers of sweat and fluid that only a 10th of the population ever bothers to wipe off. The same for the arm and leg machines. After the last set of reps (that’s gym-speak for doing a few, getting tired and pretending you meant to stop for a minute “to rest your muscles”), I grab my keys and stalk out the door.
The endorphins have kicked in, and I am definitely happier, less stressed, and ready to face the world. Yep, nothing is healthier than going to the gym.
Subourbon Mom 