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: Misc. Humor | Tags: blob, bubble, discovery, diving, egg, exploration, humor, news, ocean, oceans, pollution, Science, sports, squid, subourbonmom, travel
Divers recently discovered a translucent blob in the ocean http://www.cnn.com/videos/world/2015/08/03/mysterious-giant-ocean-blob-squid-mass-orig.cnn-storyful/video/playlists/creatures-of-the-deep/ and scientists think it may be a giant squid egg sac. That’s scary all by itself. I saw 2000 Leagues Under the Sea. That one huge eyeball freaked me out for years. I don’t envy the divers down there shining their tiny little diver flashlights onto a giant bubble that no one thought would be there – kind of like the guy in the red shirt on Star Trek who always bit it whenever they went down to some weird planet.
(And about those flashlights: We can send spacecraft to take pictures of the Not-Planet Pluto – are we really unable to make flashlights stronger than the ones those divers were using? If I was down there next to the blob, I’d have a theater spotlight on that thing like it was Bono singing on a New York rooftop.)
I have a couple of different theories about what that blob is:
Some of you may know I can do a lot of gross things, but looking at snot on a little kid is not one of them. One time I was a timer at my kids’ swim meet, and gagged as the child in my lane got out because of the horror running out of his nose. Even my fellow preschool teachers knew to give me a warning and let me turn around whenever a green goblin appeared.
I think the blob is actually a conglomeration of all the snot that gets expelled in the ocean every summer. Like the Terminator’s liquid-metal T-100 enemy (if he got chopped up, the metal bits would seek each other out and stick back together), I think that blob is all the snot that has found its kind, and will soon:
a) explode into a giant snot spill reminiscent of the Valdez oil spill in Alaska, coating everything in its path – surfers, beaches and avian wildlife will be coated, and no amount of aloe-soaked tissues will be able to wipe it away;
b) explode like a sticky supernova underwater, spreading all of the germs and viruses it contains worldwide; or
c) seek me out like the worst Hitchcock-esque movie plot ever (think The Blob).
Or, it could be a giant glob of sunscreen, washed off into the ocean after another hot summer. Mother nature is very efficient, and I wouldn’t be surprised at all if she managed to corral all that greasy nastiness into one giant sphere, and is using it as a make-shift uterus for some new kind of underwater creature – maybe one that will be able to survive in acidic, pollution-clogged waters. Just think, there could be millions of eggs getting ready to hatch slithering creatures like the snake thing in the trash compactor Luke, Princess Leah and Hans Solo jumped into, in Star Wars.
Or it could be lots of squid eggs.
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: Middle Age, Misc. Humor | Tags: adulthood, End Zone, football, Gwyneth, Gwyneth Paltrow, health, humor, Middle-Age, mugwort, NFL, Paltrow, personal care, sex, spas, sports, steam, subourbonmom, vaginal steaming, women's health
Apparently Gwyneth Paltrow, life guru to…no one, really…is touting the energizing and cleansing effects of something called the “Vaginal Steam.”
Yeah, you read that right.
It seems there is a new spa option that allows women to sit on a throne-like chair, and let steam infused with an herb called mugwort…cleanse the End Zone.
I’m not a medical expert, and the research I did (which consisted of talking to some friends) raised a few questions in my mind.
First of all, according to WebMD, one of the many uses of mugwort is as an energy tonic, which I suppose is why Gwyneth thought it might be “energizing.” Among many other things, Mugwort is also used for “worm infestations” and to “stimulate gastric juices and bile.” For worm infestations and gastric juice production, I refer you to a professional—especially if they’re in your End Zone.
WebMd also says Mugwort “might stimulate the uterus.” Um…to do what? Unless I’m pregnant and days past my kid’s due date, I don’t want my uterus doing much of anything, thank you very much. When you’re in your 40’s the less End Zone upheaval the better.
As far as I know, most people steam their bodies for three reasons: to relieve a sinus infection, to ease sore muscles, or to try and reduce the signs of age, sun and smoke damage.
If your End Zone is having unusual drainage, steaming it at a spa is not going to help. Chances are, you’ve had a few too many touchdowns in your End Zone and you need to see a professional, who hopefully has a quick antibiotic-related fix.
If your End Zone has muscles so sore that they need some time in a sauna, you need to re-think the level of play you’re allowing on the field. And by the way, the End Zone is already kind of its own personal sauna, don’t you think?
If your End Zone has sun or smoke damage…I don’t even know what to tell you. Maybe steam cleaning will be your thing after all.
I have no idea what the signs of End Zone aging might be, other than the grass changing colors, 
but I’m pretty sure that unless you’re okay with altering your End Zone using Botox, lifts and chemical peels, you might not want to steam down there either. If you really are concerned with the visual appeal, you can always repaint the lines, and get a new team logo. 
So thanks, Gwyneth, for making me aware of something I now can’t ever forget exists.
Filed under: Misc. Humor, Posts, Travel | Tags: adulthood, gifts, horse racing, humor, Montpelier, shopping, south, southern, sports, Steeplechases, subourbonmom, tailgate, tailgates, Virginia
Last weekend we attended the annual Montpelier Hunt Races in Virginia. For those of you who have been reading my blog for a while, you may recall that the stately Montpelier event has always provided me with literary fodder. One election year, I was interviewed in my inebriated condition by an Irish news channel about my thoughts on what it’s like to live in a swing state (see “Schwing State”). Last year, Hubby had an “accident” in the parking lot that involved road rage and karma sent straight from the animal world (see “Traffic Martyrs & Sliders” and “Chipmunk Popsicles”).
This year, I was given a gift. It wasn’t wrapped in Wal-mart Christmas paper with a stick-on bow, or delivered in a turquoise Tiffany box, but it was a gift that I think is priceless—it was a bend-over-because–you-can’t-breathe-oh-my-God-I’m-crying-belly laugh.
Maybe it happened because it’s been a difficult couple of months; maybe it was the wine; or, maybe it happened because sometimes there are just those moments in life that come together to make the perfect storm of funny at the time. Either way, I’m grateful.
My friends Stacie*, Helen* and I were walking back to the tailgate after shopping among the vendors. Helen is single and younger than Stacie and I, and still cares what other people think about how she looks, and about retaining her dignity. We’d watched Helen try on hats, agonizing over gray or brown, feathers or not, and by the time we left the area, I was long past caring about hats, and more concerned with getting back to place our bets on the next race. Halfway there, we made a pit stop at the port-a-johns.
Helen is also a slow learner—despite knowing me for several years now, she still made the crucial mistake of telling me how much she HATES using port-a-johns.
While we were waiting, a guy came out and said, with his eyes watering like he’d been cutting an onion, “I know they’re not supposed to be great, but that was awful!”
“Why? Did someone take a crap in there?” I asked, trying to find something to say.
He looked at me in pure wonderment and nodded. “Who does that in one of those?” he whispered, and walked away.
Helen’s eyes bugged out and she looked like she might bolt, but somehow she summoned her courage and went in anyway. Must have been all those beers–liquid courage, on so many levels.
As soon as Helen was inside, Stacie and I looked at each other, grinned and took action. Stacie went to the back and I went to the front of Helen’s port-a-john, and we banged on the walls like the Four Horsemen of the Apocolypse were thundering by.
Helen screamed.
Stacie and I ran, hiding around the corner. Predictably, Helen came storming out of the port-a-john, strutting her angry 5-foot-3-self across the field.
As she yelled at us and pointed her finger, we couldn’t help but double over laughing—
Helen, jaunty new brown hat slightly askew, was trailing a 3-foot ribbon of toilet paper from her shoe.
While it may be a location joke (you had to be there), to us, it was funny.
When you’re an adult, these moments don’t come nearly as often as they do when you’re a kid. Kids know how to belly laugh, and they don’t care who sees them or how loud they are. As adults, we may occasionally have those laughing fits that make you cry, but we usually try to hide them behind our hands or we leave the room. This time, I didn’t do either. I let out my full-throttle laugh, which as you may know, is pretty freakin’ loud. I’m sure people were staring, appalled at our behavior at such a dignified event—and I don’t care. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and it was wonderful.
So thank you Helen, for sacrificing your dignity (albeit unwillingly). And thanks to Stacie, who laughed right along with me. Gifts don’t always arrive with a card and a song—sometimes they arrive on a ribbon of toilet paper.
*Names have been changed to protect my friends’ professional images. Now, if we could just get rid of all those pictures with red cups…
Subourbon Mom 
