Even if you’re not battling a creeping waistline and struggling to tuck your kidneys back into your pants after bending down, you might be looking for some health and fitness guidance from a personal trainer. No? Well, suck it up, I’m offering it anyway. Mostly, writing down my strategies for success in the fitness arena is a way for me to remind myself of what needs to be done. And if it benefits you too, then that’s gravy.
So over the next few days, I’ll offer a five pronged attack plan for getting on top of my eating and exercise, paving the way for a somewhat better looking Mommy at reunion time (end of June, peeps.)
The Five Pronged Plan:
1. Writing it Down
2. Moving it Around
3. Taking it up a Notch
4. Making it Mental
5. Keeping it Up (get your mind of out the gutter)
I wrote recently about my renewed vigor in the fight against fat. Since then, I have demonstrated my dedication to this fight by baking excessively (must get rid of all the flour, sugar and chocolate chips that we can’t move, right??) and by trying to prove to Ben and Jerry’s that I am, indeed, their most loyal customer. The Major has not helped in my efforts (at least not the efforts to LOSE weight, but he’s a big help in my efforts to weigh more than I have since I was pregnant. Thanks, man.) Twice a day, like clockwork, he works his way around the kitchen, opening every drawer and cabinet, and then comes to me and asks, “Where are the treats?” He does it as soon as he gets home from work, and again after the kids go to bed. And when I’m fighting a fight — a friggin’ WAR — over here, I do NOT need to be reminded about TREATS all the time! Nor do I need to feel like it is my job to be in charge of these treats or to create them for YOU, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway, the point was to tell on myself, I guess. I haven’t been doing the things I need to do if I actually don’t want to be flabby mom at my upcoming high school reunion. And it isn’t like I really care SO much what the people I knew in high school think of me (maybe lying just a teensy bit here…) but having an event to work towards has helped with these types of efforts in the past.
SO. It begins anew. TODAY. I have my gym bag with me at work. And since Turbo hates it when I pick him up early, I will go to the actual gym before I pick up the kids. (I used to work out in our garage, which was better equipped than many base gyms, but it’s been packed into a PODS container.) And I will NOT. EAT. CRAP. AAAGH!
Why is this so hard? I’m a friggin’ personal trainer, for crap’s sake! (Okay, not practicing, but certified!!) It isn’t like I am clueless about how people gain and lose fat!! (In case you ARE clueless, I can give you the basics. As The Major says, “It’s Physics, Homes.” Calories in, calories out. If the IN is bigger than the OUT, then you get bigger. If the IN is littler than the OUT, you get smaller. [Though there are still people who will say, “Oh, no, that doesn’t work for ME.” I will put my trainer hat on for one second to tell you, sure as shoeshine, that is absolute crap. YOU do not have a special metabolism designed by an alien race to DEFY THE LAWS OF PHYSICS. If you did, you would be the subject of many scientific studies. But you don’t. And neither do I.])
Today we are loading up a PODS container and beginning to see all the boxes appearing, dust coming off of things that haven’t been moved in forever and cabinets opened to groans — “WHY did we keep all this crap this whole time???” But while we’re going through the motions of another PCS, in the back of our minds, we’re also thinking about those we’ve known who won’t have the privilege of suffering through another crappy moving experience. Because while it certainly sucks — it is a PLEASURE. You know why? Because The Major has always come back. Every time they’ve sent him somewhere crappy. Every time I didn’t get to hear from him for weeks because he was forward deployed. Every time I have been so worried… he has come home. And that isn’t always the case.
We are part of an aviation community. And while accidents happen in all arms of the services, here at home and in theater, when they happen in airplanes and helicopters, people don’t tend to survive. And we hear news regularly about accidents here at home that happen on what those families thought were just regular old workdays and school days. And I don’t forget that. When I send my kids off to school and The Major leaves in his flight suit and kisses me goodbye as he heads out the door to an early brief, I don’t forget what he’s out there doing. I have tried, but when you live near an airbase, you hear, see and feel jets and helicopters ALL the time. And it is impossible to forget that it’s my husband up there, flying at nearly the speed of sound in a metal container. (All in a day’s work, right?) But he has always come home.
So this post, like this day, is dedicated to those who didn’t come home. We continue to go through our day to day, a proud military family putting up with whatever crap comes with it, in their honor. We don’t forget them or the families who miss them every day, not just today. Thank you for the sacrifice. We will never be able to repay you for what you gave to this country.
"Mommy, I have to pee. right. now. Mommy... MOMMY!!!"
My answer to my question from yesterday, that is… cesspool. Actually, that’s what the Major calls it. He has also said that Los Angeles is a boil on the ass of California, and has blamed the city for its very existence, made possible only by swiping water from the rest of the state.
Now before you get all huffy and defensive, let me say a couple things. First off, both the Major and I have some right to judge Hell-A, since we both lived there for 4 or 5 years while attending college. (No, we didn’t go to the same school. Our schools are cross-town rivals. And if you’re wondering, mine is totally better. Go Bruins!) Anyway, that isn’t the point. The point is that we know the place well enough to know that it sucks monkey balls.
And if you can step back from being all annoyed for a minute, then you might be able to consider a few other points about why L.A. is not a real city and should be removed from all “city” references, lest starry eyed European teenagers give up an education in hopes of traveling to LA to be discovered on Hollywood Boulevard, etc.
1. L.A. is not a well-planned city. There is no organized mass transit, few common public open areas, no real commitment to bike lanes or pedestrian accessibility.
2. It takes an hour to get anywhere. If there’s “no traffic.” I put that in quotes because there’s never no traffic. Sunday at 2am? Oh, hello four million cars on the 405 that just happen to be braking for NO APPARENT REASON. Tuesday at midnight? You betcha, backed up on the 5. Pick a number and I’ll show you a bunch of cars all crawling along at a snail’s pace. It sucks it sucks it sucks. Add a crying baby in the backseat. Then it REALLY sucks.
3. It is extremely economically segregated. Don’t get me wrong, I know that “real” big cities have ghettos and lower income neighborhoods, but in many, they blend right into the mediocre neighborhoods in a way that doesn’t make you fear for your life should you stumble into one.
4. (or 3b). Every neighborhood sees itself as an individual, independent city. “Oh, you’re from LA?” “No, loser. I’m from Orange.” “Oh, you’re from LA?” “No, loser. I’m from West Hollywood.” “Oh you’re from LA?” “No loser. I’m from Santa Monica.” Clearly, I could go on all night. If you don’t want to be a city, quit getting mad when I tell you that you’re not.
Yeah, so, I’ll quit. Maybe you can tell that I don’t like LA all that much. And still, we are headed there for a college reunion of sorts. We’re driving down and back in one day (we don’t want to stay over and risk being there when the Earth finally realizes that LA should be stricken violently from it’s surface). We are headed down to have lunch with some of my college buddies, to let Turbo and Lunchbox play with all of their kids for a while. Then we’re going to meet up with some of the Major’s friends from college and have dinner with them, again encouraging Turbo and Lunchbox to play with kids they’ve met only once before and may not see again for five years. And of course we’ll be all sad and distraught if they aren’t best buddies by the end of their forced play time. Frankly, I’ll be surprised if either of my kids avoids a screaming meltdown by the time all the shuttling around (ON the F-ing traffic-jammed freeways) and forced socializing is over. Should make for a pretty fun three hour trip home. But since we’re headed 3000 miles away pretty soon, it’s time to see the people we care about. Even if it means going to LA.
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