The older I get, I realize I keep hurting myself when I am trying to get myself into "shape." Sadly, this shape is broken. What's the song in that commercial? "Hands, feet, ankle, knees and toes" ... all broken, aches, pains. What a mess. Then I spend a whole week recovering from the injury that had me motivated to get into shape.
But, yesterday was just the worst, THE worst (well almost as bad as the treadmill episode). Here I was at the YMCA trying to do my work out. I got myself hauled up onto rowing machine. Have you seen this thing? It's a death trap that you sit on, pull a bar toward you that is tethered to a damn bike wheel. It's a disaster in and of it's self.
So, I get comfy and begin to pull the bard. Eureka! I enjoy this thing. I can feel my back working and my shoulders and I have an immense feeling of satisfaction. Keep in mind it is like minute 1:04 at this time. By minute three I think I am Olivia Newton John. Am picturing new wardrobe will have to buy and how people will ask, "what are you doing? you look great." I'll smile and reply, "Oh nothing, I'm just a rower."
When, SUDDENLY, I feel my body hurling backward and I see my leg rise up. This can only end badly for your humble narrator. I feel seat fly backwards as it has before but this time with more intensity. I realize at this fateful moment that... being lazy... I had put my feet into the foot harness but neglected to tighten the fasten. Well, I mean why would you? In my defense I didn't intend on any astronaut training today.
So, the leg goes up which throws off my balance and my ass flies off the back of the seat that abruptly stops at the end of the track. And, it was one of those moments where things happen in slow motion like right before you crash your car and you see it happen and you know you're going to collide and you realize it was because you didn't hit the brake or use your damn blinker.
In that moment, as I fall off the back of the machine sideways, I have no explanation for this but I thought it best to utter the word "fuck" loudly. Not in a loud tone, or even a scream. It was more of a disappointing but authoritative tone. But, honey, it was loud. You forget these things when you have ear phones on , and others do not.
It is at this time I realize there are children near by. And, there are parents near-er by. Adults give me the stink eye. I could be injured. No pain, only injury is my pride. It is inappropriate to say four letter word so loudly at YMCA (the C stands for Can't cuss). Of course, it's not so easy to get up and run away from my scene, because my left leg is still positioned safely in the foot harness.
Saturday, March 5, 2011
Sunday, February 27, 2011
my life, chapter one
the first half of my life, chapter one
in 450 words or less....
I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.
By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.
The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.
High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.
College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.
I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.
--stay tuned for chapter2---
in 450 words or less....
I always thought of myself as a shy child. However, in the 5th grade Bunny Osteen was my English teacher and I was completely in love with her. She had big 1980’s hair and wore silk blazers with big should pads and lots of gold bangle jewelry. She was what I thought money looked like, and she drove a Mercedes 450 SL convertible with red leather. Yes, to me she was high society in Nashville. One day we read a play in class and she asked me to read the lead. Oddly, I can’t remember the play but she told me I was good and that was enough for me… I was an actor destined for greatness.
By the 7th grade I was drunk with power. Mrs. Osteen asked me to write for the school newspaper, all 2 pages of it. I did a piece on whatever I was assigned but I also got my own column titled “Horor-scopes.” I advised Leo students to stay in bed or risk being chased down by an angry gym instructor only to meet your maker by a runaway piano. I am famous.
The 8th grade took me down lower than Robert Downey, Jr or La’ Lohan. We moved and I left the somewhat inner-city school (well inner city to Nashville) and we high tailed it out to set up house in the country. I was not popular. I was fat. Then I had the single worst medical woe you can imagine as a preteen: hemorrhoids. I became the boy on the doughnut. Of course eating my feelings became my new past time, which only made the hemorrhoids worse. It was me, my doughnut pillow and Snicker’s bars for a long year.
High School was a welcome relief. I tested in the Academic Magnet school. This is the smart school for nerds if you aren’t familiar with the terms. Of course, testing from that back-ass-wards country school was no major accomplishment. At the nerd school no one was cool and I was thriving. I ran for office with candy. I dressed as a middle-aged woman for pep rally and wore pasties on the outside of my oxford shirts. I learn the most valuable lesson: it’s far better to be laughed at… if it’s your laugh.
College came entirely too fast at the height of my reign in nerd Ville. I was working and I knew the job had promise. And I was in love. Then I was rejected. So, I fell in love with money because if you drove the right car everyone was interested.
I hated college and made it routine to rotate the sign-in sheet with a friend. She and I were both working in ad sales and thought this degree thing nothing more than a formality. Ah the salad days… or as it shall be called - chapter 1.
--stay tuned for chapter2---
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