The Protectors of the Princess

We have a new member at the gym. She's has fire-red hair and the sky blue eyes. She's a young thing, just a teenager really and when she smiles, well gosh, you just have to smile back.

She's also autistic.

Her mother wanted her in a gym, because she's gaining weight, it happens when you are autistic. Heck, it happens when you're forty-two and look at a cookie!

For the most part, Princess is doing pretty well. In fact, last night she complete the entire circuit. I was so proud of her. She was overcome with pride, her face turned red and she hung her head, hiding beneath her fiery-red hair. You could just make out the hint of a smile underneath those locks.

Her mommy asked if she felt good and she replied with a soft yes.

What a great feeling.

When she first came in my co-workers and I worried about how she'd do. Would she be able to keep up and understand our directions? Would she listen to us? Would she slow the circuit down?

For the most part, we have amazing (amazing!) gym members. They are supportive, kind, and friendly. Yet, there are a handful that need a swift kick in the hind quarter.

These were the ones we were worried about.

And although we didn't share our concerns with the other members, two ladies came forward to voice their support for Princess.

One said she wanted to know when Princess would be in, so that she could workout beside her, keeping a buffer between her and others on the circuit. This darling did just that last night and she cheered right along with me, my co-worker, and mommy when Princess completed her workout.

The other lady made a point of telling me that she was glad Princess joined and she wanted to know if anyone gave her a hard time.

"I was watching to see if anyone was annoyed, because I WILL take care of it!" She stated.

She wasn't joking either. She made it abundantly clear that if anyone gave Princess so much as a dirty look while she was there, that she was gonna open up a can.

These two ladies have taken it upon themselves to be the protectors of the princess. Isn't that great?!

Princess is special in many ways and I'm beginning to think that one of her many special talents is bringing out the best in people.

Don't you wish we all had that gift?

You Can Take the Coach Out of the Circuit

But you can't take the circuit out of the coach.

I'm a Circuit Coach at Curves Gym. I love it. I've been happily employed at my little gym for nearly a year and a half. There are various facets of my job, one of which is to help our members by making sure they are using the equipment correctly. You may read that as nagging but it isn't.

If you are going to do something, than do it right!

I've earned the nickname, Bull Dog, from some of our more troublesome lovely ladies.

They like me! They really do!

Imagine my surprise today when I walked into a gym that wasn't MY gym and found it to be the polar opposite. We visited a local gym which was in the area of where I was going to run some errands. I figured I'd kill to birds with one stone and get my workout in.

I have heard from various members that not all Curves are created equal and I have always believed it to be true (mine being the BEST!). It's just that I've never had it proven to me. Until today.

The gym we visited was small. Really, really small, but that was okay. It's circuit training. You really don't need a lot of space. The colors were warm and inviting and we were greeted by the lady at the desk in a friendly manner.

She took an entire fifteen seconds away from her phone call to make sure we knew where to sign in.

?

It was nice that the space was small, or we'd never have found where to put our bags.

??

I noted right away that one of their speakers was blown and emitting a fuzzy, static sound every time the voice in the ceiling said, "Change stations now".

???

The gym was only missing one machine, the dip shrug, which I hate anyway, so that was all good.

Now, I'm not certain if the woman at the desk was the owner or an employee, but she was merrily chatting away on the phone for a full twelve minutes.

During this time I noted that the "change stations now" voice had disappeared.

????

For the next ten minutes, I watch the clock and moved at the appropriate time. I noted that other members started following along as Girl and I moved from machine to recovery board.

?????

Finally the woman at the desk got off the phone and helped a very large woman weigh in.

Once the large woman was on the circuit, the front desk lady (or FDL) woke up and realized that music was TOO SLOW and there was no voice to prompt movement on the circuit.

??????

I was annoyed!

The large woman's name was Erin. She was so friendly and outgoing that I almost felt like I was back at my old gym. Erin was thrilled to be wearing a 3X shirt. I assumed that meant she'd lost some weight, so I asked when she joined Curves and she proudly told me October 14, 2009. Nice!

Meanwhile, the FDL had disappeared back to her desk.

???????

I watched Erin across the gym and noted how she was doing several machines wrong. I wanted to correct her. I wanted to encourage her to do things right, mainly so she wouldn't get hurt and so she'd see even better results.

I glanced at the desk...FDL was busy chatting away again.

????????

Girl and I wrapped up our workout and started stretching as FDL finally got on the circuit.

"About time," I muttered.

FDL came over and asked about our club and if we were doing the current promotion. She was a nice lady, but if she'd been my employee, I would have canned her on the spot.

Bull dog....remember?!

As we left the gym I patted Erin on the shoulder and told her that she was doing a great job and to keep it up.

If I had been her circuit coach, every woman in that gym would have learned that Erin had lost another three pounds. I would have celebrated her awesome results, from a 5X to a 3X in just a few months!

Most importantly I would have made sure she did every machine properly.

Today I was reminded of how great my gym is. I discovered that my desire to see others excel is just as strong as it was in August of 08. Most importantly, I saw what a bad circuit coach looks like.

And I don't ever want to be that!

You Can’t Make Me – The Conclusion

Sometimes, only sometimes, the clouds part and the warm sun shines down upon you. When it happens it’s a glorious thing and all one can do is stand in that bright, sunny spot and smile. Such was the case when I learned that I had injured my knee just enough to avoid PE for a few weeks.

”Heck, if I milk it a little, I could probably get excused for the rest of the quarter,” my evil, little mind plotted.

Mrs. Warren, skilled professional that she was, saw right through my plans and brought the clouds back into my atmosphere. It rained. Honestly, it rained right there on my head, just like in Charlie Brown.

“Don’t worry. You can make it up after you recover. All of it." she stated flatly.

As I watched her walk away I realized she wasn’t threatening me, she was making me a promise. It was one I knew she’d keep. Despair washed over me as I considered making up PE after or before school for weeks. I’d be alone—or worse, I’d have to run laps when the football team was practicing. Ew.

Just as I was about to give up, I remembered that there was one person who hated PE more than I did. My Mother. Not only did she hate PE, she really despised PE teachers and if I informed her that Mrs. Warren was attempting to force me to make up PE and that she was the cheerleader coach me dear ole’ mum would come unhinged.

She’s funny that way.

I made the call during lunch, threw in a couple of sniffles (okay, I really was crying) and she said she’d take care of it. I felt better. I knew my mother didn’t like me, but I also knew she disliked PE teachers more.

Apparently Mother made one call to my school counselor. Ms. Counselor assured my mother that there was, “No need for you to come in…I can handle it from here…”. Mother, however, wasn’t so sure. I caught sight of her during a class break as she made her way towards the gym, Ms. Counselor in tow.

The rest, as they say, is history. I didn’t make up four weeks of PE. Mrs. Warren never looked me in the face again, and she passed me with a C. Thus ended my adventures in physical education, or so I thought.

Last spring, my best friend and I started walking. Then we started running. It was a liberating feeling; to be forty and running. But then winter came and with it the rain, snow, and wind. I’m a weenie, in case you haven’t noticed, and I don’t like running in the cold. I kept working out at the gym and waited for those glorious spring days to return.

And they have.

Running to me is an accomplishment. Realizing that I am strong and that I can run is one of the finest things I have ever done for myself. I think back, often, to that girl that I was. I was slender, but I was weak. There may be more meat on these bones today, but I’m strong, I run, and I love that. Wouldn’t Mrs. Warren be pleased!

The sun is shinning and white, puffy clouds dot the expanse of the heavens. It’s a cool spring day, after a rain shower and it seems like a perfect day for a run.

You Can't Make Me - Part Two

“It’ll be fun and I will totally teach you everything!” squealed my friend Monique.

Her church youth group was going on a skiing trip and she had invited me along. But I didn’t ski. The mere thought of swooshing down a snowy/ice mountain sent shivers down my spine. Remember, I wasn’t an athletic girl. Monique was. She played soccer, she hated make-up, and she was the only girl in high school who changed the oil in her truck. Yeah, truck. She was that kind of girl.

“I’ll think about it,” I replied knowing full well that I wasn’t going to ski. No way. No how.

“Just think of all the cute boys! I think Dan is going…” she left off mysteriously.

That little tidbit of information changed the equation. Cute boys, toasty fire, snow ball fights, hot cocoa and the handsome Senior, Dan (whom every girl in high school loved) made me reconsider. Maybe this ski thing wasn’t a bad idea after all. Monique knew she had me and flung a pair of snow pants at me. My fate was sealed.

I never saw the toasty fire or tasted the cocoa. I did get a glimpse of the cute guys (and Dan) when we rode the bus up to the mountain and I had a stellar view of the first aid station. I had spent all of fifteen minutes on skis and found myself strapped to a gurney which wound its way to first aid. I spent the next four hours with the ski patrol (all rather cute men I might add) while they searched for my “friends”.

After gathering my rental skis, poles, boots, etc. Monique told me I should head to the bunny slope. She’d “catch me later”. It was sometime later, actually. She’d had a delicious day, skiing with DDDaaannn, while I nursed a throbbing and possibly sprained knee.

The following Monday found me, knee cinched into a brace with cane in hand, standing before Mrs. Warren. I think things would have gone much better if I hadn’t been grinning from ear to ear. In fact, she may have let me off of PE duty if it hadn’t been for my bright and cheerful resignation of my sad, sad, sad fate of missing two to four weeks of PE.

“Don’t worry. You can make it up after you recover. All of it." she stated flatly.

I’m pretty sure she rubbed her hands together and barked out an evil laugh as she revealed my fate. What she didn’t know was that I had an ace. It was one that I’d never played before and I wasn’t 100% sure it would work, but I was willing to bet my life on the fact that not only would I not make up days missed but Mrs. Warren would never look in my direction again.

The ace? You’ll never believe it…

My Mother.

To be continued…

You Can't Make Me - Part One

Last spring and summer I began running every other day. It was a liberating experience for a girl who had never ran an entire lap in all her school years. In fact, to this very day I can hear Ms. Bittle yelling my name across the wide, grassy expanse, ”Pick up the pace Annie! Get the lead out!!.

I usually would grimace and pick up the pace for .00834 miles, then begin edging my speed back to that of a sick snail. Poor Ms. Bittle. That spunky, short (she was incredibly short) physical education teacher had met her match in me. There was no way she could make me run. Between my lack of interest, flabby thighs and desire to never perspire and her hollow threats of detention or more laps, I never ran.

Two miles in twelve minutes, are you kidding me? Seriously! Who does that?

Oh! The sporty girls do. There were those girls who had leg muscles, whose quads looked like finely honed logs of wood. They were the girls who played sports…year round! Gasp! They didn’t wear make-up. They didn’t like heels. They were athletic. Ewww.

In high school I took the mandatory one semester of PE. It was taught by, Lord help me, the cheerleading coach. For a girl with dark brown hair, flabby thighs (some things never change), who took drama class, who actually read books, this was pure, unadulterated torture. I’m still scared from the experience and may sue the school district some day.

In my minds eye I still see Mrs. Warren’s fluffy blonde 80’s hair. She was tan. She always wore shorts and tank tops…even in winter. Freak show! Her dazzling white, Nike shoes were never scuffed and she was surrounded by the cheer team. Girls like me didn’t stand a chance and the only thing worse than the two weeks of swim lessons (for Pete’s sake if we couldn’t swim by our freshman year of high school maybe we just didn’t want to!) were the laps we were supposed to run.

Why are all PE teachers so spunky? She was like a cheerleader on uppers. Thinking about it now, maybe she was…interesting hypothesis. At any rate, it was her goal in life to make sure that we all understood the importance of physical activity. Her best defense against flab was to challenge us to better ourselves. Thus we spent weeks preparing for the President’s Fitness Challenge.

Sit-ups, push-ups, the pull-up, jumping jacks, the rope climb, and lap after lap of running. It was hell…for everyone but me.

To be continued…

Goal Met...Bout Time!

It happened. Finally. For twelve weeks I have waited, watching anxiously, only to be disappointed time and again. Finally, it happened. I reached my first weight loss goal: 16 lbs gone!

My actual goal was 15 lbs, but a bonus pound isn’t something you just toss aside. No way Jose!

When the Singer phoned today, I answered and she asked to speak to me (obviously not realizing I had answered the phone).
I said, “This is me!”

She replied, “You sound so little.”

I smirked, “Its cause I’m wearing my little clothes”

I feel good in my little clothes, but I cannot wait until these are my “fat clothes”.

In other news:

We, the Boss Lady and I, have located the perfect venue for our big fund raising event in October. Stay tuned. Trust me when I say it’s going to be magical.

And have you ever tried the drink by Naked called Blue Monster? It tastes like sunshine. Honest. Miss C didn’t believe me until she tried it. Now she’s a believer too.

The fitness ball (FITNESS BALL, FITNESS BALL) is still kicking me in the lower quarters, but I was able to complete the entire upper body workout. The abs work is going to kill me though. Nuff said.

And finally, Saturday is blueberry picking day. I cannot wait. I’ve been craving them sooooo badly.

Idiot Girl Bounces Again

I’ve shared about my rebellious hip and how it’s affecting my life (two Aleve every morning). Even though Patti told me to keep running, I can’t. For most of my life the fact that I didn’t run wasn’t an issue. In fact, if someone had told me last year that I wouldn’t ever run again, I would have shrugged and said, “So? What’s your point?”

But things have changed. I’ve changed. I want to run. When I walked today, walked my two little miles, I felt like running. My hip said, “Girl! Are you some kinda masochist? Cause this ain’t gonna happen!” All the while she was shakin’ her finger in my face and giving me that look. Yes, apparently my hip hails from somewhere in the projects which would explain… Well never mind. Let’s not go THERE.

Anyway, I’m not running. Want to, but shouldn’t. I don’t want to do any permanent damage. Oldness is sucky.

Instead, I went and bought some new, heavier weights and a fitness ball. (Now, remember, when you say FITNESS BALL you must say in your best MONSTER TRUCK voice.) Yes, that’s right, a fitness ball (FITNESS BALL! FITNESS BALL!). Otherwise known as a balance ball or an exercise ball. The last time I saw one of these it had a handle and my wee babies use to bounce around the house on it. That was before they learned that they could sling shot it down the hall and knock each other over…but that’s another story.



I was really excited about the fitness ball (insert echo here). As soon as The Dude and the Brood left for the coast today, I tore the box open and happily hugged my new best friend. The one who was going to whip, I mean bounce, my fanny into shape. I could just see us now; the hours of fun we’d have, the tight thighs, strong abs, and content smile that would eventually take the place of what I now call my body.

It lay there in the box. All I had to do was inflate the fitness ball (echo) and I’d be just moments away from a new body.

I tossed the instructions aside and pulled out the blue tubing, slipped the white inflater spout on the end, grabbed the ball and tried to insert it into the opening.



It didn’t fit

I tried again

Hmmm…I looked at all the parts. Hmmm…doesn’t fit….Hmmm….

“Well, Idiot Girl, you get what you pay for. If you’d just spent eight more dollars you’d have rock hard abs by now!” Mutter, mutter, mutter.

I took out the small compressor we use for the air mattress. It has three attachments, surely one would fit.

Nope

I went back to the original attachment and tried shoving it into the opening. Growling, I pinched the end of the attachment, hoping I could somehow jam it in.

No way was it going to fit

I tried using tweezers, a handy girl’s secret weapon – good for plucking and for squeezing pieces of cheap plastic into a completely different forms.

This went on for some time, maybe five – ten minutes

I’m mad. Really mad. Because now I have to try to find my receipt in the garbage can and then take this worthless piece of junk back to the store, and exchange it for a more expensive ball with a attachment that actually fits the darn thing.

GRRRRRR!

I attempted to refold the deflated ball and place it inside the box. Sure. I am the same woman who has never been able to put anything and I mean anything back into its original box, bag, or satchel. Massive eye roll.

At this point, it’s been nearly twenty minutes. I’m mad, I’m hungry, and I haven’t even worked out yet. I grabbed the instruction manual and was just getting ready to stuff it into the already bursting box when I noticed a diagram outlining the parts that were included in the fitness ball kit.

In black and white I realized just how stupid I am. That white part, the place where I’d been attempting to jam the inflater hose…yeah…it’s the plug.



Brilliant

Cue the Music

Today was the day. The gauntlet had been thrown down. I had no choice. Today I attempt three miles or die. Now I realize for those of you who are, shall we say physically fit, that three miles isn’t a BIG deal. It’s just three miles. Something that you could do in your sleep, but for a girl like me, three miles is large. Not huge, not monstrous, but larger than say two and half.

I was pretty darn sure I could walk three miles, but could I run it? Could I run part of three miles? Any of three miles? Would my knee rebel and lock in place? Would my hip suddenly plan a mutiny with my thigh and render me wounded and helpless? Would I lie in a pathetic, crumpled heap upon the black recycled tread of who knows how many old tires? Would there be laughter?

Drum roll please



YES! Not only could I walk three miles, but I could jog nearly half of it.

From goal post to goal post I jogged.

My hip hurt and said, “Hey, Idiot Girl! What do you think you are doing?”

I said, “Shaddup”.

My knee said, “Excuse me? Fat girl? Have you forgotten that fat girls don’t do this sort of thing? Wouldn’t you rather have a nice piece of chocolate? Slice of pizza? Starbucks frappe-dappa-mocha chino?”

I said, “Forgetaboutit”

And when I rounded that final lap (lap 12 if you’re counting) I started to smile. I could hear the Rocky theme in the background. My eyes filled with tears. I’d done it. I’d picked up the gauntlet and ran with it.

I am woman and I jog.

HEAR ME ROAR!

Kickin' It

So, I kicked the hills butt. Yeah. Kicked it. I ran up it. I ran up it FOUR TIMES.

To be perfectly honest, I should probably admit that my running looks more like a jog. Okay, more like a water buffalo jog. Oh alright! It looks more like a wounded, water buffalo jog.

When I’m not in town making my walking buddy take the hills, I either walk my road which is gravel & hilly, or I torture myself with Winsor Pilates and/or Crunch aerobics. Yesterday was a road day and Beloved, since he was off work and doing nothing, decided to join me.

“I won’t go the entire 45-minutes. I don’t want to,” he smiled.

Whateveh…

My route is pretty simple: walk to the mail box, slap it, turn and walk to the driveway, run from driveway to barn, walk from barn up hill to first telephone pole, and return to mailbox. Repeat. Because it’s a country road it isn’t always very flat. I prefer to walk on the right side of the road because it doesn’t slant.

“Trade me sides,” Beloved says.

“I don’t like the left side. It’s slanty.” I reply

“I know…”replies my Beloved.

Beloved is in pretty good shape but he could afford to lose some weight (his words, not mine). His job is very physically demanding and I knew he could out walk, out run, out everything me. So when he complained about the slanty side of the road, I kinda chuckled. Okay, I laughed, but I switched sides with him.

We finished our second lap and were on our way to the driveway when Beloved said, “Let’s run from the barn to the telephone pole.”

Up hill?

He wants me to run up hill? Is he on crack?

Has he forgotten who he’s married to? I’m short and I’m overweight. I run like a water buffalo, an injured water buffalo.



Run up the hill…

I love a challenge.

So I kicked the hills butt. I ran up the hill Quasimodo style, but I did it. I did it three more times. We ended with a total time of 50 minutes (yeah me!).

This morning as Beloved left for work he said, “Ouch! My calves hurt.”

I just smiled. Poor Beloved. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that mine didn’t.

Burn Baby Burn

I’ve been working out for twenty-five days now and I’ve made an interesting observation. Being the non-exercise kinda girl I’ve been, my muscles were terribly surprised to find the sudden demand upon them. They howled. They cried. Why, they even begged me to quit. I told them to suck it up and stop being such babies. Geessh!

The funny thing is they can do more things now. For instance, they can climb this horrible, dreadful, high hill on our road. They can climb it over and over again. Sure they get tired, but they don’t burn and ache like they use to. This was clearly pointed out to me the other night when my walking buddy, who I’ll call Long and Lean, stated, “My legs are burning!”

“Mine aren’t,” I replied in my best snotty voice.

I wasn’t being a snotty girl for nothin’. Just moment before, as we ran (yeah, I run now too) from point A to point B, long and lean girl laughed at me. She laughed. I know I’m slow, I’ve never been much of a runner, but that girl with zero body fat laughed at the fat girl. Not nice. Not. Nice.At.All.

When she started to complain that her legs had started to burn climbing the hill, well, I laughed. I laughed until my side-ached. “Ha! Take that Long and Lean. You may be skinny, but my muscles climb the hill without pain. Ha ha ha!!!”

Yeah, I probably took it too far. I said too much. I laughed too loud.

But DANG that felt good.

Coming Tomorrow

Please join me tomorrow and meet Ashley Cuttino owner and creator of Scrapbook Blogger