maeby this time . . .

blargh, it is march. tis the season for madness!

i feel like i haven't seen the sun in a year. i'm beginning to think this might really be the end of the world -- earthquakes, tsunamis, blizzards in places where we grow citrus. i fear that boston is doomed to become a gray colony of mole-people. or perhaps we'll be overrun by glittery vampires, escaping the sun.

i need to get out of the house.

i'm not going to lie to you, internet people. i've spent the better part of this week in my bathrobe, watching Arrested Development. when i confessed this to my therapist, she said, "well, that's fitting!"

rut roh.

seriously, though -- nothing cures late winter SADness like an amazingly clever sitcom. i don't know why i didn't pay more attention to this show until now. i seem to jump on the pop-culture fan-wagons about 4 years too late. so in 2014, i'm gonna be all about vampires and Lost. adjust your christmas shopping lists accordingly.

anyway -- so yesterday, i tore myself away for the antics of the Bluth family, put on some clothes, and dragged my pathetic ass to the gym. i was fully prepared for a beat-down by Ron. i have not been very consistent in my gym efforts of late. my procrastination efforts, however, have been off the charts!

Ron has switched up the workout routine to a 30 minute, full-body gorefest. last week, i was left shaking and sweating, flat on my back in the middle of the weight-lifting room while Ron's smug face spun above me. this week, i was prepared for a similar out-of-body torture experience. and i wasn't looking forward to it.

"what's the point of all this exercise bullshit, anyway? the world is clearly ending soon. i should be out eating ice cream and making bad decisions."

once Ron and i got down to business, however, my rouge muscles seemed to pull themselves together and turned out a decent workout. at one point, as i lunged the length of the gym, Ron called out, "you are lookin' goooood right now!" i assume he was talking to me and not the WWE-wannabe who was grunting menacingly on the other side of the weight bench.

when i'd completed my final crunches and was sprawled on the floor at Ron's feet, i asked him to give it to me straight.

Me: "am i improving at all?"

Ron: "you've definitely got potential . . . i mean, you're lookin' good right now. all you need is consistency -- you just gotta get in here and do this routine every other day, and throw some cardio in on the off days, and you'll see the results."

Me: "i get kinda intimidated when i'm doing the workout solo, you know? i've . . . i've never been athletic at all, i've always been kinda goofy and clumsy, so i feel really self-conscious when i'm back there tryin' to do crunches on the big rubber ball without you there to make sure i don't roll away."

Ron: "you gotta be confident! you got this -- and you already look great as it is, you're just tryin' to tone up a little bit. trust me, i wouldn't tell you no lies . . . you don't need to feel self-conscious."

Me: "spring is coming. i'm freaking out about shorts. also, bathing suits."

Ron: "don't be thinking about the summer or the clothes or any of that. just work on bein' consistent, and you'll see the results. you've got this."

this is why i'm paying Ron the big bucks -- to tell me that i'm not a giant mountain of mole-flesh that should just go home and wait for the apocalypse to start. he also puts my goals in perspective. they are not as insurmountable as they might feel, here in the deep cold depths of winter.

the sun will shine again. i will wear shorts again. don't over think it. you got this.

kick-assed

As my previous post so cleverly (read: lazily) illustrated -- I had a birthday!

I turned 27 on 2/7. Which seemed only mildly cool until I started to figure out the "magic" birthdays of other members of my family, and realized that not everyone lives to see this numerological milestone. For example, my brother will have to wait until he turns 127 on 12/7. Sorry, Ev.

Anyway -- birthdays are always an excuse for festivity, magic number or not! I definitely dragged the celebrating out for a whole weekend. A weekend full of booze, fried food, and waffles.

And it was glorious!

So after a delicious party-bender, I returned to the gym for my Monday afternoon session with Ron. I was feelin' ok -- a little bloated, maybe, but certainly not hungover.

"Are you ready for me?" Ron asked.

"Sure!" I blithely replied, as I wandered over to the weight room and plunked myself down on the giant rubber exercise ball.

Five minutes later, I knew something was horribly, horribly wrong. The muscles in my arms felt like they'd been replaced with waffles.

"Are you sweating maple syrup?" asked the 6-foot talking lobster with Ron's voice.

"I'm dying!" I groaned, and rolled ever so gracefully off the ball and onto the floor. Where I planned to remain until Spring.

"Party too hard?" Ron asked, as he pressed some slightly-less torturous 3lb dumbbells into my hands.

"It was my birthday weekend," I said.

"Ahhhhh . . ." Ron said, as he propped my limp body up against a wall. "Seven reps, you can do it . . . ok, seven more . . ."

Ron was not about to let me off easy, even though I was about to let loose a weekend's worth of junk-food all over his sneakers. I'd had my fun, and now Ron -- and my pathetically uncooperative body -- were going to make me pay for it.

At this moment, I hated Ron. The same hot, prickly, frustrated rage I felt towards every gym teacher and soccer coach I've ever had. Why are you making me do this? I can't! Not today. I can't.

It turns out, I could. And I did. Ron cut the end of the session a little sort and let me off without much of an ab workout. He was probably also afraid that I was about puke all over him. I limped and crawled frantically out of the gym like I was escaping from some sort of POW camp.

Never again, I thought to myself. That SUCKED.

At first, I blamed Ron. Couldn't that bastard cut me a break? It was my birthday . . . er . . . month, after all! I was pissed. And . . . disappointed.

I'd been feeling so good about my little baby-steps of gym progress. Lifting weights and doing crunches had made me feel strong and powerful and capable. Like my body was a well-tuned machine, instead of a doughy sack of insecurities. I was on the road to becoming a stronger, healthier, less insane me . . . and now I was back to square one. Cue the crying and shame eating.

It's taken a little time to shake off the frustration. I'm realizing, though, that getting in shape really takes a certain amount of commitment. I've always rolled my eyes at people who get up at 5am on Christmas Day to get in their workout or whatever . . . but I'll bet those people feel pretty damn good when they're done.

Yes, there are going to be days when my brain says, "Eff it, Tea -- let's skip the gym today. You went yesterday, you can go tomorrow!" Or, "Life sucks, have another beer!" I can choose to listen to that voice -- and there will probably be times when I do -- but there will be consequences. I will feel like ass the next day. My strength training will come to a standstill, and workouts will get harder. I will continue hallucinate that Ron is a giant crustacean.

Basically -- I gotta make a commitment. Which, for a commitment-phobe like moi, is scary shit. But I also need to choose what's more important to me -- feeling good in the long term, or self-gratification in the short term.

Heady stuff, man. And I thought I was just signing on to drop a few pounds for bathing suit season!

This week, I'm gonna get back in the saddle and commit to the plan. Four strength training workouts a week -- 1 with Ron, 3 on my own. That's 2 Upper Body Days, 2 Lower Body Days. I'm also gonna be brave and hit up the Sunday morning yoga class. I'm gonna include my Couch to 5k training sessions as warm-ups before my strength training sessions.

I don't have to do everything perfectly, but I have to make the effort. Time makes things easier -- but only if you stick with it!

Sticking with things has never been a strength of mine. But this is all about getting stronger -- in every sense of the word.

ripped

Greetings, Comrades! Hope everyone is having a good week . . . or at least, a survivable week. According to the weatherman, Boston is supposed to hit 50 degrees on Friday! There's something to keep living for!

So, remember how I got bamboozled into signing up for free personal training? Betcha thought I blew that off, huh? Not so! I've been taking a few days to digest my latest gym adventure. Also, I was unable to lift my arms to the keyboard. Until now!

Gather 'round, kids -- Tea's got a tale for you! With a surprise ending, no less!



Monday, 4pm -- I scurried into the rat-hole that is Golds Gym Somerville. I mean that in the most loving way possible. But seriously, this is the actual gym entrance:


It's located in the basement of a strip mall. Enough said.

Ron, the young man who initially approached me about signing up for a free training session, was literally waiting for me at the door.

Ron: "Heeeeey! You ready?"

Me: "Honestly, I'm kinda scared."

Ron did not seem particularly moved by my apprehension. He laughed and told me to go suit up. I was already wearing sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt -- was I supposed to bring a spandex leotard? Weight lifting belt? I played along and huddled in the locker room for a few moments, and then returned with my water bottle and my last remaining shreds of dignity.

Ron was waiting for me with a guy who is best described as a 'budget-Guido.' He introduced himself as Carlos, the General Manager. He was going to be my trainer for the evening.

"Are you ready to do this?" Carlos asked, with a genuine enthusiasm I'd not seen in Ron. Or anyone else at Golds Gym Somerville.

"Um -- sure?"

"That's right you are!"

Before we got down to sweatin', Carlos had me fill out a survey covering my medical history and fitness goals.

Carlos: "Have you ever had a stroke?"

Me: "I don't think so."

Carlos: "Are you currently pregnant?"

Me: "No sir."

Carlos: "Have you ever been on a diet before?"

Me: "[laughing] Oooooh yeh."

Carlos: "Is your spouse or partner supportive of your fitness goals?"

Me: "Uhhhh . . . sure?"

And so it went. I told Carlos my weight. He said some stuff about cardio, nutrition and free weights - the Holy Trinity of physical fitness. There was talk of ripping apart muscle, and muscle eating fat, and body fat ratios . . .

This was all starting to sound like an anatomy lecture. Taught by a Guido.

Then, Carlos sent me off to the elliptical machine, saying, "Don't go crazy, just get a little warmed up."

After 10 minutes, I was feeling sufficiently warm. I've been a member of Golds Gym for 4 years, and my usual workout sessions consist of 20 minutes on the elliptical, followed by 40 minutes of power-incline walking on the treadmill. Usually listening to some sort of talk-radio podcast. Not exactly heart-pounding.

After 20 minutes, Carlos deemed me sufficiently prepared for the next phase of the workout. And it wasn't going to involve The Hater podcast.

We wandered over to a corner of the gym with several dubious-looking machines. Carlos instructed me to lie down on what looked like some sort of torturous operating table, put my feet up on a bar, and reach back over my head to grab the handles behind me. Then, sit up. He helped to lift the machine with me the first time, so my completely uncoordinated body could figure out what was going on.

Well hi there, stomach muscles! Where the hell have you guys been?!

After a few reps on the crunch machine, Carlos led me over to the . . . "pull up machine"? I don't know the technical terms for the equipment, but basically, I was suspended from my arms and lifting my legs straight out in front of me.

Now things were getting tricky.

Me: "Oh, wow! Um -- yeh . . . I don't know how many more of these I can do."

Carlos: "Just 2 more! You got it! You got it!"

And, much to my surprise -- I got it. I completed the set. And I didn't fall / cry / collapse! A gym class miracle!

While I took a water break, Carlos asked me, "So who are you paying attention to in the gym right now?"

"You," I answered.

"Who else?"

"Uhhh . . . me?"

"Who else?"

"Uhhh . . . "

"No one, right? Because you're busy doing your own thing. And guess what? No one else is paying attention to you right now either. Everyone's concentrating on their own workouts, no one's watching to see if you're going to mess up."

This might sound like fairly obvious advice -- but in the moment, in all my sweaty, awkward glory -- it kind of blew my mind. Carlos was right -- no one gave a rat's ass what I was doing over here in the pull up corner. They were all busy sweating away on their own torture machines, or jogging along reading US Weekly.

And this was the turning point right here, people. This was when I started getting into it.

Carlos took me into the stretching area and had me lay down on my back, legs hovering inches above the floor. Every time he said "Up!" I lifted my legs straight up in the air. When he said "Down!" I lowered them. He put me through a rapid-fire series of "Up! Down! Up! Hold it! Hold it! Down! Up! Down! Up!" -- and I kept up with him. Through two whole sets, with barely a break.

Carlos: "Your lower abs are strong."

Me: "Seriously?"

Carlos: "Sure. I'm putting you through a slightly more advanced beginner series, and you're keeping up with me."

This was perhaps the first time anyone has ever commented on my physical strength. In a positive manner. I was sweaty, and starting to feel a little jello-y . . . but it was a good feeling. I was pumped! When Carlos challenged me to do some planks, I was determined to hold the pose all the way through his 30 second countdown -- no flopping to my belly with 10 seconds to go.

And I did it!

By the time we made it over to the final ab machine, Carlos and I were chatting like old friends. When I referred to the machine as a medieval torture device, he laughed appreciatively. I have no doubt that flirting with the young, female, non-athletic potential clients is a big part of Carlos' job description. But I was feelin' so pumped by the emergence of my previously hidden ab-muscles, I didn't even care that he was buttering me up for the Big Sell.

When Carlos led me away from the machines and back towards the office -- I was actually surprised. Our workout hour had flown! And . . . I liked it. I liked feeling strong -- like every machine was a new little physical challenge. I liked pushing myself right to the "oh-my-god-I-can't-do-4-more-reps!" edge -- and then doing 4 more reps. I'd walked into the gym certain that I would crumple in the face of weights and scary machines -- but I didn't! In fact, I did the whole routine without copping out on a single thing!

When Carlos shut the office door, I said -- "I need to be really honest with you. I came here tonite mostly for a laugh, definitely not planning on signing up for anything. But I really liked this. And I wanna keep doing it. But my financial situation right now is a huge joke. Seriously. Funds are . . . nonexistent. Almost."

And Carlos, in true Guido fashion, said, "Talk to me. What can you afford? If this is something you really want to do, we can make this work."

I sat there and thought about it for awhile. Was this something I really wanted to do? God knows, I've never been a gym bunny, or a fitness fanatic. Hell, I'm usually the first person in line to scoff at those people who get up at 5am to do spin class, go running in the snow, can't miss a workout. And yet . . . I've struggled with my body image and my weight for most of my life. I've tried every diet plan you could think of -- and a few I've invented myself. I've had some successes -- but I have never really reached a point where I've felt truly comfortable and confident in my own body.

But strangely enough -- I felt confident out on the floor doing leg-lifts with Carlos. I felt strong, I felt determined. So . . . maybe its time for me to start focusing on what my body can actually do, instead of just what it looks like.

"Ok, Carlos -- let's talk," I said.


I bet you can all guess where this is going, right?

Tea Guarie, sucker of the century, now has her very own personal trainer!! I'll be meeting with him once a week for a one-on-one session, and then he'll give me two other workouts I can do on my own for the rest of the time. Financially, I think I'll be able to swing it. If not, I can cancel it without too much trouble. And really -- people have made worse investment decisions, right?

I won't lie -- I'm really excited! Is that weird? To get excited over exercising? God knows, my muscles have been making their displeasure known over the past few days. My ab muscles seem to be particularly resentful - I had to roll out of bed onto the floor this morning. But this is just the beginning -- even though it hurts like hell now, I can't wait to see where I'll be three months from now. Maybe Carlos will be able to put some actual weights on the machines! Maybe I'll be able to do more that 5 pull ups!

The possibilities are endless!

So between my library hook-up and my gym escapades, I feel like I've been more productive this week than I was in all of 2009! And if there's one thing I learned from my "workout", its to take it all slow and steady. One movement, one step at a time.

Piece o' cake.

its time for . . . Tales From the Treadmill!

Picture it -- Golds Gym Somerville, 2010.

I was strolling along on the treadmill like I normally do, after successfully convincing myself that my "walk-jog" routine will start Monday. Everyone knows, diets / exercise plans / weeks start on Mondays. Duh.

I was listening to The Hater podcast and trying not to laugh out loud like a creepy freak, as I'm sometimes apt to do. This week Amelie Gillette is making fun of Tyra Banks, Oprah, the Jonas Brothers and Domino's Pizza. I effing love her.

Suddenly, I'm aware of someone standing on the vacant treadmill to my right, staring and gesturing at me. My first thought was that this is "Ghostbusters dude". What -- I've never told you about Ghostbusters dude? Allow me to indulge in a brief tangent here:



There's a guy at my gym who is apparently a huge fan of my "Ghostbusters shirt". It's just a black t-shirt with the Ghostbusters logo on the front -- suitable attire for dive bars, the gym, job interviews at the Sav-Mor Liquor Store. Nothing special.

The first time I wore it to the gym, this guy stopped right in front of my elliptical machine and started talking at me. Which was pointless and annoying, because I was listening to the Glee soundtrack at top volume and couldn't hear what the eff he was saying. At first I thought he was a fomer match.com date, come back to awkwardly remind me of some unreturned phone message or something -- but no, this dude merely wanted to tell me how much he liked my Ghostbusters shirt.*

"Ghostbusters, man! I remember that movie! That's so cool! Where'd you get it?"

"Thanks . . . uh . . . Target, I think?"

"That's awesome!"

A few minutes later, he came back with a friend, and proceeded to proudly point out my Ghostbusters shirt to his buddy. His friend, to his credit, looked confused and embarrassed.

"Dude, remember Ghostbusters?"

"What?" said his friend.

"Ghostbusters -- that movie! With that guy . . . that was the logo!"

"Oh yeh . . . I don't know if I ever saw that . . ."

"Whaaaaat?! Are you serious?!"

So they went on. I stopped even pretending to be a part of the conversation and cranked up my ipod once again, and eventually, they wandered away.

So, needless to say, the Ghostbusters shirt was taken out of gym rotation for several weeks. When, at last, the day came when all my other gym tees were in the laundry and I was forced to don the GB tee -- dude was right there in front of my treadmill again!!!

Him: "Heeey!" [gives thumbs up on shirt]

Me: [startled, confused stumbling, followed by embarrassed nod / thumbs up]

Seriously? Does this guy just wander around the gym checkin' out people's outfits? If so, I pity him -- because Golds Gym Somerville is certainly not a fashionista gym. Unless the hot new trend in workout wear is "moving company t-shirts, old sweatpants, and ill-fitting support garments". They had to post a sign at the front desk stating: "As of January 1, 2010, No Jeans Allowed".

I'm no athlete, but even I know you shouldn't wear jeans to the effing gym. Come on, people!

Ok, end tangent.




So back to today's treadmill visitor. It was, thankfully, not Ghostbusters dude. It was a guy wearing an official Golds Gym Somerville shirt, which immediately made me nervous. What did I do? I wasn't wearing jeans . . . did they notice that the last time I was here, I failed to wipe down the treadmill when I was done? What -- its not like I touch the damn thing other than to press the Start / Stop button! Get over it!

But no, Official Gym Employee had not come to scold me. He had come to gently shame me.

Him: "Hi, My name is Ron. I don't think I've seen you at the gym before -- how long have you been a member?"

Me: "Um . . . awhile . . ." [by awhile, I meant 4 years. although clearly, the effects of 4 years of gym membership are not immediately apparent when looking at me in all my gym-clothed glory]

Him: "Oh, ok -- so you're getting back into it for the New Year!"

Me: "Right!"

Him: "Has anyone ever talked to you about doing a free personal training session?"

Me: "Uh . . . no . . ." [but they have approached to me comment on my t-shirts / oogle me]

Him: "Is that something you'd be interested in?"

Me: "Kinda . . . I gotta be up front with you though -- I'm not gonna be able to commit to paying for sessions, because I have no job." [ and I'm pretty sure that once you watch me attempt a sit-up, or a crunch or whatever -- you're probably not gonna wanna train me, either.]

Him: "Totally understandable . . . just see what training's all about . . . blah, blah, blah . . . should I put you down for Monday at 4?"

This is usually the part of any pitch where I break the sales-person's heart with, "Weeellllllll . . . let me think about it . . ." and then run out the door and never return. But today, I thought to myself -- what the hell? I've been coming to this sweaty pit for 4 years, and I still can't touch my freakin' toes. Maybe it is time to switch it up, get some "professional" advice.

Which is exactly what they want you to think.

Damnit. Clearly, the treadmill is my kryptonite. Corner me on one and I'll agree to anything.

Ron obviously saw me as fresh meat. Sauntering along at an easy 3.5 miles per hour, occasionally snickering to myself. Oooooh yeh, he thoughtThere's a girl who's enjoying the gym too much. There's a girl who needs some pain. .

Ron's parting words to me were, "Bring water and a towel, and come prepared to sweat."

I should have told him, "Ok. You bring Band-Aids and a face mask, and be prepared to call 911 at some point."

Instead, I actually said, "Ok, great! Nice to meet you! Can't wait for you to kick my ass!"

The moral of these stories: I need to stop being friendly to people at the gym. Or anywhere. Or just walk around laughing out loud to myself at all times, so they'll stay away.






*Just so we're clear, I am aware that this dude was probably more interested in my "lovely lady ghosties" than my "shirt". I can be clueless . . . but not that clueless.