The stop-and-go-then-stop-again-ness of this afternoon prompted me to take a break from the numbers and indulge in some words. As much as I’m grateful for the contract extension, there are days when unemployment would be preferable to cleaning up all these troublesome dregs of projects, you know?
I’m a bit hesitant about getting back into writing, probably because I plan on covering the most cliché of subjects one can discuss shortly after New Years: my health. No one’s interested in my new-found respect for my body as a temple, blahblahblah; I am aware. Still, the need to commit my actions to virtual paper, to get it out of my head and list it properly so that I may return to gauge my progress is a strong one indeed.
About a month ago (pretty much the last time I was around these parts) I decided, not out of any sense of obligation to a resolution, that I wanted to be a better looking 45 year old than I was a 42 year old. And if I was ever going to achieve this, I’d best get started now. The one other tiny matter pushing me to make some positive concrete changes in my life is the Sword of Damocles my GP hung over my head back in December: the possibility I would have to start taking cholesterol medication.
I’m already tossing back two pills each day for my hypertension, pills I’m hoping will be deemed unnecessary once I’ve got six months or so of consistent exercise under my belt, so you can appreciate that I wasn’t looking to add more to the little pile I’ve been accumulating. We talked about how I really only have two of the seven or eight risk factors of heart disease and he said he’d just like to keep an eye on it until my next appointment in April. I said I was going to try to get back to my Boot Camp class and hopefully it would result in me losing a few pounds and improving my cardio/lung function. He agreed and I left the office feeling hopeful. Then the same wheezing that caused me to opt out of the fall session returned compliments of a touch of H1N1, requiring me to use a new puffer and lose another few weeks. At that point I was pretty much resigned to waiting for the Summer Session, and began thinking of ways to better prepare myself not to suck royally and bring shame upon myself when I take my third run at the program.
Then it occurred to me: my temporary office digs are located in a tower at the heart of downtown. Located on the 11th floor of a federal building, all the offices require card access and are not open to the public, making for a terribly quiet work environment. Not that I mind, don’t get me wrong: the fewer people I encounter in any given day, the better! Four years of dealing with the great unwashed group of snotty-nosed kids and their asshole parents in the Financial Aid office at the local community college effectively cured me of the need for any further social interaction. It was on the way to the washroom one day that I realized I could do cartwheels down the entire length of the hall in my underwear with slim odds of anyone happening upon me; why not take advantage? The next day I brought my Skechers to work and did a few cursory laps around the floor. I measured the distance around using one large stride as a metre and calculated that 18 laps would equal approximately one kilometer. So ‘One k a Day’ has been my aim for three weeks now. The only day I didn’t accomplish my goal was the day I walked in my riding boots and developed some pretty painful friction blisters.
A few days into this regime I was reading about the ways you could inject a bit of exercise in your day without even really noticing, and they mentioned taking the stairs. Well, there’s no damn way I could manage 11 flights out of the gate, especially when you weigh in (heh) a winter coat, chunky boots, a purse, a lunch bag and my bag o’ crafts that also contains my inside shoes (I liken it to a 10-pound pack). What I did was schedule an initial 5 flights just before lunch in order to boost my metabolism for the day’s largest meal. Did it suck? You betcha! I had to take a seat on the top step and timed my recovery time at five whole minutes – it actually angered me how far and fast I’d backslid since opting out of Boot Camp. The positive side of the anger was it spurred me on to continue, and I’ve worked my way up to the seven flights I now climb every day.
I’m feeling better, but my BDD won’t allow me to be objective in front of the mirror, especially in my face. So, aside from that vague offering I’ve got nothing.
To those of you who exercise regularly: what the hell is this Endorphin Rush or Runner’s High I hear about? Do any of you experience that? I sure as hell do not! At the end of my exercise session I am red-faced, gasping, stinky, crabby and tired; basically, everything you want in a woman. Please feel free to chime in with your comments, because I’m really trying to understand if it’s something I’m doing wrong or if I’m simply genetically programmed to be Schmoo 2.0.
