I have never been more glad to have classes start again. Not academic classes, sadly; my pining for homework has not yet urged me into grad school (nearly, though). But the gym is open again! After three weeks (vacation, gym closed for poshing up, laziness), I have turbokick again. How delightful.
I tried to exercise while the gym was closed. Really I did, once or twice. The problem is that I'm such an uninspired runner. It doesn't matter how bouncy the music is, or how lovely the day: I just get bored. If I'm not thinking of running and how I ought to keep running fairly constantly, my feet just slow down as if I had no say in it. I can jog along for about a half hour stretch, so it's not a matter of endurance when I quit after twenty minutes, but I can't really get myself going again for any reasonable distance once I've started to walk. I suppose the couch-to-5K program is not for me, as it involves lots of run/walk intervals, but maybe it would be easier if I knew they were coming up.
I am trying to mix it up some this semester, though. Mostly because my schedule doesn't always jive with the turbo sessions, I admit, but also because I know if I do that every day, the routine will get stale before its time (though not tonight, because tonight, there will be black light and glowy wristbands, and it will be hilarious). Yesterday I tried a step class. I'm thinking of picking up a toning class. There's always yoga, and the ever popular iterative combinations of yoga and pilates. Plenty of options, anyway. Thank heavens: with the students back, who could ever work in half an hour on the ellipticals? They're all taken up by sorority girls wearing baseball caps and going very slowly so that they can talk on the phone and not muss their makeup. It almost makes one take up jogging.
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Showing posts with label exercise. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 26, 2008
Saturday, April 5, 2008
I swear I do talk about things other than the gym sometimes
One of my favorite parts of being rather a regular at the gym now (at least in my classes) is building up some gym cred with the real regulars (i.e. the fantastically fit people who don't even need classes to keep them motivated) and with my instructors. Last week, for example, the instructor that I call The Kickboxer (to distinguish her from The Other Kickboxer, natch) split us up into a sort of dance-off just to change things up a bit. Unfortunately, most of the people who knew the routine well were on one side of the room together. After the fact, she said, "You know, I should have put you on the other side. You have a memory for this stuff." I glowed.
Just like in school, I've become something of a That Kid: That Kid, who has the answers and stands in the front row. That Kid, who knows the routine and can stay on the beat even when the instructors fumble (with their heads full of so many rounds of choreography, I don't blame them for the rare misstep). That Kid, who plays up to the instructors and talks to them after class. Then again, I've shown up pretty much every day for the last couple of months, so why shouldn't I be friendly with the instructors now? It entertains me to be a sort of communication link between them, like when The Kickboxer didn't know that The Other Kickboxer had changed the choreography around, or when The Other Kickboxer didn't know why The Kickboxer had needed a sub (she had a big test). I am just a hub of information!
One of my other favorite parts is the evangelical bit of hauling people to the gym with me. I myself was hauled in the first place by a friend from knitting circle. Now I'm up to four converts. Yesterday, another girl from work came with me. "Is this like Jazzercise?" she asked as the class was about to begin. "Not exactly," I said, trying not to laugh. The Other Kickboxer's mic was broken, so I tried to mumble the cues to my colleague, who did rather well considering she didn't know any of the routine to start with. "That was way harder than I thought it would be!" she said at the end. But she liked it, and maybe she'll come back.
The last best bit is the tangible milestones. When I started doing the turbokick class, I could barely make it through the whole thing. I gasped and wheezed for at least twenty minutes after the first workout. Now my recovery time is down to five minutes, tops, and I'm putting more energy into each session. This week I completed the Fit 5-0 Challenge, which was a program to see who could take 50 hours of fitness classes between the beginning of the semester and the first of May. It's a great feeling to be able to keep up with all those genuine gym gurus. I may not be fabulous yet, but I've toned up a lot in the last couple of months. Wednesday we had a sub who was utterly new to me, who just made up a routine out of her head from bits and pieces of routines she used when she was a personal trainer in Hollywood. It was fast-paced and intense, but I got through it, only slacking off a little here and there. Friday one of the people who I know works out pretty constantly (after all, she hangs out with The Kickboxer, who pretty much lives in the gym) came up to me and we talked about how sore we were the next morning, and how hard the workout had been. It's pretty great to sort of be part of the inner circle of gym-goers now. After all, it's hard to discuss the finer points of muscle fatigue with my knitting circle, as wonderful as they are.
The only bad thing about going to the gym all the time is that I get so set in my preferences. I like a certain corner of the free weights area. I like some of the moves in turbokick better than others. I like certain of the music channels in the weight room much better than others, and try to avoid the attendants who only play rap and metal. Thank goodness the Kickboxer will be back this week: she also teaches my yoga class, and the sub's style is just not at all compatible with what I've come to expect.
Just like in school, I've become something of a That Kid: That Kid, who has the answers and stands in the front row. That Kid, who knows the routine and can stay on the beat even when the instructors fumble (with their heads full of so many rounds of choreography, I don't blame them for the rare misstep). That Kid, who plays up to the instructors and talks to them after class. Then again, I've shown up pretty much every day for the last couple of months, so why shouldn't I be friendly with the instructors now? It entertains me to be a sort of communication link between them, like when The Kickboxer didn't know that The Other Kickboxer had changed the choreography around, or when The Other Kickboxer didn't know why The Kickboxer had needed a sub (she had a big test). I am just a hub of information!
One of my other favorite parts is the evangelical bit of hauling people to the gym with me. I myself was hauled in the first place by a friend from knitting circle. Now I'm up to four converts. Yesterday, another girl from work came with me. "Is this like Jazzercise?" she asked as the class was about to begin. "Not exactly," I said, trying not to laugh. The Other Kickboxer's mic was broken, so I tried to mumble the cues to my colleague, who did rather well considering she didn't know any of the routine to start with. "That was way harder than I thought it would be!" she said at the end. But she liked it, and maybe she'll come back.
The last best bit is the tangible milestones. When I started doing the turbokick class, I could barely make it through the whole thing. I gasped and wheezed for at least twenty minutes after the first workout. Now my recovery time is down to five minutes, tops, and I'm putting more energy into each session. This week I completed the Fit 5-0 Challenge, which was a program to see who could take 50 hours of fitness classes between the beginning of the semester and the first of May. It's a great feeling to be able to keep up with all those genuine gym gurus. I may not be fabulous yet, but I've toned up a lot in the last couple of months. Wednesday we had a sub who was utterly new to me, who just made up a routine out of her head from bits and pieces of routines she used when she was a personal trainer in Hollywood. It was fast-paced and intense, but I got through it, only slacking off a little here and there. Friday one of the people who I know works out pretty constantly (after all, she hangs out with The Kickboxer, who pretty much lives in the gym) came up to me and we talked about how sore we were the next morning, and how hard the workout had been. It's pretty great to sort of be part of the inner circle of gym-goers now. After all, it's hard to discuss the finer points of muscle fatigue with my knitting circle, as wonderful as they are.
The only bad thing about going to the gym all the time is that I get so set in my preferences. I like a certain corner of the free weights area. I like some of the moves in turbokick better than others. I like certain of the music channels in the weight room much better than others, and try to avoid the attendants who only play rap and metal. Thank goodness the Kickboxer will be back this week: she also teaches my yoga class, and the sub's style is just not at all compatible with what I've come to expect.
Wednesday, April 2, 2008
turbokick! good for what ails you
They do say that the most fervent believers are the converts. I've been converted to several causes over the years, but recently, I've become a gym evangelical. Yes, me. If you know me, this is somewhat hard to believe, I'd imagine, because lazy would be a good word to describe me, but since I took up this Turbokick (TM) class, I'm hooked. I'm now one of those people who always tries to take people to the gym with her, and it's worked, some. I've gotten a couple of friends to go, and one of my coworkers, and my poor perplexed mother with her arthritic knees. I'm working on the others.
I must be irritating. One of the guys who works downstairs in my bookstore knows my gym schedule now, because I talk about it so much. My friends are well acquainted by proxy now with the deliciously sadistic instructors. But it's really a bright spot in my day, that endorphin rush. Plus I've dropped a couple of pants sizes, so that's not bad either. I almost have a bicep now! One on each side, even. It's quite entertaining for me, who's never been fit, to finally get a taste of what that feels like. I love it.
Plus, now maybe I could defend myself in a dark alley. Uppercut! Roundhouse! I am the Chuck Norris of my bookstore!
Except, of course, for Biceps, whose upper arms are still bigger around than my head, almost.
I must be irritating. One of the guys who works downstairs in my bookstore knows my gym schedule now, because I talk about it so much. My friends are well acquainted by proxy now with the deliciously sadistic instructors. But it's really a bright spot in my day, that endorphin rush. Plus I've dropped a couple of pants sizes, so that's not bad either. I almost have a bicep now! One on each side, even. It's quite entertaining for me, who's never been fit, to finally get a taste of what that feels like. I love it.
Plus, now maybe I could defend myself in a dark alley. Uppercut! Roundhouse! I am the Chuck Norris of my bookstore!
Except, of course, for Biceps, whose upper arms are still bigger around than my head, almost.
Saturday, February 23, 2008
fat-phobia
Americans are afraid of fat.
We spend vast amounts of money on gyms and on fat-free foods and diet pills. We get all up in arms if someone calls someone else fat, as seen in this blog post by Dick Cavette, or even the comments to this NYTimes blogpost by Tara Parker-Pope about the importance of fitness in emergencies. Fat people sit around stuffing their faces all day! say some, and nuts to them if they can't get down the stairs! Cruelty! trumpet the others, and how would you feel if someone left you to roast in a fire? Admittedly, Cavett's mention of Nazis and Mafiosos in the same breath as the obese is a little over-the-top, but he's from a generation less likely to grasp for slights and victimizing remarks.
We're a nation of fad dieters and gym rats and couch potatoes, obsessed with celebrities who are thin to the point of appearing malnourished. We get riled up about clothing sizes, about portion sizes, about video games that will supposedly keep us fit. We watch "The Biggest Loser". We tell each other, "Of course you aren't fat!" We're mostly lying.
Why are we afraid to be called fat? In India, salespeople would look me up and down and give me a size bigger than I asked for. "Big size!" they'd insist. The local population was much slimmer. The Indian-American girl on my study abroad program was thrilled that at long last she wasn't being "penalized" by being made to pay the same price for her smaller, less-fabric-intensive clothing. The French didn't care enough to remark on my size, but I had trouble finding jeans that I liked (this did have something to do with the fact that I'm not big on rhinestones or pre-ripping, though).
I'm a fat girl. I've always been a fat girl. At five foot three and 165 pounds, there's no way you could call me normal weight. This is not to say that I'm not healthy - I don't have breathing or joint problems, and my cholesterol levels are fairly enviable. I eat pretty well - not too much, mostly vegetables (I can't help but think that Michael Pollan would be slightly proud and slightly dismayed, given that I'm not an omnivore). I don't have to shop in the plus size section and my BMI doesn't qualify me as obese. I don't consider myself unattractive. The reason I'm overweight is because I'm lazy. It's only in recent weeks that I've started going to the gym regularly. Though I played outside as a kid, it was mostly dreamy introspective games that involved building tiny playgrounds out of twigs and aquarium pebbles, not running and jumping. I wish I'd kept playing soccer after second grade, because it might have instilled some healthier gym habits in me. I wish I could say that I have a grand health plan in mind with all these gym hours, but really I just like the look of my collarbones, and I'd like to be fit enough to be less sweaty when I work out.
I suppose being overweight is something of a vicious circle. It is irritating to go to the gym and see all the skinny girls bouncing along on the ellipticals at two miles an hour, as if they don't have to work at it, or the massive guys heaving massive weights around on their massive shoulders. It is hard to schedule that treadmill time into your day. It isn't entertaining to diet or do crunches. And the heavier you are, the harder it gets to convince yourself to do something about it.
Why are we so afraid to be called fat? Sure, fat kids get bullied. But skinny kids get bullied too, and bookworms, and poor kids, and all sorts of kids. Children are cruel at times. I don't really buy the argument that a bunch of five-year-olds can ruin someone's life forever. Fatness shouldn't imply a lack of mental acuity or a dearth of social skills, but it seems to. Maybe I just didn't experience these damaging taunts because in addition to being the fat girl, I was the smart girl, and you don't want to alienate the person whose help you want with your homework.
Listen up, Americans: we are fat, we do need to get off the couch, and we need to stop playing the victims and acting offended that the rest of the world thinks we're porky, with our Twinkies and our burgers and our spread-out towns that make it inconvenient to walk anywhere. I'm not going to go so far as to say that fat people endanger society, but they do make us a source of (more) amusement for the rest of the world. Sure, some people have gland problems or other health conditions that contribute to their weight, but most don't. It isn't a moral judgment when someone points out that you're overweight. Someone might be implying that your will is weak or your motivation is lacking, but I wouldn't bet that way. Fat is a fact.
Meanwhile, skinny people (and don't think I believe that all of you just have high metabolisms), it's not really your place to be making people feel disgusting and awful. Exposed ribs aren't what I want to see at the beach, so if you and all the celebrities can just eat a sandwich now and again, I think we'll all be better off.
We spend vast amounts of money on gyms and on fat-free foods and diet pills. We get all up in arms if someone calls someone else fat, as seen in this blog post by Dick Cavette, or even the comments to this NYTimes blogpost by Tara Parker-Pope about the importance of fitness in emergencies. Fat people sit around stuffing their faces all day! say some, and nuts to them if they can't get down the stairs! Cruelty! trumpet the others, and how would you feel if someone left you to roast in a fire? Admittedly, Cavett's mention of Nazis and Mafiosos in the same breath as the obese is a little over-the-top, but he's from a generation less likely to grasp for slights and victimizing remarks.
We're a nation of fad dieters and gym rats and couch potatoes, obsessed with celebrities who are thin to the point of appearing malnourished. We get riled up about clothing sizes, about portion sizes, about video games that will supposedly keep us fit. We watch "The Biggest Loser". We tell each other, "Of course you aren't fat!" We're mostly lying.
Why are we afraid to be called fat? In India, salespeople would look me up and down and give me a size bigger than I asked for. "Big size!" they'd insist. The local population was much slimmer. The Indian-American girl on my study abroad program was thrilled that at long last she wasn't being "penalized" by being made to pay the same price for her smaller, less-fabric-intensive clothing. The French didn't care enough to remark on my size, but I had trouble finding jeans that I liked (this did have something to do with the fact that I'm not big on rhinestones or pre-ripping, though).
I'm a fat girl. I've always been a fat girl. At five foot three and 165 pounds, there's no way you could call me normal weight. This is not to say that I'm not healthy - I don't have breathing or joint problems, and my cholesterol levels are fairly enviable. I eat pretty well - not too much, mostly vegetables (I can't help but think that Michael Pollan would be slightly proud and slightly dismayed, given that I'm not an omnivore). I don't have to shop in the plus size section and my BMI doesn't qualify me as obese. I don't consider myself unattractive. The reason I'm overweight is because I'm lazy. It's only in recent weeks that I've started going to the gym regularly. Though I played outside as a kid, it was mostly dreamy introspective games that involved building tiny playgrounds out of twigs and aquarium pebbles, not running and jumping. I wish I'd kept playing soccer after second grade, because it might have instilled some healthier gym habits in me. I wish I could say that I have a grand health plan in mind with all these gym hours, but really I just like the look of my collarbones, and I'd like to be fit enough to be less sweaty when I work out.
I suppose being overweight is something of a vicious circle. It is irritating to go to the gym and see all the skinny girls bouncing along on the ellipticals at two miles an hour, as if they don't have to work at it, or the massive guys heaving massive weights around on their massive shoulders. It is hard to schedule that treadmill time into your day. It isn't entertaining to diet or do crunches. And the heavier you are, the harder it gets to convince yourself to do something about it.
Why are we so afraid to be called fat? Sure, fat kids get bullied. But skinny kids get bullied too, and bookworms, and poor kids, and all sorts of kids. Children are cruel at times. I don't really buy the argument that a bunch of five-year-olds can ruin someone's life forever. Fatness shouldn't imply a lack of mental acuity or a dearth of social skills, but it seems to. Maybe I just didn't experience these damaging taunts because in addition to being the fat girl, I was the smart girl, and you don't want to alienate the person whose help you want with your homework.
Listen up, Americans: we are fat, we do need to get off the couch, and we need to stop playing the victims and acting offended that the rest of the world thinks we're porky, with our Twinkies and our burgers and our spread-out towns that make it inconvenient to walk anywhere. I'm not going to go so far as to say that fat people endanger society, but they do make us a source of (more) amusement for the rest of the world. Sure, some people have gland problems or other health conditions that contribute to their weight, but most don't. It isn't a moral judgment when someone points out that you're overweight. Someone might be implying that your will is weak or your motivation is lacking, but I wouldn't bet that way. Fat is a fact.
Meanwhile, skinny people (and don't think I believe that all of you just have high metabolisms), it's not really your place to be making people feel disgusting and awful. Exposed ribs aren't what I want to see at the beach, so if you and all the celebrities can just eat a sandwich now and again, I think we'll all be better off.
Friday, February 8, 2008
hi-yah!
So, I'm a chubby girl, and in general I'm a lazy girl. I like to go to the gym, but I get a little bored, and I find it hard to stay motivated to go. Ellipticals are fine, but not particularly interesting. The weightlifting section is always full of men. The treadmills are always full and also I tend to overdo it and burn myself out in ten or fifteen minutes. Girl might as well not go to the gym in that case.
But not this week.
Last week, one of the women at knitting circle told me that she'd started doing a Turbokick class at the local gym. It was fun, she said, and I should come along. Since classes are free for university staff, I thought, "Why not?"
Now I'm hooked. I could only go three times this week, and I pouted all yesterday when I had to work late and miss it. Why do I learn about everything so late? I thought it was just a my-gym thing, but apparently there's a whole Turbokick culture. It's a good workout too - kind of a mix of hip-hop and kickboxing. Do that for an hour and tell me your heart rate isn't up. I thought I was going to die after the first class, when I was sore before I even got home (and it's only a ten minute drive). But it was fun, and it was fast-paced, and unlike the regular hip-hop class, everyone was flushed and sweaty, down to the instructor. So I pushed through the pain like a real trooper the next day and lo and behold, it turns out just getting moving will help your aching muscles. And I thought I'd stuffed my brain full of all the knowledge it could use while I was in school.
I don't know why a class gets me to the gym when my own health doesn't. Maybe it's having an on and off gym buddy. Maybe it's being in a whole room full of people punching and kicking and shaking their booties. It does remind me some of my year on dance team. Or maybe it's just that the instructors have enviable bodies and I am convinced that, given a few weeks of jab-cross-hook-uppercut, I'll start to look like them. Just think if I skipped knitting circle and went five nights a week, how fast I'd be fit and fab.
And maybe I'll have a few smooth moves, as long as I don't roundhouse kick anyone in the club.
But not this week.
Last week, one of the women at knitting circle told me that she'd started doing a Turbokick class at the local gym. It was fun, she said, and I should come along. Since classes are free for university staff, I thought, "Why not?"
Now I'm hooked. I could only go three times this week, and I pouted all yesterday when I had to work late and miss it. Why do I learn about everything so late? I thought it was just a my-gym thing, but apparently there's a whole Turbokick culture. It's a good workout too - kind of a mix of hip-hop and kickboxing. Do that for an hour and tell me your heart rate isn't up. I thought I was going to die after the first class, when I was sore before I even got home (and it's only a ten minute drive). But it was fun, and it was fast-paced, and unlike the regular hip-hop class, everyone was flushed and sweaty, down to the instructor. So I pushed through the pain like a real trooper the next day and lo and behold, it turns out just getting moving will help your aching muscles. And I thought I'd stuffed my brain full of all the knowledge it could use while I was in school.
I don't know why a class gets me to the gym when my own health doesn't. Maybe it's having an on and off gym buddy. Maybe it's being in a whole room full of people punching and kicking and shaking their booties. It does remind me some of my year on dance team. Or maybe it's just that the instructors have enviable bodies and I am convinced that, given a few weeks of jab-cross-hook-uppercut, I'll start to look like them. Just think if I skipped knitting circle and went five nights a week, how fast I'd be fit and fab.
And maybe I'll have a few smooth moves, as long as I don't roundhouse kick anyone in the club.
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