January 24, 2010
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions anymore. I never keep them, so what’s the point? It’s just a list of pre-set future disappointments for the year. Yet somehow, I got inspired this year. It’s not just a new year, this is a new decade! And I will it to be mine! The world will most likely not end in 2012, and by then I’ll be approaching 27. It’s now or never. So I’ve enlisted the absolute best – and by “best,” I mean, the most hardcore, brutally honest, no-holds-barred, lifestyle pusher I know – to be my motivational coach: my sister. You might think I’m exaggerating, but if you knew her, you’d cut me some slack. Don’t get me wrong, she really is the best – in the Merriam Webster sort of definition, too!
So, what kind of resolution needs this kind of borderline abuse to get me going? The only kind to make! Exercise. Of course. (Insert shudder here). I’m serious. The word alone elicits very bad feelings and lists longer than the Harry Potter series of reasons not to do it. Although, to be fair, I can come up with a pretty lengthy list to not do a lot of things…
But, as I said, I picked the most tyrannical leader to help me. And, well, it worked.
As luck would have it, this is the weekend she picked to begin her reign of terror on my body. This is also the weekend where I have, for the past two nights, not gotten more than a combined total of 10 hours of sleep. So, when 7:30 rolled around this morning and the incessant buzzing of her phone kept on, I begged for half an hour more. She begrudgingly obliged, but when we finally got out the door at 8:12, the new rules were laid out.
1. No snooze button – from now on.
2. We WILL be ready the night before – from now on.
3. We WILL be in bed by 10 p.m. and up at 7 a.m. – from now on.
Today, we started off with a run. Let me be clear about this from the start – I don’t run. And it’s not just that I hate it. It hates me. It hates my knees and my lungs and whatever muscles connect my hips to my legs. But that’s not a problem, my sister says. I suppose this is also the year where I learn to give things I formerly hated a new chance. I have a sneaky suspicion there will be a lot of that…ugh, tomatoes.
So, we arrived at the trailhead around 8:20. I dragged myself out of the car and asked her where we were going to stretch. (I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know a lot about exercise routines, but I’m fairly certain that every P.E. class I had started out with stretching of some kind).
Laura’s response: “Rule number four: Stretching is for pussies.” Oh boy.
I can tell this is going to be a long morning. Scratch that, this is going to be a long year.
And off we go. I did all right for the first quarter mile or so, when I stupidly asked if we could take a walking break at some point.
Laura’s response: “Rule number five: Breaks are for pussies.” Of course.
So I kept running. And running. And running. Until the next five minutes felt like it had been forever and my chest threatened to collapse inside of me.
So I panted, “Could…we…maybe…just take…a little…walking…break?”
She mulled it over for half a second before offering what she felt was a great deal for me.
“I’ll tell you what, we can walk the WHOLE way back if you run to the end.”
Sweet! “How far is the end?” I wasn’t about to be suckered.
“Ohhhh…” She looked at her phone clock. “About 18-20 minutes.”
HAH! “Uhh…well…see, I…don’t…need…to…walk…the WHOLE way…back…”
“You can do it!” She pressed.
I couldn’t. I dropped my trot to a crawl less than a quarter of a mile later. She got a little way ahead and I caught up, alternating my crawls and trots for another mile. At one point, I completely lost sight of her. When I got to the “end,” she gave me a high-five and told me how impressed she was. I stood there panting, tongue lolling, eyes bugged, and gaped at her.
“Well, I really didn’t think you’d make it as far as you did. Good job!”
And we began to walk back. (I didn’t mention that I had bailed on the deal). She knew that. Obviously. When we got to the next mile marker, she decided that, impressed as she was, I could wow her a little more by running back to the car. The whole way. Which, shockingly, I did. Almost stride-in-stride with her! Upon reaching the car, I tumbled into the seat, wanting only water and a cushy place to crash. There was no water.
“You know what the hardest part of exercise is?” my sister had asked on the last stretch of our run.
“Doing it,” I replied.
“Putting your shoes on,” she corrected. “Once you put your shoes on, you know you gotta do something.”
Good point. I gotta get rid of some shoes.
When we got back the house, she announced my great feats, and dragged me into the living room to join co-conspirator Chalean Johnson, who was now going to punish my abdominal muscles like they’d just gone to jail for murder. Super.
After that, I was allowed breakfast. Complete with half of my least favorite foods. But I was not allowed to wash anything down with orange juice. Crazy lady!
And after breakfast, we got to stretch! I knew we needed to squeeze that in somewhere…I just didn’t think it would be 20 minutes of something called “recharging” exercise, where the main point is to humiliate one’s lack of flexibility.
Now that it’s all over, and I’m sitting here, two blinks from sacking out where I sit, I guess I can be thankful. She IS what I need, what I…want. (I also desperately wanted the chocolate frosting my mom made, but that was off-limits. Apparently).
We’ll see about that. I didn’t ask for a diet. I thought exercise was that thing you do to balance out the good food? So much to learn. I can’t wait ‘til tomorrow. On second thought, maybe I ought to jumpstart my obituary. Check those first.
I don’t make New Year’s resolutions anymore. I never keep them, so what’s the point? It’s just a list of pre-set future disappointments for the year. Yet somehow, I got inspired this year. It’s not just a new year, this is a new decade! And I will it to be mine! The world will most likely not end in 2012, and by then I’ll be approaching 27. It’s now or never. So I’ve enlisted the absolute best – and by “best,” I mean, the most hardcore, brutally honest, no-holds-barred, lifestyle pusher I know – to be my motivational coach: my sister. You might think I’m exaggerating, but if you knew her, you’d cut me some slack. Don’t get me wrong, she really is the best – in the Merriam Webster sort of definition, too!
So, what kind of resolution needs this kind of borderline abuse to get me going? The only kind to make! Exercise. Of course. (Insert shudder here). I’m serious. The word alone elicits very bad feelings and lists longer than the Harry Potter series of reasons not to do it. Although, to be fair, I can come up with a pretty lengthy list to not do a lot of things…
But, as I said, I picked the most tyrannical leader to help me. And, well, it worked.
As luck would have it, this is the weekend she picked to begin her reign of terror on my body. This is also the weekend where I have, for the past two nights, not gotten more than a combined total of 10 hours of sleep. So, when 7:30 rolled around this morning and the incessant buzzing of her phone kept on, I begged for half an hour more. She begrudgingly obliged, but when we finally got out the door at 8:12, the new rules were laid out.
1. No snooze button – from now on.
2. We WILL be ready the night before – from now on.
3. We WILL be in bed by 10 p.m. and up at 7 a.m. – from now on.
Today, we started off with a run. Let me be clear about this from the start – I don’t run. And it’s not just that I hate it. It hates me. It hates my knees and my lungs and whatever muscles connect my hips to my legs. But that’s not a problem, my sister says. I suppose this is also the year where I learn to give things I formerly hated a new chance. I have a sneaky suspicion there will be a lot of that…ugh, tomatoes.
So, we arrived at the trailhead around 8:20. I dragged myself out of the car and asked her where we were going to stretch. (I’ll be the first to admit that I don’t know a lot about exercise routines, but I’m fairly certain that every P.E. class I had started out with stretching of some kind).
Laura’s response: “Rule number four: Stretching is for pussies.” Oh boy.
I can tell this is going to be a long morning. Scratch that, this is going to be a long year.
And off we go. I did all right for the first quarter mile or so, when I stupidly asked if we could take a walking break at some point.
Laura’s response: “Rule number five: Breaks are for pussies.” Of course.
So I kept running. And running. And running. Until the next five minutes felt like it had been forever and my chest threatened to collapse inside of me.
So I panted, “Could…we…maybe…just take…a little…walking…break?”
She mulled it over for half a second before offering what she felt was a great deal for me.
“I’ll tell you what, we can walk the WHOLE way back if you run to the end.”
Sweet! “How far is the end?” I wasn’t about to be suckered.
“Ohhhh…” She looked at her phone clock. “About 18-20 minutes.”
HAH! “Uhh…well…see, I…don’t…need…to…walk…the WHOLE way…back…”
“You can do it!” She pressed.
I couldn’t. I dropped my trot to a crawl less than a quarter of a mile later. She got a little way ahead and I caught up, alternating my crawls and trots for another mile. At one point, I completely lost sight of her. When I got to the “end,” she gave me a high-five and told me how impressed she was. I stood there panting, tongue lolling, eyes bugged, and gaped at her.
“Well, I really didn’t think you’d make it as far as you did. Good job!”
And we began to walk back. (I didn’t mention that I had bailed on the deal). She knew that. Obviously. When we got to the next mile marker, she decided that, impressed as she was, I could wow her a little more by running back to the car. The whole way. Which, shockingly, I did. Almost stride-in-stride with her! Upon reaching the car, I tumbled into the seat, wanting only water and a cushy place to crash. There was no water.
“You know what the hardest part of exercise is?” my sister had asked on the last stretch of our run.
“Doing it,” I replied.
“Putting your shoes on,” she corrected. “Once you put your shoes on, you know you gotta do something.”
Good point. I gotta get rid of some shoes.
When we got back the house, she announced my great feats, and dragged me into the living room to join co-conspirator Chalean Johnson, who was now going to punish my abdominal muscles like they’d just gone to jail for murder. Super.
After that, I was allowed breakfast. Complete with half of my least favorite foods. But I was not allowed to wash anything down with orange juice. Crazy lady!
And after breakfast, we got to stretch! I knew we needed to squeeze that in somewhere…I just didn’t think it would be 20 minutes of something called “recharging” exercise, where the main point is to humiliate one’s lack of flexibility.
Now that it’s all over, and I’m sitting here, two blinks from sacking out where I sit, I guess I can be thankful. She IS what I need, what I…want. (I also desperately wanted the chocolate frosting my mom made, but that was off-limits. Apparently).
We’ll see about that. I didn’t ask for a diet. I thought exercise was that thing you do to balance out the good food? So much to learn. I can’t wait ‘til tomorrow. On second thought, maybe I ought to jumpstart my obituary. Check those first.
