dj puddle

Saturday night, on ye ol' slaptop half-listening, half-screening a CD for loud explosions or gunshots to mix into our crime synchro routine. The CD is Shirey Bassey doing "Light My Fire." I gotta thank Stuey for making this... it's clubby, but goo. Way to take an idea from The Propellorheads in 1998 and run with it. (OK, this CD came out in 2001, so it's not that bad.)

Oh, fudge. I just remembered that I promised to bring my video camera to practice tomorrow. And a 13" TV. I'll deal with that tomorrow. I'd rather spend my night creating the final mix and burning our Trio CD for the last darn time. The tech (the shorter of the two routines with required elements) is finally written, and we're hip-hopping it up like the honky beginner swimmers we are. We finaly swam it today, we we haven't had the new remix, complete with orgasms for four choruses of "Push It."

The crime routine is a whopping 3:30 and has never been swum, just landdrilled one month ago. We need to put a lot of work in to get it together for Ft. Lauderdale. If anyone can do it on the team, B-dawg, Stuey and I can. We can count. We have some sembance of rhythm. And we got B, the best swimmer on the team to kick some wet butt.

OK. Just one more song to go. I think I have the ending that I want. I should post this lil' snippet and be on my merry/married/Mary way.

9:36 p.m. 2004-09-18

to the beat of the rhythm of my heart

Let me start out by dis/proclaiming, "I am not a gym bunny." Bunny may be my beloved's nickname for my ass, but I do NOT identify with gym or "fitness" culture. I admit the I am a former jock (who was a former art fag and skater, who was a former ballet dancer), but being an endurance athlete doesn't give one bragging rights among the mainstream, just among other endurance athletes or masochists. No one needs to be doing anything for four to fourteen hours at a time other than sleeping. Or eating. Or making out. But I digress.

I'm no longer an long-distance anything. I'm a freakin' synchronized swimmer. At my level (which would be zero), training is more about skill-building and holding one's breath. The bodies of the ladies in the Olympics is a result of six ten-hour days per week in the pool, weight room or dance studio. If you do the math, my measy 4-5.5 hours in the water a week ain't gonna get me shoulders like that any time soon.

Nowadays, my "working out" consists of finding ways to move and breathe. Well, that's the hippy-dippy, all-is-well-in-the-world description. It's about finding ways to burn the maximum amount of calories when there's no long-distance event looming on the horizon. So that means running, spinning (indoor cycling class), or lifting weights (because more muscle mass means less fat, right?). Even the ancient mind-body practice of yoga is a not just a pathway to enlightenment, rather it's a means to get great triceps. Or to learn how do to fun, bendy tricks. Underneath it all (obviously) is a body image frustration that my metabolism is different from when running, swimming and cycling were a part-time job. And your garden variety GAB: gay abdominal fascism.

I admit that I'm that shallow. Nonetheless, I know I feel shittier if I do nothing for days on end, as opposed to doing something. I get cranky and everything irks me. So working out provides some kind of release. I always feel better afterwards, but it's a mega-bitch of a barrier to surmount just to get started. [Iron(man)ically, this has been true when I was doing triathlons—some people are natural runners or cyclists and need to do it every day. I'm a natural napper.]

Thus, I've been trying to get into work early on Mondays and Wednesdays to ride a stationary bike whilst house music divas sing to me about love and one of the trainers tells me to how long to pick it up. If I don't get it in first thing in the morning, it ain't gonna happen that day.

I get into work with 20 minutes before class. If you know me, this is a good thing, as I have a propensity to be late (or, as I rationalize so as not to take responsibility for the outcome, underestimate how long it will take me to do the things I need to do before I need to show up somewhere). Diddling around on email and 8:30 rolls around. I'm not feeling it this morning, but why waste the fabulous spandex outfit I put on to leave the house this morning?

8:36 I go out to the gym. I couldn't get into it. I dawdled with my heart rate monitor, putting on my shoes, getting a towel, and adjusting the bike. 8:43 it's time to start pedalling. I know my heart well enough, even in its current untrained state, and it wasn't cooperating. I couldn't get it up! Normally, basic exertion puts me at 153-160; my breathing gets harder once I cross 170; and I'm fully anaerobic 178 and above. I struggled to get up to 140, warming up on my own because everyone else had started promptly at 8:30.

8:53 we begin four five-minute anaerobic intervals, starting out with a standing sprint to jumpstart your heart. There's two minutes of recovery between each heart-thumper set. I decide that I'll be lucky to hold 170 (something I usually struggle to stay below because my HR jumps easily). As the intervals go on, I'm bopping between 168 and 174, but it doesn't feel like I'm working hard enough to warrant those numbers. I'm so out of my body today, wishing Madonna was there to force me to get into the groove, 'cause, boy, I've to prove that I once was fit. During the two minutes of rest/recovery, my HR plummets 30 beats, typically a sign of excellent fitness, but today it's just proof that I don't want to be there and I'd rather hop off the bike, shower and get back to my desk.

After 32 minutes of riding, my body starts to come alive, which is how I am when running. I fall into a rhythm and feel like I can keep flowing. On the bike today, I only got a hit of the comfortable pace which was better than how the workout started. My heart started responding how it has in the past and I silenced my mind's efforts to sabotage the rest of the class with its declarations of the inanity of indoor cycling. In my own Mary Kate kind of way, I tell myself that a calorie burned is a calorie burned and stick it out.

Speaking of calories, I realize that today's lethargy was brought to us by the lack of Cheerios this morning. I only had fifteen minutes from waking (after only six hours of sleep) to meet my carpool outside. A firm believer in breakfast, I only had time for my two eggs, one cup of coffee, a bigger travel mug of the same and a kiss from the sweetie. At work the additional 100 calories of energy gel didn't come near to whole grain and oat goodness in 2% milk.

Now, one energy bar and some cottage cheese later, I'm ready for a shower and my day.

9:50 a.m. 2004-09-15

much to-do about nothing

There are always too many things "to do" yet I insist on piling more onto my plate. Some to-do are required by work. Some are the basic living in our modern society crap: bills, bathroom and belly-filling.

I'm amazed that I've decided not only to spend HOURS reading the past two years of an acquaitance's life, but to also take a few minutes to document it.

I could be writing. I could be planning tomorrow. I could be doing stuff they pay me for here at work.

But I could just go on listening to Bonnie Tyler's "Ravishing" and reading what he was doing on my birthday this year.

4:38 p.m. 2004-09-13

man of las muchas

It's one of my Fridays off; we get every other Friday off by working 80 ours in nine days, instead of ten days of two work weeks. It's just after 9:15, about the time that I'm arrivng at work and bumbling through my emails.

I have nothing scheduled for this day off, no adventures planned, no specific chores to get done, no re-arranged hang-outs. A day off, and one unlike a weekend because there's no swim practice, has endless possibility. Possiblity to do things that I've put off due to lack of time. There are books and magazines to be read, letters to be written, clutter to be tamed, art projects to be started, written, drawn, printed, filmed and edited. So why am I doing a time-tested and proven recipe for disaster?

As always, I'd hate to reach the end of this day and see that I've wasted it. Here I am, sitting watching Lost in a Mancha on IFC. Two hours down the drain. Watching a film about a doomed creative project, based on the story of delusional man (are there parallels to my life as an artist?). I'm telling myself that this is a productive use of my time, as it's a movie I've meant to see. I should add films to be watched to my laundry to-do list.

Oh, I should add laundry to that, too.

9:17 a.m. 2004-09-10

thank you, Bruce

When I think about my favorite Bruce’s, I think of a certain Canadian who shares my love of shorn skulls. Today, however, I need to thank the one from New Jersey. (Sorry, Boss, no link for you.)

Tonight there’s a function at work to celebrate the launch of our Owner and Founder’s book. I was lasso’ed (or eagerly volunteered because I need to up my public appearance of having drunk the Kool-Aid) into bartending. It’s just pouring wine, so I think I can handle it. (Just ‘cause I’m not a lush don’t mean I didn’t do my time behind a bar at Boccie Pizzeria a scant 10 years ago.) Fill ‘er up!

In addition to spilling, the only requirement is dress. Jeans and a white button-down shirt. So, naturally, I’m going to sport a pearly snapped cowboy shirt (more Mission Mariachi than Ghetto Wrangler). And being of the well-groomed/fey pedigree (by which I mean gay), I make up my own fashion rules requiring myself to wear a white t-shirt underneath.

It’s been so warm lately, I didn’t want to wear the snappy cowboi shirt all day, so I stumble into the company meeting in just jeans and a t-shirt. Granted, I’m no longer the scrawny-shouldered, soft-bellied nelly skater/raver nerd I was in days gone by. I didn’t expect to be complimented/sexually-harassed by two women.

The past eight years of cycling, then triathlon, then yoga, then ultra running, then a brief foray into circus school, then a few months this past springtime of lifting heavy things, and, l’hobby du jour—synchro have taken there toll. I have to admit that I have little lumps o’ muscle under my nipples. My shoulders are ever so slightly filled out, like a scoop of ice cream on top of my cone of lower arm tapering to a point at my skinny little wrists. I can fill out a Men’s medium (in the good way).

SE professed her love of my outfit as a genre, but then pinned it to me, saying I looked hot. KS beckoned me close, kissed me on the cheek and whispered her approval using the F-word as an adjective (not a gerund). Sure, I have to take some credit for my bod, but I blame Bruce for introducing us to the aesthetic simplicity and nostalgia of the working man’s cotton on cotton ensemble.

Are those Rogan’s?
Um, no. Clearance rack at the Levi's store. I think they’re about $200 cheaper.

10:51 a.m. 2004-09-09

self-referential ledger

This last hour was spent rocking some yoga, after a long absense (as always). As I worked my ways through the sun salutations, I pondered how to make sure it would be a good experience. (if I must judge, see each movement as a separate and good thing. breathe. enjoy. repeat.)

Yoga has been problematic for me, like most activities. I want to win. I want to be the best. I want to do it well. 'Cause more is better. Bend-ier is best. Yoga is a wonderful tool with which I can beat myself up and tell myself that I'm not good enough. It's proof. Especially since I used to be a dancer and am/was athletic and have been practicing (very loose use of the word) for almost 4 years with episodes of moderate success.

While my mind wandered to thought of how out of shape I've become, I thought about running. Both yoga and running have an self-imposed high barrier of entry, since once upon a time I was pretty decent at both. A voice of divine intervention or a thought from my more reasonable, less-self-hating conciousness told me I was wrong.

Yoga (and any run I happen upon) do not have to be attached to an unreasonably high goal/perfection/or end result. Just being in that yoga class today wasn't about getting better in yoga, building firm yoga arms, losing weight, or insta-flexibility. It's about helping me be the best Me I can be.

Not better. Not more. Just a check in the positive column.

Perhaps one day I won't want to do yoga. And that's fine. Recognizing that I don't want to practice on a certain day is just another check in the positive column.

Check.

1:22 p.m. 2004-09-08

working it out

Once I'm late for something, I get grumpy. It's almost as bad as taking criticism. Or owning up to a mistake. A sense of failure pervades.

I was late to work this morning, more specifically, my workout. And I wanted so bad to hit every Spin class in for the next month. Twice a week, not too hard, no? Add to that the forgetting my cycling shoes at my desk and not wanting to walk the long-way around the office, courtesey of an onsite sales meeting of offsite staff, I gave up. I left my bag, HR monitor and clothes in the gym.

Now I'm sitting here on my spandex-compressed ass, starting sweat in the poly-blend shirt that is supposed to keep me cool, stewing in my own frustration. I'm not sure if I'll do yoga (probably not great for my recovering shoulder, trapezius, rhomboid issue) or fashion my own workout on cardion machines. I wish I had my orthodics here.

Leave it to an oft-mentioned blog to lighten my mood. It's barely 9:28 a.m. and I've already breezed through my favorite reads. I normally reserve that procrastination for the later part of the day, but since I forwent my workout (my own tardiness compounded by a flashing railroad crossing) I had time to kill. And I feel a little better for it.

But I'm starting to smell.

9:28 a.m. 2004-09-01

past - future