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Posts Tagged ‘The Gym’

Dear Santa:

Thank you so much for being so generous with our household yesterday. We’ve tried to stay off the Naughty list, but you know it’s been difficult.

Though we liked all of our gifts, I think I appreciated the coyote skull the most. Some girls might want a sable slipped under the tree, but you know this one prefers other dead animal parts.

There were a couple of things you skipped over, however, so I’d like to be proactive on my list for next year.

Beth’s Christmas List 2019:

1. Patience. I have a 14-year-old son who has worn mine out. Just bring me a little to spare for those super moody days (his, not mine).

2. Abs. I’ve lost a considerable amount of weight, but these are still nowhere to be found. Don’t tell me I can find them at the gym. You’re Santa, and you’re magical.

3. A winning lottery ticket. I’m a good person; I promise I would do plenty of good things with the money.

4. A publishing contract. I’ve got two books in the works. At least send me an agent, please.

5. One hour with Jason Momoa. A better iPhone battery life. Like I said, you’re magical. Make it so, won’t you?

Thanks in advance. I’ll do my part by remaining on the Nice side.

Believing in you,
Beth

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Dear Kim:

Thank you for introducing me to the [name redacted] diet system. Like you, I am a busy Type A woman who loves rules. Packaged food helps as I often don’t have time to go get something to eat. And I hate the gym.

I listened to you for two reasons:

1. You lost 28 pounds in two months.
2. You said the food was delicious.

I’ve been on the system for four days. I have thoughts. Of course.

1. I know why you lost so much weight. This is about a 1,000-calorie-or-fewer-per-day plan.
2. The food is not delicious, Kim. Everything I’ve tried has the same flavor and texture. I feel like I’m eating dog food. (And now I’m concerned about the state of your taste buds, Kim.)
3. I do not want a personal coach/cheering section. This is why I don’t do CrossFit.

The coach part is the hardest. The system wouldn’t let me purchase the meal kit until I selected a coach. My coach has PLENTY of energy. She has contacted me via text, Facebook and phone at least three times a day since I signed up. Read that again. Kim. She calls me. You know how I feel about that. She’s very aggressive assertive interested in making sure I feel supported.

This is just one text she sent. A TEXT!

I can’t be too cranky: She really is making sure I have all the tools I need. She is more enthusiastic than I am about me hitting my target. And I guess I need that push.

Anyway, I’m drinking more water, eating less and walking more. I’ve already lost six pounds. Mostly water weight, I’m sure. But I’ll take it.

So thanks, Kim: You and your defective taste buds have given me the push I need.

Love and kibble kisses,
The slimmer version of Beth

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The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected.
— Robert Frost

Dear Life:

I want to register a complaint: I’m not happy to be aging. Don’t get me wrong — It’s definitely better than the alternative of death. (I’m fully aware that the non-aging circumstance of Adaline only exists on screen.)

Just when I feel like I am mentally hitting my prime, my body begins to betray me. A list of complaints:

1. Wrinkles
When did this crow land on my face? What is happening to me? I went to see a plastic surgeon to discuss removing a weird vein on my leg. My leg! But he took one look at my face and said, “You need Botox. You probably should consider a forehead lift.” Gee, thanks.

2. Crepey skin
Whose zombie hands are these? I use sunscreen and plenty of potions to keep my paws supple.  Why do they look like this?

Peach3. Slower metabolism
There’s more of me than there should be. It would be easily remedied with regular visits to the gym. Ain’t nobody got time for that. So I’m on what I call my Cruise Diet. (So called because I did it last year in preparation for our summer cruise. I didn’t want anyone to see me on deck and try to throw me back in the water.) You may ask, “What is this diet?” Think of everything you like to eat and drink. Yeah, well, you can’t have any of it. No dairy, sugar, pasta, grains or alcoholic beverages. I’m reduced to eating grass clippings and palm fronds. It works, though.

4. Jacked-up joints
Last weekend, I was peacefully curled up on the couch enjoying a marathon of recorded episodes of “The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon” (’cause this gal can’t stay up that late). I stood up to get some unsweetened tea (the only thing I can drink besides water) and my hip gave out. That’s a WTF moment if I’ve ever had one. I had to laugh. It’s not funny, though. Not really.

5. Memories
Last week, I actually started a sentence with, “Back in my day.” Good GOD! What have I become? I remember a world without cable, remotes, computers and cellphones. Excuse me while I retrieve my walker.

I’m at that point where I know I’m too old for certain clothes (crop tops), certain activities (climbing on top of the dryer to reach something on the top shelf in the laundry room) and certain people (no Nathan Kress — yes, Freddie from iCarly — unless he hunts cougars).

The wisest are the most annoyed at the loss of time.
— Dante Alighieri

So thanks, Life. Thanks for giving me the wisdom to realize how good my 20s were.

Yours in dismay,
Granny Beth

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Dear West Chatham YMCA,

I’ve been a member since you opened. My family and I have taken advantage of the gym, the classes, Kid Fit, the summer and holiday camps — almost everything you have to offer.

We may never again use the pool, though. (And it is not because of a “Code Brown.”)

Dominic complained this summer about having to attend Y camp because of all the rules, especially in the pool. As he is the child of mine who likes to push boundaries, I ignored him. I assumed he wanted to jump off the top of the slide or play WWE with his brother in the shallow end.

Oh no.

I saw for myself what he meant. Here are some of the rules I discovered in just 30 minutes.

You cannot:

• Run around the pool.
• Walk fast around the pool.
• Go near the pool when they are testing the pH.
• Dive.
• Swim under the lane markers.
• Follow too closely on the slide.
• Go down head-first on the slide.
• Go down backward on the slide.
• Go down sitting on the slide.
• Twist your body while going down the slide.
• Wear goggles while going down the slide.
• Stay too long in the shallow area once you’ve gone down the slide.
• Get out of the pool any way but via the stairs.
• Play in the water under the slide even if there is no one else in the pool.
• Jump into the pool any way but feet first.
• Go anywhere near people who are taking lessons.
• Yell with glee.

Each of these rules was announced by the lifeguard, prefaced by “Hey, Buddy!”

At one point, I actually whipped around and said, “What now?!?”

And this is coming from someone who appreciates rules.

Some of them I can certainly understand (running and diving seem like guaranteed tickets to the ER). Others, not so much.

What you’ve really guaranteed is a no-fun zone, patrolled by 16-year-old dictators hopped up on a little power.

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I realize you have these rules because of fear of litigation. I understand personal responsibility is nearly nonexistent in Amurka.

Allow me, please, to decide what’s safe and not safe for my children (within reason, of course) when I am in the water supervising. I promise I won’t sue. I’ll even sign a waiver.

I’m a member. Don’t you have to at least pretend to care what I think?

Thank you for your consideration of this request.
Beth

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Dear Eddie,

I love you. I do. And that’s why I need to tell you something out of love and concern for your well-being and our medical flex-spending account:

Your basketball days are over.

You’ve said you are going to quit, but like a wicked meth mistress, it pulls you back.

You must stop now. For real. You just emerged from your third nasal realignment surgery (aka rhinoplasty, aka nose job). Your third. Third! Is that sinking in?

No?

Let me jog your memory about other basketball-related visits to the hospital: double knee surgery, plantar fascia repair, bicep reattachment, elbow reconstruction, hip consultations, shoulder scar-tissue cleansing or whatever that was. You are the new Six Million Dollar Man.

I’ve spent many hours of my life hanging out in the Memorial waiting room:

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Today’s confinement? Ten hours. Ten!

You are on a first-name basis with your orthopedic surgeon. “Oh hey, Eddie! Great to see you again!” — I actually heard that this morning from your anesthesiologist. Really, Dude? This isn’t crazy to you?

You are like a beautiful mural painted on a condemned building. You are rotting inside. All for the love of the game.

I love you. Please stop.

You have your CrossFit cult. You have the billion-dollar bicycle we bought when you were on your cycling kick. You don’t need basketball. You will find other ways to stay in shape.

I know you like basketball and you’re good at it. We all know that. You don’t have to prove anything. You’ve already proven yourself a force on the court and on the bench — in a uniform as a player and in a suit as a coach.

I’m taking away your various braces, pads, arm bands, kayak-sized basketball shoes, weird-smelling tank tops, athletic man Spanx, and other accoutrements of the game. You can still watch ESPN. You can start sentences with, “Back in my day …” You can coach our kids.

You cannot play basketball anymore.

For the love of all that is holy, wonderful and right in the world, please let this be the last photo I take of your nose being jacked-up.

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If you won’t do it for yourself, do it for me. Do it for your kids. Do it for our savings account.

No more basketball.

I know the doctors will be sad to see you (and the new cars they buy at your expense) go, but everyone else will thank you. (OK, maybe not your teammates, but still.)

Love,
Your long-suffering, professional doctor-meeting, waiting-room-sitting, cafeteria-food-eating wife

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Aging gracelessly

One of the many great things about my job is that I’m sometimes off on Fridays.

“Sometimes” doesn’t happen very often though. In fact, the last time was October 2010, I think.

When I am off, I go to the YMCA for the line-dancing class.

(Yes, I like line dancing and country music.)

Eleanor, the cranky cottonhead, was there, as were Martha and Jan. They were thrilled to have fresh blood.

They were impressed with my mad dance skilz. I guess it becomes difficult to successfully complete a grapevine once you hit 70.

And then they informed me that I really needed to see “Menopause The Musical” at the Lucas Theatre.

How old do I look?

Subtract a few dozen people and that's the class.

Don’t answer that.

Combine this experience with my last post and you’ll see a trend. There’s also the fact that Eddie and I had an overnight sitter last night, but were still in bed by 10:30.

What is happening to my life?!?

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‘Twas five days before Christmas when all through our house,
All creatures were stirring, except for a mouse.

In Naveen’s belly* it rested, all squeezed to a pulp.
(The boys loved watching the snake grab it and gulp.)

The children denied attempts to put them to bed —
Optimus, Bumblebee filling their heads.

And I with my chicken and Eddie with his dog
Had just settled down with some spiked eggnog

When out on the lawn there arose such a clatter,
We sprang from the couch to see what was the matter.

Away to the front door we flew like a flash.
In our bare feet, we looked like white trash.

Out on the driveway something made our eyes hurt:
The guy next door again wasn’t wearing a shirt.

Then what to our watering eyes did appear,
But a strange being — just whom was not clear.

What this being was bearing gave me pause:
Poorly written signs? Must be Santa Clause!

More rapid than Bob Ross, these signs he produced,
And shouted the many mistakes he deduced:

“No comma! No period! And what’s with the quotes?
A misspelling here – Just see what they wrote!”

To the step of the porch he came with his haul.
“Let’s slash away, slash away, slash away all.”

“Get me your stylebook, and Strunk and White too.
They must learn the difference between whom and who.”

Eddie looked at us and in a manner quite snide,
Said, “You two have at it, I’m going inside.”

And then in a twinkling, I fetched my Mac Air
And my iPhone as a camera to capture signs there.

As I drew closer to my mysterious guest,
I noticed something odd: He was kind of a mess.

He was dressed all in things that I write about
From snack food to rednecks – how’d he find out?

A bundle of Utz chips he had flung on his back,
And he looked like a vendor, just opening his pack.

A mask – just like Batman! His shoes? Birkenstocks!
His jeans were jacked up, Dixie flag as a top!

His mouth was covered in hot cheeto dust
And the beard of his chin was colored like rust.

The stump of a Sharpie he held tight in his yap,
To give to the kids for their skin art crap.

He had a broad face, around which headphones
Blasting some KISS – thank God — not the Stones!

He was chubby and plump – hadn’t been to the gym.
So I suggested that later I’d go there with him.

He winked with his eye, then his head he did nod,
And I knew right then he’d been reading my blog!

We spoke not a word, but went straight to our work.
“If we fix all these signs, does that make us two jerks?”

Laying his writing hand aside of his knee,
He nodded his head, and we laughed with glee!

It took us a while; we edited with passion.
Then he left – but I have loads of blog rations!

I heard him exclaim ‘fore he strode out of sight,
“Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good write!”

* Naveen is the ball python we are snake-sitting for the break

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