Hold the Elevator

Remember the MTV show Daria?



There was an episode once where Daria and her pal Jane are going door to door selling chocolates. They stop at a house and knock on the door. They hear distant footsteps and some banging about. When the owner of the house finally opens the door, it's a large, sweaty woman in a moo-moo who is breathing rather heavily.

"Sorry girls," she says in a deep, mannish voice in between gasps of air. "I just came up from the basement."

Daria and Jane exchange looks and then offer her a chocolate bar. Because she's a hefty and, one can only assume, hungry woman, she agrees.

I don't remember the rest of the episode, but I'll always remember the way the big lady in the flowered moo-moo talked. My brothers and I cracked up at that and years later it still swims around in my head.

Today at work I was in the basement filling my water bottle. I usually make a bee-line to the elevator, but today I decided that I would spice up my morning routine and take the stairs. My office is on the 6th floor and each floor contains 2 flights of stairs. Including the stairs to get to the first floor, that's 14 flights of stairs.

Since I'm a masochist, I dropped a mental f-bomb to the stairs and started to climb.

2nd floor rolls around and I'm thinking, This isn't too bad. Not breathing too heavy and I can feel my heart rate climbing a little.

3rd floor comes into view and I'm thinking, Maybe I can bail here and take the elevator.

4th floor and I'm thinking, Shit! This was a bad idea. I haven't even broken in these shoes yet!

5th floor and I'm thinking, If I die in the stairwell, I wonder how long it'll be until someone finds my body. Is this why everyone in early America was fuckin' ripped, because they had no choice but to take stairs? No wonder they went and got themselves polio.

Finally, the 6th and final floor and I've never felt such sweet relief. I drag myself to my desk and make a mental note to burn down the stairwell.

"You alright?" my co-worker asks, amused.

"Sorry," I say between some heavy breathing. "I just came up from the basement."

Oh shit. At least I wasn't wearing a moo-moo.

Sweat Fueled Revelation

Tonight I got home and did what I normally do: I ate dinner. Chicken and chili stew, it was everything a dinner should be. Hot, tasty and homemade, it frolicked in my mouth and danced down my throat. I had a large bowl and then sat around wondering what I could do to burn off all the calories I'd just eaten. That's all that my mind thinks about these days.

If I eat that, how much would I have to do to clean the slate again? To be on even keel?

It's incredibly tiring and most of the time, takes the joy out of eating. Tonight I took Simon for a walk. I chatted on the phone with an old friend for a long time. I missed talking to my friend and before I knew it, half an hour had passed. We said our goodbyes and Simon and me headed home.

I got home and plopped into the kitchen chair. "Great," I thought. "I'm done now. I can shower and not worry about calories for the rest of the night."

I looked down at my lower body and knew that wasn't going to be the case. Some nights, I'm proud of what I've accomplished and the parts of me I've lost. Other nights, I am disappointed in myself. I'm angry that I haven't accomplished more. But tonight, I felt selfish. I had left the girl I used to be behind. Physically, I don't remember who that girl was. I see photos of her and I don't recognize her. I feel sorry for her. But I forget sometimes that I was her. That I used to laugh in her body. That I had friends who cared for me no matter what I looked like on the outside. For all the times I was insecure or angry in her body, I was also happy. I told jokes and stories and had really great times. I loved and was loved in her body.

I rolled my mini-trampoline (the min-tramp) into my bedroom, put on some music and jumped on. The music was upbeat but I didn't really hear any of it. My body was moving but my mind was still thinking about the girl I used to be. A while back, I put up an old Polaroid of that girl on the wall for inspiration.

"So I'll know I can never go back," I thought as I tacked it up. It caught my eye as I was bouncing. Suddenly I heard the words of a song I'd heard a thousand times before.

I'm going on, the song said. I looked at the Polaroid. "Well, I guess that's true," I thought. I bounced more and listened to the words. It was like hearing them for the first time.

But every once in a while, I think about her and smile, one of the few things I do miss, it said. "Good Christ," I thought. "That's exactly right."

But baby I got to know, baby I've got to show, baby I've got to prove it. And I'll see you when I get there.

I was completely consumed. My legs were aching and my chest was tight, but I couldn't stop. I felt weightless. I am not leaving her behind. I'm ditching the bad parts and taking the rest of her along with me. Sure, I'm terrified. I've been terrified since the beginning. The fear of failure and regression tug at me every day. It probably will forever. But looking at that photo and listening to those words, suddenly everything made sense. There is no going back, ever. There is no failure, not with this. There is nothing but what I choose to do.

And I promise I'll be waiting for you. Goddamn right.

Magnus Samuelsson ain't got nothin' on me

I joined a gym today. I had previously been a member of particular lady gym that shall remain nameless (but not lame-less). I was kind of unhappy there and the ladies who worked there were bitches. I already had kind of crappy self-esteem so I don't really need Nazi work-out ladies riding my ass while I was trying to tone that exact same ass.

So after putting in a year at the lady gym, one of my friends suggested I join the gym he was going to. I'm all for breaking a sweat with friends (nothing strengthens the bond between friends like sweating profusely and grunting excessively*) so I agreed.

I'd been a member of this gym before when I was younger so I wasn't too nervous about going back. When I was a member of LA Fitness, I had to give myself a half hour pep talk and drink three Red Bulls before I could even step foot inside. And even then I could only spend twenty minutes on a machine before the voice in my head that said "HOLYSHITEVERYONEISLOOKINGATMECAUSEI'MSWEATINGTOOMUCH" took over and I became two breaths away from being the gym's resident crazy lady. It was a bad scene.

But this gym is more laid back. Nobody cares what you're doing and I like that. I feel good about this change. I've lost a good amount on my own just kind of half-assing it, so now that I'm thinking about maybe possibly putting in a solid effort maybe the rest of what I want to lose will come off easier and/or quicker. Plus I get really hyped up on the endorphins and by the time I leave there I'm relatively positive I could bench press a Volkswagon Beetle if I needed to. In fact, today when I left, I gave a fellow gym goer a high five and accidentally launched him across the parking lot.** Guess I don't know my own strength, which can happen when you look like this:


This is me. Actual size too. Jealous?


* That's what she said.
** This may or may not have happened.

Guess who does have buns of steel...?

Just got back from seeing Burn After Reading. That movie is great fun, although I'm still not 100% on what it's actually about. But Uncle Malkovich was in it. And do you know what Uncle Malkovich was doing in the movie? Guess. Go ahead, I'll give you a moment.

GILAD!! Uncle Malkovich had scenes where he was exercising to my favorite 90s workout guru. There's one scene (in the background but it still counts) where he is doing MY EXACT SAME WORKOUT TAPE. I almost peed. I highly recommend that everyone see this because a.) The Coen Brothers are involved so you're guaranteed to say "what the eff?!" at least a few times and b.) You can see the wonder that is Gilad in action.

So, in conclusion: Uncle Malkovich cemented my love for him and even the Coen Brothers recognize the big ball of spandex that is Gilad. $6 well spent, my friends, $6 well spent.

My buns, they don't feel nothin' like steel

I've been trying to spruce up my workout routine. In addition to ocassional jog or the many walks I take (read: gossiping and just so happening to be walking), I've tried to add in some DVDs to mix it up. Sometimes it's just way too hot to exercise outside. So far, I've done step aerobics and a yoga/pilates DVD that beat my ass to a pulp. So, you know, all in all good stuff. Call me a masochist, but if I'm not sweating and a Lotus position away from death, then it doesn't feel like I'm working out hard enough.

So a few weeks ago while searching through my family's movie collection, I came upon this:



Now I know what you're thinking. Karina, that's a grown man wearing white spandex. I know, I know. But look how buff he is in that white spandex! His name is Gilad and he's ridiculous. I'm afraid that if I don't complete all the sets on the VHS (oh yeah, it's a VHS) that he'll use his toned arms to reach through my TV screen and inflict maximum damage.

Gilad is whipping my ass into shape! Which just goes to show you that just because a workout tape is horrendously outdated doesn't mean it can't make you ache in places you don't care to mention on a blog.