Wednesday, Dec. 10, 2003
The spousal unit had a bunch of teensy jobs to wrap up for clients and got back home about 2 p.m. so he disappeared into my office to start putting the third and final coat of mud on the sheetrock.
Being a tripod and all, about an hour into the job he got feeling um, er, ah frisky if you catch my drift and decided to come out here to see if I was also feeling, uh, frisky.
And what did he espy as he came into the livingroom where I was working, intent on laying his smoovest moves on me? Well, there I was with a kleenex stuffed part way up my nose because just a few seconds before I got a nosebleed.
I think we can all agree that nothing says "Nuh UH, not interested," quite as succinctly as the sight of a woman with a gradually reddening kleenex hanging out of her nose. He went right back to the mudding without a word.
I am such an amazing goodwill ambassador for all the benefits of marriage, don't you find? My thoughts, exactly.
Monday was supposed to be the day I got weighed, assessed and pinched with calipers, but my trainer was struck down with some sort of viral pestilence and by mutual agreement she did not come within sneezing range of me.
The other trainer was there and he was perfectly willing to do the job but I have a strict rule that the only tripods who see me in my skivvies or less either have the initials M.D. after their name, or are a spousal unit.
I am not doing this out of prudishness, simply as a public service. See, to my thinking, there is no need for the untrained eye to see what 52 years' worth of gravity do the female form. Eventually, They Will Find Out, but for now I feel obligated to spare them the horror.
I had mixed feelings about the postponement of the weighing, pinching and prodding. Part of me was relieved that I could hold on to my illusions for a few more days, another part of me wanted to look the horror straight in the eye and decide how to mop up the worst of the mess. Oh well.
After my workout I dragged the spousal unit out to wrap up our Christmas shopping. All the names were speedily crossed off our list except for mine. When he asked me what I wanted this year I said I needed some new clothes.
To his credit, he only blanched a bit.
Normally, the daughter is the one who is coerced into shopping with me for clothes, but this year I did not feel like a pilgrimage to Montreal. I am extremely hard to fit because almost all clothing is designed for women between 5'4" and 5'6". I am closer to 5'10" which leaves me feeling more than a little like Gulliver. I do not like feeling like Gulliver. Thus, I become insanely testy when I shop for clothing.
Monday was no exception to the rule.
It took us three hours to find three sweaters that I liked and that fit. THREE HOURS of dragging our steadily tiring butts through the garish confines of a mall blaring Christmas music, our senses overwhelmed by tacky Christmas vignettes.
I tried on 4,381 sweaters and forced him to express an opinion about each and every one. This, people, is why they write the words "for better and for worse" into the marriage vows. Anything less, and we'd all be heading for the hills about 10 minutes after the first shared post-nuptial shopping trip.
He soothed his jangled nerves with not one, but two new tape measures because, as well we all know, He Who Dies With The Most Carpentry Tools Wins. I couldn't begrudge him these small, shiny bits of happiness.
Today was the day I ended up having my fitness assessment. I ran the program on the treadmill set for my age and gender. I stood on a scale. A tape measure was pulled out and many parts of my body were measured. The dreaded calipers bit into seven relatively personal bits of my flesh. Numbers Will Be Crunched. On Friday I'll get my final verdict about what level I come into the 10K training program.
Even worse, Goals Will Be Set. Cardio goals. Strength goals. I have been kind of coasting the last few months, fitness puttering. Those happy days will come to a close a week from Friday when I get a running/cardio cross-training program and a new weight lifting program. If you want to suffer with me, I'll be glad to post them.
The one thing that has kept me going through this is the wonderful two disk set of workout tunes sent by Gigantor, the artist formerly known as Mangus. There is a lot of music I've never heard before such as the Gorillaz and ... are you ready for this? ... some BANANARAMA!
Just typing the word Bananarama makes me giddy with happiness. How I overlooked this as a possible cat name, I'll never know.
Um, can I let you in on a little secret? It feels odd to say this, but you know, I really don't enjoy Christmas. Mostly, I endure Christmas.
I focus on getting through the various family land mines--my widowed stepmother still missing my father, my own feelings of loss over him, a sister who never married and feels terrifically alone on this family-centered holiday, a somewhat messy divorce in the spousal unit's family. This holiday that sets a Norman Rockwell standard to family life only serves to emphasize how few families fit into that mold anymore.
Even you know what? I'm always relieved to see Boxing Day. Right now I'm trying to look over Christmas towards the horizon of a new year, new beginnings, and new challenges.
Works for me, eh.
met goal Nov. 7
Goal for 2003: 500 miles - 804.5 kilometers
Want to delve into my sordid past?
She's mellllllllllllllting - Wednesday, Feb. 15, 2012 - Back off, Buble - Monday, Dec. 19, 2011 - Dispersed - Monday, Nov. 28, 2011 - Nothing comes for free - Monday, Nov. 21, 2011 - None of her business - Friday, Nov. 04, 2011 -
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