2001-04-09
Dear Diary:

    I am such a praise slut.

    Today I went over my month's workout sheet with Will, the young guy who sets the fitness programs at my gym.

    He was mega impressed that I can now do 70 pounds on the rowing machine and 30 pounds on the shoulder lift machine. He said most girls can't do more than 15 pounds on the shoulder machine.

    We exchanged a knowing look and both curled our lips slightly at the though of what sissies most girls are, eh.

    It would have been perfect if he'd had gold stars to put on my page but he didn't. Somehow, it's just not the same without gold stars. I may buy some for next month.

    So now that I've built up some basic fitness (wanna feel my biceps?) I'm broadening the ways I can torture my body and have moved into the wonderful world of training balls.

    You ever tried those?

    Unlike machines, which stay put and force you to work against them, training balls require balance and co-ordination. While I have oodles of determination and am perfectly willing to fight any machine you put me up against, I can barely chew gum and walk at the same time.

    So right now the score is Training Balls 4, Marn 0.

    These training ball dealies are so big I can't get my arms around them and kind of squishy. The first exercise was to just sit on it and rock from side to side and then front to back to get a sense of what it takes to balance on it. Will made it look so easy that I launched into the rocking with too much vigour and my butt was on the floor in about 2 nanoseconds.

    Fine.

    Back on the ball, a little more tentative with the motions and within a few minutes I felt I had a sense of how to balance on it. So Will showed me the next step, which was to lean back and kind of let the ball roll from under my butt part way up my back, using my feet and legs as a brace.

    Will did it in one smooth move, ended up with his back parallel to the floor on the ball, using his legs and feet as a brace.

    I underestimated how quickly the ball would roll up my back and my butt was on the floor in two nanoseconds.

    Fine.

    It took me several tries, but I finally mastered the slide. Next move -- abdominal crunches while your back is supported by the ball. I can barely do an abdominal crunch on terra firma, asking me to balance myself on a ball and perform this athletic feat was simply too much.

    Each time I went to do the crunch I slid off the ball, once to the right, once to the left.

    Fine.

    "Well, maybe next time," Will said diplomatically.

    Yeah, right.

    Excuse me while I let the monkeys trapped in my derrière out for a few aerial manoeuvres.

--Marn
My tattoo was on my mind a year ago. I'm thinking about getting another for the small of my back, but can't find anything suitable. *sigh*.

Old Drivel - New Drivel


Subscribe with Bloglines


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 -


.:Cast:. .:Diaryland Notes:. .:Comments (0 so far):. .:E-mail:.
.:Adventures In Oz:.
.:12% Beer:. .:Links:. .:Host:. .:Archives:.

Cavort, cavort, my kingdom for a cavort Globe of Blogs 12 Per Cent Beer my partners in crime


A button for random, senseless, drive-by linkings:
Blogroll Me!


< ? blogs by women # >
« Bloggers over forty + ? »
<< | BlogCanada | >>
[ << ? Verbosity # >> ]
<< x Blog x Philes x >>


This template is a riff on a design by the truly talented Quinn. Because I'm a html 'tard, I got alot of pity coding to modify it from Ms. Kittay, a woman who can make html roll over, beg, and bring her her slippers. The logo goodness comes from the God of Graphics, the Fuhrer of Fonts, the one, the only El Presidente. I smooch you all. The background image is part of a painting called Higher Calling by Carter Goodrich which graced the cover of the Aug. 3, 1998 issue of The New Yorker Magazine.

Kids, don't try viewing this at home without Netscape 6 or IE 4.5+, a screen resolution of 800 X 600 and the font Mead Bold firmly ensconced on your hard drive.

©2000, 2001, 2002 Marn. This is me, dagnabbit. You be you.