Sore from a busy weekend, I just had a quick soak in Epsom salt. Residual aches linger from Friday amusement park thrashings and a pleasurable rough ride Saturday night. At any given time, I have freshly sprouted or fading into green and yellow copper bruises along my body; the two newest an indigo blue mark the size of a silver dollar on my upper thigh (roller coaster) and a peachy-red patch on the inside of my left wrist, about the size of a man’s thumb and about where one would hold someone down.
I ache somewhere every single day of the week, more so due to a recent fitness quest than frolicking. The hottest bodies, the men and woman lusted after and cat called who proudly display results of lifetimes of work - and those of us who are a work in progress - are often in pain and/or medicated (and not in the fun Courtney Love kind of way).
My gym routine has become just that, a regularly scheduled, same Bat-time, same Bat-channel piece of every day:
Monday, a full hour of spinning on a cycle with a small, hard seat and much up and down motion that's resulted - on occasion - in interesting linear bruising in an interesting place. Yeah. There.
Tuesday, a lunchtime spin and thirty minutes of weight training.
Wednesday, Cardio Kickboxing, an hour of mostly invisible ass kicking and much “power” work: squats, push-ups, deep lunges into full lateral jumps. It hurts. A lot.
Thursday, my new favorite, Cardio Kick and Sculpt. See “Wednesday” plus 45 minutes of strength training using weights and the Bosu Ball. It hurts. More than a lot.
Friday, Saturday and Sunday I mix it up, perhaps a fun Cardio Hip Hop (where my more-white-than-realized-inner-dancer is unleashed) or step class, time on the elliptical or treadmill. Sometimes I give myself a day or two off.
Fitness isn’t pretty. It’s daily doses of Bayer Back and Body, rashes, gnarled toes, blisters and sore feet. Oh, and regular stink. It’s also addictive. Once fully on board, a stop of just a few consecutive days results in the most unpleasant side effects – crankiness, feeling bloated, not sleeping well. And damn if the only way to make it all better is to put down the cocktails and appetizers, get back into the gym and the produce section.
Happily, the new mind set is finally getting the job done. I still imbibe, enjoy a couple glasses of wine a night, a dirty or beer out with friends. I eat amazing and tasty food, loads of lean protein, seafood and vegetables (last night’s Emmy binge? Red bell pepper strips dunked in zippy homemade ranch - ask for the recipe, you’ll never, ever do bottled again), frozen whipped yogurt, dark chocolate and iced coffee with a splash of vanilla soy milk, dried cherries and crunchy almonds, chewy whole grain pasta with olive oil, capers, kalamatas and feta, sushi and sake on occasion…I could go on and on. Yet I still go down a handful of pounds a month.
Macy's is a regular weekend destination and I find myself in the lingerie department more often than not, knee deep in satin slips and frilly baby dolls, lacey bras and panties. Fitted jackets, slim jeans, heels; I'm always in heels now. I even bought a white trench coat with a tie belt. I never wore anything belted.
When men say I'm cute and funny and my teeth aren't teeth, but pearl, I just lap it up like honey, I enjoy being a sore, sometimes stinky girl.