I'm a Good Fork

I looked in the mirror the other morning - after wiping a clear spot in all the caked-on tooth paste splatters and the reflection I saw looked like Chris Farley with a hemorrhoid.  That is to say - I don't look my best first thing in the morning.  But who does? Right?  But here's the thing, I don't improve as the day goes on - I just kinda ripen, if you know what I'm sayin'.

So, this year I've pledged to improve a lot of things, my health, my mind, my body . . . well, you get the idea.  Anyway, one of the things that I've decided to do is learn Italian.  I think it is a beautiful language and it's been on my "To-do list" since my sophomore year in college.  I mean since there are so many Italians in Texas and I thought it would be nice to be able to converse with them . . . . . huh? . . . . Exactly! 

To give you a rough idea of the pace at which I tackle my "To-do lists," I'd like to share a little snippet of my daily activities.  The other day I found a letter that I had written to a dear friend concerning my daughter that I'd forgotten to mail.  I figured it just needed a little updating to send, so I steamed it open and after "Olivia is . . ." I whited-out "teething" and wrote in "driving."  I think, perhaps, this particular instance speaks volumes in describing my whole being.  Just to be clear, I'm what comes after the snail when referring to pace.

So, what was I saying?  Oh yes . . . . Italian . . .

I bring up the Italian for two reasons;  (No. 1) Yum!  and here I refer to the men and the food . . . . Am I right?!  and (No. 2)  I'm, as they say in Italian, una buona forchetta - which means that I'm a good eater or rather, quite literally translates to - I'm a good fork.  Please pay particular attention to the "r" in the translation - because without it I sound a little slutty.  And to be honest, I have been a bit of a food floozy lately and in 2010 my diet would have probably fallen on the slovenly side of things more than anything else.  I'm not suggesting that I'm a glutton, but in my family gravy is considered a beverage.

So, it's back to gym with me.  But this time I'm taking the whole family and we are gonna get healthy and in shape and all that junk.  Things have been going really well so far.  As a matter of fact, I've already been to the gym three times this week and yesterday I was named "Miss Varicose Vein" for my region.  Last year I shared stories of Naked Nana and others, but this year my gym stories will probably revolve more around the frightening fact that while I was asleep and away from the gym I went out of style. 

So, I think I will close this post the same way I closed last year's rant on exercise and getting in shape.  Though none of this has anything whatsoever to do with the "vintage" or the "inspirational" premise of this blog, my reasoning behind sharing this is to tell you that there are muscles in my body that have not been flexed since the last Bush administration . . . and now they HURT!! . . . and I feel VINTAGE!

Image courtesy CafePress

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Narrow Waist Seeks Broad Mind

At the moment, I'm doing what I normally do every January . . . . that being, looking at the pattern of my life and deciding that I don't like it and working on a plan to change it. 

So here's what I've been thinkin' . . . . In June of 2011, I will celebrate my forty-sixth birthday.  The thought of being a middle-aged person has never appealed to me.  It doesn't seem like a job I'd apply for.  I always imagine a personal ad that reads something like this:

Narrow Waist Seeks Broad Mind

  
Narrow waist seeks opportunity to change places with a broad mind.  Warning:  When waist trades places with mind everything on your body will hurt, and what doesn't hurt won't work any longer.  Also, your body might develop some food allergies, and every time you eat, it will break out into fat.  This will cause self-loathing through most of your 40s and 50s, and a few years afterward, and intermittently for the next twenty-five years or so. 
Requirements:
Applicant must have degree from the School of Creative Mathematics so that you honestly do not know how old you are.  Also, when calculating your age in dog years, you must be dead. 
Pay: 
No pay.  Possible opportunities for "pay back," "paying it forward," and "paying very little attention" but, no actual compensation. 
Education: 
Nursery school or equivalent. 
Benefits: 
You won't have to drink alcohol anymore - you can get the same effect by just standing up fast.  Also, you get to boast that you're not forty-five years old, but eighteen with twenty-seven years experience.

To get a jump start on the New Year, my therapist has suggested a daily regimen of finishing what I have started, and I have stead-fastly stuck to it, too!  Here's proof... so far today, I have finished a 6-pack of Diet Dr. Peppers and a Haagen-Dazs Dove Bar and I feel pretty accomplished.  Next she suggested a "do-not-do-that" list.  First on the list is making statements like "Jeez I'm getting such a muffin top!" or "Would you look at my ka-donkey-donk butt?!" -Inevitablly I get a response like "You look great," which is a lie but said out of kindness and love and is code for "I noticed that you've put on a little weight, but if you think you're going to get me to agree with you, you're nuts." 

In a nutshell, my New Year's Resolution plan includes these rules of thumb:

•  Change my exercise routine.  Instead of running my mouth, pushing my luck and jumping to conclusions, do an occasional sit-up or take a jog.

•  Avoid contact with things that raise my blood pressure.  Including, but not limited to, things that possess tetanus, tires, or testicles.

•  Stop eating food and switch to bark so that I can look better naked.

and finally . . . .

•  Die young as late as possible.

Happy New year everyone . . . see you tomorrow!

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Naked Nanna

Bad things happen when good bloggers decide to present themselves as healthy, athletic-y type people. This lesson was made painfully clear to me while attempting to improve my body through some actual exercise, guided by a personal trainer. I prefer the "by-proxy" type, which means that I lounge on the sofa while I watch an exercise video and shout criticisms at the TV while pelting it with Cheetos - the crispy kind, not the puffy kind!

This year on my birthday I made a declaration that I was going to trade in my present day physique for the one I covered up with my wedding dress and uncovered on my honeymoon 18 years ago. I am well aware, that having a great body can't be acquired by a twitch of the nose a-la-Samantha-Stevens, although I've truly tried to tap my "inner Bewitched." Typically, I just look like a crazy person with really bad allergies. If reinventing one's body were that simple, I'd be Gisele Bündchen. Please don't get me wrong, I'm totally for self-improvement and self-actualization. I truly believe everyone should take care of the body they've been given, and realize their potential, to chase after goals, yada, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah . . .

Of course, no establishment is more sobering, with it's droves of 20-something members clad in belly bearing work-out gear, than a gym. While I was waiting for my trainer, I noticed this lovely, long legged, perfectly tanned and toned young woman bring in her children and get them registered and comfortable in the day-care that was provided. Did I mention they were triplets and maybe about 6 or 7 months old, and it looked more like I had just had those babies, than she? As I craned my neck to see around the stroller top, I read baby #1's little tee, it read "I Party Naked", baby #2's tee read "I'm a Boob Man" and lastly, baby #3's tee read "Mother Sucker." As I sat passing judgments and thinking she was probably one of those women who "whore" . . . I mean "wore" maternity wear that said "Knocked Up", a perky voice said, "LeAnn" . . I look up, and guess who's standing there? Yep, Octumom minus 3! She smiled and extended her perfectly manicured hand and said, "Hi! Are you ready to get started?" I'm not really clear on what happened next, I'm pretty sure all the blood left my head after about the 50th lunge and I woke up in the ladies locker room, my body wrapped in a terry cloth towel with matching terry cloth turban on my head. The exhibitionist tendencies of my youth have turned into an almost Amish-like sense of modesty, I mean I'm an actual member of "Sensible Knickers Club" - no more thongs and trap doors for this chick! I tell you this to let you know that my tender constitution cannot really bare (if you'll pardon the pun) all the rampant nakedness that was going on in this locker room. Just as I look up, around the corner comes a lady, not just any lady, but an octogenarian. She's naked and seems to be kinda trying to wrangle her flat, long lady lumps into a bra, and for added effect, she's sporting a complete absence of afore mentioned knickers - sensible or otherwise. Let me just say this, I saw some images today that will be burned into my corneas for eternity - someone please, hold me. . . . I'm truly traumatized !

In my haste to cover my girly bits and divert my gaze away from "Naked Nanna," I stood up too quickly and bonked my elbow on the locker, which made me drop the towel around my body, and the towel around my hair fell over my half of my face. Just as this is all happening, old lady #2 comes scooting around the corner and giggles for an inordinately long time at my expense and exposure. Ten buck says two weeks from now an entire Mahjong-playin', caftan-wearing, Mojito-swilling old ladies club will be yuckin' it up when they recount this scene.

Though none of this has anything what-so-ever to do with the "vintage" or "inspirational" premise of this blog, It does address the "exhibiting exceptional skills" aspect of my posts. My trainer is really good at her job! So in closing, I feel the need to give some background here and explain that there are muscles in my body that have not been flexed since the Clinton administration . . . and now they HURT!! . . . and I feel VINTAGE!


Vintage postcard courtesy Photobucket.