Time Off For……ever?

I am a failure, at so many things, really. But today’s special is a doozy, if only that I concern myself with my growing need for the consumption of more and more food and less and less exercise.

I have taken my first break from exercise. I lasted 55 days in a row, but then again my math was never stellar. So I could be out a day or two. The point is, all I do now is eat pistachios and think about exercise.

Packing has taken over my leisure? time. I now have two rooms done and fourteen to go. Again, the math…….I am down to 60 days to be out of my home and find somewhere to place my curly-headed face that isn’t planted face-down in a bag of food.

So that’s why my blog has stopped. It reminds me that I should be lifting weights, not bags of chips.

Anyone want to buy a treadmill?

Packing Off The Pounds

I have a new exercise regime. It’s called packing. It’s really a version of self-loathing and undeniable self-hatred for buying so much crap over the years and thinking I should live like a pack rat. My collections are like none other. I have shoe posters, shoe figurines, shoe signs, and even the real thing–shoes. Lots of them. Last count totaled over fifty pairs. With purses to match. Obviously. My shoe art adorns every wall. Have I mentioned that I hate myself?

How do you go about getting rid of fifty-seven years of raging sentimentality? I still have the gas receipts that I found in my father’s car. Believe me, the receipts dated from 2000 don’t bring me luck, just dust mites. Throw them out, idiot! They won’t bring back your father.

I am a hoarder, plain and simple. I can’t throw things away. I might need them. Why keep one box of paper clips when you can keep ten? For every box I pack, I do twenty sit-ups. It’s a form of self-flagellation in a good way, I guess.

17 boxes down, 200 to go. Oh well, at least my abs will be tight.

Dog-Gawn Trails

One of the more fearful parts of walking outside for exercise is coming across canines who kill. They bare their teeth, cross their eyes, and bark until I want to poo my pants in fear. My heart races and I am probably going to have a dog coronary right on my nature walk. Fitness clearly leads to imminent death.

Recently I was walking on death row with none other than two of these woofing creatures. My friend JudyAnn obviously forgot to mention that walking with her came with all sorts of baggage — namely a half dead dog which I got to carry in a back pack because doggy was too old and feeble to walk. Can you say doggy heaven? And a hyperactive black thing that strained the leash and was so crazy I could barely keep up.

People kept giving me strange, brooding looks on our walk and now I know why. They thought I was actually caring and kind and a dog lover. Please. Know your audience. My dog days were over the day I was a ten year old riding a bike, got attacked by a big black barking brute, got pulled off the bike, bitten and bruised and beaten down. Dogs make me cry and make my heart beat way too fast. Don’t hate me. I like babies. Not dogs. So sue me. Woof.

Val Gal

Today, the romantically pink and purplest day of the year, I am not going to inundate myself with candies, but rather with a long, romantic walk on the Richmond dyke with my walking friend, Marilyn.

We will hopefully catch a glimpse of some mating birds to put us in the holiday spirit.

But my true love is Rick Steves, the traveling guru. He is unfortunately a bit of a corporation now, but his books have helped me, over the years, to become a skilled and effective world traveler…except for the packing part.

So, I can’t let Les know about my real love. I will hide this fact, effective, I’m sure, by making Les dinner with a bona fide dessert. Now that is true unbridled love. Unless you’ve been a recipient of my desserts…then you might have a second opinion.

Sickercize

Oh crap! After the many inner smug pats on moi back, because I didn’t get the virulent flu bug and all of you sissy sickies out there did, I, too, have succumbed. Sore muscles. Waaaaaaaaaaaaaa.

Ever one to ignore my body aches and pains, I am keeping on track with my 365 days of fitness or else. Popping two Tylenols every few hours (minutes) seems to do the trick. Joel Harper’s Slim and Fit video has become my new bestee. Along with beaucoup cups of peppermint tea. Joel thinks that fifteen minutes of exercise is enough, and right now, I am in total agreement. Go Joel!

Seismic Size

Exercise, broken down, and phonetically mutilated, is x errrr size. The root word glaringly mocks me, even if I made it up. It’s really all about size, isn’t it. And mine is staying large and possibly veering toward extra large. I think it’s time to step it up a little. And change my eating habits. Noooooooooooooooooooooooooo!

Alright, I like my cheese. I like my bread. And dammit, don’t take away my wine or I might have to slaughter you. So this is not going to be an easy task. I think I’ll start by drinking more water. Maybe I’ll fill up and be so satisfied that I won’t notice that I’m not eating chocolate any more.

Maybe pigs fly.

My Buoyant Breasts

Sixty lengths later, I have some complaints about French bathing suits. My recent travels in France included many, many visits to the Maillots de Bain department of Galeries Lafayette. The French are skilled in the sewing of fine things. The bathing suits have lovely baubles and bands and skinny straps. It is difficult to find a one piece in France because French women don’t need to wear one pieces….even the ninety year olds. They are happy and confident letting everything hang out. I, on the other hand, bought what I thought was a fairly well-constructed neck-to-knee one piece swimsuit made for swimming and not for um…fraternizing.

In France, on the pebbled beaches of Nice, it really didn’t matter if my little mosquito bites occasionally plopped out of my modish maillots. I blamed the fashion faux pas on the violent waves of the Med. I blended in nicely with the vast landscape of jugs. The twenty something perky melons were on display, not my fiftyish sagging girls.

So imagine my consternation today, when, in the land of mammaries and implants, I started swimming my lengths in a bathing suit of French design, which never ever stayed up. It is not polite to bare your breasts in an American pool, (unless you are an invited guest at Howard Hugh’s chateau) and it is not really conducive to a good exercise regime. Every second length, I was tugging up the front of my frock. I looked like a beluga doing a belly dance. I did not look like Mark Spitz.

Again, there will be no photo op.

Super Who Cares

Feeling very perky today, we decided to try Cimarron, the hardest executive golf course in California. I must have had a good sleep, because I woke up feeling pretty good about myself. Just call me Anika. Cocky. High from my successful Super Bowl Day golf game, which was miraculous because I occasionally hit the ball almost correctly, we decided to drive straight to the nearest restaurant that had a happy hour along with a television.

I pretended to care that Baltimore was killing the 49ers, and then I really started to care when the owner and chef of Catalan Restaurant said that dinner was on him if the 49ers ended up winning. He felt confident because the score was Baltimore 28/ San Fran 6 or some ridiculously low score. Now I know why sports are so exciting. I started to pay attention to the game, and became apoplectic when the 49ers got a touchdown inching up the score to an eventual 29. Two points to go and my wallet was doing the happy dance. I euphorically ordered a blood orange-cucumber rum drink and felt like quite the athlete myself.

Fouls, offside, brother coaches, Beyonce and her gorgeous thighs, power outages, so many commercials, and four minutes of play taking a good half hour. What’s that all about? Don’t these buffed up boys understand that I have to dental floss my teeth soon? And read a book?

Blog or Bust

Blogging gets confusing when you drink Zinfandel wine. Or Merlot. Chardonnay is the worst. Just saying.

It is easy to make believe that I walked really quickly today. But that would be a big fat lie. Our stroll today consisted of walking to the Palm Desert Swap Meet, and cruising up and down the aisles of junk…or treasures. I even found a short cut to get to the swap meet which shortened our walk considerably. Nothing to be proud of, if you are Ron Zalco. Or Steve Nash. Or a random owner of a fitness studio. More is better in the world of fitness. And wine drinkers.

The best purchase today was a jar of marjoram, magic aromatherapy in a jar that is supposed to stop snoring. Les and his proboscis are my nemesis when it comes to getting my forty winks. So I am pretty pumped for the marjoram. I’ll let you know if it works. Apparently there’s also a magic potion for an appetite suppressant. Believe me, that is definitely on my Christmas wish list.