Today was another fun-filled morning with Gus. Monday, Wednesday, and Friday never can come too soon. Even when the alarm goes off at 3:30 am, I somehow manage to spring up and out of bed, thinking about the torture camp that awaits us with great joy and anticipation.
This morning's motley crew was Barb, Lisa, Bill, and me. Barb is not up to the task of sparring just yet, so that left four rounds for each Lisa, Bill, and me. Twelve rounds in the ring for Gus seemed no easy task this morning, either. Even though he moved faster with us as we gain more experience (read: danced circles around us), teasing us with his ever-bobbing head and slippery shoulders, Gus seemed worn out. Don't get me wrong, he still killed us, KILLED us, until we were saved by the bell at the end of each three minute round. Three minutes could be three days when forced to block and slip punches and find holes to land a few of our own. All the while, mouthpiece impairing his speech, Gus mumbles words of encouragement or eggs us on with, "hit me harder" or, "um-hum, yep". We have already figured out how to translate mouthguardese.
With great enthusiasm, we charge him, hoping to hit his head, but more often getting his elbow or a gust of wind from the breeze generated by missed punches. He taught us to get in and punch him, and get out as fast. He calls it "waiting for the receipt" and apparently that is something we don't want to do in the world of boxing. The rule is to get in, nail the opponent as much as possible ("your left jab is your tape measure"), and get out quickly, as not to "wait for the receipt". Makes perfect sense. I have no desire to take any more licks than I have to, right?
When I consider his facility, I am really disgusted- how can I look forward to it? The smell inside is putrid- a cross between the nastiest men's locker room (don't ask how I know this) and rancid body odor left to ferment. Because there is no temperature control, it has been freezing in there as of late, with the welcome cooler temperatures; I can only imagine what this means with summer pending. His studio's carpet is peppered with old coffee stains, among other unidentified marks I dare not ask about, and the concrete walls are wallpapered with newpaper articles of all of his now-successful fighters he has raised up to the big league. Al Pacino and "Scarface" posters grace the walls, as well, reminding us of our bad ass status, I presume.
While under his watchful eye, we wear other boxers' gloves (until we get around to ordering our own), which repulses me when I further ponder what could live inside the leather from others' hands. We share equipment while working out together, along with the sweat that dots it("Ew- who dripped all over this?!") without regard to the germ factor.
Actually, this is a lie. I think about the germ factor the whole time I am in there. Like when I picked up one of the towels we used to do some abs on and I threw it in the "dirty" pile (as if I could really discriminate from the other pile in a heap on the floor?!); there was a snot rag Gus has used to mop up his face with post-spar, smeared with green mucus and red blood. Does it get any more vile than that? I could have vomited at the sight, but that may have been my stomach's response to the intense circuit we had just finished? We pay for this kind of fun at 4:00 am?
Yes. And I am not waiting for the receipt. It is money well spent- the cheapest personal training (and therapy) one will ever find, a KILLER workout, and a great way to stay motivated when the chips are down.
Monday, February 22, 2010
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Fly Girl
I'm so not. I have never been good at doing anything on the fly. I am not good with change, not flexible with schedule, never one to roll with the punches, not willing to compromise details, and never been able to fly by the seat of my pants. I'm not all that great at improvising and never one to fake anything. Is it any wonder my son is the same way?
My daughter (who tends to be on the other end of the spectrum) asked for something new and exciting for breakfast today. Saturday is always pancake morning in our household, with the exception of swim meet mornings or 5K races, but today she wanted something different. It was a leisurely morning. Marc was gone up north to ride a bazillion miles with some guys. The kids and I had nowhere to be for hours. Why wouldn't it be pancake morning? I hardly can blame her for desiring something different, however. Sometimes I feel if I have one more groundhog day, I may have to take drastic measures- I digress. I decided to surprise the kiddos with strawberry crepes.
I took a traditional recipe and made it very nontraditional by altering and omitting some ingredients for healthier fare. The crepes turned out beautifully and they were actually really delicious (I had a bite, never big on anything pastry-like). My boy, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with this idea. This was an offensive departure from the norm. No crepe would pass his lips on sheer principle alone. The NERVE of someone suggesting something other than the typical menu.
"I would like my pancakes now, please." He informed me, smelling the crepe before him.
"Just try them, buddy...it's like a pancake with whipped cream and strawberries," his sister pleaded, referring to the filling of whipped organic Tofutti with berries.
Not a chance. Not happening. I looked at him from below the rim of my coffee cup, waiting for the response.
"I would like my pancakes now, please, Mommy," ignoring big sister's encouragement.
He was very polite, but matter-of-fact and ever resilient in the pursuit of what he wanted. It immediately brought me back to when he was two years old and we (I) took away the beloved pacifier at the pediatrician's urging. For a child who never wants for much of anything, rarely complains, and is agreeable in SO many ways, he is a child who knows EXACTLY what he wants and there is rarely flexibility in those minor cases. It near killed me to take away that pacifier, particularly when, through tears, he remained ever polite in his plea, squeaky little voice shaking, "I would like my Nonnie now please, Mommy." His little rosebud lips quivering, my heart breaking.
I didn't cave with the pacifier back then, but I did with the pancakes today. I think because I get him- I get it- so well. Most of the time, he and I are pretty low maintenance. We like what we like and we try to be mellow and fly under the radar. We typically don't want to draw any kind of attention to ourselves(though this week someone told me my "character is larger than life")and we aim to please. We want to be agreeable, we really do, but some things are worth fighting for.
Some things cannot be compromised. For him, I guess it's pancakes with maple syrup on top. For me, it's the Pacific with mountains on top. Is that really so difficult to understand and accommodate? What is going to pacify me? Nothing here, I fear, on principle alone.
My daughter (who tends to be on the other end of the spectrum) asked for something new and exciting for breakfast today. Saturday is always pancake morning in our household, with the exception of swim meet mornings or 5K races, but today she wanted something different. It was a leisurely morning. Marc was gone up north to ride a bazillion miles with some guys. The kids and I had nowhere to be for hours. Why wouldn't it be pancake morning? I hardly can blame her for desiring something different, however. Sometimes I feel if I have one more groundhog day, I may have to take drastic measures- I digress. I decided to surprise the kiddos with strawberry crepes.
I took a traditional recipe and made it very nontraditional by altering and omitting some ingredients for healthier fare. The crepes turned out beautifully and they were actually really delicious (I had a bite, never big on anything pastry-like). My boy, on the other hand, would have nothing to do with this idea. This was an offensive departure from the norm. No crepe would pass his lips on sheer principle alone. The NERVE of someone suggesting something other than the typical menu.
"I would like my pancakes now, please." He informed me, smelling the crepe before him.
"Just try them, buddy...it's like a pancake with whipped cream and strawberries," his sister pleaded, referring to the filling of whipped organic Tofutti with berries.
Not a chance. Not happening. I looked at him from below the rim of my coffee cup, waiting for the response.
"I would like my pancakes now, please, Mommy," ignoring big sister's encouragement.
He was very polite, but matter-of-fact and ever resilient in the pursuit of what he wanted. It immediately brought me back to when he was two years old and we (I) took away the beloved pacifier at the pediatrician's urging. For a child who never wants for much of anything, rarely complains, and is agreeable in SO many ways, he is a child who knows EXACTLY what he wants and there is rarely flexibility in those minor cases. It near killed me to take away that pacifier, particularly when, through tears, he remained ever polite in his plea, squeaky little voice shaking, "I would like my Nonnie now please, Mommy." His little rosebud lips quivering, my heart breaking.
I didn't cave with the pacifier back then, but I did with the pancakes today. I think because I get him- I get it- so well. Most of the time, he and I are pretty low maintenance. We like what we like and we try to be mellow and fly under the radar. We typically don't want to draw any kind of attention to ourselves(though this week someone told me my "character is larger than life")and we aim to please. We want to be agreeable, we really do, but some things are worth fighting for.
Some things cannot be compromised. For him, I guess it's pancakes with maple syrup on top. For me, it's the Pacific with mountains on top. Is that really so difficult to understand and accommodate? What is going to pacify me? Nothing here, I fear, on principle alone.
Tuesday, February 16, 2010
Spar Me Up
In the ring, sparring with Gus. I love it. He lets us hit him and he hits us. I told him to stop punching me so hard since I am a girl and he had all the gear. Lisa and I are addicted. We cannot get enough. Waiting for the next fix. Can hardly think about anything besides stringing up the gloves again and again and again. How many more hours? I wish all the world could experience the high. I feel alive when I am in the ring and facing off with him.
Wednesday, February 03, 2010
Gluttony
I still have fleeting moments when I feel like I am having an out of body experience, floating above, watching the frantic happenings of my life. Day to day, I feel chaotic. Starting the day at 3:30 am with workouts, homeschooling two kids, racing around from one sport to another, trying to maintain a large house- it's nothing short of exhausting. I often wish I could slip into my six-year-old's world- steal a glimpse into his happy imaginative world and escape the reality of my own for a while.
Boxing with Gus has breathed new life into my workout routine. So has doing Crossfit. Exercise has always been my Happy Pill, and when I am less than excited to hit the pavement, water, or weights, I know it is time for a new drug. Enter Gus and his killer workouts. An hour of boxing with him one-on-one feels like a lifetime of torture- I love it. Slowly, however, I am winning over my tri buddies, and they are joining me in the ring and along side the bags. Interesting to me is how quickly each of us becomes "addicted" to the new rush in our veins. Nothing else has been sacrificed (boxing gym, to speed workout, to Crossfit and on to the pool) to make room for the new drug- we simply add it to our repertoire.
Is this an illness? Is it ever really enough? We want what we have, but then we want more. It's the American way. We're gluttonous, greedy savages, grasping for more than we already have, or maybe that is even good for us? Today's speed workout was one mile at 15K pace, followed by 8 400's, alternating between 5K and 10K pace continuously- no recovery, lactic threshold- and then another mile faster than the first. My legs are lead, but it's still not enough- I'm hungry for something else.
I like to think that somehow, having kids has found some sense of balance for me. If I never had kids, I would still be "using" exercise for up to six hours a day, stealing a run here, shifting an appointment for a swim there. It was easy to be selfish and self-absorbed when I was single. My life was about me and my workouts. My kids saved my life, in a way, or at the very least, maybe my knees.
I could never imagine a world without movement. I couldn't live in a still and sedentary world. I can't sit down long enough to put these thoughts in print. My attention span is that of a four-year-old and I move in sweeping motions through the house (you would think it would be cleaner?). Marc always tells me how proud he is to have a wife who is athletic and tries new sports. I tell him I am not doing anything heroic- it is only means of survival of the fittest. I am not fit to survive if I don't hammer it out everyday in some fashion.
Boxing with Gus has breathed new life into my workout routine. So has doing Crossfit. Exercise has always been my Happy Pill, and when I am less than excited to hit the pavement, water, or weights, I know it is time for a new drug. Enter Gus and his killer workouts. An hour of boxing with him one-on-one feels like a lifetime of torture- I love it. Slowly, however, I am winning over my tri buddies, and they are joining me in the ring and along side the bags. Interesting to me is how quickly each of us becomes "addicted" to the new rush in our veins. Nothing else has been sacrificed (boxing gym, to speed workout, to Crossfit and on to the pool) to make room for the new drug- we simply add it to our repertoire.
Is this an illness? Is it ever really enough? We want what we have, but then we want more. It's the American way. We're gluttonous, greedy savages, grasping for more than we already have, or maybe that is even good for us? Today's speed workout was one mile at 15K pace, followed by 8 400's, alternating between 5K and 10K pace continuously- no recovery, lactic threshold- and then another mile faster than the first. My legs are lead, but it's still not enough- I'm hungry for something else.
I like to think that somehow, having kids has found some sense of balance for me. If I never had kids, I would still be "using" exercise for up to six hours a day, stealing a run here, shifting an appointment for a swim there. It was easy to be selfish and self-absorbed when I was single. My life was about me and my workouts. My kids saved my life, in a way, or at the very least, maybe my knees.
I could never imagine a world without movement. I couldn't live in a still and sedentary world. I can't sit down long enough to put these thoughts in print. My attention span is that of a four-year-old and I move in sweeping motions through the house (you would think it would be cleaner?). Marc always tells me how proud he is to have a wife who is athletic and tries new sports. I tell him I am not doing anything heroic- it is only means of survival of the fittest. I am not fit to survive if I don't hammer it out everyday in some fashion.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)