I have to rather large obstacles in my way to total body fitness (and by that, I mean I want to look ALOT more like Pamela Anderson than I currently do). The first of these obstacles is my lack of any real commitment to anything that lasts more than say, half an hour if it’s not fun (only liars say it’s fun to work out), the second is my aversion to pain, strain, and bodily discomfort no matter how mild. Oh yeah, and I like treats; I have not ever pressed my lips to the frosted crown of a cupcake with less enthusiasm than I received my first real kiss. So, I guess I have three obstacles, and now that I think about it, I would rather look like Loni Anderson than Pam. Loni still has it, doesn't she?
I have taught myself some motivational mind tricks, which I have to use in full force just to keep myself in enough motion for long enough to actually apply the words “work out” to what I am doing. (By motivational mind tricks, I mean borderline psychotic daydreams that I should not admit to having, but what the heck; ya’ll know I have a bald cat too.)
My fantasies are not of my head on Ms. Anderson’s body (well, I do have this one while shopping but not while working out), nor do I find the huffing and puffing more tolerable if I picture myself, as a results of my labor, in the arms of that celebrity fellow all women are gaga over (I believe his name is Jean-Luc Picard. It’s not just me is it? He’s a babe, right?) Although I have heard this particular technique works for some women, but perhaps, unlike me, they do not have a boy with a lovely square jaw loving them with an astounding degree of unconditionality. (No, seriously, even when I pressed the Earth with 60 pounds more pressure he swore that every fold of my back was precious to him…and that Pam didn’t hold a candle to me. Hey wait, why do I need to be in shape anyway?)
My husband has ripped away any influence the centerfold of Maxim might have had on me if I were to stand holding her picture parallel to my body and stare in to a full length mirror (not that I ever DO that) so I can get a limb by limb visual contrast. Sure, that process sounds masochistic, but in the past it would have worked my high school self in to such an insecure anger at my inner thighs, and such a frenzied desire to separate from those and my perceived panoramic bottom, that I could run 10 miles in an attempt to escape them!
Knowing what an effective tool I lost when my hero’s unwavering admiration rendered my previous technique useless, you may excuse the nerdyness to which I will now begin to confess: My new work out mind game is to make up a competition of some kind. Usually my competitor is pretty much evil (like a pirate, a shark or an ex) but sometimes I just compete with a circumstance (like a lava flowing my direction for instance).
It works like this. Say I am working out on an elliptical trainer; in my head I am skiing across a mountain just ahead of an avalanche AND I have to hurry and save the baby, who is playing in the snow just over on the horizon. I would like to slowly move my legs back and forth as I am tempted to do on those things, but I have to ski fast because the baby is like…really cute. Also, if you are listening to the theme song on Mission Impossible, it helps.
Or I may be swimming laps, but what the other swimmers don’t know is that these waters are shark infested, which is ok because I have raw meat tied to my feet so the sharks are chasing me thereby ignoring the other swimmers and of course I have to swim really hard and fast because all those sharks really want to bite my feet.
Running is easier if you are chasing a vile pirate who has just kidnapped and is now fleeing with who ever it is in your life you would least like to have kidnapped by pirates.
You can involve others in this too (but don’t tell them about it if you don’t know them because it seems to creep them out. Also, don’t narrow your eyes and give them the “you’re going down” stare; strangers really don’t like that much either.)
I used to run with a friend, J.I. Jane (I know, they don’t call you that in the air force, but I needed an alias for you and you DID shave your head). Jane lived far enough away that the runs were infrequent enough for me to run alone, imagining her at my side, then slightly behind, then way back there reveling in my endurance and speed. And another cool thing about running with (even when she wasn’t there), was that since she is actually in the armed forces, she lent herself to all sorts of big dramatic scenarios of the military type (which for no good reason tend to be set in the 1940s).
All super heroes have an arch nemesis, and so do I. I first faced Stair Master in my last gym. Like any super hero does, I went in to my first battle expecting to conquer while making a few smart comments and barely breaking too much of a sweat. And, as is the custom, I was overthrown in my first battle with my evil match. I realized, this was my Joker, my Lex Luther, my…(who is it Spiderman doesn’t like?)
I got on the thing and set it for half an hour and began what its flashy little digital message board called an “ascent”. I pumped and rocked and tried to stand up straight like the instructions posted to the sides said to but within minutes I was barely breathing. Clinging white knuckled to the hand rails, I hunched lower and lower until I had to lift my neck just to read the digital board which, when I quit early, displayed the words, “You have not reached your goal.”
What?!??!?! Who is this, this …Machine!? What is this thing to judge me? To squelch my ambitions? To define me as a failure?
Twice a week, I ran the indoor track in the gym basement, passing Stair Master gloating in the corner. At first I tool the inside track so I would not have to see the flashing words on the digital board, “Please select your work out.” It let me pass unmolested, but I wonder if it would have if it had known. Those laps were training and nothing more, and when I was ready, I would challenge it on my terms.
The day of truth came. I approached slowly but with resolve and when I got there I said aloud, “let’s do this” (It was a very empty basement). I stepped up and held my neck high and proudly as I answered the digital board’s questions. “What is your weight” “Enter a work out time” “Intensity?” and I went to battle.
I was bent over at the end of it but I made it to the end of it, and when it was over and the dust settled, the board begrudgingly said, “you have attained your goal.” But it lied; my goal was never to let that thing rule me, let it force me to let my legs burn to keep the motion it demands if I don’t want the petals to drop me to the floor and then to read its condescending note about making it to time. My goal is to have the read out at the end say (someday) “YOU WIN!”
Day by day, I grew stronger. I learned to run in the outside track and as I passed as close as I could to it, I pointed at Stair Master and said “I am coming for you.”
My new gym contains and army of Stair Masters, different makes, different models, but I am the Stair Master Slayer, and when I see them lurking there each morning I narrow my eyes, give them the look and growl, “You’re going down!” (and up, then down again, and back up, it’s kinda how they work).
I have taught myself some motivational mind tricks, which I have to use in full force just to keep myself in enough motion for long enough to actually apply the words “work out” to what I am doing. (By motivational mind tricks, I mean borderline psychotic daydreams that I should not admit to having, but what the heck; ya’ll know I have a bald cat too.)
My fantasies are not of my head on Ms. Anderson’s body (well, I do have this one while shopping but not while working out), nor do I find the huffing and puffing more tolerable if I picture myself, as a results of my labor, in the arms of that celebrity fellow all women are gaga over (I believe his name is Jean-Luc Picard. It’s not just me is it? He’s a babe, right?) Although I have heard this particular technique works for some women, but perhaps, unlike me, they do not have a boy with a lovely square jaw loving them with an astounding degree of unconditionality. (No, seriously, even when I pressed the Earth with 60 pounds more pressure he swore that every fold of my back was precious to him…and that Pam didn’t hold a candle to me. Hey wait, why do I need to be in shape anyway?)
My husband has ripped away any influence the centerfold of Maxim might have had on me if I were to stand holding her picture parallel to my body and stare in to a full length mirror (not that I ever DO that) so I can get a limb by limb visual contrast. Sure, that process sounds masochistic, but in the past it would have worked my high school self in to such an insecure anger at my inner thighs, and such a frenzied desire to separate from those and my perceived panoramic bottom, that I could run 10 miles in an attempt to escape them!
Knowing what an effective tool I lost when my hero’s unwavering admiration rendered my previous technique useless, you may excuse the nerdyness to which I will now begin to confess: My new work out mind game is to make up a competition of some kind. Usually my competitor is pretty much evil (like a pirate, a shark or an ex) but sometimes I just compete with a circumstance (like a lava flowing my direction for instance).
It works like this. Say I am working out on an elliptical trainer; in my head I am skiing across a mountain just ahead of an avalanche AND I have to hurry and save the baby, who is playing in the snow just over on the horizon. I would like to slowly move my legs back and forth as I am tempted to do on those things, but I have to ski fast because the baby is like…really cute. Also, if you are listening to the theme song on Mission Impossible, it helps.
Or I may be swimming laps, but what the other swimmers don’t know is that these waters are shark infested, which is ok because I have raw meat tied to my feet so the sharks are chasing me thereby ignoring the other swimmers and of course I have to swim really hard and fast because all those sharks really want to bite my feet.
Running is easier if you are chasing a vile pirate who has just kidnapped and is now fleeing with who ever it is in your life you would least like to have kidnapped by pirates.
You can involve others in this too (but don’t tell them about it if you don’t know them because it seems to creep them out. Also, don’t narrow your eyes and give them the “you’re going down” stare; strangers really don’t like that much either.)
I used to run with a friend, J.I. Jane (I know, they don’t call you that in the air force, but I needed an alias for you and you DID shave your head). Jane lived far enough away that the runs were infrequent enough for me to run alone, imagining her at my side, then slightly behind, then way back there reveling in my endurance and speed. And another cool thing about running with (even when she wasn’t there), was that since she is actually in the armed forces, she lent herself to all sorts of big dramatic scenarios of the military type (which for no good reason tend to be set in the 1940s).
All super heroes have an arch nemesis, and so do I. I first faced Stair Master in my last gym. Like any super hero does, I went in to my first battle expecting to conquer while making a few smart comments and barely breaking too much of a sweat. And, as is the custom, I was overthrown in my first battle with my evil match. I realized, this was my Joker, my Lex Luther, my…(who is it Spiderman doesn’t like?)
I got on the thing and set it for half an hour and began what its flashy little digital message board called an “ascent”. I pumped and rocked and tried to stand up straight like the instructions posted to the sides said to but within minutes I was barely breathing. Clinging white knuckled to the hand rails, I hunched lower and lower until I had to lift my neck just to read the digital board which, when I quit early, displayed the words, “You have not reached your goal.”
What?!??!?! Who is this, this …Machine!? What is this thing to judge me? To squelch my ambitions? To define me as a failure?
Twice a week, I ran the indoor track in the gym basement, passing Stair Master gloating in the corner. At first I tool the inside track so I would not have to see the flashing words on the digital board, “Please select your work out.” It let me pass unmolested, but I wonder if it would have if it had known. Those laps were training and nothing more, and when I was ready, I would challenge it on my terms.
The day of truth came. I approached slowly but with resolve and when I got there I said aloud, “let’s do this” (It was a very empty basement). I stepped up and held my neck high and proudly as I answered the digital board’s questions. “What is your weight” “Enter a work out time” “Intensity?” and I went to battle.
I was bent over at the end of it but I made it to the end of it, and when it was over and the dust settled, the board begrudgingly said, “you have attained your goal.” But it lied; my goal was never to let that thing rule me, let it force me to let my legs burn to keep the motion it demands if I don’t want the petals to drop me to the floor and then to read its condescending note about making it to time. My goal is to have the read out at the end say (someday) “YOU WIN!”
Day by day, I grew stronger. I learned to run in the outside track and as I passed as close as I could to it, I pointed at Stair Master and said “I am coming for you.”
My new gym contains and army of Stair Masters, different makes, different models, but I am the Stair Master Slayer, and when I see them lurking there each morning I narrow my eyes, give them the look and growl, “You’re going down!” (and up, then down again, and back up, it’s kinda how they work).
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