Is Drinking Considered a Complex Movement?

As I get older, I realize I’m not as adept as I once was.  Not that I was ever a ballerina with grace and balance, but at least I could coordinate walking and talking simultaneously.  Now, I can’t even lift my leg and opposite arm at the same time without falling, or worse, trying not to fall and instead, revert into a spastic-quazi-save-myself-from-further-humiliation-by-propelling-myself-forward kind of move.  Which, by the way, never works and looks a million times more awkward than it sounds.

Bootcamp has always been a challenging experience for me from my first day almost three years ago, right up to today.  Coach has decided the internet is fraught with ‘great interesting complex moves that we all should embrace into our repertoire!’  We think she should be banned from the internet.

‘Complex movements’ is just another phrase for lift-leg-while-standing-backwards-and-pushing-something-really-heavy.  I clearly have issues with ‘complex movements’.  If I could lift my leg whilst lifting a sandbag over my head and twirl around on my tippy toe, do you think I would be nervous about wearing heels and walking on a tile floor?  I CAN’T DO THAT SHIT.   I try.  I fall.  I try again.

Then we all laugh…well, I laugh.  I’m thinking people don’t notice because they’re trying just as hard as I am to stay balanced and semi-dignified looking.  Or maybe they’re actually well-balanced yoga-mamas who CAN stand on one foot and hold a 20pound weight over their heads while closing their eyes.  WE CAN’T BE FRIENDS.  Just so you know.

Until the next class when there’s yet another new move involving weights, the TRX and the Bielman spin thrown in for good measure.  

It’s this while spinning around at 100km an hour.  On skates.  It should come as no surprise, that I can’t stand upright on skates, either. Just sayin’.

I’m practicing the new scissor- kick-from-side-plank-position-then-plank-push-up move.  I’M NOT MAKING THIS SHIT UP.  That was merely ONE of today’s new complex movements.

In my case, it totally didn’t happen.  I couldn’t lift my leg, hence the whole need to practice thing.  I did lift the sandbag over my head!  But there was no spinning nor lifting my leg over my head which was probably a good thing, or else I would have looked like Mr. Bean trying to Waltz.  I was just trying to make myself feel better by patting myself on the back for completing an exercise without smashing my face into the ground.

I’m holding my breath for Friday’s class.  If there is any utterance of ‘a new exciting complex movement’ I’m silently protesting by disconnecting her internet.  And hoping sitting against a wall while reciting the Ode to Newfoundland counts as a Complex Movement.

Maybe there’s a new and exciting exercise involving a wine glass balancing on a tray whilst you simultaneously pour the wine from the bottle with the other hand without spilling!

THAT’S A COMPLEX MOVEMENT I CAN GET BEHIND.

And one I’d probably have to practice because of the whole glass-balancing-on-a-tray thing….

It’s a struggle.

* Author’s note: Coach has corrected me in saying these movements are in fact termed Compound not Complex as I have repeatedly stated. Ma bad. THEY ARE COMPOUND COMPLEX MOVEMENTS now. We changed it. You. Are. Welcome.

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The Fifty-One Year Old Teenager

The realization that I’m older than I feel I should be, is hitting me hard.  A ‘mature’ woman of 51, I’m still prone to bouts of pimples and the monthly bloat.  I simultaneously have wrinkles and acne.   It’s like I’m a twelve year old pubescent and a menopausal maniac at the same time. I’m considering shares in Clearisil.  Mood swings, crappy hair days and my bra size seems to shrink weekly.  My wine stash is dwindling at an alarming rate and I hate to hear that I need to wear pants after 6pm.  Jeopardy is gaining some admiration on my end and I have yet to attain the exact correct root cover-up hair colour that actually matches whatever the hell is growing out of my scalp at the moment.

Oh, yes it’s gray, but it should be a lovely copper colour, that despite my scouring of every drugstore in the city and the wonderful intentions of my bestie hair stylist, is impossible to match.  It’s not red.  It’s not blond.  It’s not brown.  It’s not golden brown nor golden blond. It’s not golden-reddish or golden-blondish-with-a-tint-of-auburn-yellow-shit. It’s not even an –ish of anything.    It’s in between effervescent- blondie- coppery- goldie and orange.  Try to find that on a shelf.   I WILL PAY YOU TO FIND THAT ON THE SHELF.  The other day, D1 was too embarrassed to leave the house with me until I ‘do something with that on your scalp.  It looks like you’re bleeding’.  Yeah.

That red cover-up was Halloween-ghoulish in the bloody scalp department.  I should have just stuck a meat cleaver up there and walked around like a bad-prank-gone-horribly-awry, or victim of a random Zombie attack.  Totally believable.

I think this is the direction it’s heading. I already have the bathrobe.

I obviously need interventions on how to age with dignity and grace, without looking like my scalp was partially removed, then reattached and left in a bloody mess.  Or someone changed his mind mid- lobotomy and simply threw my scalp back over my head like a floppy toupe, or the Donald’s comb over repair.  My pimples make me look like I just walked out of grade 10 gym class and need a shower.  Face mask?  Sure…do they make a mask that has both collagen wrinkle-disappearing-potion and benzo-peroxide zit zapper shit in it?  One that’s not going to make me feel like I’m in a constant wind tunnel where my face is stretched so tight I’m constantly smiling, or so greasy that it looks like I washed my face with a pork chop?  Let’s see that shit!

How did it come to this?  What did women do before us?  How did they manage the whole aging process without looking like a Stepford wife or a throwback from Throw Momma From the Train?

There should be lessons on how to age after fifty without losing your sanity and your wine cache all in one sitting.

Or at least the sympathy and acknowledgment that despite the whole ‘fifty is the new forty’ thing, there are still struggles with pimples, bloating, weight gain and the emotional turmoil of a pubescent girl including the awkwardness of actually trying to walk and see at the same time.

My head hurts.

Maybe some lovely young woman will invent a new treatment for us older ladies so all of this magically disappears.

I guess I’ll have to wait for that golden moment, but until then there’s always alcohol.

CHEERS!

Pass the Clearisil.

Of Weed And Wine

It’s almost mid-January and I’ve yet to write a full post.  I’m not sure if I should apologize or simply continue on reading sucky Donny tweets.  I have to say, if not for the race-spewing shit and the highly offensive ‘shit-hole country’ remarks, some are downright hilarious.  The one I thought I could actually plaster as a tagline on this here blog or bio somewhere, was absolute golden surfer-dude nonsense at its best.  Narcissistic inarticulate ignoramous gold.  “Actually, throughout my life, my two greatest assets have been mental stability and being, like, really smart.”  LIKE, TOTALLY GOLDEN, DUDE. I almost fell off my chair.  I texted the DH ladies to let them know my new bio line was epic in its, like totally wicked smart asshole-like way.  Like, Donald, are you like, really REALLY smart?  Or just the run of the mill, my-dad-only-gave-me-a-tiny-million-dollar-loan smart, whereby you compare yourself as enduring a life of absolute turmoil by having the word ‘no’ said to you, to the guy working two or three jobs day and night just to put food on the table and kids through school.   You understand that shit because, LIKE YOU TOTALLY HAVE BEEN THERE.  Dude. UGH.

Here is a picture of a cactus I took whilst on vacation to distract you from the utter ridiculous-ness of the world right now. You. Are. Welcome.

It’s enough to make your head hurt and your faith in humanity south of the border wane just a bit.  After Oprah’s epic Golden Globe speech, the rants about having her be the next president made me a bit nauseated.  Seriously?!  YOU CAN’T HAVE OPRAH BE PRESIDENT JUST BECAUSE SHE CAN TALK GOOD!  And she rocked those specs. Making her look like, REALLY REALLY SMART.  GET OUT THE SANITY METER AND SEE WHERE SHE ENDS UP?!

GAWD.

Is that all it takes to be the President of a country?  Desperate, much? Tommy will be bouncing up and down on her yellow couch to proclaim the virtues of Scientology and the second coming of the Devil, AKA Leah Remini, and she’ll be wielding the presidential proclamation like a flag, all the while preaching ‘Your Best Self’ and having a Super Soul Sunday retreat with the VP and the Head of the FBI. I wonder if she would include the Fire and Fury book on Oprah’s Book Club essential reading list.  Huh.

And we’ll be up here reeling from the second hand smoke and scouring for munchies wondering what the actual fuck is wrong with the U.S.?  Dude.  Chill.

Grab the Acetaminophen and the wine.  Wait…pain relievers and alcohol don’t mix, right?  Weed and wine?

I dunno.

What happened to simpler times when Clinton was screwing his secretary and Chretien was getting pie-faced?

WHAT?!