Workout Wednesday - But I'd Rather Be Lazy...

A while ago I posted about an upcoming fitness series on Black with a Chance of Cheetah. Well here it comes. I know you've been anxiously waiting.

Why a fitness series? Why now? It's June and we're all feeling weird about our swimsuit physique. It's beautiful outside and it gives you more reasons to go enjoy it. I'm done with school and super bored all the time. I don't know, pick one. (By the way, I hate YOLO.)

Let me take you on a little journey through my fitness development:

Stage One: Super fit during year-round sports. Fitness was a by-product of athletics. 

Stage Two: Freshman laziness. I replaced exercising 3 hours a day with 3 hours a day of studying on my butt and eating crap. I got a Gold's Gym pass and started working out regularly, but I didn't lose any weight and didn't really improve my fitness, somehow. 

Stage Three: Busy life. I stopped working out altogether and spent all my time with The Beard, running from place to place and planning my future (graduation, teaching, marriage). I was really happy and subconsciously starting eating less and much better. 

Stage Four: Weak. I noticed how winded and pathetic I was running the bases with my slowpitch team. Moving things around in my new house made me feel like a wussy lightweight. I've been strong my whole life, until now. I started teaching and found myself mentally and physically exhausted. This whole not-working out thing isn't working out. 

Stage Five: Balance. That's when I found my PERSONAL fitness balance. I'm not a gym rat or a couch potato. I don't work out every day, but I'm not afraid to jump into a random game of flag football vs the students. 

Fitness isn't about losing weight anymore, though I wouldn't mind losing a few (amiright?). It's about feeling good. It's about confidence. It's about making myself better. 

And I do. I feel better. I feel good. I'm confident. I have more energy. I sleep better. I naturally make better eating decisions. I don't work out everyday. And I'm not a gym rat anymore. But I'm active and I feel good. That's what it's about. 

Personally I don't think fitness should be about your inspiration board full of half-naked Nike models. I don't think it should be about spending 20 hours a week at the gym. I don't think it should be about doing situps and starving yourself to fit into a size whatever. 

Fitness should be whatever works for you. Whatever makes you feel good. Whatever gives you confidence. Whatever makes you feel alive!

That's what this series is about. I will post about fitness topics that I know and love (weight-training, yoga, Just Dance!), and I have several guest posters lined up to blog about their fitness routines. Join us next week for my adorable and tough Miss Ashby's post about rock climbing!

If there's anything you want to see on the fitness blog series or if you have a hilarious gym story to share, let me know by email at dholdy {at} gmail {dot} com

My Little "Bro"-ny

When you get married and move in with someone, there is a learning curve. Not only do you need to learn to schedule sleeping, showering, eating, laundry, and all those basic life things, but you also learn all of the weird little things that are part of your spouse's identity. Often these things weren't super obvious when you were dating. SURPRISE.

For Ryan, I imagine he had to get used to the way I spaz run/yell when I realize I'm running late or excited, my enthusiastic Just Dance every day after school, and how vital it is that I never get cold. I turn into the White Witch.

For me, I would have never guessed I would ever know so much about the online gaming community. I knew The Beard played StarCraft when we dated, but usually he did that after he got home from hanging out with me. Once we were married and living together, it became part of my life too. I can now proudly say that I know the entire timeline of Blizzard Games, I've played League of Legends (and I'm terrible at it) and I understand the legacy of Tassadar.

But here's the most disturbing thing. My Little Pony - Friendship is Magic. Yes. You read that right. Apparently, and I still can't explain this, the active demographic of viewers for this show are males age 15-35. Gamers.

Does this make sense to anyone? No. Because it's inexplicable. Before you ask me, no, there aren't any sexual innuendos, secret meanings, coded messages, etc. It's a real cartoon aimed at little girls. But somehow these men started watching it and love it.

They fondly refer to themselves as "Bronies."

I watched part of an episode on Netflix with the Beard on Saturday. It's a pretty cute show, all about the magic of friendship, being nice, being yourself and all that jazz. Still, though, I don't understand why these Bronies keep watching it and more importantly, HOW IN THE WORLD DID THEY START WATCHING IT?



This is a real thing, you guys. I don't understand it. I can't explain it. But I love The Beard. Even if he watches little girl cartoons. I watch 60s Star Trek and love Hannibal the Cannibal, so I guess I can't talk...

I Put the "It" in "Fitness"

I let my Gold's Gym pass expire. I used to hit the gym all the time and I loved it. Especially going to Jim's (silver fox) yoga class in Orem. However, once I started dating The Beard my free time pretty much disappeared. No complaints here. I actually ate better and less, because I had to. I played some intramural soccer and city rec. slowpitch, which is fun. (Anyone playing any sports give me call. I'm dece.)

Once I started teaching my daily stress level rose a little, and I was having trouble sleeping. I knew I would feel better if I exercised, but I never wanted to go to the gym. I can't risk running into weird people from my ward and high school, god forbid any students. But something had to be done. I hate running, by the way. So not an option.

I had set up our Wii and played a few rounds of Just Dance since we'd moved in, and I was slowly becoming addicted to it. Problem solved. Just Dance has a function for fitness called "Just Sweat." It tracks your calories burnt and sets you up for a weeklong program with an intensity of your choosing. Yahtzee..

So here's my daily routine. I know you're dying to hear it. I do school, stay only as long as I absolutely need to, then come home and immediately change into my yoga pants. I Just Dance it up, without shame, sucking down water and panting, until my husband comes home from work and laughs at me. Every day. Then I quickly pretend like I'm not 14 and run into the kitchen to start dinner. Some days if I feel like being an adult I'll do the yoga app session that comes with my DVD player. But lets be honest. Who picks yoga over this? (Also picture me doing this furiously, alone in my living room. 22 years of age.)

The Terrible Awful

Ok this isn't the real Terrible Awful (go read The Help if you haven't yet. Right now), but it is A terrible awful. And I've been paranoid ever since.

Yesterday morning I was blow-drying my hair. You know. Doo-doo, just a-blow-dryin my wet hairs, doo-doo.... when I see something on the floor a few inches from my toes. I wasn't sure if it was a some weeds I'd tracked in from outside, or something more sinister. So, naturally, I give it a little blow with my dryer. IT MOVED. IT MOVED THOSE GODFORSAKEN EIGHT LEGS.

I shouted. But my in the adjacent room didn't wake up, because my voice lacks the decibel volume of a KISS concert. I flatter myself that I usually don't startle too easily, but spiders have never been my thing. They always make me feel, in the eloquent words of Shakespeare, "Icky."**

**Not the words of Shakespeare.

I finish up my wet section and then decide I can delay it no longer. Something must be done about this spider. I grab a trusty can of Paul Mitchell hairspray. It's a cure-all. Flyaway? Loose earring stems? Wrinkles? Oh yeah. Spray some stuff on that. I corner him at the base of my garbage can. Sucker's got no chance. I spray him like my life depends on it, extending my arm while simultaneously retracting every other cell in my body.

Only after I'm done spraying do I realize I've been shouting the entire time. [I prefer not to use the verb 'scream,' thank you.] But then I realize. "Oh. You just used the heat seal spray. Maybe something more firm with a higher alcohol content will work better. Double Tap." So I grab my Freeze and Shine. Let me tell you. If I was going to die by hairspray, I'm certain Freeze and Shine would be the weapon of choice for any assailant. I gave him another 5 good, hearty sprays. He was all curled up and dead. But no way was I going to touch him. I have a husband for that.

So I finish getting ready, go in to wake up my husband and then run out the door to work. I'll make The Beard clean him up later. Or maybs vacuum him. Both valid options that do not include me getting near him at all.

(Also. Why am I calling it a him? Anthropomorphizing as a consequence of my guilt? Probably.)

I come home from work. Do my thing.

My thing: Just Dance, maybe a chore on a good day, more Just Dance, reading fashion blogs, making dinner, watching The Office.

Then later I go into my room to show Ryan where he is so he can clean him up.

HE'S NOT THERE. HE'S NOT THERE!!!!!!! I gave that spider a full 90 seconds of cosmetic torture, effectively sealing him to the carpet and garbage can base. But he lived through it the little b_____d. I freaked out. Somewhere in my house, probably in my room, is a large brown spider (not a Brown Recluse, thanks) is still alive and 100% pissed at me. I freaked. The Beard starts lecturing me about killing spiders appropriately. Like I'd ever do that. I felt like a target in my own home. This guy was coming for me.

A few hours later, after constant shoe-wearing, I went into my room to change into my pjs and the little bugger had the nerve to stand at the scene of the crime. I obviously shouted like a crazy person till the Beard came in and promptly squished him, gingerly sliding him onto a paper and into my garbage can.

Ew. I didn't take that garbage can out. Just realizing that now. Either his corpse is in there haunting me or he has risen once again like the Rasputin of spiders, and is slowly working his way back onto my carpet, waiting for my fleshy, warm, bare feet.

1 Spider was harmed in the making of this blog post.