This year I finally decided to try yoga as form of excercise to replace my previous routine of "No Exercise at All." Lately I can’t perform the “Trying to Tie My Shoe” dance in the privacy of my own grocery store without a friend pointing out snippily that yoga would strengthen my core muscles and give me balance.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible."
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on one foot and trying to catch my shoe strings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their downward dog faces somewhere else. Besides, given my motto of "no excess movement unless there is a fast-moving spider involved," it beats World Cup soccer as a form of exercise.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I could at least create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. That, and I also have a video camera and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and one in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of designer adult diapers for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When the teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. It doesn’t work the core muscles, but it sure beats trying to get up until an Emergency Responder carrying oxygen and a tow rope happens by to give you a hand. So if you happen across a woman with untied shoes stretched across the Weight Watchers aisle in the grocery store, step over her. It's me. I'm either finding inner peace or waiting for the tow truck to arrive.
Laugh
Showing posts with label aerobics. Show all posts
Showing posts with label aerobics. Show all posts
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Thursday, December 11, 2008
Sexy Back
Now that we’re dangerously close to qualifying for the senior citizen’s discount at the Pearly Gates, Bill Dear and I have decided to increase our exercise time and see if we can put off the trip to the Great Beyond so we can annoy our kids a while longer. Since our present exercise routine consists of trying to stand up after pushing the envelope by sitting and reading at the same time, our choices for aerobic potential were wide open.
We started off well, but eventually one of us started an argument by deciding that our routine would be more aerobically beneficial if we actually left our recliners. Bill Dear pouted and popped me with his cane.
After an extended period of the “who’s going to get up first game,” we joined hands and limped down the path toward cardiac health together.
Bill regarded me critically.
“Is your arthritis acting up?”
“No, why?” I find it’s best to humor him. He is capable of halting the whole process in favor of a debate.
“The way you’re walking reminds me of the time you tried to ride the pogo stick.”
“I almost had the hang of it, too.”
“You sure did. It’s a shame about Happy’s tail.”
“Yeah, poor thing. He was never quite as happy after that.”
“So what’s with the bump and grimace?”
“I’m trying to walk like Giselle Bundchen, the supermodel, on the cat walk.”
“Well you look like Patches, the calico, in the cat box.”
“Thanks a lot. You don’t exactly have Justin Timberlake’s smooth moves, you know.”
“Who’s Justin Timberlake?”
“He’s the one who’s bringing sexy back.”
“Sounds like he’s got a better gig than Santa Claus.”
“I think he skipped our house.”
“Darlin’, he skipped our whole street. But don’t worry.”
“Why not?”
“Somebody’s sure to return theirs to WalMart after Christmas. We’ll pick some up for half price, just in time for the New Year.”
That's what I like. A man of action at discount prices.
We started off well, but eventually one of us started an argument by deciding that our routine would be more aerobically beneficial if we actually left our recliners. Bill Dear pouted and popped me with his cane.
After an extended period of the “who’s going to get up first game,” we joined hands and limped down the path toward cardiac health together.
Bill regarded me critically.
“Is your arthritis acting up?”
“No, why?” I find it’s best to humor him. He is capable of halting the whole process in favor of a debate.
“The way you’re walking reminds me of the time you tried to ride the pogo stick.”
“I almost had the hang of it, too.”
“You sure did. It’s a shame about Happy’s tail.”
“Yeah, poor thing. He was never quite as happy after that.”
“So what’s with the bump and grimace?”
“I’m trying to walk like Giselle Bundchen, the supermodel, on the cat walk.”
“Well you look like Patches, the calico, in the cat box.”
“Thanks a lot. You don’t exactly have Justin Timberlake’s smooth moves, you know.”
“Who’s Justin Timberlake?”
“He’s the one who’s bringing sexy back.”
“Sounds like he’s got a better gig than Santa Claus.”
“I think he skipped our house.”
“Darlin’, he skipped our whole street. But don’t worry.”
“Why not?”
“Somebody’s sure to return theirs to WalMart after Christmas. We’ll pick some up for half price, just in time for the New Year.”
That's what I like. A man of action at discount prices.
Monday, May 5, 2008
Pole Bending
That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program. It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and have little or nothing in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I had seen on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining silver pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze. Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr stirring strands of hair around my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
That pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole.
And cook a turkey it did. The fat grabber treads of my thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my thighs had the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. I let go of the pole with a better understanding of the importance of the proper attire for pole dancing.
On the whole, it’s not a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the somersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on Team USA. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning that old tire in circles and grinned. At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too.
But the worst part was that the blasted thing looked better in those old gym shorts than I did.
“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.
“But everybody’s doing it.”
“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”
That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.
However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.
The videos I had seen on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining silver pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze. Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr stirring strands of hair around my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.
That pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole.
And cook a turkey it did. The fat grabber treads of my thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my thighs had the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin.
Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. I let go of the pole with a better understanding of the importance of the proper attire for pole dancing.
On the whole, it’s not a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.
Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the somersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on Team USA. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning that old tire in circles and grinned. At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too.
But the worst part was that the blasted thing looked better in those old gym shorts than I did.
Thursday, February 28, 2008
Yoga As A Second Language
Lately I can’t perform the Trying to Tie My Shoe Dance in the privacy of my own grocery store without a friend pointing out snippily that yoga would strengthen my core muscles and give me balance.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible” on the insurance forms.
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on the other foot and trying to catch my shoestrings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga lingo. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their Downward Dog faces somewhere else.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I should create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. Also, I have a camcorder and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Here are my innovations. Be sure to notify your children before beginning any new exercise program as they will want to call in friends to help them make fun of you.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows, furrowing your mustache attractively. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and an extra pair of stretchy pants in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw unfriendly comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of Depends for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When your teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow from your face, which now resembles the surface of the sun, to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. I recommend using this pose on that teenager that just came in late.
The only core I care about is at the center of my candy apple. At my age, self improvement is just another name for “Deductible” on the insurance forms.
For the Shoe Dance, I just stretch down toward my foot and simultaneously raise my Reebok while hopping on the other foot and trying to catch my shoestrings. I don’t need yoga, I need higher shoes.
However, in the spirit of avoiding the “I told you so” song performed by a choir of the sagest of my friends and family, I decided to learn some yoga lingo. I figured it wouldn’t take a bloomin’ Lotus to convince them to take their Downward Dog faces somewhere else.
“You need to work on your asanas,” my sister perked.
“Well yours isn’t getting any smaller, either,” I snapped.
“No, I mean your poses. Start with some Sun Salutations for warmup and work your way through.”
“Through what? Do I have to greet everything in the sky? There’s a bird up there that I am NOT speaking to until he cleans up my car."
I decided that as a modern woman who once engaged the delivery room nurse in hand-to-hand combat over the rights to the Demerol, I should create my own yoga positions. Poses that would fit in with my graceful and elegant, if slightly advanced, lifestyle. I’m including them here because my goal in life is to help other people. Also, I have a camcorder and a lifelong wish to win the big money on America’s Funniest Home Videos.
Here are my innovations. Be sure to notify your children before beginning any new exercise program as they will want to call in friends to help them make fun of you.
Down with the Dog Position: Stretch as far as possible across the bed until you can at least touch the dog, who is presently indulging in a flagrant violation of house rules by reclining dreamily and just out of reach on the bed as if he’d received an invitation from Lassie for Dogs Rule Day. Smack at his paws with the tips of your fingers until he rolls his eyes, sighs heavily, and jumps down in exasperation.
Tiny Print Eyeball Squint: This is an exercise for the muscles of the face. Try to read the answers to yesterday’s crossword puzzle in the newspaper without wearing your glasses. Squint eyes tightly, wrinkle your nose, and draw the upper lip toward the wild hairs sprouting from your eyebrows, furrowing your mustache attractively. Pull newspaper so close to your face that you could inhale the letters off the page, and repeat the exercise. Extend arms to full length, leaning to one side to allow more light onto paper. Repeat exercise. Give up and roll up paper to use later during Down With the Dog position.
Crossed Legs Sneezing Position: As a mother of two children, I am at the time of my life where a single sneeze can cause an embarrassing fashion disaster. (During cold and flu season I leave a change of clothes in every room, two in the trunk of my car, and an extra pair of stretchy pants in the glove compartment.) I find that the following exercise eradicates the dangers of a water hazard should respiratory systems erupt during a heated discussion at a PTA meeting. When a sneeze threatens to attack, quickly cross one foot carefully over the other and squeeze the thighs together like lemons at juicing time. This exercise may draw unfriendly comments from the crowd, but allows you to put off the purchase of Depends for a little while longer.
Late for Curfew Aerobics: What good is an exercise program that doesn’t elevate your heart rate? When your teenager is out past curfew, sprint to the window every five minutes to check for their car. Sprint to the telephone and snatch up the receiver to see if there’s still a dial tone. Sprint to your purse and dig for your cell phone to see if there’s a message from the Sheriff. When the errant teen finally wonders in, indulge in a rapid toe tap while crossing the arms over the chest. Breathe in and out quickly to stimulate blood flow from your face, which now resembles the surface of the sun, to the heart. Produce an atom-splitting tirade on House Rules to cleanse the body of impurities.
Corpse Pose: This is an actual yoga position designed for total relaxation at the end of a workout. The body is stretched out on the floor much like a murder victim on CSI. I recommend using this pose on that teenager that just came in late.
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