Yoga for Beginners (and Old Bags of Bones)

I exercise a ton, if you count racing around the streets of Brooklyn more than Forest freaking Gump. I, doe one, count it. One of these days I'm going to get a pedometer and then I'm going to feel incredibly good about myself.

I do not, however, exercise in the formal sense and I'm starting to feel like I could use some, particularly the variety which provides mental health benefits. Yoga, in other words.  I want to do yoga. I want to be calm and oozing with equanimity. I also want to be hot with a rock-hard ass.

So, I turn to a yoga class, in the hopes that it was the magical variety of yoga which makes all your problems, and body fat, go away.

It was a gentle, beginner class, full of mothers who've been out of the exercise loop. And I did, in fact, witness magic. I witnessed the magic of aging. I witnessed the magical toll that having three kids will take on the human body. Here is my epiphany:

I am an old bag of bones. Brittle bones connected by cracking joints to which useless flesh that once was muscle continues to adhere.

Thanks, yoga. I feel freaking fantastic about myself now.

Every time I moved, my body made sounds. Bad sounds, like when you try to force the plastic backing off the remote and you pull too hard so it make s pop! sound and you think," Shit, I shouldn't have done that." Except the remote is my body and even the gentlest exertion appeared to make things go wrong.

I can no longer touch my toes without howling in discomfort. I can't cross my legs without hearing my knees crack like a tree limb being broken in half.  Three kids later, my muscles are functioning at approximately 3% capacity, except for my vocal cords, which have become super-sized and all-powerful.

Downward dog used to be enjoyable. Now, my head throbs and my shoulders creak and there are shooting pains in my hands. My hands!  It's probably arthritis, seeing as my body has aged 10 years since having my third baby a year ago. I was in child's pose for about 75 percent of the class, so I didn't have a heart attack, which David would find very inconvenient. I am not even exaggerating when I say that my grandmother who is 83, could have done a more peppy sun salute.

I'm going back. Obviously. I'm going to rehabilitate this sack-of-shit body, one measly hour a week. I may no longer be young but I insist on continuing to be foolishly optimistic.

That's not to say I'm giving up on yoga. I may be an old bag of bones with zero muscle tone but I retain my stubbornness.

Treadmill

I’ve never been a hard-core or even a consistent exerciser, but the last time I had a real stretch of commiting to regular cardio was about a decade ago, when David and I lived in Los Angeles. You can’t live in LA as an actress without joining a gym. I believe it was one of the qualifications for renting our apartment, right after the credit check. It doesn’t matter how skinny or hot you are, you can always be skinnier and hotter, and you must try. So I joined a gym a few blocks from my house and I drove there almost every time. At that gym, I used the elliptical machine. I remember this being a kind of new fangled contraption which replaced the Stair Master. It was all the rage.

So last September when I resolved to work out 2 times a week, I headed straight for the elliptical machine. After a few months, though, I remarked to my mommy friend, who is an experienced exerciser, that I felt like the elliptical wasn’t doing anything for me.

“I don’t even really break a sweat,” I confessed, “And even though I like that about it, I have a feeling it is kind of pointless. “

“Yeah, forget the elliptical,” she counseled, “You need to do interval training, on the treadmill.”

Ohhhhh, that scared me a little. I saw other people using the treadmill. They sweated profusely, They panted. It exhausted me just to watch. But, I figured, if I was going to bother working out, I might as well lose my fat ass and floppy belly That was the whole point of the enterprise, anyway.

Turns out, I like the treadmill. I mean, it does cause problems, like when I was pumping my arms so desperately that I punched the control panel and the treadmill instantly stopped, causing me to lurch forward perilously. Also, it took a while for me to figure eout how to affix my IPhone to my person so I could continue listening to the galvanizing sounds of “All Things Considered” on NPR. I tired wedging it in my cleavage but then people looked at me weird when I had to pull it out to change the program. So now, I use a little backpack that was given to the kids on Christmas and stick my phone in there, where it rests securely at the small of my back. I know I look like a maniac but I’m sure I looked like one before, anyway, with all the huffing and puffing and groaning sounds I make.

The reason the treadmill – which Primo calls “that machine that makes you run and run but you never get anywhere – is such a perfect fir for my exercise needs is this: it forces you, on peril of serious bodily harm., to really work. This is convenient because the only thing that will make me work is, indeed, the imminent threat of serious bodily harm. If I stop running on the treadmill, my face will smash on something. The last thing I need, in addition to my fat ass and floppy belly, is a smashed face. So I run.

I’ll leave the elliptical to those self=starters. You know who you are.

Zumba’s trying to kill me

I tried Zumba last night for the first time. I think it’s safe to say I won’t be doing again anytime soon. That’s because, despite this being the winter of my discontent, I do retain a stubborn self-preservation instinct. I barely survived that Zumba class last night and I don’t think I’d be so lucky next time.

For those of you who haven’t tried Zumba, you could Wikipedia it but I’ll give you a better explanation than those clowns. As far as I can tell, Zumba is aerobics on methamphetamines, with a Latin twist. Remember Jazzercise? This is Salsaercise, but done at such a furious, unrelenting pace that you will wonder if it isn’t maybe attempted homicide? Think The Red Shoes, but with sneakers and more sweat.

It’s not that I didn’t like Zumba. I don’t even know if I liked it or not, because I was too busy trying not to have cardiac arrest in front of my friends and neighbors.

I mean, I love salsa and meringue: I love any kind of dance which relies heavily on the hips, and involves shimmying. Part of the advantage of being more ample than I used to be is that I’ve got the goods to shake. But although Zumba relies heavily on the fast foot action of salsa and meringue, and on the attitude, there is a lot of moves which would never be found in any kind of dance, moves which were generically engineered to maximize your workout, moves you do not because they look good but because they are good for that muscle group, There is nothing I hate more than bald-faces calisthenics masquerading as something fun.

Someone in our building sent an email around, announcing a Zumba class starting up in the gym. I was all for it – had heard it was a high-intensity, really effective workout. Of course, that should have signaled to me that it would involved panting and sweating, but as you see, I live in a fantasy land.

As I neared the gym for the inaugural meeting of Zumba club, I could hear the pounding music. It gave me an uneasy feeling. In my experience, the volume of the music tends to correlate directly with the amount of effort you have to exert in the class. This didn’t bode well.

The room was packed, five times as many people as showed up for our peaceful, slow Pilates classes that were JUST my speed. We crowded into lines, too close together and the instructor, a trim, energetic man in a bright orange Zumba Tshirt, walked to the front of the room.

“There are only two rules to Zumba,” he said, bouncing already, “Or I should say, there are NO rules in Zumba but two rules in this class. Don’t stop moving and have fun.”

I wanted to tell him that for me, those were mutually exclusive but I didn’t think he’d warm to that and besides the music had been cranked up even higher and the class had started. The music was too loud for him to yell instructions, so she just modeled the moves and signaled how many reps we’d do with his fingers. This nonverbal system probably would work for Zumba experts, dancers and people who are really fast on the uptake but for most of us, it meant significant confusion.

Of course, it doesn’t matter if you get the moves right, as long as you keep moving.

The first ten, fifteen minutes weren’t so bad. That is probably because that was the warm-up. But when the fourth song started, he did a move which made me laugh out loud.

“A traveling move?” I thought, “Oooh, this is gonna be a disaster!”

It was one of these electric-slide-type side-traveling steps, but the trouble was not only were we cramped way too close together, but since the instructor was facing us, he was doing each move backwards, and half of us thought we were supposed to go in the same direction as him while the other half thought we were supposed to go the other way. There were several collisions and near collisions. Then he signaled with his hands we were going backwards.

“Oh shit!” I thought.

And as I guessed, I did promptly bump my big ass right into the nice, sweaty lady behind me. It was an uncomfortable encounter.

“So sorry!” I panted, “But you should know – I may—accidentally—kill you.”

Then the music sped up and things got hazy. Eating dinner beforehand, it turned out, was not such a capital idea. I was beginning to feel seriously sick to my stomach, like I had had one too many drinks and was about to toss my cookies. In fact, it seems probable I would toss my cookies and I seriously considered absenting myself. But no one ELSE was walking out of Zumba class, miserably defeated, and I didn’t want to be the only one who couldn’t hack it. So I grimaced and hoped for the best, moving my feet so fast the worn rubber soles of my sneakers became dis-adhered from my shoe. Then I was tripping over the flopping sole of my sneakers and lurching around in addition to crashing into people who werecelectric sliding in the opposite direction as me. Soon after the nausea came the light-headedness. The room was spinning and the Zumba instructor was smiling madly, jumping so fast he was literally blurred. Was this all a bad dream? Had someone slipped a rufi in my water bottle? At what point do I cry Uncle?

I looked to my sides and the women there – not Olympians but mothers of young children trying to get back in shape, like me – were perfectly happy, panting and sweaty but smiling. No, I could not admit defeat here. I would rather pass out in a pool of my own vomit, having a heart attack, all of which was imminent. Then at least maybe they’d ban Zumba all over the country, make it illegal, and my death would have been worth it.

I don’t remember much about the second half of the class, except looking down at my watch every five minutes and having a panic attack about how much time was left. I do also recall a series of moves that involves such fast and emphatic humping motions with the pelvis that I could not stop myself from laughing out loud, even though that extra physical exertion nearly did me in. It was like a humping seizure. In fact, it was probably the best moment of the class, because remembering it now still make me laugh out loud.

I walked through the door to my apartment afterwards and collapsed on the couch.

“Never,” I panted, “again.”

“Did they make you sweat?” David asked, “You hate that.”

Zumba, I wish you the best, but we’re done. Caput. And frankly, I think you owe me a new pair of sneakers.

After the first Pilates class

Oh.
Oooh.
Ooooooh.
I don’t think I can move. Pain. So much pain, David. This level of pain does not seem normal. It seems deep, deep down in my organs. Is it possible to pull your small intestines?

No, I did not stretch first as a matter of fact. Does it look like I’ve just swimming in free time here?

David, I am positively parched. Damn workout dried up my esophageal lining. I need a glass of water. Of course I can’t get up and get it. I’m injured. I am injured from exercise. I am telling you, I’ve done something awful to my abdomen. No, I don’t think it’s SUPPOSED to ache like this. This seems extreme. Do women have groins? I think I pulled my groin. I probably can’t have sex for WEEKS. Just wouldn’t want to risk it. Next thing you know, I’ll pull my vajajay and then we’d really be in trouble.

Is it not a little ironic that in the pursuit of health I undertake an exercise which ends up injuring me so that I can’t get my fat ass off the couch to get a glass of water? I am NOT being histrionic. You pull YOUR groin and see how you feel.

I’m feeling so lousy I think I need a drink. To dull the pain. No pain, no gain they say. Get me a beer, won’t you?

Don’t know if I can muster the courage to face the mat next week. We’ll just have to see if my groin pulls through.

How you can save me from this cursed metabolic slump

I have a great many positive qualities, if I do say so myself, but self-discipline is not among them. To my credit, if you met my parents you’d think I was a self-control success story. These people have virtually no filter between their brain and their mouth. But regardless, it is true that I do lack discipline.

And so my New Year’s resolutions tend not to be terribly fruitful. But this year, I am following-through on my follow-through I am kicking ass and taking names. Because . . .

I need to lose this baby belly.

The baby’s no longer a baby but the belly is still a belly – aye, there’s the rub. And I am relying on you, dear, wise readers to help.

My obstacle is this:

I’ve never had to exercise to stay skinny. I say this knowing you won’t hate me because it is, sadly, in the past. Before the age of about 30, I was untouchable. Ate anything. Never worked out. Stayed at my college weight. It was the honeymoon phase between me and my woman’s body. Even after two kids, I was back in my old XS clothes within a month or so. Oh, how the pride goes before a fall! That cursed metabolic slump of my 30s! Oh the ruined abdominal wall of two pregnancies! But lamenting doesn’t give you a six-pack. I’ve tried. It turns out you have to WORK for it. The indignity.

What I’m trying to sugarcoat is this:

I’m lazy. Shockingly, incredibly, balls-out lazy. I despise sweating. I loathe panting for breath. It just seems so uncivilized. But the time has come for change. I made a New Year’s Resolution for Chrissake. So the question, dear readers is this:

How do I get rid of the baby belly? Oh, one caveat. No diets, please. I don’t smoke or drink or have casual sex, I watch my TV with the volume low and shop at Target, so eating pasta and the occasional burger is what I do for kicks. Take that away and where do I get my jollies?

I’m taking about exercise. I’m willing to sweat and I’m willing to do it every day, provided it takes 30 minutes or less. I’m about the realistic plan, to maximize chances for success. You know, starting small and building momentum.

I didn’t say it would be easy. But I KNOW you can help me, fitness gurus out there. My abdomen depends on you!

Happy-Go-Lucky

My husband says that all I do is complain, so just to prove him wrong, I think I’ll start this post by saying that I’m having a wonderful day. The first thing this day has to recommend itself is that it is Friday, and although it is certainly not the end of my work week, it is the end of David’s, and that means he will be home for the next two days and the children will spend some of their time and energy torturing him, making life better for me.

Secondly, it is resplendent outside. So I won’t be forced to search for mittens for a half hour, fight the baby to put them on for another five minutes, and then pick them up off the pavement repeatedly. Fantastic

.

Oh, and thanks to Dine In Brooklyn, I was able to enjoy a scrumptious 3-course meal with two mommy friends, at Rosewater last night for just $23. A large portion of the mealtime conversation was devoted to our baby bellies. The ones we are left with after the pregnancy, not during. My friend opened up the can of worms by saying that when she was getting changed for a yoga class, she happened to catch a glimpse of her body in the full-length mirror and was not pleased by what she saw.

Now, I didn’t want to get into a fatso competition but, I pointed out to her, there is no WAY her baby belly could be worse than mine, if only because she noticed it in a yoga studio., She’s making an effort to better herself and you generally get rewarded for that shit. I, however, will never be rewarded because I hate exercise and never do it. Let me amend that statement. I happen to think I do a lot of exercise. I climb up three flights of stairs to my apartment carrying my two year-old and dragging my four year-old multiple times a day, and when I get to the top, my heart is pounding so hard I feel like I’m about to enter cardiac arrest. I am on my feet nearly all day, running, hoisting, squatting, lunging, and doing other manner of things that people do in step-aerobics class. So I’m entitled to some reward, too, aren’t I? I mean, it’s not like I’m lounging on my chaise eating bon bons.

But nooooooo, this kind of exertion does not count when it comes to tackling the dreaded baby belly. Only serious, formal abdominal work will make a difference, I know. I have tried to make that kind of thing a part of my daily routine. Last week I tried. On Monday. I even had Primo help design me a sticker chart.

“Just think of it as helping the kid learn to count,” said David, “You have no problem committing to the projects that improve them. Have Primo sit on your feet and count to 50 while you do the sit-ups.”

As it turns out, Primo had no problem counting to the number of sit-ups I was able to do. Seconda could probably count to that number. It was disheartening, to say the least.

If I live long enough I will see the day when some very smart scientists invent a way to get rid of my baby belly without me having to experience this kind of indignity. I’m waiting for that day. And while I wait, I am wearing empire-waisted clothing.

So, as you see, my husband is wrong about me. I’m really quite a happy-go-lucky kind of gal.