now is a good time to panic


near death by basketball

I almost died at the gym. Some guys were playing basketball close to where I get my towels. I was walking by and one guy missed a pass and I nearly got hit in the face with the ball. Some other dude palmed it in the air like three inches from my beautiful nose and saved my life.

If my face gets ruined, then I’ll have to rely on my personality to get by in life… then I’m fucked, because I’m kind of an asshole.

PS: I made that comment to my dad and he laughed in my face and asked ‘you think you’ve gotten this far in life on THOSE looks?!’ Thanks, dad. At least I come by my assholery honestly.



back to the gym
31 July 2012, 8:30 am
Filed under: gymming | Tags: , , ,

With everything going on lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about going back to the gym. I haven’t been for a few months, due to the upheaval in my life. When I do go, I feel much better. I have endorphins pumping through me, I feel good about myself, and I need to lose weight, anyway.
Since I don’t have a car, the VA gave me paperwork to get a discounted bus pass. Instead of $2.50/ride, it cost me $2.50/month. I paid $30 and they gave me a pass that doesn’t expire for a year. Barbara took me to get my shiny new pass on Monday. Naturally, the first thing I did was look up routes to the gym on base. What is a 20 minute drive to Hickam AFB is a three hour round trip on TheBus. Holy. Shit. A three hour round trip for a 45 minute workout. That doesn’t include wait times, because TheBus only comes once every 45 minutes or so. Not to complain or anything, but that seems a bit excessive to me.

Next I searched the area for the closest gym. There’s a 24 Hr Fitness that’s a 2.5 mile bike ride (or a 20 minute bus ride) from where I’m living. Which is much more reasonable… but it’s about $50 a month. Because of my health issues, I can only go like three times a week. That works out to $4.17 per visit. Now I need to weigh whether that’s money that I can spend on something that isn’t essential. It’s a hard choice to make. Do I spend that money on something that I don’t absolutely need, or do I save it, knowing that I’ll be $50 closer to getting myself, my dog, and my stuff the hell off of this island.

Self care is important, but so is planning for the future. It’s a tough decision.



assholery
17 April 2012, 10:35 am
Filed under: gymming, life in general, nonsense | Tags: , , ,

SOMEONE STOLE MY BIKE, Y’ALL. For reals. Off our front porch… in base housing. What the hell? It was the biggest piece of shit ever. It weighed 600lbs (see the odyssey) and was basically held together by rust. I don’t even want it back… I’m just mad that they took it. They took the helmet, too. Damnit.

 

Now I’m back to no way to get to and from the gym. I’m going to have to hit up the thrift store or Airman’s Attic on base to try to find another one. I checked Craigslist, but these people want money for their old shitty bikes. They’re nuts. If it’s cheap enough for me to afford, then it’s like missing wheels or something. I’m not dropping a big chunk of change on a bike that I only ride to and from the gym like three times a week. I have other priorities, you know. Like groceries.

 

That is all for today. I’m just pissed off because someone took my bike. If I see some kid riding it (assuming I can catch him, which is unrealistic- to say the least) I’m going to shove him to the ground and kick him in the spine. Then I’m going to leave him and his new shitty, rusty, two-out-of-ten-speed functioning, wobbly wheeled bike in the middle of the street. Hopefully to get run over.

 

Hooligans.



adventures with filipinas
4 April 2012, 8:00 am
Filed under: gymming, life in general, nonsense | Tags: , , , , , ,

So I was reading on someone’s blog recently that they have over 1,000 followers… holy shit. That’s a LOT of people. Someone else wrote that their blog gets over 10,000 hits per day. PER DAY. I’ve been thinking about it, and that’s a lot of pressure. I don’t think I’d deal well with knowing that 10,000 people per day were reading what I write. I would actually have to start giving a shit about what I put out into the interwebz instead of what I do now… which is ranting and raving like a looney obsessive off of her meds, and then clicking the ‘publish’ button.

That’s normal, right?

Right.

So in other news… I have back problems. They’re fairly serious, but it’s not like I’m a hunchback or use a walker or anything. Lately (I blame the bike rides to and from the gym), my back has been getting progressively worse. As a former member of the medical community, the official diagnosis is that my back is Completely Fucked, NOS. On Monday I decided that I couldn’t take any more and signed up for a massage at the gym on base. The idea is that I could get some deep tissue action to break up all of the knots that accumulated and been having a merry time spasming and pushing up against my overactive nerve endings. It’s a sad day when you realize that your muscles are basically ganging up and punching your nerve endings in the face.

When I checked in at the desk, the guy told me that the person doing my massage was a woman named Janna. I expected a huge-mangous amazonian to walk out of the massage area cracking her knuckles and doing stretches to limber up. Instead I’m cheerfully greeted by a diminutive filipino woman that is less than five feet tall and doesn’t even seem like she could crack open a pistachio nut. Are you serious with this?

I tell her what I want (results, basically), and she tells me to disrobe, get on the table, cover myself with the sheet, and she’ll be back in a minute. Going on nothing but hope and dreams, I sigh and oblige.

This woman is AMAZING. I’m not even kidding. At one point she climbs on the table, straddles my lower back, and goes to town on my neck. Then- THEN!- she climbs on top of me, using her knees to massage my butt and hamstrings while her forearms, hands, and elbows are busy with my upper back and shoulders. I didn’t even know that was a thing! I’ve never even heard of someone doing that before. It was incredible.

I’m in love. I’m pretty sure that I asked her to marry me, but she declined. Obviously because I did not have a ring to offer her. Now it’s the next day, and (as after any good massage) I’m sore, but feeling wonderful. I can’t wait until I go back again. I feel like I should bring flowers, or a bottle of wine of something. There’s a small part of me that is saying ‘ that’s creepy, and a terrible idea’, but a bigger part of me wants to bring two bottles of Moscato and get sloshed with the use of a solo cup and a straw.

I would share, of course. I’d even bring an extra straw.



the odyssey

Recently (since my breakup) I have become a woman without the use of a car. This is no big deal, but it is pretty inconvenient. My only current obligation in life is on Wednesday mornings (if you’ll recall Therapy Day) from 0900-1200 at the VA. Other than that, my life is pretty mellow. I have been slacking off on my workouts, though.

Jeff and Kathy’s house is located as far away from the gym as you can possibly get and still be on base. It’s too far to walk, but not far enough to justify taking the bus. When I asked for ideas on Sunday night, Jeff told me that he had an old bicycle somewhere in the garage that I was welcome to. After dinner the two of us went outside to unearth it. When we pulled it out (it required a joint effort), we both started laughing. It weighed about 600lbs, was covered in rust, the cushioned seat had solidified into a rock, the rear rim was bent to hell, and both tires were completely flat. He lifted it into the bed of the truck, and we went to put air in the tires.

The class 6 (on base gas station/convenience store) closest to us had a broken air machine, so back into the truck. The other one, coincidentally located next to the gym, was working fine, so we put air in the tires and headed home. Jeff took the bike down out of the truck bed and ‘wheeled’ it back to the garage. ‘Wheeled’ is in quotation marks because the word ‘wheeled’ indicates a smooth motion… this was more of a ‘squeaked and wobbled’. After banging around on it for a few minutes, 2/3 of a can of spray grease, a deteriorating gel seat pad, and several test runs, he declared it safe. Well, safe enough. In his words ‘you probably won’t die if you ride this’. Awesome.

Since I’ll be riding this bike on base, I need a helmet. Jeff told me that the only helmet he had was his old clunky black plastic one from skydiving. I declined. Instead, Kathy’s neighbor donated a plain black thrift store bike helmet to the cause. Okay. Now we’re in business.

Before we go any further, I want to explain that I have many positive memories involving bicycles. My first bike was a Christmas present from my parents and it was a blueish lavender with a rainbow on it, white rubber handles, and streamers. My dad put it together for me and then taught me how to ride it while my mom stood nearby, taking pictures and offering moral support (more for my dad than for me, I think). I rode the hell out of that bike. I later went on plenty of family bike rides, and have done years and years of spin classes.

Bike + Katie = happytime.

Bright and early Monday morning (well, 0830 IS early if you’re retired, thank you very much) I got dressed for the gym. I threw my cell phone, wallet, and a water bottle into a backpack (that I also borrowed from Jeff), and got on the bike.

Holy. Shitballs.

I hadn’t even reached the end of the block before coming to the realization that this was a huge mistake. I remember this shit being so easy when I was 10… what the hell happened? Now it’s straight up WORK. Since I’ve already started, I’m going to do this, damnit. I used my stubbornness (and a lot of cussing) to actually make it to the gym. I locked Jeff’s bike, went inside, showed my id card, went to the ladies room, and promptly threw up. When I was finished, I rinsed out my mouth, splashed water on my face, and went to work out.

The routine of the day was chest and triceps. Normally my favorite day, I trudged through my workout. I was already exhausted, thinking only of how much I dreaded getting back on that damned bike. Finally, I could put it off no longer. I thought about calling Kathy to come and get me, but that’s ridiculous. I have faced down much worse, and I’m sure that I will again. It’s time to pull up my big girl spanx and get this thing over with. I shouldered my (Jeff’s) backpack, and strode confidently out the doors of the gym.

Which was stupid.

I should have stayed inside where it was safe and air conditioned.

Halfway through my trip back home, the alarm on my phone began chiming, giving me a welcome excuse to stop under a shady tree and root around in the backpack to turn it off. I think this is all that saved me from throwing up again. After my short break, I got back on the road and started for home again. Once I hit the residential area that Jeff and Kathy’s home is in, I seriously considered getting off and walking the bike the rest of the way. NO. I berated myself into pressing on until the house was in sight. I coasted all the way to the front door, shakily dismounted and propped the bike up, and then stumbled into the house.

I was covered in sweat and shaking. Kathy was sitting on the sofa with Mopar, and she stared at me with her mouth open, concerned. I flopped forward onto the massive 5 ft lovesac beanbag, unable to stand up and talk to her. Mopar immediately ran to me, shoving his face down the front of my sports bra in order to lick the sweat that was pouring off of me. Freaky ass mutt. I finally pushed myself up, and went upstairs, where I promptly laid down on my bed and waited to die.

About 15 minutes later, I figured that the death I welcomed was not forthcoming, and I managed to take a shower. Kathy made me leave the door open because she thought for sure that she would be called in to assist when I collapsed. I actually brought my water bottle into the shower with me (that’s what the little corner shelves are there for, right? Right.), and carried it around with me for the rest of the day. I could not get enough water.

Now it’s been two days and my ass is STILL sore from that seat. I’m DREADING tomorrow’s trek back to the gym, but I’m going to do this, damnit. That stupid bike will not win. I am smarter than the bike.

Unless it kills me… then the bike wins.



my b

Hello again! I’m sorry it’s been like a week since my last post. I have been very, very busy (HINT: my dog can now catch popcorn in his mouth… that’s how ‘busy’ I’ve been). Okay, maybe not that busy. I just didn’t feel like writing.

 

About my last post. My dad emailed me and told me that if I send him my sandals, he’ll try to fix them for me, because right now they look like ‘Caribbean refugees’. Thanks, dad. Kaiser’s tummy troubles are now better, thanks to a $196 vet visit. This dog is turning out to be waaaay more than I can afford, y’all. I’m not going to lie, though.. my vet is awesome. When I need to bring Kaiser over, he makes appointments up just for me. Literally. Creates appointments out of nothing. Also, his tech is BFFs with Kaiser. She and Kaiser are going to run away together any day now.

 

I went to the gym this morning a little later than usual and THERE WERE PEOPLE EVERYWHERE. Where did all these assholes come from? Seriously. I went at like 1030 instead of 0900, and the place was PACKED. It’s Friday, you guys. You should be leaving work early to go drink, not going to the gym on your lunch break so that I have to do my routine out of order. The good news is that there wasn’t a single cardio machine open (out of like 30- seriously), so when I skipped the stepper, I didn’t feel guilty. There are only like two steppers anyway. So there. In your FACE, cardio warmup!

 

Last night Jeff and one of his work friends, Chris, brought Kathy and I cheeseburgers from Teddy’s. We had them with pasta salad and deviled eggs. (Kathy makes the best deviled eggs ever. EVAR) It was the most fattening, most delicious dinner that I’ve had in a long time. I don’t know if you’ve ever tried Teddy’s burgers, but if you haven’t, you need to go do it right now. RIGHT NOW. NOW! GO! Just don’t get the 9 oz burger, because it’s impossible to finish. Get the 7 oz one. That one is still hard to finish, but it’s at least a little more realistic. Mine had bacon and American cheese and some kind of cheesy garlic-type sauce that makes my heart sing… or slowly get clogged with cholesterol. Whatever. Same thing. They also have garlic fries. Those are the shit. Not literal shit, though. That would be gross. Just amazingly yummy.

 

I would like to give a little recognition to the people that signed up to get my new blog posts in their email. It’s easier that way because you don’t have to get all excited to come to my site, then be a sad panda because there are no new blog posts. Anyway, talk about stroking my ego. I don’t even KNOW some of you! That is MOTHERFUCKING RADPANTS. So thanks. Just by clicking that ‘subscribe’ button, you have upped my self esteem into the ‘sunshine and rainbows’ category. Normally that takes a compliment from a gay man and a lot of caffeine.

 

That is all for today. Word to your mothers.



let’s talk about anxiety!
27 February 2012, 1:07 pm
Filed under: gymming, nonsense, therapy | Tags: , , , , , , ,

 

So most people have normal levels of anxiety. That is a good and healthy thing. It’s what causes you to hesitate before taking a shortcut down a creepy horror-movie alley, makes you study for an upcoming exam and worry when your baby keeps getting ear infections for inexplicable reasons. It’s totally normal.

 

Some of us (like me) have totally outrageous levels of anxiety. It’s the kind of anxiety that keeps me from leaving the house for days at a time, or has me grocery shopping at three in the morning because being around people is too much to handle. Logically, I am very much aware that nobody is going to hassle me in the grocery store. That’s stupid. It’s well-lit and there’s video cameras and people shopping and employees working the registers a few hundred feet away. Still, though, when I go to the grocery store, there are crying babies and screaming kids running around and mothers clogging up the aisles with overloaded shopping carts and people standing around and chatting. Not to mention the mobility-challenged members of society that sit in the middle of the aisles with their rascal scooters and make it impossible to get around them. Just thinking about it is enough to make my palms sweaty and my heart race.

 

I’ve started going to the gym recently. I used to do four days on, one off. There’s no way I’m up for that now. I’m on an every-other-day schedule, and that’s about all I can deal with. I’m good with driving to the gym, parking, and then going in, but it all goes downhill from there. The same girl is always behind the counter, so I say hello, show her my ID card, then I have to walk across (or worse, all the way around) the huge basketball courts to get to the locker room wing. There’s always people playing a friendly game or sitting in the bleachers shooting the shit, or doing strenuous-looking things to the punching bag in the corner.

 

When I walk closely to someone, I’ll give a small smile and a head nod, but that’s all. I know people couldn’t care less that I’m walking across the court to the locker rooms, but I still feel like everyone is staring at me. I recognize that if anyone IS looking at me, it’s only because there’s nothing interesting going on in the room and I happen to be there. After I get to the metal doors, I still have to get by the couches where the massage customers are waiting, then into the women’s locker room, past the saunas, and then finally to the lockers. I’m now at like an 8.5 on a scale of 10 and I haven’t even made it into the gym yet!

 

After I put my bag up, I have to backtrack past the saunas, past the couches, back across the basketball courts, and past the front desk. That only takes me as far as the cardio area, where every single machine is facing the weight room. I can only assume that is for observational purposes. You know, so the girls on the treadmills can ogle all the guys lifting weights. I still haven’t even gotten to the hammersmith machines to start my workout. After I’m finished, everything is done in reverse order, and if I luck out with a good parking spot, I can escape out of the side door instead of having to trek across the courts for a fourth time.

 

I know that most of the people reading this are rolling their eyes right now, and have been since the second paragraph. That’s okay. I think it’s ridiculous, and I’m the one going through it. I just thought that I’d share. You know, to get it out there. I’m pretty sure I’m not the only person in the world with issues like this, so I’m hoping that by spreading the love, maybe I can make someone else feel better about their secret personal debilitating anxieties.

 

Good luck with the assorted paranoias that you call your own!

 




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