Where I decide to lift things up and put them down

In July 2012, I bought a book on a topic that I’d been curious about but had been incredibly intimidated by for a long time: The New Rules of Lifting for Women: Lift Like a Man, Look Like a Goddess, by Lou Schuler with workouts by Alwyn Cosgrove and nutrition information by Cassandra Forsythe. Cheesy subtitle aside, I was drawn to this book because it speaks frankly about women’s abilities in the weight room. Schuler understands that women can work out just as hard as men and, with the help of his co-authors, provides a six-month training program for women to follow.

For three years, though, this book sat unread on my shelves. Then, two weeks ago, I decided that I wanted to make some changes and fitness was one aspect of my life that always felt out of control. Sure, I biked to work on a regular basis and bragged about how I didn’t need to pay for a gym membership. I was still weak and flabby, though, and I was keenly aware of that. Then, in September, I moved in with my parents and lost my bike commute, putting an end to the only form of regular exercise I had. I began to spend at least two hours a day on a bus—in addition to the 8 hours I sit at my desk—four to five days a week. I also have a weekend gig where I assist at a library reference desk so that’s another 8 hours of sitting and 1-2 hours driving to & from work every week. That left me with one free day a week that I usually spent curled up with a book or Netflix, being too tired to do anything else.

Finally, enough was enough. I couldn’t continue living this sedentary lifestyle anymore so I joined a big box gym. Luckily, my sister is already comfortable in the weight room (with the help of personal trainers and time spent in a boxing gym) so she helped me work out that first day. (We had limited time so we only did squats and calf raises.) Then, later in the week, I took advantage of a LivingSocial coupon offered by a local yoga studio and took my first ever yoga class. I went to a basic yoga session with my sister (who had been to yoga classes at her gym before) and a couple of things happened:

  1. I managed to keep up with the class, surprising myself, my sister, and the instructor (and gaining the respect of my classmates).
  2. I found my sister’s strength and flexibility awe-inspiring, instilling in me a more profound respect for her while motivating me to be more like her.
  3. I cried during savasana (corpse pose), releasing some emotional baggage I’d been carrying around with me since July.

The experience was invigorating and solidified my plans to work out on a regular basis. This is when I pulled out my copy of NROLFW, downloaded & printed the workout logs, pulled out some old workout apparel (that needs to be updated, stat!), and hit the gym one more time with my sister to learn how to properly execute the ten exercises I’ll be doing during the first stage of the NROLFW plan (which lasts 6 weeks out of the plan’s total 6-month regime). I then added each workout to my calendar, ensuring that I would be held accountable for my actions and have no excuse for slacking off.

Everyone, even my sister, thinks I’m insane, though: I’ve scheduled my workouts for 4 in the morning, three times a week. This is so I can catch the same bus to work and be in the office at my regular 7:30 AM start time. (This is so I avoid traffic on my bus commute, something I’d never had to worry about before.) I’m usually home by 5 PM, which gives me plenty of time to make & eat dinner, pack lunch, watch TV or read a magazine/book, spend some time with my cats, and prepare for the next day before heading to bed. On the two “rest” weekdays each week, I plan on taking a spin class at the gym as well as continuing a weekly yoga session at the studio. My energy levels skyrocket after physical activity so I expect to be tired but, really, I’ll be invigorated-tired, not lazy-tired.

This has been my first week following this schedule and I’m loving it so far! I’ve always been one of those people who feels better in the mornings (and succumbs easily to sleep in the evenings) so this is sort of my ideal schedule. The gym is super quiet at 4 AM, allowing me to focus solely on myself and feel less self-conscious of my weak muscles. I already feel stronger, which is a great motivator to keep going.

Onward and upward!

My first name doesn’t come on magnets

I’ve trained for decades in the art of patiently waiting for people to butcher my name. It’s often a teacher or customer service official who has to read aloud from a list. I listen to them breeze through Daniel and Jennifer and even Dwayne, but inevitably, there’s a break in their rhythm. “James! Carrie! Karima! Stephanie! Kevin!” Pause. “Bar—” Pause. They look around the room and then look back at their list. Their confidence falters. The declarative tone applied to the names before mine gives way to a weak, interrogative stumbling:

Barry? Barrington? Baracuda? Bartuna? Bartender? Bartunda? Bartholomew? Bart? Baritone? Baritone Dave? Barathunde? Bar—? Brad!!

The person who called me Brad was engaged in the most lazy and hilarious form of wishful thinking, but all the others kind of, sort of, maybe make some sense. This experience is so common in my life that I now entirely look forward to it. Like a child on Christmas morning who hasn’t yet been told that Santa is a creation of consumer culture maintained by society to extend the myth of “economic growth,” I eagerly await the gift of any new variation the next person will invent. Can I get a Beelzebub? Who will see a Q where none exists? How about some numbers or special characters? Can I get a hyphen, underscore, forward slash? Only after letting the awkward process run its public course do I step forward, volunteering myself as the bearer of the unpronounceable label and correct them. “That’s me. It’s Baratunde.”

—Baratunde Thurston, How to Be Black

Welcome, Lucifer!

Alex and I were in Oxford for a week so I could attend and present at a conference. While away, my sister watched our cat and made sure he didn’t get too lonely. It worked well because Dixon didn’t hate us when we returned late on Sunday night and he hasn’t been angrily ignoring us since we returned.

Well, not because we left him for a week, anyway. He has been slightly upset with us since Tuesday, when my parents dropped off a kitten at our place:

Nothing like a kitten!
Nothing like a kitten!

My parents have a small colony of stray/feral cats in their backyard. For some reason, they refuse to trap the females to have them spayed. (The males are much more aggressive and much more difficult to trap to have them neutered.) Instead, they’ve been watching these cats get pregnant and give birth repeatedly over the last couple of years. Some of the kittens were caught and given away. Others grew up in the colony and the cycle continued. (Others, meanwhile, perished.) With this latest litter, I think my parents finally understood what needs to be done. There’s only one adult female left who comes around (they call her “Seraya,” which means “Gray” in Russian) and they’re finally getting her spayed after this latest litter.

However, they first needed to find homes for the three kittens. They managed to give two away to friends and coworkers, leaving only the little susuwatari to be adopted out. My mom called me and said, “What if we bring her by your place? Just until the weekend.” Yeah. ‘Cause that’s how that works with kittens. You can keep them for a few days and just let them go. But how could I say no to a kitten? So they dropped her off at my place on Tuesday night.

I worked from home the next day so I could take the kitten to the vet to get her checked out. It was determined that she is, in fact, a she and that she’s about 8 weeks old. She weighed in at a tiny 2lb 3oz. She had no fleas but the vet tech did find two ticks on her face. Otherwise, though, she was deemed extremely healthy for a stray kitten. (Everyone in the clinic took a turn holding her and making all kinds of cooing noises at her.)

She was extremely docile the first 24 hours. (She must have been frightened and overwhelmed by all the new sights, sounds, and smells. Also being poked and prodded by the vet must have been nerve-wracking.) However, by Thursday, she was much more mobile and feeling frisky. She’s eating well, using her litter box, and playing with anything that moves:

Die, drawstring! Die!
Die, drawstring! Die!

All that was left was her name. I first named her Zuzu (short for susuwatari, the soot sprites in Miyazaki’s films) but it didn’t really suit her and Alex wasn’t crazy about it. I then called her “Lucy” once when it just slipped out. I told Alex about it and he liked it. So now she’s Lucy. And if her troublemaking tendencies keep up, we can call her Lucifer ;)

We’ve been keeping Lucy separated from Dixon for fear of Dixon lashing out and hurting Lucy. However, we’ve been letting them mingle more together and, while he’s not thrilled with her, Dixon has stopped hissing and growling at the newcomer. They are not friends yet, though, by any stretch: he keeps eating her food, pouncing on her when she’s playing, and chasing her through the house. However, it is now Lucy who has the upper hand: she’s been the one hissing and growling at Dixon! I hope they can forge a friendship soon, though. I love my kitties and want to be able to snuggle with them both.