The quest to not give up

Here’s the thing.

Straight up.

Aging sucks rocks.

Yeah. Yeah. I could be one of those women who spouts some fallacy about how age is just a number and you’re only as old as you act or feel or look…whatever that is. But here is the hard cold, right between the eyes reality.

It sucks.

Inside my brain I still “feel” 25,  but my low back, right hip and hamstring muscles think otherwise.

And there is ooze. Alot of ooze. There is muffin top where there once was none. And back fat. WTF? Seriously! Where does that come from? And why does it suddenly spring up out of no-where.

Now I fully admit, that I spent the better part of the summer licking the ice cream spoon, but all things being equal, I am an active woman. I work out. I walk. I take the stairs. Not 7 days a week, but consistently.

But the muffin top doesn’t care. It continues to rise. Things jiggle where they didn’t…and where they shouldn’t. And I’ve already lamented about the waddle. Oh yes, there is a “fund” started so I can address that little horror show in a few short years.

There is a big part of me that wants to say “screw it”, throw in the towel and start shopping in the polyester elastic pants section of the JC Penny. Mumus are fashionable paired with some sensible Hush Puppies, right?

Then there is the other part of me that screams, look at Helen Mirren for cripes sakes! She’s 65 and has a bod and half. She looks 110% mahvelous dahling! Yeah. I get she probably had some cupcake boy toy of a trainer chasing her around for 3 hours a days. And a personal chef preparing low fat, healthy tasty meals; she probably never has Ben & Jerrys Cherry Garcia Ice Cream in her freezer (which is a real shame because that flavor is the bomb and Helen doesn’t know what she is missing). But if Helen, in her 60s still has it going on – well, I can at least continue to hit the treadmill, limp through the sore hip and buy another body shaper to smooth the lumps. Right?

So I’m trying really hard not to give up. To not be one of those women who throws in the towel when the very unkind,  and frankly bitchy Mother Nature, unleashes the effects of gravity all over my body.

I’m sure there will 100+ like entries on this subject because not giving up is exhausting and wouldn’t it just be so much easier if eating Ben and Jerrys out of the carton while reading the latest Fitness Magazine was enough?

Stay tuned.

Kicking it up a notch

You might think the kick I’m referring to is the spice level in my cooking.

Afraid not.

I’m talking about my exercise routine.

Let’s get a couple of things straight. If I never exercised another day in my life, it would be too soon.

I’d like to tell you that I look forward to exercise with the same enthusiasm as getting a pedicure. But I would be lying. There is a reason I have an exercise “buddy”. I need someone to guilt me into getting off the sofa and away from the Chester Cheese Puffs. True Story.

Oh sure, exercise gives your happy endorphins. Sometimes. The exercise people make it sound like 40 minutes of cardio is the same as a red wine buzz. It’s not. They are lying.

I think the real endorphins come from elation when the whole affair is over and I can take off my shoes and sit down.

My routine is getting a little stale. And now that I’ve settled comfortably into my 40’s, my body’s metabolism has slowed to pretty much a crawl. 30 minutes of walking or elliptical time ain’t getting it done anymore. I’m noticing ooze in places where there wasn’t ooze before. Such as…the ribcage. What is that anyway? Looks like a chicken cutlet spilling out from under my bra strap. Good god. Horrifying. Then there is the muffin top and the meno-pooch.

This is what eating ice cream every day this summer gets you. Fleshy.

Time to step up and pay the piper.

So I’ve decided I need to kick it up a notch. Confuse my muscles. Make them do something they haven’t done before. Yeah. Good plan.

So my first step in upping the ante was taking a Kick box Boot camp class through my health club.

I know.

The class is a mix of kickboxing moves and 60 second cardio drills. Surprisingly I didn’t pass out and die during the class. I held my own even though everyone in the class was younger. By a lot. However, I can tell you that upon getting out of bed the next day, I felt as if I had been run over by a large truck. This is good right? The run over by a truck feeling?

It means I worked hard. Or my body is deteriorating at a rate that is incomprehensible. Hard to say which.

So new plan…2-3 cardio type classes a week of 55 minutes each + 2, one- hour yoga type stretching classes. I’ll be reporting back in 6 weeks on the state of the muffin top, chicken cutlet and meno-pooch; although I think the latter is an unfortunate reality that will require nothing short of a trip to the plastic surgeon. If only.

Fitness Osmosis

I take a lot of steps to be a healthier trimmer individual. If you read between the lines I’m trying but often failing to execute. Or to put it another way…I’m not always hitting the fitness mark.

Case in point, reading a well intentioned albeit unrealistic article in my monthly fitness magazine about how to “look good naked” while standing at the counter eating Kemps “Under the Stars” chocolate peanut butter ice cream out of the container. Yeah, I know, there are about 10 things wrong with this scenario.

First off no one really looks good naked. Generally the human population looks better half-naked then all the way naked. Clothes are purposely designed to hide the flaws that can be seen while naked. Geesh.

I joined my health club 6 years ago because I wanted to look good better naked and then quickly realized miracles not withstanding I’d settle for looking better in a tank top. Naked arms but the rest of me clothed, just as it should be.

Kemps “Under the Stars”, my new favorite ice cream flavor (chocolate ice cream, peanut butter ribbons and chocolate stars filled with peanut butter) should probably be eaten out of dish. My mother would be appropriately mortified.

And there is the obvious contradiction of the actual eating of ice cream while looking at a fitness magazine. I probably should have been eating a slice of tofu. But ice cream is so much tastier. Who are we kidding here?

I’d love to be able to aim for fitness perfection. Knock out my 1 hour a day of exercise according to the some recent medical study that says women over 40 (sigh) need an hour a day just to maintain their weight. If that isn’t a thoroughly depressing medical statistic I don’t know what is? Right now I can barely manage 30-40 minutes 4-5 days a week.

The lapse in my exercise regimen I’m supplementing with a subscription to Fitness and Cooking Light; hoping the content will seep into my brain via osmosis in between bites of ice cream.