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.

The Friday Fun Initiative

I made the executive decision to take off every Friday afternoon this summer (June- August). My intent is to do something “fun” for myself.

To date I have failed the Friday fun challenge.

So far one Friday afternoon consisted of a trip to the grocery store. Not a quick trip for a coupla-things. The big trip. The trip that requires like 2 carts. And if you’ve been paying attention, going to the grocery store is absolute torture for me. I’m a hater of the grocery store.

Another Friday consisted of my little out-patient thingy. Sure the IV drugs were good but there was nothing really fun about it and I missed my son’s baseball game. And I was still recovering on the third Friday. Even though I wasn’t working, laying around with a hoochie full of stitches is definitely not fun.

Current Score: Friday Fun: 0, Friday non-fun things: 3

So I’ve recommitted myself to the Friday fun challenge. Oh sure I could do laundry and cleaning and other assorted tasks. But the whole purpose of 3 hours of vacation in the afternoon is to recharge and refresh.

This Friday I think I’m going to get it right. I have a date with some work peeps to hang at the Union Terrace. Despite living in this city for the whole of my adult life, I rarely get down there. So the fun will consist of a few big girl lemonades, chatting with my friends, excellent people watching and of course Babcock Hall Ice cream. (Ice cream of course if the subject of a whole other blog entry which you can read about here).

New Score: Friday Fun: 1 , Friday non-fun things: 3

I have some making up to do – stay tuned.

Coochie. An Update.

This is a much anticipated follow-up to the Same Time, Next Year post.

First…commence involuntary leg crossing.

Okay. Now you can read.

Thankfully my procedure time was bumped up from 3:00pm on a Friday afternoon to 11:30am on a Friday morning. I mean, come on! I know what my attention span is like on a Friday afternoon in the middle of summer. I don’t care what you do for a living. I’m sure the medical professionals of the world are just as anxious to kick off the weekend as much as the next guy. I wasn’t too jazzed about a room full of people with a “that’s good enough” attitude itching to find the nearest happy hour.

I am told the procedure went well. I was blissfully un-aware. The bliss was administered by way of the wonder drug Fentanyl and one other drug with a name too long to remember, by a very attentive anesthesiologist. I said “I want to remember nothing” and she obliged by pushing little syringes of liquid goodness into my IV about 2 minutes after I arrived in the OR. I love this woman. I would paint her house.

There was also Lidocaine administered, you know, in the coochie. I don’t remember this. I am glad.

When the Lidocaine wears off – say 3- 4 hours later it don’t feel so good. I recommend ice packs. Lots of ice packs. Ice packs + 1 vicodin + 3 episodes of Sex and the City. And maybe a dish of ice cream which may not help, but it can’t hurt.

I finally got up the nerve to take a peek at the cooch; to make sure the lady parts still looked like, well,  lady parts. Hard to say there was so much swelling. Bad swelling. Not good swelling like after a long 3-day weekend when you’re 21, with a hot guy named Brad. (Hypothetically speaking of course). Bad swelling lady parts that resembled a coupla Kielbasa sausages side by side. I know. Quite the mental image, isn’t it? Try living it. Good times.

All things being equal recovery hasn’t been too bad. The standard 2 naps a day for a few days, handful of painkillers and a couple dozen sitz baths.

Six days post op and the bad swelling is gone. Hallelujah! But the bruising was spectacular. I’m pretty sure he used a pony clamp. Again, glad I don’t remember. Not remembering is best for all parties involved.

Physician follow-up in about a week. I bet you can’t wait for another report!

I've fallen and I can't get up.

Thud.

Did you hear it?

The distinctive thud of me falling off the ‘sweets only once a month’ wagon? I’m not sure how you missed it. It’s become a daily occurrence.

Some say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. Actually, I think it’s paved with ice cream. Mint Chip, Chocolate Peanut Butter, Cookie Dough, Strawberry and Old Fashioned Vanilla. Sometimes the road to hell is dotted with ice cream sandwiches and sundae cones (also known as drumsticks, you know, the ones with the hard chocolate shell sprinkled with peanuts). The road could be paved with custard, but custard is too rich. Ice Cream is better. Real ice cream. Not soft serve. Ice cream. Am I making my point clear?

Ice cream is my Achilles heel. (As if you hadn’t guessed) And it’s summer. Summer is for ice cream. I’m screaming for ice cream. It’s so tasty. Curses!

The ‘sweets only once a month’ wagon has been rolling back and forth over my body for a few weeks now. But due to the uptick of butterfat and heavy cream in my diet, no bones have been broken. There is padding. Ice cream filled padding.

Fudge.

Except I’m not thinking fudge. Well, unless it’s Mackinac Island Fudge. I digress.

I’m thinking the "F – dash – dash - dash" word because I’ve failed the challenge. I’ve fallen off the  wagon but landed safely in the dish of ice cream. An endless dish. Yum.

I could sit here and flat out lie that I’m giving up ice cream for the summer, but honestly, I have a better chance of winning the SuperCash. I can’t do it. I can’t. I’ve tried. Not possible. I do have the ability to give up ice cream and everything else sweet in the winter/cooler months, but summer screams for ice cream. It calls to me and I’m answering. My only hope of surviving the ice cream phenomena is cramming in a few more workouts to keep all the ice cream goodness from permanently taking up residence in my thighs. My only saving grace is Wisconsin has only 3 months of summer and 9 months of winter so my deep dive in the ice cream bowl is short-lived.

Summer and ice cream is a big glorified rationalization. I admit it. I’m an ice cream-aholic. But to be honest, I have no real inclination to be cured of my addiction. None. Nada. Pass me a spoon.